In my early 20s, before I was addicted to social media and podcasts, I carried a book with me everywhere I went. I would take any available opportunity to dive into whatever paperback I had in my possession on that particular day (hardbacks are for weightlifters), whether I had a 10-minute break between my lecture and tutorial or a couple of stops on the bus on my way to meet a friend at West End. I was obsessed; I would even read while walking from Central Station to Gardens Point campus. But the 50-minute train ride home at the end of the day was my favourite time to indulge in literary fiction.
This nearly hour-long journey was the perfect opportunity to get stuck in and was an integral part of my reading routine. Even if I couldn’t snag a seat getting on at Central, I would squeeze myself into an uncomfy corner and dive right in, while keeping my eye out for a seat to open up.
By the time I got close to my station, the carriage would typically have emptied out considerably. It wasn’t unusual for me to be one of only a handful of commuters left, particularly if I had stayed late studying at uni and the sun had already gone down. I never felt unnerved or uncomfortable in these situations. After all, I was hardly the target demographic for the lads, who would trawl the carriages and occasionally pick fights with other young men carrying skateboards (their prime targets).
On one such occasion, I was not too far from home and fully immersed in a Harry Potter book when a young guy around my age suddenly appeared in the seat in front of me. “Can I spoil that for you?”, he asked. I laughed awkwardly and replied, “Sorry, I’ve read it before.” The rest of our conversation was uncomfortable (at least, for me) and only ended when we arrived at my stop. He asked for my phone number, and even though I was not interested in dating him at all, I was too nervous to say no. It felt like it would be rude to refuse him. After all, I was single, and who was I to rebuff his advances?
I immediately regretted it and as I walked home, started planning on how to gently let him down when he eventually reached out. I didn’t have to wait long. Just a couple of days later, he texted. But no amount of planning would have prepared me for what he said. There, clearly displayed on my phone screen were the words, “Can I kidnap you?”. What had previously felt like an awkward encounter with a guy I just wasn’t that in too, had suddenly turned into something much more sinister. While I never felt truly unsafe (he didn’t have my full name or social media) and I was pretty sure this was his clumsy attempt at flirting, I was still extra vigilant on public transport for the next few weeks.
This was not the first or only time I was approached while reading – in fact, almost every time a strange man struck up a conversation with me in public, I was reading alone. On a train, in a park, eating some chips in the hospital cafe while visiting a friend staying in the mental health ward. Does this mean men find bookish women particularly attractive? Or does the book simply provide an ice breaker, an easy way to slide into casual conversation? Or is there something more sinister afoot – are we more vulnerable when our focus is on the page in front of us, and not on our surroundings?
I ignored his message, never heard from him or saw him on the train again. While I wouldn’t say the experience traumatised me, I am definitely a little more cautious on public transport now, but I can confidently say I am assertive enough not to feel forced into giving my personal contact information to anyone I don’t want to.
Every now and then I remember the awkward and stilted conversation, and I wonder where he is now. I hope he quickly realised this was not the best way to engage with strange women who he had only shared a five-minute conversation with and may not understand his sense of humor (if you could call it that). Or maybe the next time I see him, it will be on a Netflix true crime special.
