Singing

Swinging and twisting our way under the city, the aircon. is off and the sticky stench is somewhat overpowering. With a sudden jerk we arrive at the next station, a small shriveled old man is flung hard back into his seat, setting his dentures flying out of his mouth, onto the lap of a smallish child sitting opposite. She shrieks. Piercing. Unfazed he reaches out a moley vein-ridden hand to make the retrieval, offering a gummy apologetic grin. As the train sets off again, clutching the teeth with his left hand, with his right he digs deep in his right trouser pocket and pulls out a grubby capacious handkerchief. Shaking it out with a quick, surprisingly strong flip of the wrist: a small initial – J – scarcely visible stitched into one corner. He clears his throat with a deep gargle, tilts his neck back with a sharp click and spews forward a ball of spittle onto the waiting rag. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Tilting back and forth in the carriage he rubs his chomping gear. Top, top, top. Bottom, bottom, bottom. Then with a grunt he reinserts. The girl has stopped screeching and stares now, with jaw hanging loosely open. He clears his throat again and staggering to his feet he bursts into loud, rusty song. Reaching the door as the train once more pulls to a stop he takes a moment to whisper to me: “you’ve got to make your way through life singing.” He winks.