Mr Smith Is Lateby Sean Kavanagh (c) 2014 - taken from the collection "Fiction on Foreign Planets - Vol 2"
 
That familiar bloody knock on the glass of my ticket booth.  Bang. Bang. Bang.  I know that I’m on the phone a lot, or occasionally out sweeping the platform, but for god’s sake it really annoys me when people bang on the glass to get my attention. Bang. Bang. Bang.  I know that rhythm only too well.  So, I ignore the banging.  He can wait.  Mr Smith can wait.  I don’t care if he’s late.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I suppose I’d made him wait long enough now, so I hung up the phone and walked over to the ticket booth window.  Sure enough: Mr Smith. The old pain in the arse. 
“Usual ticket Mr Smith?”  I said through the intercom, using my best fake cheerful chummy charm.  He didn’t say anything back. The miserable sod never did. “Return to Caterham Junction then Mr Smith? That’ll be £8.60 “
He pushed £5.20 across the counter to me.  I stared at it.  He always pushed £5.20 across, the silly sod. The price hadn’t been £5.20 for a few years.  Stuck in his ways he was.
“That’s not enough Mr Smith.  The fare is £8.60.  Not. Enough. “ I spoke the last two words as if he were deaf or stupid. Which he probably was.
He raised his hand and pointed to something.  I knew what he was pointing at, but I liked to play along a bit. You know, for a laugh.  What’s life without a laugh?
“I can’t see what you’re pointing at Mr Smith.  “ He gestured harder, to a sticker on the glass of my ticket booth,  as if somehow that would magically make it easier for me to see it.  “Those stickers are blank on my side Mr Smith, I can’t see what you’re pointing at.  “
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Now he was thumping the sticker on the glass.
“Alright, Alright.  Keep your hair on.  “ I pretended to go up close to the sticker and try and read it. “It’s a bit tricky. “ I squinted, knowing full well what the sticker said.  I knew what all the stickers on my booth said.  I mean, it’s my booth, and I’ve been working in it for eight years.  “That’s a discount scheme sticker Mr Smith, you need the right rail card to get the discount.  Have you got your discount card? “
He stared at me for a while and angrily pushed the £5.20 further across the scuffed metal grating.  The twenty pence coin shot across the frictionless surface, bounced off my tank top vest (railway green – lovely it is)  and fell on the floor.
“Oi!” I pretended to get annoyed.  “That’s not very nice is it Mr Smith? You know railway staff don’t have to be abused, we’ve got rights too.  They didn’t build that Bob Crow statue so people could chuck coinage at me. “ I picked the twenty pence up.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
It was me banging on the glass now, on the back of a different sticker that had some rubbish about not abusing railways personnel on it.   Mr Smith looked at the sticker and then banged again on his own discount sticker.  This wasn’t as much fun today.  I usually liked winding his lot up, but this was getting tedious.
“You’re short. £3.40 short. “  Blank stare.  I wrote £3.40 on my notepad and pressed it against the glass.  “You’re short Mr Smith.  “
We stood in silence for a minute, before he gathered up his money and shambled off with his silly walk.  The git.  Still, maybe he’d have the right money tomorrow.  God I hated his sort.
  I looked up at the sticker he was banging:
 ‘UNDEAD? BUT STILL GOT PLACES TO BE? WHY NOT ENJOY LIVING IMPAIRED TRAVEL AT DISCOUNT RATES…FOREVER!”


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