At least once in your life, you’re going to meet a stranger you will stick in your head. This person will stroll out of your existence as silently as they entered, mysteriously portraying an indiscernible significance. Their arrival is neither consistent nor predictable.
Mine occurred fifteen years ago on the 2213 from London Waterloo to Windsor Riverside. Having just visited some friends from school, I boarded the train at Platform 17, as I did at least once a fortnight. I walked through the doors and found a seat. I shared a carriage with the five familiar characters of night-time rail travel: the overtime businessman reading the late edition of the Standard, the defensive woman sitting at a strategic vantage point, the couple kissing and giggling to each other (going back to his place or hers) and the drunk, who was quiet.
A man of reasonable height, wearing a long black overcoat stepped on board. The doors closed behind him.
He walked to where I was sitting by the door and sat opposite me. He looked at me, so I smiled politely and nodded. I detest people who don’t even acknowledge your presence. I know someone who always makes friends on trains whose approach is to say, “Why don’t people talk on trains anymore?”
He smiled back. He was clean, but badly shaven and had dishevelled hair. The train left the station.
The drunk rose almost immediately from his seat and began dancing to himself, and the defensive woman buried her head in a book. Mr. Overtime looked up and ruffled his newspaper into position before returning to it. The couple looked at him, he said something and she giggled. My companion and I blatantly stared at him until I said, “Looks like someone’s had too much to drink,” which was a calamitously stupid statement.
The stranger said, “They’ll take care of him.”
The train pulled into the next station and three guards carried him out.
“You live in London?” asked the stranger.
“No, I’m getting off in a couple of stops. Someone’s meeting me at the station.” I was being cautious.
We were quiet for about a minute while we looked out the window at the dark countryside rushing by.
“So,” he said, still looking out the window, “you’re a student.”
I nodded.
“English, French and what?”
I looked at him, intrigued. I took English, French and History.
“Hold on,” he said before a pause, “-Geography.”
“History.”
He shook his head and look angry for getting it wrong, as if he should have known.
“How did you know?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“How did you know?” I repeated.
He shrugged his shoulders again.
“So what are you?” I asked
He floated his left hand in front of him and ran his right hand up to it in a stabbing action. I looked puzzled.
“Pool.”
“For a living?”
He nodded.
“You shoot pool for a living?”
“I go around pool halls. You can’t stay in one place too long; can’t let them get to know you.” That was the longest sentence I ever heard him say. He produced a fistful of five pound notes.
“Are you any good?”
He plunged a hand into another pocket and brought out more money. I nodded. “Trouble is,” he said, “there aren’t enough halls. Are there any near you? In Windsor, I mean.”
I was going to Windsor, which was five stops down the line. I didn’t ask how he knew, and tried to ignore it. I looked out the window, and said I didn’t know of any. When I looked back at him, he was smiling contentedly to himself.
“So where do you live?” I asked.
“Sunnymeads.” An expensive place.
“Who with?”
“My mother.”
I didn’t want to pry, but he didn’t seem to mind me asking to many questions.
“What does she do?”
“Nothing.”
He could see another question coming, so he explained, “We get by on my wages.”
“From pool?”
“It’s a decent life.”
The train rolled on through the void and he stepped out at Sunnymeads, turning to wish me good luck at school. I wished him good luck with the pool.
”There’s no luck in pool,” he said.
