Awkward Ride Part 1
by
W.X Hunter

THE FOLLOWING IS BASED ON A TRUE STORY
Part One of Three. 

Arriving at Bentleigh station at 4:28pm to catch the train. I sat down on the bench outside the platform next to an old lady, who had at her feet a navy blue leather bag which looked nearly as old as she was. She seemed as though she had done whatever it was she was doing in Bentleigh and was ready to go home. I wondered how long she had been commuting by train and how much longer she would.

I reached into my bag to grab my book, “Sol Siester”. Which I purchased for two dollars from the Edithvale market book stall. I knew I had all the equipment for the session as I double checked it on the bus. Fossicking around in my backpack, I felt a sense of relief when I felt my flannel shirt in the bag, as I knew the temperature would be cooler on the return trip. Opening the book at Chapter 6, I proceeded to read. Hemingway, although not captivating me, I still had the desire to keep reading.

“Fuck you we ain’t going there…” I heard a man plea to another.

“Yes we are just chill ya fuckhead,” the other man replied.

This was a distraction from reading and surrendered my attention towards the pair. 

The old lady took a deep breath, clearly showing her disdain.

“Charming”, was my reply to her breath.

“Disgusting” her very apt description.

Seemingly they were friends, as this profanity filled debate went back and forth. Both were smoking and the taller one with the blue singlet was drinking a long neck VB. The other man wore entirely black. His attire matched the black roots of his peroxide hair.

“Where’s your slut? I can’t miss this train Troy!” demanded the beer drinking young man.

“She is coming Jay. For fuck sake!” he replied, taking the last drag of his cigarette 
before discarding it.

“Here she is.” a relieved Troy stated.

This bemused me as Troy did not seem to take offence at his girl being referred to as “Slut”.

“Who’s got a smoke for me?” enquired  Slut.

Wearing a short denim pink skirt with her sizable stomach protruding, Slut seemed an appropriate name.

Without speaking Jay gave Slut a Peter Jackson.

Observing the group dynamic through my tinted sun glasses, I made a mental note that tattoos are something that you should pay top dollar, as the tattoos I noticed on Jay looked very cheap and if they were not he was certainly “ripped off”. Not that I knew much about buying tattoos. Slut took her first drag of a cigarette as the boom gates came down.

“Ohh! Fuck!” was Slut’s reaction.

She put the smoke out and frugally  placed it in her bag.

 As the train approached, I thought I would accompany the elderly lady on to the train in a different carriage. This was not as easy as I had hoped, because the trio were debating which carriage they would enter. Troy and Slut wanted to travel in the front carriage, while Jay was wanting the second, This was also the carriage my elderly companion and I desired.

 When the train stopped, a flood of school students leaked like human pastel. Jay begrudgingly succumbing to democracy, walked to the first carriage. Jay was taller than myself, although we probably weighed the same. When he attempted to walk past me as the old lady was stepping on to the train we bumped shoulders, causing him to mutter…”out of my way dickhead.”

 I took this in my stride. As my senior companion sat on the designated seat for the elderly, I heard her say “Thankyou.”

I nodded my head in acknowledgement.

Reading was not an option, as my thoughts were with the trio in the front carriage. I was a little disappointed, as I was not there to witness the unsavoury behaviour. It was 4:55pm and my mind was now focused on the session. I reminded myself that at 6:50pm, I would be at Seaford station on my way home. The mission for me was to do what was required and not think too much. My restlessness caused me to reach for my book. At Highett station my elderly companion departed the train  without saying goodbye. This was the fourth week of the Tuesday and Thursday sessions. I had done this first in 1996 for three months the same again in 1998 and now in the year 2000.

The train stopped at Chelthenem I looked up from my book. An athletic man 22 years of age wearing track suit pants and a blue T- Shirt entered the train. He was 2 years older than myself, slightly shorter yet heavier and stronger. He was the reason I was on the train and to a lesser extent I was the reason he was commuting.

Sitting facing the direction the train was travelling, I said “Scott”.
 He looked up and nodded - genuinely glad to see me although subdued.
Scott had red hair and as he put his sports bag down, I noticed his defined muscular arms. We shook hands and I  again placed Hemingway in the bag.
 
 “Hows it going Mate!” This was more of a greeting than an enquiry.
“Alright” was the reply as he sat down.We sat diagonally opposite each other allowing us to have maximum leg room. This was not the first time we had shared the same train. Scott did not like me. Well I presumed he did not. The reason I analysed as we sat captive. My theory was we lived different lives. He worked nine to five, had a child and his girlfriend was expecting another. Compared to me - university drop out, who had not stayed in the one place for more than 6 months for the last few years. 

We made conversation with frequent pauses.

The second last stop was Carrum, Jay, Troy and Slut had disembarked. The train was slowly passing them. This time Troy had the beer, while Slut was standing motionless attempting to light her cigarette. I turned my head to catch my last glimpse of the group dynamic. My less than subtle staring of the trio caused Scott to look at them. As soon as they were out of sight I turned my attention to Scott.

“Hows work?”

“Busy. The Boss has just got a new contract.”

“Oh Yeah,” was my reply as we both stood up to depart the train. I tried to sound interested and sincere of which I was neither.

I stepped off the train first and we both walked together to our destination, ‘Arthur’s Boxing Gym.’ Putting on sunglasses as we walked, the chemistry between us had altered. We were one step closer to what some would refer to as ‘punching on.’ . On the other side of the road was some parkland in the industrial area. Within the Parkland was one of the very first skateboard half pipes seldom used due to the transition being too steep.

“This is my third stint with Arthur, I just want to get some fitness” I said. Before I could finish my statement, Scott cut me off and said “We all get what we want out of it”
 True words indeed.

I did not want fuckwits hassling me when I went out. That was a reason, although fighting someone in a bar I felt was tacky and classless.It mystifies me the reason one would fight in a bar when you can fight legally in a boxing ring.
What I wanted out of it was to see if I had courage and if so how much courage. Many sports require courage, motor cross, surfing and Aussie Rules.

 The Courage required in boxing is different. The reason I was at Arthur’s Boxing Gym was to acquire this courage. Scott was to bring this courage out in me. To force me to stand up and be able to fight him was the main reason. I knew that I was never going to be the next Oscar Dela Hoya. Simply, I wanted to get my ‘courage’ and not get hurt.
.
 As we entered, I could hear endearing sounds of 1950’s rock n roll that was continuously played at Arthur’s gym.

“Hello Pat, Hello Scott,” Arthur warmly greeted us with his attention on the new comers learning in the ring. 
“Alright that’s enough,” he said to the students sparring.

“Well done very good Tony,” he said in his South London accent. He spoke like Austin Powers, had the same cheesy sense of humour and nobody laughed at Arthur’s jokes more than he did. Arthur represented England in Boxing at the Olympics as a Welterweight he was in his late 50’s.Arthur was a true Guru. Tony in his late teens had just sparred  in the ring for the first time. Tony had a sense of relief and accomplishment on his face as Arthur smiling broadly said “Well done son!”

Arthur had trained many a national champion. However I believe he received more gratification when training novices. The most athletic person and the most unco-ordinated person could walk into Arthur’s gym and he would give them the same amount of tuition amd more importantly respect.

Scott paid his six dollars first then I gave Arthur my three gold coins. Six dollars for the tuition unlike these ‘martial arts’ schools who asked you for a three month membership and taught  Asian philosophy. Brain washing there members with propaganda. Arthur seemed curious as to the reason Scott and I were arriving together.
” We caught the same train,”. I stated.

Arthur nodded his head.

I shook hands with a couple of blokes in the gym who I knew. I had a set warm up  routine which went for 10 minutes.Headgear,mouthguard,wristwraps,gloves.
“Pat come in and play,” Arthur said with a smile.

“That’s enough for you today Paul” a sweating Paul stepped out the ring.

And I stepped in to meet Azim a dark skinned man aged in his early twenties the same size  as myself. 

“Now Azim we have got to get that computer in your head working as this Geezer”.
Referring to me is a South Paw(left handed fighter)Pat is going to try and move to his right so you have to get Pat to move the other way” Arthur took hold of Azim’s right hand “ so you can throw that beautiful right cross!”.

 
Arthur gave Azim further instructions which ended with” keep those hands nice and high Azim.”

“Very light Pat” were his orders to me.

Rightly I had a duty of care to Azim, just as all those who have superior skills to myself have a duty of care when sparring me. I moved to my right deliberately punching the timid Azim in the shoulder, allowing him to come forward to throw his right hand which I blocked with my left.

I could hear Arthur demand  “Hands high Azim.”

“Stop,” Arthur stated..

They had a brief chat.

We resumed.

The advice Arthur had given him worked, as I was moving to my left which lines me up for his right hand..
“Very good Azim!” Arthur exclaimed.

Azim now confident, as I intentionally had not hit him, started throwing punches with care free abandon. Forcing me to defend with attack, I threw my right jab and a left cross which backed Azim into a corner. Although ‘taking care’ of Azim, I knew I was the superior boxer. If he was attempting to hit me and expect me not to fire back at all he was mistaken. 

Two right hooks to the head  followed. He had never encountered these punches before. Azim looked concerned and slightly rattled.

“Time,” Arthur said.

“Step out Azim. Good work. Thats enough for you today,”the Professor stated.

I put my glove on his shoulder “Good work Mate,” I said.

Azim breathing heavily tapped me on the back in appreciation.

Azim was finished for the evening. I was only starting.

An ominous  Scott stepped in the ring.

END OF PART 1 OF 3