I’m neurodiverse. I am oblivious to many things that stand out to typical people, but yet there are other, almost invisible streams of information that shout at me.
People would say I can’t read the room. But that’s not true. Reading the room is addictive, narcotic, exciting; I love doing that. Computing how to behave, how to stand, where to look, what facial expression to adopt, what’s safe to talk about—that’s hard. But I don’t complain; I’m lucky. I’ve learned about myself.
On the 0802 to Birmingham, I was hyper-aroused. Trains can be chaotic, dramatic, bursting with vignettes if you’re curious enough to look.
A man in his thirties, tattoos around the side of his neck and across his throat. Four-five days of stubble, a shaven head. Grey tracksuit bottoms, baggy, dirty. No name trainers, white socks. 5’7 or so, about 10 stone. Angry, very angry. Also, afraid. Black rucksack on his back, one strap only. A cheap rucksack, thin straps; the black fabric had a white/grey tinge to it. Stuffed full, the fabric drum tight. Carrying/dragging another suitcase that came up to the middle of his thighs. Walking quickly, jerky, stabby movements, his eyes working, staring through the electric door into the carriage beyond, scanning for what? For who? As he reached me, I saw he also had an extendable dog lead with a small, black bulldog on the end. The lead stretched taut, the dog an unwilling passenger, ears back, tail down, front legs braced forward.
You get a fresh cast at every station. I was watching. The tip of a white stick flicked left to right, left to right, coming closer to me at less than a walking pace. The movement— deft, skilful, like how a bricklayer’s trowel becomes a part of them. The stick belonged to a woman; I could see slim legs wearing grey tights. Suede boots up to the knee, a black skirt with a cardigan. Three rows in front of me, she stopped next to two empty seats to her right. She stepped into the space between the seat cushions and the back of the row in front, her face pressed up to the feeble LCD display that tells you the seat number and whether it’s booked or not. She was confident, independent, far from helpless. An undertone of defiance.
A second lady followed her into the space. Older, sixties maybe. Grey hair. Kindly, maternal, a bit worried. Speaking to each other, not sitting down yet. They made no eye contact with any of the other passengers who were looking their way. Something about the angle of the younger lady’s shoulders and a little nod of the head told me she was the decision-maker. They sat, the older lady in the aisle. They just had handbags, no suitcases. I could only see the older lady now; she too had a white stick, she folded it away into her bag. She held her iPhone to the tip of her nose, took it away again, and took a small, black microscope from her handbag. She held it between her eye and the screen of her phone; it looked uncomfortable.
Another station, more new faces. A lady, late fifties, arrived from behind. Sensible, sensible shoes, a calf-length dress, a tote bag. Straight grey hair. Glasses. She was reading off the seat numbers to her left; she slowed as her peripheral vision told her that her seat was taken. She slipped into the seat in front, took her phone out, and shuffled around getting the right app open. She looked back and forth from the phone to the seat numbers, but only for a second. Her mouth set into neutral; a decision made, she sat where she was. Took out a Sudoku book on sand-coloured paper; a biro scratched away at the pages.
A male voice, ever so slightly louder than the background chit-chat, confident, authoritative. Coming towards us. He had found the right volume and cadence of speech to switch his passengers on; tickets and screens were ready and waiting. He stopped at the pair of ladies, studied the screen of the older lady, and asked if there was a pass to go with the ticket. She rummaged. An arm appeared from the window seat, clutching a plastic wallet. The older lady said they were not sure if they were in the right seats. Screens checked again. The guard looked back over his left shoulder, “One of you there, and the other where you are.” But this wasn’t an instruction; his voice was soft, unthreatening; he was just explaining. He said he would keep an eye out, and it would be fine. One of the seats had been booked from the station before anyway. The other lady raised her head from the Sudoku book and said, “Oh, that was me actually, so don’t worry.”
I was so invested at this stage; I gave her an involuntary beam, so did the ticket inspector. Something, I don’t know what, I could see no faces, but something told me that the passengers around me had all been holding their breath a little; a millisecond of silence ended, the tension burst with this release of kindness.
I felt the familiar prickling in my eyes that comes with shared emotion; I felt good; I was amongst kind, sound people; we had all shared a little moment together on the 0802.
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