Uncoordination Zones
April 15, 2001
With a new company to work for, an overwhelmingly exciting new commuting route to work is now part of my daily routine. I’m still yet to draw a conclusion as to how I feel about the new train line I catch: although the carriages crawling along this line are packed to the gills, they have the advantage of not smelling like urine; a noted feature of a certain western suburbs train line in Sydney.
Unfortunately, the train station I now alight at each morning is an Uncoordination Zone. I seem to have designated areas around Sydney in which my brain decides it’d be fun to see how my motor skills would function if they took LSD. Upon entering an Uncoordination Zone, I go through uncontrollable kicking motions, whacking mostly the heels of giant rugby types and stepping on the high-heels of only the most Gucci of women.
Uncoordination Zones are at their most dangerous when they involve stairs. Even escalators suffice as an ample ankle-kicking area. Usually in a groggy half-awake state, I am invariably rushing to work to try and arrive before 9am. This involves attempts to dodge and weave between business people; confused, blinking students; and a guy who sells The Big Issue that I once knocked over in my haste. (He steps away when I go near him now). Unfortunately, everyone else is trying to do the same thing, but my uncoordination easily overrides anyone else in the area and it’s not long before I’m involuntarily clomping on the toes of anyone in my vicinity.
It especially helps if I’m wearing a particular pair of shoes that Adam owns. They’re the only shoes we own that aren’t very ‘Wu-Tang Klan’ (read: sneakers which appear to have been effected by a type of steroids for clothing) or ‘Sebadoh’ (read: dirty Converse sneakers). No, these big black I-mean-business shoes are a little more Henry Rollins than anything else. They have grunt.
They also have the unfortunate power to crack the shins of anyone around me when I’m walking in them. They’re just so goddamn heavy, but they’re also the only shoes I have access to that look remotely business-like.
But Henry Rollins shoes or no, every morning as I navigate my way through the commuting gauntlet at my train station, my legs are at war with me, choosing not to propel me forward in traditional left-right motion - rather, a more festive can-can type dance. However, it’s thankfully a non-panty exposing can-can. (I never wear jocks).
I’m now used to the stormy looks thrown back at me in response to my interpretative dance each morning. It’s just another part of the routine, like running my ticket through the ticket barriers and having it rejected - but not noticing until the barriers close neatly yet painfully on my thigh; standing behind the only person on the train carriage with obvious gas problems; and laughing at the passengers struggling to move through the crowded carriage so they can disembark at a station - but then realising I’ve just missed my stop.
So much so a part of my daily routine, in fact, that the raised fists and yipping noises produced as a result of my blind foot-flailing no longer register. I fail to notice any reaction anyone has in response to me kicking the crap out of their legs. Having accepted the Uuncoordination Zone at the train station is an unavoidable part of my life, I now find interest and entertainment when my body incepts variations on the theme.
For example, some days it’s my backpack which swings around out of control. Sure, I might be walking in a straight line, but that doesn’t mean my backpack can’t fly around wildly on my back, crushing it’s way into people’s faces as I ascend the stairs.
On other occasions, it might be my elbows which are cause for concern. Although my feet will thankfully remain under control on rare occasions, my elbows will happily see how neatly they can splice themselves into the ribcages of those around me.
There was also a rather disturbing incident involving my complete inability to control my hands which nearly got me arrested, but we all laugh about that now.
Yet it’s not just the train station where these Uncoordination Zones mysteriously appear. Oh, no. This is the stuff that mediocre post-Mulder episodes of The X-Files are made of.
Yesterday I was in attendance at the Sydney Easter Show (for the non-Australians among you, think of a fun fair, except with more obscure and smelly animals like alpacas). Perhaps it was caused by the notable presence of Military Mums (these are the parents who have had enough and bark ‘You’ve been a bloody embarassment to me today’ in response to their children’s bleating requests for money to go on another ride or buy another bag of crappy novelties), but as Adam and I slowly moved with the crowd past one of the pavillions, it began happening again.
My legs began kicking in all directions as I realised that the Sydney Showgrounds must be another of my Uncoordination Zones. It actually came in handy on this occasion, though; as it cleared the way for Adam and I to walk through the crowd. There is some sort of guilt factor with the fatalities involved, but then again that baby would have flown out of its pram eventually anyway.
I’m not sure if these Uncoordination Zones are brought on by merely strange forces or if it’s a response to offending items around me. It probably should be said that the Showgrounds are right next to Stadium Australia, home of last year’s Olympics. There were one too many ‘Official Sydney 2000 Merchandise HERE!’ signs floating around the place, so my violence could have been caused by that.
(Actually, I’ve got a pair of grey Sydney 2000 socks, but they’re quite rare: they’ve got that stupid echidna character on them before they redesigned her so she was breastless. Poor thing - but it could be worth money one day. Then again, I’ve still got an Expo ‘88 t-shirt, and to think I thought that would actually be worth money in the future).
Uncoordination Zones have been around me for as long as I can remember - by no means are they exclusively occuring since I moved to Sydney last year. When I was living in Melbourne, they featured quite prominently around Highpoint shopping centre, which was near where I lived. The locals like to call it Knifepoint, and if you visit the locale, you’ll soon realise why. (Personally, when I’m surrounded by more Adidas than I can handle, I involuntary kick people. Other folk? They tend to go on stabbing sprees).
Fortunately, to date, there aren’t that many Uncoordination Zones I’ve encountered in Sydney. The only truly dangerous place I try to avoid entering is a particular branch in Sydney of Fish Records.
I can’t seem to even get past the CD singles stand without entangling my foot around a badly placed world music display. As soon as I’ve made a crashing noise, at least one sales assistant pointedly begins swiftly walking in my direction, hoping to ask if I require ‘assistance’, but in reality trying to make me leave.
I’m not one who reacts well to being asked if I require assistance. If I do, I’ll come and get you, thanks all the same. Being asked if I want help usually turns me off a purchase in any other store if I’m continually bothered, but in places such as Fish Records, the sales assistants are merely trying to rid me and my display-destroying legs from the store.
I can see the sales girl’s glare as she hovers around Male Artists H-K, but I’m wise enough to know this is merely a plot to distract me. Quickly making my way around a cardboard cutout J-Lo and being extra careful to make sure I don’t disturb either her or the CD’s she is offering to me, I forget to look down and send a pile of 3D World dance newspapers flying across the floor.
Now that she’s seen evidence that I’m slowly destroying the store, the woman tries to cut me off by appearing ahead of me near Jungle/Drum ‘n’ Bass. I’m too quick for her, however, and I’ve already begun scuttling into Audio Accessories, sending blank cassette tapes flying as my backpack swipes them off a shelf.
Hiding sniper-style behind a listening post and pretending to adjust some headphones, I attempt movement towards the Heavy Metal section. Unfortunately, I’m not quick enough to spot a second sales assistant removing the ‘2001 ARIA WINNER!’ stickers from a pile of ‘Hampton The Hampster Presents: Hampsterdance’ CDs, and it’s not long before I’m asked if I require assistance. The dark look in the assistant’s eyes tells me it’s time to leave, however.
Slowly, I make my way towards the front of the store, managing to take out at least a couple of Classical CD stands and knocking over a CD rack. Exiting the store, I dust myself off and continue down the road.
Uncoordination Zones are dangerous and annoying, but I’m not that bad off. I’d much prefer to have my legs flailing around in all directions than certain other parts of my body. I saw a young girl last week who seemed to have trouble keeping control of her hands - they kept smacking into young men’s bottoms. How unfortunate.
The neighbour’s dog seems to have it’s own share of Uncoordination Zone problems, too. It has the unfortunate predicament of losing control of where it places its genitals whenever it encounters me in the courtyard of our apartment block, but that’s okay. My legs soon sort things out for everyone.
