The Frankston Train

By Jeremy Wohlers

The Frankston Train follows the misadventures of a true denizen of ‘Franghanistan’, Neeley Glasscock. His first world complacency is shattered when he is embroiled in that quintessentially Australian public disturbance, a racist rant on public transport.
The Frankston Train is a satire about overt racism and unconscious bias that tests the claim, which is often repeated by luminaries like the present Prime Minister, that ‘Australia is the most successful multicultural society in the world.’ It is easy to identify with Neeley Glasscock; after all, who hasn’t witnessed some disconcerting or unsettling incident on a train, tram, or bus. And like Neeley Glasscock, we have all faced that dilemma of the petty existential hero or heroine – whether to intervene or not, whether to speak up or remain silent.
Predictably, in the age of the ubiquitous cell phone, vision of this deplorable episode goes viral. All those involved become instant celebrities. Neeley’s employer, a pay-day lender, tries to exploit Neeley’s fifteen minutes of fame; however, chaos ensues when Neeley devises a devious plan to punish his employer’s cynicism and atone for his moral turpitude.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984503442

Jeremy Wohlers

Author Biography coming up soon

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

F our hundred and ten parking spaces—not counting the reserved spaces inside the fenced enclosure—410 and not one of them was free. At twenty past six in the morning, it was barely light and the place was already full. The driver of a white Ford Fairmont, who had just driven up and down every avenue in the car park at Frankston Station, decided to do one more circuit just in case. He drove slowly down the rows of cars towards the far end of the car park. I’ll miss the express, he grumbled under his breath. The express was the 6:48 train. Even though the 6:57 and the 7:08 were also express trains, they did not arrive in the city early enough for the driver of the Ford to get to work before his colleagues. So he regarded the 6:48 as the last express—if not his last chance. He fervently hoped that he would get a parking space at the northern end of the car park near the old signal box.

Unfortunately, every parking space was taken—and even some that were not legal parking spaces at all. The driver of the Ford considered doing yet another circuit but decided against it. He drove onto the main road, turned right into a right turning lane, waited for a car to pass, did a U-turn, and then drove back to another right turning lane set into the median strip.

He turned into the section at the southern end of the car park where he would have to pay for parking. He drove up and down the lines of cars. This car park was full as well. Now he would certainly miss the 6:48. He cursed in disgust, struck his steering wheel with all the force he could muster—a blow that had no more power than a paltry slap—and then drove off hurriedly, his wheels kicking up gravel.

Damn, he muttered as he glanced at his dashboard clock. He realized that the 6:48 had to be pulling out of the station at that very moment. The driver of the Ford had no option; he had to utilize the all-day parking at the Arts Centre on Davey Street.

As he drove into the driveway of the Arts Centre, he noted grimly that there were only a dozen spaces available, according to the digital display at the entrance. What’s going on? he asked himself. This was most unusual. Every time he had been forced to use the municipal car park, it had been nearly empty. He could not imagine what had drawn so many to Frankston so early in the morning.

He had to descend to the lowest level of the complex to find a parking space. This level echoed with shouts and an intermittent clattering that made the driver of the Ford very nervous. He was not sure what he would encounter as he made his way to the Playne Street exit. He considered taking the lifts and leaving via the Young Street exit; however, he was in a hurry and decided against it even though there was still time to catch the 6:57 and plenty of time to catch the 7:08.

Once he was within sight of the Playne Street exit, he wished he had opted for the lift because he could see a disembodied head just above the car roofs. It flew along between rows of parked cars before ducking out of sight at the far end. A loud clattering echoed around the underground car park once more, followed by a burst of raucous laughter. Half a dozen youths stood at the other end of the rows of cars. They high-fived each other. One dipped out of view beneath the car roofs, presumably as the hilarity of the situation overwhelmed him. A youth stood up at the opposite end; his head was visible again. He was grinning sheepishly as he brushed his long fringe out of his eyes. He retrieved his skateboard and then sauntered towards his companions who stood in front of the stairs that led to Playne Street. The driver of the Ford tried to avoid eye contact with the youths as he got nearer the exit.

Hey, buddy! cried the youth with the long fringe.

The driver of the Ford averted his eyes, pretending that he had not heard the greeting.

Hey, buddy! said the youth more insistently. I’m talkin’ to ya!

The driver of the Ford looked around as though he had only just heard the youth.

Hey, buddy, wait up, said the youth.

His companions looked on sullenly.

I can’t stop, stammered the driver of the Ford. I’m late.

The youth ignored the driver’s excuse.

Don’t I know ya? Don’t I know ya? asked the youth exuberantly.

The driver was so surprised that he had to stop. Me? he asked.

Sure. I’ve seen you about, said the youth affably. He flicked his dyed, raven-black hair out of his eyes.

The driver of the Ford was bewildered.

Yeah, I know ya. I see ya all the time, added the youth.

His companions approached and then surrounded the driver and the youth.

Look, buddy, can ya help us out? asked the youth. When he said us, he really only meant himself. He smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth and a set of protruding canines pushed out of place by his other teeth. Yeah, mate, just a few coins, he added.

Momentarily, the driver of the Ford toyed with the idea of brushing aside this request, pushing past the youths, and climbing up the stairs just behind them to the exit on Playne Street.

The youth waited for his reply, but when it was not forthcoming, he pressed his case.Go on, buddy, he said. Ya see me all the time. I’m always here.

Don’t hold out, mate, one of the other youths said menacingly.

I’ve got to get the train to Cheltenham to visit me sister, said the youth with the fringe. I just need a couple of bucks.

Yeah, his sister’s sick, volunteered a companion.

For some reason, this last claim made some of the youths snigger.

The driver of the Ford was annoyed. He did not want to give the youth anything; however, the youths seemed to divine his thoughts because they shuffled closer together, presenting an impenetrable barrier and cutting off access to the stairs just behind them. The youth who had asked for money shook his head, irritated by his hair, but the tips of his fringe still fell back into his eyes. He blinked as though briefly blinded and then he brushed—or rather stroked—his hair away from eyes, ensuring that his fringe curved to the right.

Come on, mate. I gotta see me sister, said the youth.

Ordinarily, the driver of the Ford would have refused the youth’s request out of hand; however, he feared for the safety of his precious car. It would be very easy for one of the youths to run a key across its panels. He winced as though he could actually hear the scrape of metal on metal.

The driver of the Ford put his hand in his pocket, hesitated briefly, and then pulled out his wallet and inspected it, turning slightly in a futile attempt to conceal it.

Sorry, I don’t have any cash. I spent my last coins on parking, said the driver of the Ford.

Come on, mister, said the youth with the sick sister. I gotta get to Cheltenham. I just got to!

The driver shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation that proclaimed to the world that there was nothing more he could do. The youth looked crestfallen. The driver of the Ford had expected a different reaction. It crossed his mind that maybe the youth was telling the truth.

Geez, mister, said one of the youth’s companions, can’t you help ’im out?

I’d like to, said the driver of the Ford, but there’s nothing I can do.

The youth who needed money brightened up considerably and swept his fringe out of his eyes with a flourish.

I know, he declared disarmingly. I can go to the station with ya. I gotta go that way anyway. And then you can give us a few coins.

Some of his comrades slapped the youth on the back; apparently, his suggestion deserved congratulations. The driver of the Ford hesitated before objecting. However, the youth’s good humour deflected the driver’s feeble excuses. The youth handed his skateboard to one of his friends as the youths stood aside, allowing the driver of the Ford access to the exit. He hurried up the stairs, hoping that the youth would not follow; however, he heard footsteps, and when he stepped onto the footpath next to the library, the youth had drawn level with him.

Hey, mate, do have a ciggie? asked the youth.

I don’t smoke, said the driver hurriedly, embarrassed to be seen talking to the youth.

Good for you. Wish I could stop, said the youth.

The driver of the Ford relaxed. There was something incongruous and almost comical about the youth’s confession.

How long have you been smoking? asked the driver of the Ford.

Since I was ten, said the youth.

Ten! said the driver, unable to contain his surprise.

Yeah, said the youth, who did not seem to think that this was unusual.

Anyway, what’s ya name? asked the youth as they approached the bus terminus in front of the railway station.

Such familiarity made the driver of the Ford uncomfortable. He tried to put a few metres between himself and the youth by walking faster; however, the youth kept up effortlessly, forcing the driver of the Ford to increase his pace. He had to swing his arms faster, and he began to pant while the youth stretched out imperceptibly.

My name’s Josh, said the youth.

The driver of the Ford could no longer ignore him.

I’m . . .

The driver of the Ford hesitated; he had a pained expression on his face. Josh smiled. For the driver of the Ford, divulging his name seemed fraught with unknown perils. He just wanted to be done with the young miscreant; he certainly did not want to be his friend. However, he could hardly refuse; after all, Josh might be more than just a petty delinquent.

Finally, he capitulated and said, Neeley.

At first, Josh stared at him. Nearly? he asked eventually.

No, not ‘Nearly’, Neeeeley, replied Neeley, trying to emphasize the e sound.

Unfortunately, Josh was still unable to discern the distinction.

Glasscock, Mr Glasscock, he said hurriedly, in the hope that Mr would sound a little more dignified—a forlorn hope indeed.

Glasscock? asked Josh, stressing the last syllable of Neeley’s surname with explosive relish. While Neeley’s first name might be difficult to say, his last name was frequently the cause of hilarity.

Come on. You’re havin’ me on, cried Josh.

No, that’s my name, insisted Neeley.

It can’t be, retorted Josh.

But it is, he declared stridently.

All right, all right, I believe ya, conceded Josh happily. Besides, no one could make up a name like that.

Make up a name like that? repeated Neeley to himself. He cursed himself for not having thought of it before. Making up a name would have been easier than using his own.

Right, Nearly—

Neeley!

Sorry, Nearly, said Josh contritely.

Neeley did not attempt to correct him again. They walked past the fruit and vegetable shop in silence and then past the bus stops to the entrance of Frankston Station. We’re here. There’s an ATM across the street, announced Josh.

Neeley now had much to consider. Should he go through with the pretence that he had no cash? Unfortunately, the ATM did not dispense denominations smaller than twenty-dollar notes, and he certainly did not want to give Josh that much. The irony of his situation was not lost on Neeley because he had a five-dollar note in his wallet and some gold coins. He could have spared himself some expense—and much aggravation—by handing over a few dollars in the car park.

As Neeley waited with Josh at the pedestrian crossing on Young Street, he toyed with the idea of conceding that he did have cash in his wallet. He would wait until he reached the ATM and then, as he extracted his bank card from his wallet, proclaim that he had money after all. He replayed this pantomime over in his mind several times. The traffic lights pulsated rhythmically until the pedestrian signals turned green and then they whirred and clattered insistently. Neeley shook his head in disgust as he strode across the road. Not to use the ATM at this stage was a ludicrous idea, so he resigned himself to losing twenty dollars. Neeley took out his phone and looked at the time. He had to catch the 7:08 express, and he was running out of time.

He stood behind a customer at the ATM outside the newsagent. The man at the machine fed in his card. To Neeley, he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time examining the various options, punching in the services on the keypad, and reading the screen. The machine eventually returned his card. He took out another card and performed the same ritual again. Neeley softly muttered in frustration, Come on. Come on. Eventually, the customer at the ATM stepped aside without obtaining any money.

Neeley hurriedly pushed his card into the slot and quickly obtained his twenty-dollar note. However, as soon as he got it, Neeley could not bring himself to part with it even though it would have saved him time. He paused briefly; the bill was crisp, even fragrant with that new banknote smell. Neeley entered the newsagent next to the ATM and bought a newspaper. He handed over some of the change to Josh, a few gold coins. He kept a crumpled ten-dollar note for himself.

Thanks, mate, said Josh exuberantly.

Neeley hurried out of the shop without acknowledging Josh’s gratitude. Fortunately, as he stepped onto the pavement, the traffic lights whirred and clattered once more. Neeley almost broke into a run. He passed other commuters, walking briskly up the ramp to the station turnstiles. He found his train standing at the platform. He rushed into the nearest carriage and sat on the closest seat, expecting the train to pull out of the station at any moment.

Neeley leaned back in his seat and tried to relax; however, he could not because he remembered that the last time he caught the 7:08 it had broken down. On that occasion, he had been late and suffered accordingly. Neeley began to fidget nervously. He tried to look over his paper, but he was too distracted. Finally, the departure of the 7:08 was announced, and the train began to pull out of the station. The train slowly gathered speed as Neeley’s carriage approached the end of the platform. He saw a familiar figure, leaning against one of the girders that supported the station roof, smoking a cigarette. Josh waved happily as he spotted Neeley who looked down hurriedly in embarrassment. Josh kept waving as the train rumbled out of the station and down the tracks.

Chapter Two

N eeley did not dare look out of the train window again until the train had left the station and passed the level crossing at Overton Road. He was glad to be moving, and he was gratified to note that the train arrived at Kananook Station on time. As the train approached Seaford Station, it began to slow down prematurely until it stopped short of the platform. A collective groan went up. Various gents in dark suits and women in dark grey skirts or black pant-suits peered out of the train windows in distress. The passengers began to mutter under their breaths and murmur among themselves. This was the one occasion when commuters felt empowered to talk to perfect strangers, and soon they were talking freely to each other when normally accidental eye contact was extremely embarrassing. A man opposite Neeley, who wore a thin, slate-grey tie and black suit, commented on their dire situation.

Typical! Metro is useless, he complained.

Another man in a suit who sat next to him concurred. We’re late more often than not.

Some of the other commuters nodded in agreement. You might have got the impression—if you did not travel to the city regularly—that such inconvenient delays were a daily occurrence. Every time a commuter voiced criticism of Metro Rail, Neeley nodded sympathetically.

This grumbling intensified as strangers discovered that they had a common cause, and those who were bolder offered opinions on the state of the rail transport system in general. Given time, commuters might have even had conversations on other matters; however, those in Neeley’s immediate vicinity were startled by a loud exclamation.

Shit, what the fuck?

The other passengers looked around and then looked away, taking care not to make eye contact with the ragged gent who had disturbed them. He got up, went over to a door, and tried to peer down the line; however, he could not see very far. The other passengers tried to look busy. Some scrutinized their newspapers in minute detail, and others put on their earphones.

You’ve got to be fuckin’ joking, declared the ragged gent. He wore voluminous, slightly soiled, grey tracksuit pants with white stripes down the legs. His pants were oversized because the elastic in the waistband had gone long ago, and so they hung exceedingly low.

Why don’t they do something about these fuckin’ trains? he declared.

Every time he swore, the other passengers flinched. The ragged gent grasped the handle of the train door and tried to prize it open. He grabbed hold of the bar that standing passengers use for support and pulled. Neeley and his fellow commuters assumed that the doors were impossible to open when the train was not standing at a station. The ragged gent pulled harder. Much to everyone’s surprise, the door began to open. While holding it in place, he was able to stick his head out and look down the line.

The bloody crossing’s blocked, announced the ragged gent. Looks like a truck! Nah, it’s moved off. I thought it was an accident, but it ain’t.

It was not clear who the ragged gent was talking to, and why he felt it necessary to inform his fellow commuters of everything he saw. However, he willingly shared his privileged information—plus assorted expletives—with the other passengers. Neeley did not care for this state of affairs because he sometimes got the impression that the man was talking directly to him. Consequently, he shrank back in his chair and tried to look inconspicuous.

Geez, there’s fuckin’ flashing lights everywhere. They’re at the crossing, declared the ragged gent.

Such information further soured the mood of many of the nearby passengers who grew restless. A man in a dark blue suit complained,

Why don’t they tell us what’s going on?

You’ve got to be joking, mate, retorted the ragged gent. We’re gonna be stuck here for fuckin’ ages, that’s for sure. He let the door go.

The other commuters became more animated. Some of them phoned ahead to warn those who were waiting for them that it was likely that they would be late. Neeley considered phoning his work; however, he did not relish the prospect of making his excuses to his boss, so he decided to wait in the forlorn hope that he would not be late. The train began to roll forward towards the station much to the relief of most of the passengers. The commuters might have broken into applause, but they were generally very reserved and not given to such public displays. The train lurched to a halt again, accompanied by a muted groan from the passengers. The ragged gent was far more voluble.

What the fuck? he shouted. What the fuck?

The commuters recoiled, for they feared that in his frustration the ragged gent might vent his anger on one of them.

Mercifully, an announcement interrupted the ragged gent, informing the passengers that due to signalling problems the train would terminate at Seaford, and buses would take the passengers to Chelsea where they would continue their journey by train. The train then rolled slowly into Seaford Station.

The train emptied quickly. Like many commuters, Neeley wanted to be first in the bus queue. Unfortunately, the platform exit was at the northern end of the station, and he was closer to the southern end. He dodged slower commuters as he strode towards the exit, almost breaking into a trot when he saw the large number of commuters ahead of him at the railway crossing.

When Neeley finally got to the bus pickup point, he discovered that there was already a long queue. The queue grew until it reached the Station Street level crossing. Initially, Neeley was quite surprised when the red, boom gate lights began to flash and the bells began to ring as the gates were lowered. His curiosity soon turned to consternation as the train pulled out of the station and headed towards Carrum. His irritation was mirrored by those around him because they assumed that the problems with the signals meant that the train could progress no further. Some even thought— and Neeley was one of them—that the train was able to travel to the city safely and that they were being left behind. If asked, no one would have conceded—with the possible exception of the ragged gent—that Metro was involved in a conspiracy to make them late for work, but that was how they felt as the train rolled out of sight.

Neeley became even more anxious when another train from Frankston pulled into Seaford Station. He looked nervously at his watch. He made frantic calculations of how late he would be as though this might give him some control over how long he would be delayed. The train disgorged its passengers who scurried towards the level crossing. Even though they could see that they would be confronted by a long queue, some broke into a trot in a desperate effort to avoid being stranded at the very end. This was of perverse comfort to Neeley because he was now much closer to the start of the queue than the end, and this made him feel rather privileged.

Neeley looked southwards down Railway Parade in the direction he assumed the buses would come. For the first time, he noticed that he stood behind a young woman who carried an infant in a sling, cradled in front of her breasts. Neeley dropped his gaze and scrutinized his paper to cover his embarrassment. Whenever he travelled, he felt very uncomfortable when he sat near nursing mothers, especially those who appeared to be teenagers. The baby began to cry; Neeley looked up. Many women further up the line turned around and cast venomous glances at the very young woman. She was not interested in comforting her child and only did so in the most perfunctory manner possible. Neeley regretted standing behind her, for the hostility of the other passengers up the line was almost palpable, and Neeley got the impression that he shared some of the opprobrium directed at the young mother merely because he stood behind her.

Neeley edged forward and peeped over the young woman’s shoulder. The child seemed to be the victim of neglect, for the sling the young woman used was old and soiled, and the baby blanket in which the child was wrapped was thread-bare. Even though he was unable to see the child clearly, he saw enough to establish that the child was brown. The young woman attempted to hide her child from view; however, she must have taken this precaution too late because Neeley could see commuters nodding