Man on the train (language warning)

The young man was noticeable as he circled the platform.  He had the energy of a fighter - up on his toes, tightly wound, watchful.  Something in his body told the world that he was ready. If he needed to be.

He stood in front of me as the train pulled into the station and didn't budge from his spot, forcing the people getting off to change trajectory.  He said nothing.  It just seemed better to not be in his way.  There was much confusion as people on the train realised that the ultimate destination had changed just as we started to climb on board.  Eventually I made a general announcement to everyone about where I understood the train to be going.  It was more efficient than being asked a dozen times.  It was clear that I had unwittingly been designated as Chief Information Officer for today in keeping with my propensity to be one of those people.  At least the fourth carriage from the front was well informed.

The young man took his seat in a bank of four, immediately stretching out and putting his feet up on the seat opposite.  Although he was slouched as much as a human can slouch, he claimed his space and no one else sat in that bank of four.

The carriage was quiet.  People were reading, playing with their phones, doing the puzzles in the newspaper or listening to their ipods.  Some were staring straight ahead, probably contemplating the day they'd just had or the evening that lay before them.  Into this contemplation the young man dropped his domestic drama as it played out over the phone lines.

"What do you mean the council came around?"
...
"What do you mean they've fined me?"
...
"What do you mean they knocked on the window?"
...
"What do you mean they want to see me?"
...
"What do you mean when will I be home?  I'll be home soon.  I'll deal with it then."
...
"What do I have to clean up?"
...
"Who says?"
...
"I don't believe you Mum."
...
"You will not slash my tyres.  I'll slash your tyres.  Then you won't be able to go anywhere."
...
"Fuckin' council workers.  Cunts.  What do they do anyway? Drive around in cars all day. Maybe I'll slash their tyres."
...
"I'll be home soon."

I'm sure his mother would be eagerly awaiting his return.

He made another call.

"Hey mate.  Do people from the council fine you if there's mud in your gutter?"
...
"Mum! She told me they knocked on the window of the house and everything! She's such a liar. She just told me that to get me to clean it up."
...
"Out the front. Of the house. In the gutter."
...
"I know. It's shit man."

In the course of the eleven minutes we shared the train carriage, he made six more phone calls and repeated this investigation.  He was obviously unaware of the amplification powers of modern telephonic devices and felt it necessary to shout to be heard.  His mother seemed quite creative in her deceit to get her son to complete a domestic chore, but she also underestimated her son's powers of investigation.

The woman sitting opposite me told me she had encountered him before in the streets of her suburb.  She questioned whether he was "all there".  She said she had seen him pulling roses off bushes in gardens and throwing the petals up in the air as he skipped through their rain.

I tried to picture the man with his pugnacious attitude revelling in the scattered petals.  It was hard to conjure, but I was not prepared to take this image to mean he was somehow mentally deficient.  Perhaps he just liked to stop and smell the roses.