Riding the freak shuttle

I live on the #86 tram route, known to most people in the inner northern suburbs of Melbourne as the freak shuttle.

Friends have assured me that the freak shuttle is nowhere near as bad as it was four years ago. Now, at least, the drug users and drunks have the decency to head towards the rear of the carriage.

I caught the freak shuttle last Friday night, just as the sun was going down. It’s an interesting journey, from the city to where I live.

It took forever to get on the tram that night because a large, smelly woman wearing a too-small dirty tracksuit, carrying several well-used plastic bags, took a veritable eternity to descend the two steps to the street so others could climb aboard.

I held my breath and smiled benignly as I pass her. Hey, I know it sounds mean, but I’ve caught the tram with her before and I know she emits a very distinctive body odour. You won’t find at any perfume counters.

I sat as close as I could to the driver. I’ve learned that sitting up the back of the freak shuttle at night isn’t always the best of ideas, even if your aching back and tired feet beg to differ at the sight of an empty seat.

Teens got on at the mall, off again at the top end of the street, at the stop in front of Parliament House. There’s a big nightclub there.

Junkies, drunks, down-and-outs, late-working suits; on at Carlton Gardens, off again at various points along Smith Street. Safeway is popular tonight.

I kept my head down, read my book. Listened to other passengers. Older migrants: snippets of Greek, Polish, Serb. Yugoslav. Teenagers, yelling. Kissing. Arguments in Italian, English. Arguments about sex, drugs, babies, olives.

Another woman in a dirty tracksuit pants sits next to me. I heard what I thought was her sighing deeply, and I turned my head to investigate. She had her index finger jammed inside her nose, right up to the first knuckle. Wiggled it around enthusiastically. She extricated her podgy digit and sucked on it.

My stomach turned and I couldn’t look; but concentrating on my book was tough work, listening to those noises and knowing what they meant. I prayed that she would be getting off well before my stop – no luck. She followed me out in to the cold Northcote High Street air, mimicking my enthusiastic thank you! to the driver. I ran over the road as I spied a gap in the traffic.

I looked back and saw her, finger still wedged deeply in a nostril, pants slackening at the rear, shuffling towards the steps of the town hall.

And the tram squeals up High Street towards Bundoora.