Dispatches from the Fury Road: Trains.

Another scheduled train failed to arrive.

Late Saturday night at the Casula station, wandering thoughts and random ideas coalesced into the blame game. I wondered which App was being run so poorly it couldn’t keep up to date with the train timetable. Could I blame NSW travel for not updating their schedules? Maybe some dumbarse driver was having a kip rather than keeping everything on track?

I was ready to be angry and felt comfortable with this emotion.

I’d just discovered while waiting in the dark that Cal Wilson had won an AACTA award and it was accepted by her husband and son. Good men doing a tough job. I was rapt for Cal, but melancholy soon swept me away, disappointed she wasn’t here to accept the trophy. To share in her triumph with the loves of her life.

I sat in this moment but after a while realised this train of thought wasn’t conducive to anything positive. I attempted to move into another headspace, somewhere less leaden, but it felt like running in mud. Then I noticed that another train hadn’t arrived. Then another. Then the next one didn’t come around the bend either.

Now it was creeping closer to the midnight hour. Looking over at the carpark bathed in an orange light that defined the shadows of the trees, I was reminded of the random story I’d been told barely an hour before. This was the place that UK backpacker Paul Onions had accepted a ride from Ivan Milat in January of 1990. I decided immediately this was one part of Australian history I didn’t have to dwell on tonight.

I was suddenly grateful to be one of four people stranded at the station.

We were spaced out like we’d just been released from lockdown. None of us looked up or attempted to begin a conversation, even though we were sharing a moment. Instead we gazed down at our smart phones the way lovers used to gaze into one another’s eyes. Our electronic friends who tell us what we want to know, what we want to hear, their algorithms working for us, don’t be angry, we only want you to be happy. If you’d seen us from afar you’d have witnessed our ghostly figures illuminated by the blue screen lights.

Eventually I walked down the platform and pressed the green emergency button. I didn’t expect anything to happen and was quite surprised when a voice appeared through the speaker, tinny and far away. She asked me what I wanted in a voice that was friendly enough but also expressed she had a lot going on. I told her of the situation and after a quick search she said:
”All trains have been cancelled for this line. There was a fatality further down the tracks.”

With this awful news I was reminded of earlier when a freight train had rumbled through the station. For a moment I wondered if I would be able to jump on board an empty section, just like in the movies. It was a fleeting thought, not dissimilar to other insane thoughts like, “What would happen if I stole this policeman’s gun?” or “What would my boss think if I told them exactly what I was thinking right now?” I knew in all likelihood I would hit it hard, bounce and possibly encounter my demise suddenly, and hopefully quickly. I laughed at the thought then and moved on before my body decided to act.

Now the reality was buzzing at me through the little platform speaker and it was overwhelmingly sad.

I told the three strangers at the station what had happened and each person looked at me as if I were telling a fib. Feels like a strange lie to tell if you ask me. As I walked away from the station I fought the urge to look back and yell, “You know this is Ivan Milat’s old stomping grounds?” In the end I figured it was either cruel or would be possibly lost on my fellow night travellers as they all looked much younger and it would annoy me that that they didn’t know of the famous serial killer.

Eventually I found a place to order a ride share and ended up in the front seat with a nice, young Spanish boy whose accent reminded me of Rafael Nadal. I’ve always found the way Nadal pronounced the word “very” as “berry” to be adorable. My driver also pronounced very that way. For the next 45 minutes we talked and I took any opportunity I could get him to use the word “very” in a sentence. Each time my heart would pop with delight.

It was late when I returned home. An emotional rollercoaster even though barely anything had happened. Thoughts and ideas were processed. Discarded emotions and cul de sacs of melancholy had been observed and avoided. A simple trip from one place to the next had taken on a confusing mundane epic quality, both feelings probably not deserved.

At least the final conversation was a delight.

I went to bed berry happy.

Justin Hamilton

Surry Hills

13th of February, 2024