They gave me a clipboard and said “Congratulations, you’re the new transport czar.” I said “Why me?” They informed me that the minister formerly in charge had abrogated his responsibility by running off with the skirt from a variety show. I meant, I wasn’t qualified. “Have you ever ridden a train?” “Every day for 20 years, there and back.” “Son, you’ve got the job!” If I wanted a whiteboard too, it would have to get signed off by Accounts. “Knock yourself out.”
I told my wife about my promotion. She said the problems facing our city’s transport system included ageing infrastructure, poor patronage and random threats from over-individualised youth with contempt for authority. Did I think I could solve all that, and still maintain the lawns? “Would a whiteboard help?” I asked.
My first press conference went well, I thought. “More trains, and more people riding them” was my theme. I could only take half an hour off work, so I had to skip questions, but I laid out a vision of the future consisting of a dozen bullet-points and two artists-impressions designed by my daughter, the trainee hairdresser. Later, Accounts told me any cost overruns would be garnished from my wages.
I got my brother Craig, a part-time desktop publisher, to pencil in a couple of new lines. We photocopied the plans on stationery I snuck out of work and distributed them at the stations, asking people to add their comments and mail them back to me. The newspapers started describing my efforts as amateurish. I called a press conference to ask their specific complaints. They said an unnamed source had accused me of taking bribes, and held up one of my bank statements. I said that was the fortnightly payment from my job. I blamed Craig. He was pissed because he’d wanted to laminate the plans but I said it would cost too much.
“Darling, have you made the trains run to schedule yet?” asked my wife one night.
“57% of the time I have,” I said, “It’s a losing cause. No-one wants to be where they’re going, but they hate being late getting there.” I looked in the mirror. My hair had gone grey and my skin sallow. My boss said I was wasting valuable man-hours.
“Sometimes I think I should just make the trains run backwards. Then people can think more about where they’ve come from, and less on where they’re going. And arriving would be a pleasant surprise.”
My wife finished brushing her hair. “Darling,” she said, “you work too hard. Come to bed.”