Collins St, 5.p.m
I am one of them. Starting the day with a bowl filled with porridge or cereals. And, if feeling special, a cooked breakfast of eggs and bacon or omelettes. On an impulsive decision, I partook in a large portion of eggs and bacon. Then came dressing up, shirt tucked into pants, belt fastened around waist, leather shoes that shone, trench coat over and a fedora or a telescope hat atop head. Then gathering the necessary items, a book or newspaper to keep company. Today, a newspaper. All of those activities interchangeable in order. And finally departing from the dwelling one resides in and adventuring to the workplace.
Many commutes were done by train. However, luckier ones, such as myself, were able to commute by car. I always drove to work. On this particular day, I decided to take the train to Spencer Street station. On the weekdays people usually swarmed the station, trying to get to their workplaces. The doors of the train opened, and, on this day, fewer people were seen to be at the station. I exited the train and continued down the road. Averting eye contact, I opened the newspaper I brought with me and kept walking towards Collins St.
In eye-catching bold letters, the headline spelt “Employee’s ecstasy, hourly minimum pay raised to a dollar”. A Chevrolet Bel-Air costs around $1,741. $1,741 hat would be around 250 days of work in a 9 to 5 job minimum pay. Too many. Rather infuriating. Flipping through the other pages, nothing interesting was there, most articles were idolising and promoting the ‘suburban dream’. It reminded me of my previous relationship. She wanted to settle down in the suburbs. I first thought it was a fantastic idea, and as I pondered the night away, it was still a great idea. Yet the next morning, the thought of living in the suburbs disgusted me. Humans are fickle. I really was happy then, in that relationship. Yet she left when I discussed kindly not moving. My heart stirred and so did the winds.
When I exited my workplace, an insurance company, it was 4:40 in the afternoon. Rarely did office workers leave earlier than 5 pm. I walked with my face down towards the station. Ahead, hidden behind a bin, two stubby beers sat there. Arriving at the bin, I positioned myself next to the beers and assumed a drinking position with a beer. A lucky find to keep company. When both bottles were emptied, I got up and sat atop the bin. Like ants, office workers scurried out of their nests. Shoulder to shoulder, people walked in the direction of the station. Some people older, some younger, some taller, some shorter. So many variations but all similar with their dead expressions. A few glances flickered between curiosity and indifference when viewing me. One gaze, however, stuck from an older man. He wore a hat, a tie accompanying his shirt, and a coat. Curiosity was painted on his face. I wonder what his story was? What were his worries? As soon as he realised my interest, he turned his head.
At 5:05 pm, a man exited his workplace. The street in front of him, Collins St, was crowded. People were trying to get home as quickly as possible. He walked down Spencer Street when a newspaper flew into his face. He grabbed the newspaper and saw the article on the page. Headlines read “Disappearances of 9 to 5 workers”. Just a bunch of money-hungry coyotes, he thought. The man looked up towards the street ahead. It seemed from a distance, that an older individual was being trailed unknowingly by someone tipsy. The man doubted his eyes and continued. It was Friday and the man couldn't care less.
