Chapter 6: Trained

Outside the station I see a disproportionate amount of happy-looking people and become suspicious. I'm walking on hot coals and they're coming out grinning... I mean, show a little consideration for a man who actually needs to see his Doctor to save himself... I decide to investigate. Source of the trouble appears to be a man causing a disturbance by spreading cheer among commuters. Man of seventy sells fairy floss as if this place where people exchange positions on platforms for seats on trains might be closer to a carnival than I'm prepared to believe... As if anyone would come here when they didn't absolutely need to for purposes of travel...

I line up to watch him serve a little girl. This kind of technology amazes me. Big steel twisties gyrate in loopy patterns, whipping the sugar into a floss... Pretty much doing the bulk of the work... The man just has to stick in and twist clockwise to make it into a consumable shape for the kiddies. He does this for the girl before me, pulling out a cartoon-sized icecream of fluffy alien sugar cotton. When he's done with her, I shove her aside and begin my interrogation...

I tap him on the wrist. It feels cold. I press down on a pattern of hairs.

'Excuse me, but are you allowed to be doing this still?'

'I have been for forty years, I can't see why not.'

'Have you a government sanction? A permit of some kind?'

'Not really, but they know me, its okay.'

'Surely common sense would suggest you don't sell food! Don't you watch the news? Don't you ever look out the window when you're driving? Which is good advice anyway...'

No-one comes near us... People in public tend to smell arguments and steer clear.

'You have strange notions. Those piles are all fruit. Have you ever seen a fairy-floss spill? It doesn't pile, that's why.'

Knowing little about his product, have to take his word for this.

'But its made from sugar. Sugar is found naturally, like watermelons...'

#

Look around for phones, only ones I find say accessible to One-tel cardholders only… Flash of anger, jump beside myself while the telephone booth gets trashed till its hanging limb from limb. I’m nearly vibrating from desperation at being lost and alone when I find the holy grail: an information point. Walk up. Mouth agape, eyes aglow, all rest agog. White light and blue writing is becoming a sort of comfort food. Turns out a curly-auburn-haired temptress is fountain of knowledge.

‘Hello, is there a phone around here?’

‘There's one right there.'

'I saw that one, it died, and you need a special card for it. How come they don’t let you use coins anymore – what if its an emergency?’

‘Emergency calls are free on all state-owned pay-phones – is it an emergency?’

‘Uh… Not right now, really.’

‘Oh.’

‘So what can I do?'

‘I don’t really know how they work…’

‘But you’re information, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’m only really supposed to help you with train timetabling. I have some maps of the station, if that would help…’

Sensation of understanding a secret communiqué. ‘I understand completely… You’re only supposed to help me with whatever…’ Something’s happening beneath this.

‘Hang on, you’ve got a phone there – can I use that?’

‘You’re not allowed.’

All these rules.

‘Staff only.’

‘Does it matter if you’re staff somewhere else?’

‘If you don’t work here, you can’t come in.’

‘But you could pass the receiver through the bars and end it.’

‘I’d get in trouble.’

Altogether too many things to think about.

‘Alright, thanks for your help.’

#

Kick my feet into various things... Bins, shins... To alleviate the stress a bit. Vow to swear off phone booths, whenever I have a moment to authorise some kind of official document in recognition of this. Encounter a vending machine on which I vent a similar ferocity I showed phone before. It rudely ate my gold coin without doing anything, thus violating the ancient system of exchanging useful things (chips) for a useless object arbitrarily attributed with equal value (a gold coin). Fucken Fountain of Shit-all. Useless.

Walk around with head hung low till find dog-collar, and an idea. Smile for the first time. Put the collar on with silver studs facing in till presses hard against jugular and several important information superhighways leading down from throbbing brain to wafting organism. Body pulsating. Movements jerky. Think like a dog… Initiate man-dog launch sequence. Go up and bark at strangers when they go past. Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo, a hollow bass-drum sound. Watch them reel away, wheezing laugh. Keep an eye on information and yes, witness the first complaint being made. ‘Miss, uh, miss, there’s a man, or is it a dog, hassling nice people up there, he must be put down or put out of the station… Get the pound on the phone. Information woman opens door to cubicle and it starts to swing shut… Scrape feet on floor for run-up. Initiate jaguar run… Claws clink on the tiled floor in a thunketa pattern, would make nice drum sample, 117 bbm, should combine it with bass-drum bark and some brainless lyrics to make some contemporary music… Run straight past Fountain of Info and catch Info door just before it closes, whip it open and secure the wolf inside. Take off wolf costume and pat him on head, he’s done his job. Good dog. Now… A telephone and locked room for maximum privacy for desparate prodigal patient call to doctor. Just ignore the thumping on the door and threats of persecution, or did she say prosecution…


All I wanted: to be alone with a telephone... And what do I get? Intolerance. ‘Hi, after hours please call emergency triple-zero, or if you're one of my friends,’ his voice changed slightly, ‘hi, please hold the line.’ There was a pause, and a click, and the Doctor came on the line with a zippy, ‘Y'ello.’

‘Hi Doc.’

‘Xaviour! My good fellow!

‘Okay, I don't have long; I think something’s happening to the food.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll explain when you pick me up. I was in jail, now I’m at Central Station. Come pick me up before the cops do.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘Don't worry, I didn't mention you.’

‘Why, am I not interesting enough?’

Door blasts inward, with a little station master on top, and a cop pointing a gun at me.

'Come forward, nice and easy.'

'Scratch that, pick me up at the... Which station, seargent?'

'City Plaza.'

'City Plaza,' I told the Doctor.

'You know I'd love to...' the Doctor began, as I hung up. I knew he wouldn't.