I was in my car with the engine switched off, waiting at a level crossing. Three trains had gone past and still, the gates would not rise. Bored and frustrated, I passed the time scrolling through some emails on my phone. Then, I felt a presence. I looked up and saw a man on my right-hand side, peering through the window. I flinched in surprise. He was tall, slim, in his 30s, dressed in a dandyish style (felt collared overcoat, tweedy slacks, silver shoes) and stood on one of those rental scooters you see zipping about the city. He was staring right at me, nose almost pressed to the window. I made a face at him. Eyebrows raised, chin out, nose wrinkled. It was a face that tried to say: ‘What the fuck do you want?’
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He scooted around to the front of my car and began to examine it closely, like a car rental operative checking for bumps and scratches. Then he looked back at me, his face inscrutable. I wound down the window and stuck my head out: “Are you OK mate? What’s the problem?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he said. With that, he spun his scooter around and pushed himself away as the level crossing gates finally opened.
I wasn’t sure how to feel. Confusion, offence and irritation all vied for prominence. For a brief moment, I thought about chasing him. But where would that get me? His scooter would have allowed him to take routes that I could not navigate in a car. I’d have had to jump out and pursue him on foot like I was in an episode of The Sweeney. And then what? If I caught him, what would I say? ‘Why were you looking at my car? Why were you looking at me? Why are you dressed so fancily? What’s with the fucking scooter?’
How could he have answered these silly questions? What answers did I want? Was it retribution I sought? Was I actually willing to punch this bloke? What was the matter with me?
