strange things happen on trains and buses, sydney public transport is a labyrinth of coincidences and chance encounters, faces look strange when your the stranger, eyes look out of the dark penetrating the thin facade of persona. i set off on my journey, some what dishevelled, make no illusions i travel incognito, i have no desire to attract attention, my face unshaven, my eyes half closed, i sit near the back, head in my book, or leaning against the glass gazing out the window at the rain drenched night. jumping buses, making connections, heading into the network of trains. the secretary's, the office people, the commuters all following their patterns like ants in a system, hive mind, electrical sparks reach into magnetic flow. this is the current of movement, the human tide, the motion of crowds, side effects happen here. i clamber onto a crowded train, jump up the steps to the upper deck, find a seat and open my book, my logic circuits shut down, my peripherals close, my internal instruments power down, now it's just me and my book, no space, i am no longer aware i am on a train, i care little for destinations or stops, i care nothing for anything and in that void time itself folds and a voice next to me says, 'mission, captain mission, are you captain mission.'
the speaker is a young man, about mid thirties, he's a bit dishevelled like me, and he has crazy eyes, i carefully start reflecting back on my data, but retrieval brings me nothing, a familiar face i can't trace.
'it's alex man, alex.'
i don't know who alex is but he knows me.
he smiles at my disadvantage, 'from the youth refuge,' he says.


okay now this does happen a lot, a kid i worked with in my years as a social worker will stop me, could be anywhere in sydney or nearby, manly, kings cross, some obscure shopping mall, a beach, it happens when i don't expect it, they usually are kids that remember me with great clarity and affection, they are always very thankful and grateful and show me their children, boyfriends, wives, tell me about their jobs, try to sell me drugs or just shake my hand. yeah they are mostly successful and stable, turned their life around and moved on. 
alex is still on the streets, he's had addiction problems, he's had relationship issues and quite frankly he's a bit of a mess. he's on his way to the doctors to get some anxiety drugs, it's quite late in the night and i feel despite my terrible memory, the fact so many kids came through i feel sorry for him, i wish i could help him, he seems like such a decent guy, telling me how much he enjoyed his time with me, telling me how his family fucked him over but he was trying real hard to come to terms with the events that put him on his trajectory. he tells me about how he writes lyrics for rap songs and he says he has a genre called educational rap, songs of experience and wisdom, i tell him william blake would appreciate this. we talk for a while about gill scott heron whom i suggest he listen to and then he jumps off the train but i have taken his number and will call him just to check up and make sure he's okay. 


it is really strange how these kids all come back, they all return with their stories but above all with gratitude. my job was never rewarding, it was just a hard job dealing with tragic people and circumstances, people just assumed it was rewarding, in fact it was unrewarding as often we never got successful outcomes, no one cared about youth, they didn't vote. but twenty years later the rewards come along. 


i exit the station at the end of the line, into the cold wet night, wrapped up in my west berlin overcoat and hat, i merge into the night, wind hits my face, the ground shimmers in reflected neon and cars hiss by like rattle snakes. 
alex i hope your warm and safe, i'm grateful that you came and said hello, means a lot to me, it means everything.