Bum Trip

Just accosted by a guard on the train from Amsterdam to Gent, Belgium. Gave him my ticket, which he took. Apparently I hadn’t put the date on it yet. I hadn’t put the date on it the last four times I had used the ticket either, but nobody had so much as mentioned it then. I advised him of this. He advised that those trips weren’t on this train. He advised that I must buy a ticket. I advised that he was holding my ticket. He advised that I hadn’t put the date on it. I asked to have the ticket so I could put the date on it. He advised that I must buy a ticket. “To get my ticket?” “To get your ticket.”

I wanted to punch his face.

“I’m not buying my ticket. I’ve already bought my ticket.” “Then you get off at the next stop.” “Fine. Give me my ticket.” “When you pay for a ticket.” “How much is a ticket?” “Fifty-four euros.” “No. Give me my ticket and I’ll get off at the next stop.” “You come find me at the next stop.” He put the ticket into his pocket. I spat in his face and gripped his hair in my fist. I thought about bashing his face into the wall, but, oddly self-conscious, decided against it and released my fist, doing nothing. (Actually I went back to my seat.)

As the train slowed I jumped up, saddled up my pack and set out to find him. Standing on the station I asked for my ticket. “No. When you buy the ticket.” “I’m getting off. Give me my ticket.” “No.” He had got back into the train now and I had no choice but to force my way back on also, huge pack behind me stopping the door from closing. He tried, weakly to shove me back, but immediately moved backwards as I boarded and the train pulled away. “If you have a complaint you can make it at a station,” he ventured. “I can’t make a complaint while you have my ticket.” “You must buy a ticket.” “I have a ticket.” “Not a valid ticket.” 

“How much?” I inquired, suddenly cool. “Sixty-seven euros.” “It used to be fifty-four!” I threw my toothpick on the floor. “That was before the Hague. We have gone past the Hague now.” “Funny how you didn’t mention that before,” I spat, the anger rising in me physically again.

I wanted desperately to hit him but he gave no opportunity. He was passive in every way. He had a fat flabby body (larger than mine) and the fat around his jowls made his weak chin look nonexistent. On one side of his face he carried several moles and on the other a large ugly earring. Punching him would do no good. My fists would sink into his soft flesh maybe three times before his soft eyes would even react and I would be storming back to my seat before his pudgy little hands rose to defend himself. But the adrenalin raced around my head. I could feel it dancing millimetres below the surface of the skin on my face in my temples and jaw. I paid him the ticket, asking if he liked his job and whether he enjoyed the power of his position, but nothing sunk home. No rise at all. I felt smaller even than before. Ridiculous to fight this stupid man. Like hitting a child. Like hitting a girl.

Bum trip.