Whistle Blower

Please, do not be angry with me.

I know my whistle is harsh, its sound echoing off the concrete and steel of the skytrain tram station. But if the whistle was not so shrill, you would ignore it. I know this for fact. I have been an employee of Bangkok Skytrain for seven years, and I know this about people. You only hear what shocks you. A pleasant note, a melody, a simple tune would not keep you away from the yellow line.

You might think bright yellow line would be enough. Or maybe signs, big signs we have, would stop people. Wrong. People ignore everything, even when it is their safety to do so.
You ask someone, “Hey, don’t you know railway dangerous? Skytrain is automated, cannot stop or even see if person falls onto track?” They know, but pretend not to. Everyone is hurry, rush, rush, rush. That is okay. That is what people do. This is why my job is so important. Most people, they look through me. I am another sign, another advertisement. This is okay, as long as the stay away from edge, from yellow line.

I have learned much about people at my job, too. One look a couple, I know if they are happy, whether man or woman is cheating, if they have babies at home. I can tell the dreams of a young man by the way he waits for a train—he stand straight, he wishes to be business man. Slight crooked stance: doctor. Left foot forward, teacher. I am never able to check, but I know it is true anyway.

When I was new, I did not understand people. I thought I did, was wrong. Thought whistle was too loud, too rude. Thought job unimportant.

That first day, I see a girl peering over the edge, past, way past yellow line. She looking for train to come, but she looking wrong way. She so pretty, long, silky hair, kind eyes. When I now remember her posture, I know she is woman with much love in her heart. The whistle is too harsh, I think. It will hurt her ears and she will be upset with me for scolding her. So gently, I say, “Miss!” Nothing. Louder and louder I yell, but it too late. The train comes, and it catches her arm, throws her onto tracks. I am blowing whistle then, my cheeks hurt from it, but it cannot be heard over the screech of brakes and screams of people.

It took many months before I could close my eyes without seeing woman’s face as she fell, kind eyes open, mouth wide. Many more months before I could see line as yellow instead of a rusty orange. So, please, do not be angry with me for blowing whistle.