I’m a woman in my thirties with invisible disabilities that make it hard to climb stairs at the best of times. As it’s peak hour and pouring rain, I decide to take the lift. I’m waiting with an elderly couple when a woman in her fifties walks up to us. I’m listening to music through headphones and don’t immediately realise she’s talking to me, but then I notice her trying to get my attention. I remove my headphones.

Me: “Excuse me?”

Woman: “The lift is for disabled people.”

Me: “Firstly, no, it’s for everyone to use. Secondly, not that it’s any of your business, but I am disabled. Ever hear of invisible disabilities?”

Woman: “Well… I’m disabled, too!”

Me: “Good for you! I honestly didn’t know being an old b**** was a disability. I guess you learn something new every day.”

I watch her do her best impression of a tomato and gape like a fish for a minute before storming away.

I turn to the couple who has witnessed the whole exchange. They are both laughing.

Me: “I’m so sorry for my language, but she just got to me.”

Man: “No worries, love; if you hadn’t said something, I would have.”

The woman didn’t even look disabled herself.

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Invisible Disability, Visible Laziness

I frequent a kiosk at the train station to get a coffee, muffin, or cookie, mostly because of the girl working there. I’m female myself, and she is the most mesmerizing fairy I’ve ever encountered in my life.

She has asymmetrical bright red hair and several facial piercings, and she somehow makes the stupid work outfit look good. She’s also cheerful and patient with every single person she encounters and works really fast when she sees people in a hurry to catch a train.

I once even saw her catch a butterfly that was fluttering around the coffee machine in her hands and take it outside, mumbling:

Fairy Girl: “Now, now, little friend, don’t worry. I’ll take you to a place where there’s so much more room for you.”

In other words, I am utterly infatuated with this wonderful creature. One day when there are at least ten other people around, I manage to blurt out:

Me: “You’re very beautiful!”

I clap both hands over my mouth, and she turns a very adorable shade of red, not quite matching her hair.

Fairy Girl: “Um… Th… thank you so much. I’ve always thought you are very um… really nice, too, and um…”

We just stare into each other’s eyes for a couple of seconds, while other people in line sigh around us with little red hearts in their eyes… except for one lady.

Lady: “Eww! You disgusting [lesbian slur]!”

Me: “Oh, don’t worry, ma’am. I’d never let anyone like you get anywhere near me.”

Silence.

Fairy Girl: “Please may I have your phone number?”

We’re going on our first date next week!

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I drive passenger trains for a living. This story took place on the last train of the day before Christmas Eve, which in Sweden is a way bigger deal than Christmas Day. For many families, Christmas celebrations start at three pm sharp on Christmas Eve.

There had been a lot of snow during the last few days, meaning that it was hard to keep up with cleaning the tracks from snow and defrosting the ice and snow build-up on the trains. The type of train I was driving had the issue that too much snow and ice could make the brakes freeze stuck to the wheels, causing friction, which in the worst-case scenario leads to derailing.

Obviously, there are lots of precautions to prevent that, and just one such precaution had detected that my train might have that problem. I carefully came to a stop at the next station and went out to check after informing the passengers of the situation.

The snow beside the track was almost at hip-depth, so there was plenty of plodding through the snow to check the brakes. After performing the standard winter test of tossing snow on the wheels, I could immediately tell by the hissing and steam that the brakes were indeed stuck. I then plodded back to the driver’s compartment and informed everyone that we’d be stuck for a bit while I tried to unstick the brakes.

After turning off the affected brakes, I plodded back with my iron bar to try to get rid of all the ice that had made them stuck. After about fifteen minutes of back-breaking work, I realised it was very unlikely to work; there was just way too much ice. I informed my company who tried to find buses; there were no trains available. A few were already standing still because of the same reason. I kept at it for quite a while longer just in case I could fix it; it would be so much more convenient for everyone involved. But in the end, I gave up. During this time, another decimeter (about four inches) of snow had fallen, and the entire time I’d been able to see naturally upset passengers inside the train, but being too tired to plod on, I called for my colleague to open the door I was closest to.

Onto the train I scrambled. My pants were frozen nearly solid from snow melting from my body heat and then refreezing. I stiffly walked to the driver’s compartment while dropping clumps of snow I hadn’t managed to get off my pants, all the while dreading the expected and justified complaints. But instead, they just took one look at me and most people looked so much less irritated. Some even smiled at me. Whether they did that because of how comically I resembled a snowman or because they were grateful for me trying my best, I don’t know. I’m not certain which I prefer. I really did look ridiculous.

But we did happily get buses quite soon considering the time of day and the date. My colleague and the passengers continued to their destination while I got the fun task of driving the train back at fifteen km/h (about nine mph) with constant plodding to check the wheels and brakes.

When I got home, I had to switch bathwater twice before I thawed.

I used to work at a narrow gauge steam railway a few years ago. We had a decent collection of engines ranging from total rebuilds to World War II trench locomotives. There were three steam locomotives on the roster, with one that was too small to be used regularly.

At the time, I was training to be a fireman, stoking the fire, shoveling coal, and maintaining the boiler water level. It’s a fairly complicated job if you don’t know much about it already, and quite a responsible job, too. If you ain’t got enough coal on the fire, you have no steam to move.

I was on the footplate in the cab keeping an eye on the water level while the actual fireman was poking about up the shed trying to find some oil to refill our oil cans with. He left me to check the water level, and the driver wasn’t far away if anything went wrong. It’s not unusual for people to come up to the engine and want to have a look in the cab. If there are children, nine times out of ten, we open the fire hole doors to show them the fire.

Then, this guy turned up. He was asking how old the engine was, why it was built, where it worked, and all the normal stuff people ask. THEN, he asked where the petrol (gasoline) goes.

Me: “It’s not petrol-powered. It’s a steam locomotive, so it uses coal and water.”

Guy: “Water doesn’t burn! Where does the petrol go?”

Me: “It doesn’t use petrol. It uses coal and water.”

Guy: “What’s coal?”

I took a step back, asked him to clarify his question, and then showed him the coal in the coal bunker and the fire. I even threw a shovel full of coal on the fire, too.

Guy: “So, does the petrol go in these tank things on the side, then?”

Me: “I… It doesn’t use petrol, sir. It uses coal, that black stuff I just showed you. That heats the water in the boiler from the tanks. There is no petrol, diesel, or any form of liquid fuel on this locomotive. It’s coal-fired. Solid fuel.”

I was starting to get stressed out and pretty angry at this guy. The driver noticed, came back to me, and asked how the water was looking. It was fine, and the guy walked off.

I then looked at the driver, who looked at me. Both of us blank-faced.

HOW could someone not know what coal is? Actually, genuinely how?

At the end of the day, I was helping with loco disposal, shoveling clinker and ash out of the ashpan and ash from the smoke box to make it ready for the next day’s use. I also had to refill the coal bunker, which is hard work by yourself on a summer evening.

As I was finishing up running about with shovels and wheelbarrows, I overheard the guy from before talking to someone.

Guy: “So, where do you get the petrol from for the steam trains?”

I wanted to throw myself into the firebox and smash my head against the firebox wall until I passed out.

I’m sitting on a bench in a train station wearing wireless earbuds and watching a video on my phone. Suddenly, from nowhere, I feel someone jab me in my ribs, HARD! I look up to see some older gentleman in his late sixties or early seventies glaring at me.

Now, I don’t know about the average person, but poking me in the ribs is my equivalent of stomping on a pit bull’s tail; it makes me extremely angry, and your only justifiable excuse for it had better be a life and death reason.

I rip my earbuds out.

Me: “What the h*** is your problem?”

Man: “I asked you a question! Show some respect for your elders, you disrespectful punk!”

I’ll confess, I don’t handle it in a mature manner. I get up and scream a string of profanities into his face while bystanders step in to neutralize the situation before something nasty ends up happening. A couple of guys escort me away elsewhere to calm me down while giving me an “It’s not worth it” and “You’re better than that” lecture.

I would like to say that is an isolated incident. It isn’t. Weeks later, I am on a train when I observe the same man getting on and walking over to a kid who looks to be somewhere between twelve and fourteen. He roughly taps his walking stick against the kid’s shin while jerking his thumb upward.

Man: “Beat it, junior! You can stand. It won’t kill you!”

The kid did begrudgingly relinquish his seat, but mind you, it was in a general seating area and NOT in a designated space for passengers with disabilities.

Then, a few months later, the predictable ended up happening: I was on a train and the same man boarded. Suddenly, almost from nowhere, a guy bolted into the train after him with pure murder etched on his face. As the older man was walking to take a seat, completely oblivious, the guy nailed him from behind with a flying dropkick, sending him sailing several feet across the floor, and then bolted back out of the train right as the doors began to close.

Obviously, fellow passengers rushed to his aid, but there is no way anyone can convince me that that attack was unprovoked, or that it was an isolated event for him.

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