Underground Tigers

Another story from the 2007 notebook.  This one was written on my daily commute from Oakwood to Boston Manor tube station.

Underground Tigers

Travelling on the tube had quickly become routine, and each day started with a high speed shower, a cup of coffee knocked back and a quick jog to make it to the bus-stop in time that would aggravate his in-grown toenail.
    He didn't mind travelling from one end of the Piccadilly line to the other, though, on this particular occasion, a large gentleman was staring at him, his eyes piercingly white, his expression like that of a tiger emerging from the bushes about to make a kill.
    He looked down at his book and, after a moment or two, glanced back up again.  The man was still staring.
    It's baffling how someone's sense of etiquette can be discarded so easily once they're sat on the tube.  Why do the rules change underground?  If these two gentlemen were sat in a cafe opposite one another, but at seperate tables, would he still be staring so intently?
    Another man, this one in a business suit with a sick-green shirt and tie combo, sat near the doors is looking his way too, but he's peering out the side of his eyes, lids streamlined into two slits and there's an odd smirk on his face, as if watching an innocent slowly lured to its doom.
    Perhaps this is pack mentality?  Make sure the prey is firmly in position, observe its behaviour and then strike.
    He's been looking at his book, re-reading the same line over and over, but the words won't stick and he keeps thinking about their eyes.
    He has to check again, but in an effort to seem casual he pretends to be looking up and down the tube, y'know, just in case.
    Sure enough their eyes are still on him, but now, at the far end, sat facing out into the aisle is a man in his late-fifties, a large thick grey moustache resting over his lips, which are pulled into some sort of contorted sneer.  He has a rucksack on, but it's too tight and has forced his arms back and chest forward, puffed out like a strutting goose.  Finally, despite his dark tan glasses, it is obvious that he too is staring at the poor, innocent commuter.
    For a while their gaze is locked and then the old goose slowly opens his mouth into a huge, wide, silent roar.  No, a yawn.  But, he doesn't cover his mouth and the passenger finds himself now squinting a little as he's presented with a view down the dark cavern of his throat.
    He's aware again of the other two sets of eyes and begins to imagine them licking their lips or eagerly scraping cutlery together.
    As the tube passes through the tunnels it makes a squealing sound like starving dogs battling with hungry seals and the commuter knows it is the rest of their species descending upon the train, readying to tear him apart limb by limb.
    His journey is only halfway through.  He grows impatient and his right buttock aches.  Unfortunately his job will do little to help with that.
    The businessman stands, moves to the doors and waits.  But the train stops in the tunnel and the lights flicker for a second.
    The commuter looks up and down the train, only he, the businessman, the white-eyed guy, the old goose and a woman applying lip balm are in this carriage, and he is certain that she is the female of the pack, probably heaving with cubs back in the den, many mouthes to feed, hungry sharp teeth, tiny teeth that need to grow.
    She purses her lips and makes kissing faces at her distorted reflection in the glass.
    Any second now.
    Any second.
    With a dull heave, and a thud that reverberates under the carriage, the train begins to move again, snaking its way to the final destination.
    The tigers of the underground dissipate as the penultimate stops go by until the commuter is left alone.  He looks around at the walls of the carriage, at the belly of the metal anaconda that digested them all then spat them out, or worse, one by one.  He wonders why he does it?  Why does he subject himself to their eyes and the fear that everyday, one day, he'll be eaten alive, torn apart like a Sunday chicken?  Why doesn't he go to the country and grow vegetables and read books by candle light?
    But, as his stop approaches, he gathers his bag, puts his book away and eagerly awaits the opening of the doors.
    The day is still young and the smell of the morning is refreshing.  He is full of hope and optimism.  He crosses the road, a spring in his step, and soon comes to a standstill.
    He looks up and down at the small crowd of people that forms around him, and one man, at the back, is staring at him with hungry eyes.
    They both get on the bus.