JOHN CHERRY

Portrait of a Commuter No9

The thought occurs to him that it's not easy to get on the booze first thing in the morning.

He proudly nods to himself while thinking “Yet here I am on the tube at 8am, as quietly as possible opening my 4th can”. Looking around he thinks that everyone else "head down, saying nowt to each other" are the real sorry cases. He has a sunny personality, he'll speak to anyone, have a joke, a laugh. Everyone's got time for a quick joke he thinks, especially his, they're crackers. Yeah, there’ve been a few times when some miserable bastard has taken offence or some cold, sad woman had looked at him like a price of shit. But that merely eggs him on to make them laugh. And besides most mornings it's only a "fuck off", at night it's a punch, but never anything a few cans won't take the sting out of. He concludes: it's not this lot’s fault they’re miserable, it's what London does to everyone. 8am and how can no one smile at a merry Scot? He's told his joke about the Irish twins and the dyslexic to the whole carriage and not even a giggle, just the tiny sighs of disapproval. As he realises its Bond Street coming up he opens can number five, as if he was in a cinema and says to himself "the central line usually gets a response. More tourists. More chance they’ve had an early drink too.

Portrait of a Commuter No8

He'd never been too comfortable with himself. He always attempted to look smart. Every two weeks he'd get his hair cut, he'd done that since he was maybe 15 or 16. But it didn't seem to really help take away that look like he was going for a really important job interview or on his way to a date. For a few years he had experimented with casual dressing, not going to the barber for nearly 6 weeks and having stubble, but it just made him look like someone in a moderate to good fancy dress costume of a tramp or hippy, or cowboy (which he didn’t mind so much).

He'd accepted his naturally awkward look a few years back. Finally being able to be comfortable with his uncomfortableness. Only then did he start to grow into his look. Well grow isn't the word; he thought he must be the only man to have ever wanted to get bald quicker, it was a look that not so much suited him, but made him look less like he was someone who could possibly be going on a date.

His thoughts sometimes wander to when he's a little older and he'll look too old to be going to a job interview. But let's not get ahead of ourselves now.

Portrait of a Commuter No7

92 years old. He hated it. The way people look at him as if he'd done something impressive. Or he knew some sort of secret. The look of immediate concern when he steps on a bus, or enters a room. He knows what they're thinking, watching his every move on his way to a chair, they think they're good people caring for others. But they're just sitting there, watching, thinking he should be respected, admired, and how experienced and quaintly old fashioned he might be. Not that if they get up and start man-handling him it would be welcome. But then he knows they'd forgive him, he's from another age, "the world was different then", "his bigotry isn't real bigotry". But he knows it is. Everything they're feeling is crap, he knows those 92 years were wasted. He did nothing of note, no impact on others lives.

There’s good reason he isn't and won't be in anyone's thoughts or prayers; he was a nasty man his whole life. People were something to use, to walk over, to snipe. There were a few brushes with epiphany and turning over new leaves, but deep down he liked the way he was, because he just didn't care. And at this age it's far easier to be that way, and be excused for it.

He looks at them and their careful gaze, and hates them with ease, just as he knows he'll be able to get them to give up their seat, while they feel good about it.

Portrait of a Commuter No6

It did look as though it might rain today, he thought to himself.
He'd checked the weather the night before, and casually again this morning before leaving. But he also knows that with all today's instant connectivity and data at our fingertips, 80% of the time weather apps only correct showing what the weather is doing right at that moment, right where you are.

As he started to feel the first beads of sweat the image of TV weather personalities who "got it right" popped in his head - Wincey Willies, Michael Fish, John Kettley. How come everyone else was dressed for a nice pleasant sunny Thursday? Some even pushing what's acceptable as casual workplace attire, he thought. As he unzips his Parker; the long one with the hood and detachable inner (still attached). He takes his hands out is pockets, the pockets that still have gloves in, and reassures himself with the thought that "you never know" and “it's better to be prepared” and that it's actually easier to keep the gloves in there all year around.

He starts mentally preparing to laugh off snarky comments when he gets to work. At least he'd noticed the sweat now, and could take a few things off, he thought. Usually he won't be aware of it until someone pointed it out - at a sweltering night club in jumper, shirt, and vest, all fine until a mate points out how hot it is then the pouring sweat instantly begins.

“What's it now?” he thinks to himself as he takes the umbrella from his lap with one hand and pulls his phone from his corduroy trouser pocket with the other. 31C - he huffs blowing out his cheeks a little, knowing that as as the train gets further into town it'll go up a few more degrees.

He glances around the carriage. That guy's got flip-fucking-flops on.

He reaches up and pulls off his heat-tech knitted hat.

Portrait of a Commuter No5

Dress down Friday, casual Friday, whatever different offices called it, he enjoyed it.

He always thought of it as his way to show the women in the office just how fashionable he was. That he’s got potential.

Looking at the rest of the carriage he spots other men and their casual Friday wear and thinks “You’re just not wearing a tie”.

There were occasional Fridays where he did the same, but the shirt had more to it and the top few buttons always, always, undone. He even styled his hair different.

Yeah, he liked casual Friday - it’s like going to a bar, but at work. “How fun is that?” he thought.

A bit more relaxed, a bit of a laugh, girls looking nice, a bit more flirty, maybe head to a bar after 4.30? Maybe get a little bit closer with one of the young girls in finance, maybe have a bit of a fumble, maybe get lucky. He smiled a barely visible smile but in his mind it was a cheek achingly big grin. “Casual Fridays, I own casual Fridays”. Full of confidence for the day ahead, and somewhere at the back of his mind, reality, putting its hand up like a hesitant school boy, with a point to make this all come crashing down “Will we be getting that Lasagne ready meal on the way home from work?”

Portrait of a Commuter No4

Sodoku, he played his own little game within the game everyday on the train to work.

Can he finish a game in the short time it takes to get to his stop?

Three stations, and the distractions of a full carriage, maybe no seat.

He’d lost count of the number of games he’d played, one day just seemed to roll into the next. 2minutes 47seconds his personal best.

He’d not always been this boring or predictable.

It’s only recently that he’s become aware of how average and normal his life is; not to say he isn’t grateful.

He realises there are many people who would do anything for a quite trouble-less life like his.

Sodoku, Pret sandwich for lunch, same playlist to and from work and sex with Jess biweekly on Wednesday.

He felt as if all this had happened like in that scene at the end of “2001: a Space Odyssey” where Dave turns around to see himself years older in an instant, then the younger Dave is no longer there. Only the older Dave.

The thing is, its only occurred to him now.

How long have I been like this and not known? He thinks.

He tracks back through his memories looking for something wild or crazy he’s done that might be a sign it all wasn’t so long ago. He hopes.

But all he gets are cul-de-sacs of insurance quotes on the cars, picking out an unconventional colour for the spare room, and not buying the extra warranty cover on the new TV.

About the wildest thing that comes up is being drunk at the Christmas party a bunch of years ago, dancing on a table, getting a peck on the cheek from two of the younger girls in the office, one of which squeezed his arse.

Or was that someone else?

Portrait of a Commuter No3

Preparing for today’s arguments, he reads the most opinionated newspaper - the one which, if it went further with its claims and misquotes it would be legally classed as a comic. 

‘Full English fry up cures diabetes’, 'Kiwi fruit cures cancer’, 'Urban fox baby killing rampage’, 'Kiwi fruits cause cancer’. 

Each morning he buys it for the journey to work and he takes in every story. 

He knows its not all fact, he’s not stupid, but there has to be some truth in it. 

No smoke without fire as they say. 

It’s his daily routine, the journey is just the right length, and when he gets to work, he’ll be the font of knowledge that everyone’s come to expect. 

At the ready to correct people on any conversation overheard, or misheard. 

Turning a chat into an discussion, a discussion into an argument, and an argument into quiet annoyance and eerie work place silence. 

Refusing to accept anything other than his reading material - I mean, how can it be fact if he hasn’t read it?

He knows everything, keeps up-to-date with world going-ons, and knows what’s right. 

He nods, satisfied with himself, just before realising, he’s forgotten his stop again.

Portrait of a commuter No2

It was easy, but a struggle she thought.

She never thought she’d be doing this for so long.

It’s not that she expected a rich handsome man to come along just at the right moment - where she was just beginning to get bored of the job, tired of the same weekly routine, and all before she was past the age of being one of those older mothers.

No, this she did not expect, but she did expect one or two things to have moved on.

She used to be fashionable, she can still pick out a good pair of shoes, bag or dress, but it’s lost on her now.

People look at her and think “oh that old woman has some nice shoes on” it’s never “she looks good in those”.

As she’s got on, the nice things she could get have been relative to her age. The older she got, the more of the things she liked she could get. And why not, when she was younger and would’ve look good in whatever it was, she couldn’t afford it.

Bugger them, she thought, she’ll be the best dressed 70year old around. 

Portrait of a commuter No1

Stoob. Stooby. 
That’s what they called him at school. 
It wasn’t a nickname with any kind of mateyness attached to it. 
It was a name with a slight dig at its core. 
It stuck none the less. 
Soon it turned from something used aggressively into something so commonly used it lost its power to them, but to him it still hurt a little everytime. 
And while he’d left all that behind he’s still Stoob in there somewhere. 
It’s something he can’t leave behind. 
Maybe that’s what makes him the man-boy he is. 
Still unable to fully take responsibility of things, a little socially retarded, like a pubescent teenager. 
He knows that if his work colleagues found out about the name he left behind in suburbia, it would make total sense to them. And on it would go. 
He just can’t escape Stoob.