I’m sitting on a dilapidated bench waiting for a train. The metro station’s walls porcelain tiles had been a bright lemon yellow in a distant past but now they are the colour of unwashed toilet bowl with the years of neglect. It may be a social service to bomb the station. Force those fuckers in the city offices to actually spend some money cleaning this place up. Years of practice has me looking at the stations exits and possible entryways. It would be easy, the station is the first one that is underground going south, just wait until the last train, walk in via the tracks. Even easier if it’s a real bombing. No pieces to throw up at all, just fill the air with aerosol and the walls with paint. 15 minutes with a decent crew. Would be easy.
I won’t do it though. To much at stake with all the security cameras in these places.
But it would have been easy.
The only truly clean part of the station are the add-spaces and the wending machine glass. Clean aluminium borders and huge posters declaring some product to you. Some juice that is somehow better than the other despite it being made from the same lab produced esters mashed with as little organic content as the factories can get away with and still call it juice.
The train tracks begin to tick and a gust of warm dry air pushes into the station from the tunnel followed by a train. When I was 7 these were the new trains. They don’t run during autumn though, or they try, but apparently leaves on tracks basically become motor oil when run over repeatedly with that pressure. So, yeah, trains, but erratic. The train like the station has seen it’s fair share of wear over the years. The station signs catch up and displays which train it is as the door opens. Only a few get off. One in particular with a slate grey racking-hoodie and baggy cargos steps off a few doors down. Looks around, I wave and smile.
Later, as we are spooning on blankets on the floor of the 3d room I’ve rented this year, take-out boxes smelling of spices on the covers to my bed, my mind goes over the bombing run again. But what if instead of the regular cans of paint, instead we did it with detergent? Some strong fucking Ajax shit. Guerilla cleaning. I put my face in your hair and smell the expensive flowery shampoo that can’t quite wash out the reek of cheap cigarettes. But you are quitting them now, for real this time. As I doze off I dream carving out art on dirty porcelain walls.
It would be easy.