Waiting at the bus stop in the evening fog, the line of commuters weaving ahead and behind. Heads bobbing. Weight shifting from one foot to the next. Breath in puffs in a long line.
The bus pulls in and the line wobbles, lurches to life. Front few swallowed, further back heads crane behind from experience, watching for the second bus, the later bus, that could arrive any time, the adjustments and optimisations of the accomplished commuter, a professional peel from mid-queue and dart onto the empty deck, bench to yourself, pulling away while the earlier arrival remains bogged down by the masses. A last minute win, after a day of drudgery.
But no second bus tonight. We all press forwards, are swallowed into the steamy maw. The driver slumped in some unremarked suffering, eyes the colour of wet cardboard, sliding back into his skull, collar too tight, dumpy and acne scarred and skewered in his seat. He grimaces, prods his ticket machine, stares through us towards the end of his shift.
We hustle into seats, squeeze in next to one another, sweltering in the many-bodied heat. Gloves come off. Scarves are unwound. Bags are opened, breakfast bars come out, left over from lunch. Books. Headphones. Screens. A corner that is mine in the crowded din.
We inch through traffic. Pavements bathed in neon pass by behind clouded glass. Kebab shops and discount offies reflected in the shimmer of traffic. Store fronts repeat.
People sigh, lean back, cough once or three times. We can’t cope one more second. We must wrench up seats and riot. This quotidian pain. These coats and bags and flasks and sandwich boxes. This fucking life. Oh, but oh. Swallow misery, sigh again, let eyes go glazed.
We pass an ambulance driver gesticulating in front of hospital side doors. A wave goodbye? A problem? A game? There is too much distance between us, selves separated by skull and glass and empty air and skull again. The central impossibility of comprehending another life. All these lives, the breadth and depth, all rich and convoluted and labyrinthine. How can you be in there and me in here? My self is made up of your other. My other is made up of your self.
The bus climbs forwards. My lids start to drop. I conserve my energy. There is a long journey ahead.
Goosebumps
ReplyDelete