the dube train
THE DUBE TRAIN The morning was too cold for a summer morning, at least, to me, a child of the sun. But then on all Monday mornings I feel rotten and shivering, with a clogged feeling in the chest and a nauseous churning in the stomach. It debilitates any interest in the whole world around me. The Dube Station with the prospect of congested trains, filled with sour-smelling humanity, did not improve my impression of a hostile life directing its malevolence plumb at me. All sorts of disgruntled ties darted through my brain, the lateness of the trains, the showing savagery of the crowds, the grey aspect around me. Even the announcer over the loudspeaker gave confused directions. I suppose it had something to do with the peculiar chemistry of the body on Monday morning. But for me all was wrong with the world. Yet, by one of those flukes that occurs in all routines, the train I caught was not full when it came. Usually try to avoid seats next to the door, but someti...