The Train

The bitter cold stings my lungs as I pound my feet onto the concrete bridge and zig zag through the crowd of commuters. I can see the light in the distance of the dark Calgary morning sky. Thousands of pounds of metal are barrelling down the tracks, and it certainly has no intentions of waiting for me. I fling the heavy metal door open, fly through the station and down the escalator, pushing my way past the daily travelers. I feel like a soldier, running for my life, in the war against time. Finally, I arrive at the designated slab of concrete.

Here I am. Just like I am every morning. The doors open and the cows start herding into the small compact cattle truck. The repugnant stench of wet clothes and garbage immediately fill my nostrils. The same horde of half-awake, half-dead creatures in ties and skirts fill into the cable car, stealing seats as if they were the last loaf of bread during the apocalypse. The same elbows jab me in the side as their owners flip through a ‘Metro’ paper.

The space is too small for all of these people. As we continue to make stops, I visualize the cab expanding at the sides – growing and growing as if it's had too much turkey dinner. Another passenger squeezes in beside me and I choke as their strong cologne creeps in around my nostrils, down my windpipe, and lingers on my tongue. My eyes water as I work hard to keep my cough in.

The connected cars move in a snake-like manner down the foothills. I catch a glimpse of the city skyscrapers illuminating the dim sky. A surge of electric pain ignites in my left foot, as a woman wearing six-inch heels looks at me sympathetically mouthing the words “I’m so sorry.”

The doors open and I can feel the cold air place its hands on my cheeks. I feel resistance as I try to push past the travelers through the doors. At last, I stumble onto the platform, overwhelmed by all of the space now around me.