The Number 57 Tram Home

Sarah dreaded this trip each week. She had to work late on Thursdays before heading out to Maribyrnong to spend the night with her Grandmother who was all alone since her husband had passed away. Sarah was a dutiful granddaughter. She could never let her Grandmother know just how she dreaded these visits.

The tram shuddered to a halt on the corner of Victoria and Elizabeth Street. The brakes groaned at the effort. As the doors swung open on creaking hinges those passengers standing were flung back before holding the plastic grips more tightly against the motion.

Three males in their mid-twenties swung aboard. They swaggered to the back of the tram where they welled around the steps at the rear, safe from too many prying eyes.

Sarah looked up from her book and studied them. One of the men was shorter than the others but with a heavier build. He had three gashes across his face which glistened with blood from a recent wound. Sarah sensed the man was about to see her watching him. She turned back to his book, alternating between reading and peering out into the damp wet Melbourne night hoping this would all soon be over.

It was winter and people were scurrying between the shelter of shop awnings and the open unprotected streets. She watched a businessman in a grey suit pull the collar of his coat up around his neck to keep out the chilling rain. The businessman scampered across the street at the lights and pulled himself onto the tram. He walked down the carriage and sat opposite Sarah. Their eyes met briefly before they both looked away.

Sarah huddled back against her seat. She listened to the short sturdy man speak to his friends.

“Fucking bloody junkies, mate. Fucking junkies. Never trust a junkie.” He was emboldened in his inebriated state, swaying with the tram’s motion as the doors slid shut once more. The tram’s bell dinged and it turned the corner onto Victoria Street. The man was speaking loudly as though to make his point known to all those aboard.

There was an Asian family sitting closest to him trundling their way home after a trip to the Markets with black wire-framed shopping trolleys laden with all manner of vegetables and produce for the week ahead. The father’s face was lined with wrinkles and concern. He stared out at the night, praying for this to all be over. Praying that his family would be safe.

The sturdy male with the bleeding cuts then knelt down next to Sarah. She clutched her bag of University books and plastic bag of groceries closer to her chest for protection as he leaned in:
“Never trust junkies. D’ya hear me? Never. They will nearer rip your face off than talk to ya. She spat on me when I went up to grab me’self a fucking beer! Spat on me – all down my jacket and all ‘cos I bumped into her with me shoulder on the way past. Ah. Fuck. Bullshit. Fucking bullshit!” He looked back up at his two friends.

“Bullshit is right mate. Total bullshit junkies.” One said back to him. The other settled himself further down in the back steps.

“I mean look at me face! Bleeding an’ shit all over the friggin’ place. My face is fucked up man.”
The man suddenly caught the businessman’s gaze.

‘Leave her out of it.’ The businessman said. ‘Leave her alone.’

Sarah saw the businessman’s hands were clenched tight, knuckles white. The man stared at the businessman for what seemed like a long time. He seemed to be weighing up the effort of a fight. The businessman didn’t back down – kept his eyes fixed on the man as though daring him to try something.

The doors opened and a ticket inspector came on board. The man turned back to his friends, muttering something Sarah couldn’t make out, and sat down in the stairwell. Sarah smiled her thanks at the businessman. As she fished out her tram ticket she made a promise that she would save for a car as soon as she could.