I Farted

I recall this from some time ago. I was on the Central Line to Mile End station, one of those tedious daily commutes that saps the soul and leaves you looking like a drained sack of meat by the end of the week.

While I was on this train enduring the screeching sound of the wheels against the tracks, and trying my best to breathe as little as possible with the heaving mass of warm bodies creating a potent concoction of sweat and expensive fragrances, I could hear a little voice. As I looked around I saw the owner of this little voice and it was a little boy sat with his mum. He was sitting in that way that undamaged, happily curious fresh humans would when they hadn't yet been exposed to the bitter monotony of working adulthood. His royal blue sandals only reached halfway down the seat he was on and his little grey shorts rode up his narrow legs from his perched position on wacky-coloured material of the seat. His shirt was a headache-inducing collage of reds, blues and greens in nonsensical patterns that seemed to dance erratically with the jerking motion of the train.

This kid was staring in wonderment at almost everything on the train, he was commenting incessantly but his mum looked unfazed. Her wistful look suggested that she was either incredibly self-disciplined or that she was on a pretty powerful sedative. Some people on the train looked a little irritated by this intrusion. Some tiny being had somehow managed to get on the train and was injecting unfiltered happiness and relentless questioning into their otherwise standard trundle through the depths of London's express travel to mundane city life.

All the while I was trying not to stare at this boy, he must've been only about four or five. His neatly trimmed afro glistened with some product his mum had taken care to work in and comb. I remember those days. I could recall when my mum would put the pungent liquid in my hair and comb it through those tight curls (those days are long behind me now) as if I'd wronged her at some point in my life. The agony, as it always felt as though she was attempting to pull my head from my neck with every pull of the comb, brought a glistening globule of water to the outer corner of my eye. But when I got through it, and after copious amounts of cream to avoid those white legs my mum and nan so despised, I would carry on with my day. Like nothing traumatizing had happened (unless, of course, I came home with a hole in the trouser knee or had managed to get dirty hands or asked for five pence to get a chewy sweet from Ozzie's down the road) with not a care in the world.

I remember smiling to myself. That boy was similar to me, probably similar to all the people on that train in some way. Maybe not in the way they were raised, I mean this boy looked as though his mum was well off enough that she could get him some nice clothes. I didn't have that, I was the oldest and sometimes to make sure the youngest had something good to wear I would have to go with patched up clothes for a good year or two but I didn't resent that. I loved my brother and sister. I loved my mum and dad. And although we don't talk much anymore because, y'know, life, I still love them all.

The little boy, whose name I learned through his mum's single interaction throughout the whole journey was called Leon, continued to talk at a pace that an auctioneer would be proud of. A lot of the thronging crowd of grey-faced workers had thinned out as the giant metal snake chewed through the dirty concrete maze of tunnels and off-white stations.

At some point there was only about ten or fifteen of us left in the carriage. Leon was quiet now. He was staring into the distance, that stare when the eyes become unfocused and look as though they've crossed. I wasn't sure if it was deliberate or if he'd just completely absorbed himself into a vacuum of crushing boredom.

"I FARTED!" he blurted out, a wide grin spreading from one ear to the other. He was now alert again, staring at his mum full of pride. His mum, however, was decidedly unimpressed and leaned close to him and seemed to whisper something in his ear but that just seemed to make him laugh. That cheeky laugh. The shoulders hunch up, the head dips with the chin to the chest and the little legs swing with wild joy.

It made me smile. Not too much made me smile when I was on these awful journeys. The stone-faced fellow commuters gripping the hand rails whilst attempting to read a berliner paper or at least get through two or three pages of the latest book that gives them that edgy appearance. I remember the time when Harry Potter released with the so-called adult covers and I'd already bought the original cover versions. I wasn't ever going to go out and repurchase those books again when I already had them. It crossed my mind to even wrap those books like I did in secondary school but I'm fairly certain people would've realised and I didn't want them thinking I was a nutcase or something so I just read them as they were. I was a rebel. I thought.

But as I got older I adapted my taste to suit my commute and those around me. I needed people to know that I'm intelligent and not just a kid trapped in the body of a broken man who was slowly but inevitably feeding his mind and tangible existence into the meat grinder of life. There wouldn't even be a husk left to shovel into the pyre. Just an idea of achievement or success or something that I thought would amount to me being remembered at my funeral or service. Perhaps my obituary could be Facebook story. All neatly packed and summed up in a few seconds of uncomfortable smiles and inane poses with a can of beer in a passably decent garden.

Looking out of the window of the train I'd noticed the rain had started to fall. Everything was soaked. From the tired buildings to the sad trees mistreated by the past month of unending sun. I also noticed I was still smiling, the little boy, Leon, his words stuck in my head and replayed over and over. It was the way he said it. It was his reaction to the obvious chastisement by his mother. There was very little care or fear about announcing his bodily function. He just didn't care.

Now I know that he was a kid and that his undeveloped mind was unable to comprehend how we should fit in with society and social norms but there was something about it all that struck me so hard. For a moment, and I mean a really brief moment, I was touched by a terrible sadness because my life was so ridiculously predictable.

Imagine waking up the same time on a daily basis for about four to five days of the week to get up, dress the same way, take the same route to work and perform the same task for each of those days and then go home to get ready to repeat that all over again?

I think I was a little tired. Sometimes when I get tired I start to drift into the realm of how disastrous my life seems to have turned out to be. But I hate monotony. Boredom drives me insane at times and seeing this kid just enjoying his existence reminded me of that.

I wasn't in the habit of dwelling on terrible life choices or questioning my decisions but then again, I think I was. No matter how small the issue I always seemed to hang on to it like it was the most pressing thing in my life. Such as that moment I forgot to zip up my fly, or when I tripped on a non-existent raised paving slab. How about waving to the friend who actually wasn't my friend so I had to pretend I was waving at someone else? All things that would have me analysing my actions on that day and performing a critique of how I could have played it out. And here was a child who farted and was so proud to announce it to the world (well, a train partially filled with disinterested people).

My smile was still etched onto my face. This was something possibly that could be a turning point in my life. When I was thinking about everything, lost in my swirling pit of thoughts bubbling over with self-loathing and pity I'd kinda failed to notice that little Leon and his mum had got off the train at some point. Then something else hit me.

Where the hell am I?

I looked around the now empty carriage and could spy a couple of people in another section looking disinterestedly out of the windows and then I looked to the open grounds of a park. There were a few trees dotted around here and there, some people walking their dogs or lying on the grass soaking up the morning sun. The train rumbled by until I couldn't see them anymore but it was a little troubling that I'd somehow ended up passing my stop what must've been an age ago.

I checked my smart watch. Okay, I was gonna be late to work.

I farted!

Those two words popped into my head again like a mantra. I checked which stop was up next and decided that I was going to stay on the train until the last stop. Now that I'd made this life affirming decision I sent a message to my boss to tell them I wasn't going to be in because I felt unwell. Today was going to be my day.

Bugger all this rinse and repeat crap because I wanted to be free. That was the whole reason behind me liking Leon's proclamation. It was a call to arms against the endless beatdown that work and life seemed to want to dish out to me on an almost daily basis.

I text the boss again. I simply typed 'I quit!'.

I made a decision. If I forced myself into an impossible situation perhaps I could kickstart my dreams and become that personal trainer or write that book that'd been bouncing around my head for the last ten years. Maybe now, just perhaps, this was the start of living a fulfilling existence. Becoming the man I knew I had to...

Riiiiiiing!

My phone interrupted the bombastic thought process with a harsh chime. 'I was meant to change that.'

Checking the screen I saw it was my boss. No doubt she was gonna beg me to stay. She was gonna offer me more per year, I mean I was definitely one of the hardest working people in that dreary office and I knew my worth. This might be the perfect time to spell out exactly what I expected from the job. Better pay, better hours, a company car. All that and more.

'Hello?' I answered as if surprised by the call.

What followed was a five minute beratement about how ungrateful I was and how I'd been given some breathing room to submit reports (I'd forgotten about those times) and perhaps I should think about finishing my other reports before dumping them in someone else's lap and selfishly dancing off into the sunset. Then she finished with a not so gentle reminder that if I failed to give the contractually agreed eight weeks notice I would lose any salary owed and possibly be taken to court for breach of said contract. It was a sobering moment. Deflating if I'm being honest.

After she hung up without me being able to offer any word in response my eyes lingered on the dimming screen of the phone for far too long. It felt as if I'd been kicked by a mule. What did that feel like anyway? I realised I was too used to these horrible clichés. Day in day out I would...see what I mean?

Ah yes, I remembered why I couldn't just announce to the world that I'D just farted. Because of social norms and adult responsibilities. I realised I had basically roped myself into this inescapable life of perpetual debt and being what others deemed to be normal. I couldn't be Leon because I had been guided into being one of the grey-faced bods that travelled to and from work every day without fail. I could feel that swell of bitter resignation rising from the pit of my stomach as it pushed its way to my head.

Then one of those thoughts jumped from the dank basement in my brain and formed a basic but serious question, 'Has this really changed how I feel about life and reclaiming what I used to have?'

My answer was already there. Questions and ideas, jumbled and often fighting to get themselves to the front of the thought process, battled to give me the answer. The answer, though ill-formed and jarring, was the only offer from depths of that flooded basement.

At the next stop a small aging man in a black leather jacket, dark jeans and platform shoes boarded the carriage. He had a blonde mohawk, pencil thin moustache and aviator sunglasses that covered most of his face. He sat opposite me listening to music, music so loud I could make out the words to Seven Seas of Rye by Queen. He gave me a nod and smiled and I suppose I nodded back because he grinned, pulled out a tattered copy of The Witches by Roald Dahl and sipped on a coffee.

The train pulled into some station I hadn't been to before. The slowing motion prompted me to stand and I made my way to the door. I saw the leather jacket guy pull out an ear bud and he asked matter-of-factly, 'Did you just fart, mate?'

'Yep!' I replied, smiling.

He just chuckled, nodding with seeming approval as I got off the train looking for a new destination.