The main hall is beautiful, full of arches and frescos: a strange homage to socialist realism and the industrial revolution at once. Of course a spa town like this wouldn't have been caught dead without a station like this during it's era of blossom. The speaker clicks, but only the silent buzz can be heard. Then another click and a tense voice announces the cancellation of the train to Prague, followed by another cancellation. I go to the platform in hope that my train isn't effected. It arrives, but drops us off two stops over in the middle of the dark industrious north of Bohemia and tell us to wait for a bus replacement. Someone jumped onto the tracks. I heard he jumped right infront of the train. I heard he fell. We don't know much, just that somebody's dead. As we get off at a run down village station the crowd nervously steps beyond the rail tracks, not knowing what to expect. People whisper in the shadow of an early evening. The first curses fall upon the dead man's account, as he keeps us from our destinations. I am indifferent, as I watch two childred argue over a toy, we all watch them actually. I walk away, to the other side of the building, to absurb the silence, and watch smoke raise from a factory. The buses arrive and the crowd rushes into the first of the two, filling it to the brink. I wait and then sit in the other that's almost empty, with the conductor by my side. It's not the first case of suicide he's seen. He's been doing this for 42 years. He tells me he feels great physically for his age, but that the job's rough on the psyche. Before I know it the crowd and I get dropped off at the west station, but the trains aren't going out from here either. We return to the buses, silently upset again. All of the express trains are picking up delays now. We get off again at the main station, where people are inpatiently leering at the electronic timetables. Another hour later I finally get on the original train, the one that should've tooken me home hours ago. Noone is at my stop, the world seems unaware of the death here, just thirty minutes farther down the tracks. I walked alone home and greet my father. I don't tell him about what happened. Why would I, but as I write this I imagine the delays appearing on the boards of main station. They spread from the regional connections to the international ones. I see the numbers spreading from station to station, reaching out as far as Berlin and Budapest. Then picture the hundreds that looked up at them, as if in tribute. I order pizza, it's been a long day. This guy went out with a bang.
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