The Best Version
The Best Version
Season 1.11: Take the best version of yourself - look for a gap - jam yourself in.
We would stand so close in the strobing carriage light, squeezing elbows out from between ribs and sports bags and bikes. All on our way through the dim Monday morning mist to be the best version of ourselves. All the best versions of ourselves - packed into 10 square feet.
And you’d be carefully stretching a thumb over to the back button - high risk manual acrobatics played out on phone screens held just below the chin - swaying on the rails past back gardens and level crossings and long lines of red tail lights beside long lines of white head lamps - phone screens that brush against the collars and coats and hair lines of our fellow travellers - and sometimes followed by the an irritated shrug - they’d turn and glare if they could move - if any of us could move…
… If any of us could move we’d be scrolling through the news, or some messages, or picking out some sound to drown it all out, or connecting all the colours and shapes for a dopamine fix between stops. And everyone would be wondering what you are going to do next, what you’d read or send or listen to - watching over your shoulder - not out of interest or to be nosy but because its all they could see, its all anyone could see - our lives played out in the blue light of the morning rush… but mainly we’d watch out of interest, mainly because we’re all a bit nosy really…
… And you’d nose around - you’d catch sight of a friend, or a co-worker, or an acquaintance - an old classmate from school - “whatsherface” (the head on her) - and they’d catch sight of you - “youknowyourman” (the state of him) - And you’d both know each other - tragically - and you can’t escape. And you’re too far away to chat but too close not to try - and every word is public agony measured in the number of remaining stops and all the punishing silences - “oh you’re an accountant”… “what’s he up to now”… “yes, let’s definitely meet up some time”… - All played out in the stoic expressions of “sweet merciful jaysis” on every innocent face caught in the crossfire…
… And that single bead of sweat - that one you’d get when standing dead straight for too long - that one that rolls down your back and soaks into your waist band. You feel it go, and you silently suffer it hoping it doesn’t show through to the poor sod behind you. And you can only feel the one drop but you know there is more, much more, just waiting to be revealed in the cool breeze of the platform - or perhaps in the foggy condensation left behind on the window you were leaning against.
And you’d be just one sweaty, deodorised commuter wedged in to fit like all the rest, waiting for that sudden release as the doors open to let us slop out onto the station floor like sweetcorn from the can. Spewing off to push our buttons and do our bit before being spooned back into the tin at the end of the day, wrapped in cellophane and slapped in the fridge to keep until the weekend…
“The fuckin’ weekend, thank jaysis” - when those who made it would be dumped into the pub with all the other leftovers - filling for the soup - and you’d drink to the Fears - the Saturday Fear, the Sunday Fear, the Monday Fear - That same Monday Fear that looks back at you as your reflection rolls into view on a foggy carriage window - A window that splits to reveal a whole wall of fear - all the best versions of ourselves staring back at you - afraid - wondering what happened to the weekend - wondering what could possibly be worse than this?
And you take the best version of yourself - look for a gap - jam yourself in.
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Read more from Season 1…
This is the first season of Notes and Noises. If you liked this (or didn’t) why not take a quick look at some of the other posts in the series: