Commute

My crew really was getting out of hand as of late. I was trying the gentler, more patient approach as recommended from some fellow Liberation Force Fleet Commanders. They aren’t Brutor, nor Matari for that matter. Not all of them at least. Kind and nice doesn’t always work with us. Sometimes you just need to knuckle up and splinter some skulls. 

“Why do you even take public transport? You have a personal hangar full of ships worth more than they could ever dream of earning in a lifetime!” He grabbed his stomach and doubled over, his own amusement uncontainable. 

“Seriously, Colonel Roc Wieler, ‘hero’ of the Republic, taking the magrail across Matar with the common people.” He slapped his knee repeatedly, mimicking that he was close to wetting himself. They didn’t even hear my grunt of displeasure.

“That is exactly why I do it.” I said with menace in my voice. It was a tone used when challenging another Brutor for position within the tribe. Or in my case, the alpha male warning the young ones to settle down or someone would die. 

“They are common people, just like us. They are the reason we fight. We are all Matari. How can you be so blind? So ignorant?” I let the last question drip off my lips with disdain, seeing how far they would push it. I didn’t blink. I slowly took my sunglasses off so they could clearly see the sincerity and intensity in my gaze. They both backed down.

“It seems to me, you both need to be reminded of how very common you are.” I pointed one finger at the blade commander. “You’ll be polishing the latrines until I get back, with your toothbrush, and I will be eating off of those floors, so they better be spotless.” He opened his mouth to sass me, but I growled under my breath and he promptly shut the hell up.

“And you,” I moved my finger to point at the mid level mechanic beside him. “You will be cleaning the entire engine room until not a drop of grease remains where it shouldn’t.” He had no fight. He didn’t even have bark.

I saluted them both, waiting for their quick return salute. “Dismissed” I said with disgust, releasing them from my presence.

That incident had bothered me all the way to the surface of our homeworld. I was in a much better mood now though. I had just spent the last few hours shopping, and was sitting on the magtrain from downtown to the eastern suburbs. 

I made some interesting discoveries about this thing they call the “commute”. Just thinking of the name makes me chuckle, as I am constantly yelling at my pilots during combat “COMM! MUTE!”, and honestly as I look around, I can see it applies here too. People are crammed in like sardines in a can two sizes two small yet nobody says a word.

Of course, the other meaning of the word commute was first used in my life when I was much younger and in trouble with law. The judge “commuted” my sentence, meaning it mysteriously vanished. I could see how doing this commute every day would be like a sentence; how you could vanish into the faceless crowd.

I also discovered mag trains weren’t built by brutors. They were built by some miraculous race of engineers whom couldn’t have weighed more than 120 lbs, or been taller than 5’2″, not to mention they had never been to a gym in their lives, nor wore a jacket. I mean, I’m not huge by Brutor standards, I’m a runt 6’1″, 220 lbs. I am broad across the shoulders, and wearing my insulated flight jacket isn’t helping; my shoulders are crunched up as bet they can yet still I am spilling over into the seats on either side of me.

And yet they do this everyday, just sitting there, plugged into audio devices, reading the dailies, some just sleeping, their heads bobbing back and forth like a children’s toy. And how is it not a single person snores? They go about their trip completely unaware of anything around them, not a care in the world.

I wish I could experience that.

And why will nobody look me in the eye? Or anyone else for that matter? With this many people around, where exactly are you supposed to look? Ah, the advertisers got it covered. There are small video monitors on all the upper walls of the magtrain. Smart.

It was right about then I got the urge to go to the washroom, and by urge, I meant it was happening right now one way or the other.

“Excuse me, pardon me” I tried to say politely in my bassy voice, as I forcefully shouldered my way down the aisle towards the incar restroom. Again, these magical engineers really need an ass stomping. I could barely fit down the aisle sideways, or inside the half width door to the lavatory.

I looked down at the small hole. How was I supposed to sit there? Where would I hang my jacket? Shit. Literally.

At first, I decided to make the herculean effort of holding it and just relieve the pressure on my bladder. One quick shake of the train midstream quickly stopped that exercise. I HAD to go.

Without going into detail, I finally worked it out. 

A few more apologies, and I had made my way back to my seat, only to discover someone had sat there in my stead. Didn’t really surprise me any. Nor did the fact they wouldn’t make eye contact. So I decided to stare. That’s right, stare. 

As a child I learned it’s important to always be dominant. My buddies and I used to hang out at the local malls, just staring down people. Never blinking, never looking away, no matter who it was. The best part was, once you got the hang of it, 99% of the time you would  “win”, and that other 1% percent, you were glad you had your buddies with you. My mother used to slap me silly for the fights we would get in.

I kept staring. The train jostled again, and a woman bumped up against me, making that “sucking” sound with her lips, as she looked in disdain at my jacket. By the planet’s standards, it was late summer, and nobody was wearing an outdoor jacket except me. Granted, I spend a lot of time in space, and tend to feel cold most of the time without it. Just a habit I suppose.

I switched to staring at the woman instead. I felt a childlike immaturity and glee to my actions. There was a certain freedom to be experienced by just losing yourself in the commute I discovered. You were just another nameless worker on their way home. You could be exhausted and let your guard down. You could find comfort crammed up against everyone else with their body odour. You could simply be.

In the end, that is why I take public transport. It reminds me of who I am. Not some hotshot pod jockey, too big for his own britches. I am a Matari, like so many others, who just wants to make a difference.

It felt good to be reminded of my place in the grand scheme of things, and as the doors opened at my stop, I was at peace, at least until someone yelled “Look! It’s Roc Wieler! Can I have your autograph?” The crowd quickly turned my way. I scoured the direction the voice had come from, but they had ‘commuted’ and were just a nameless face in the crowd.

I really need to have something done about these commercials.