CLANCY OVERELL | Editor | CONTACT
A Betoota Heights man is currently in panic stations.
In fact, 27-year-old Clark Kipler has absolutely fucked himself here.
As he stands on a packed morning train, his stomach swishing with a large long black and his blood stream pumping with a couple unnecessarily large nicotine hits from his Kiwi Mint vape, his body is demanding only one thing from him.
He needs to evacuate, immediately.
With a high-fibre diet and a healthy regular gut, it’s a fine line that Clark walks every morning.
He always picks up a coffee at the railyway cafe halfway through his two train commute.
As someone who is perpetually trying to limit his diary and carbs intake, he swaps out breakfast for the appetite suppresants of jet black caffeine and the Asian flavours of black market inhalants.
Once he clocks into work, he makes a b-line for the men’s – and after 12 minutes, he can officially start his day.
The PCB (Post-Coffee Bog) cannot be ignored, or delayed. That’s why he waits until the second leg of his commute before he starts stimulating his digestive system.
But this surgical routine has been thrown a major hurdle today.
Scheduled track work is taking place at Flight Path District station on the Northside line. There were no warning signs. He had no idea.
He’s being told to disembark to the roadside and wait for a train replacement bus. These things take forever. What was meant to be two more stops will now likely blow out to an extra half hour on his commute. If he’s lucky.
He stomach shifts dramatically. He starts sweating.
No amount of breath work can prevent the inevitable. He’s touching cloth. He’s about to give birth to last night’s vegan-jambalaya.
The pubs are all closed and this station is surrounded by nothing by industrial sites.
He shuffles out on to the platform, walking on his heels with his shoulders back. This will either be happening on a main road or on a 1990s-era banana bus.
He bites his lip in an effort to redirect his blood flow elsewhere. His left eye is fading in and out of focus. He is surrounded by perfectly normal tax-payers. He’s about to disgrace himself.
Then he sees it. His saving grace.
A steel door underneath the stairs to the platform overpass. He presses the neon green button. He’s in. There’s no toilet paper. The bowl is piling up like a brown sandcastle. The sharps bin is overflowing.
He doesn’t care. He’s adding to the pile and he’s going to go sock-less today.
