By Jay Scott Kanes
“GAD! Ummph!”
My loud grunts echoed on the stairs of a Mass Transit Railway (MTR) station in Hong Kong. People eased past me. Some cussed in Cantonese.
“Silly codgers,” I muttered back.
Straining, I held my washing machine upright as it jolted downstairs, threatening to tip and tumble. Finally, wheels on the trolley beneath my load touched the station floor. Grasping the trolley’s handle, I tipped the cargo and pulled it along.
All weekend I’d toted boxes on subterranean trains as part of a household move. At our new apartment, my wife busily unpacked. She’d wagered HK$100 that I couldn’t move the one-metre-tall Samsung washer, and I intended to collect.
The MTR’s management liked to post signs citing rules. “This is a passenger railway. Moving goods is forbidden,” one said. But dictates by large companies or unelected governments rarely impressed me.
My washing machine tilted, but stayed upright, on an escalator leading to the train tracks. Then I wheeled to the platform’s far end where fewer commuters waited. Seconds later, a train rumbled in and stopped, the doors hissing open.
Smoothly, I pulled the machine aboard. Despite curious stares, my confidence soared. “Need anything cleaned?” I joked to three Chinese men garbed in paint-splattered clothing. They ignored me.
The train moved. One station followed another. More passengers boarded. Others departed.
Reaching my destination, I allowed others to disembark first. Then I stepped out. Clunk! The trolley wheels dropped into a gap between the train doors and the platform’s edge. The washing machine stopped, stuck.
What the blazes! Could the platform gap be wider here?
Turning, I grasped the trolley, steadying its load. The train doors started to close, struck the washing machine and opened again.
I yanked. The wheels refused to move. Repeatedly, the train doors tried to shut. Perspiration soaked my brow. People gawked, but made no move to help.
The engineer’s compartment slid open, and a stern-looking man in an MTR uniform emerged. He frowned, unhappy that someone had blocked the doors, preventing his departure.
Oh, no! Busted! I strained, wrenching. The trolley stayed put. Panicked, I visualized a heavy penalty for flouting MTR rules.
“Sorry!” I apologized. “This wasn’t supposed….”
My words evaporated as the trainman approached. Instead of slapping or scolding me, he stooped and pushed at the obstinate cargo as I pulled. With a jolt that swayed me, the wheels pulled free.
Silently, the MTR man returned to his compartment. Doors closed, and the train left.
Grateful to escape unscathed, I adjusted my load and continued on, suddenly respectful of how easily the underground railway could handle knucklehead passengers.
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