‘Some People’17:33 Sep 20 2008
Times Read: 1,253
‘Some People’ by Cliff Richard, played on the radio, just before midnight on Friday night, Saturday morning, summed up the end to my night really well.
The day had begun with a bright start. I had to contend with a visit to the dole, to tell them I was signing off Incapacity Benefit, as my hand doesn’t warrant it.
As I left, I walked down the path toward the busstop and passed Cecilia, the Columbian, who ignored my protestations of affection, for a man who could support her financially. I had nodded to her, in acknowledgement, and then carried on to the busstop, to go home to register as unemployed.
The system now entails ringing up a call centre, to do so; then a phone interview, wherein your details are transcribed, so that when you get your appointment to go where I’d just left, the form you’d have filled in previously, is already done for you.
Well, after that and stuff going whirligig in my head from the net, I had to go out awhile, I just had to.
And besides, I had a travel saveaway ticket on me; it was sunny, ‘so why not use it.’
I’d sat on the train, with my back to the driver, as is my wont. To my far left, had been had been a young lady (of Asian origin) in the window seat, sitting with three ‘older gentlemen’. It’d been apparent that they were quite enamoured with her company.
As they passed Lever’s on the left at Port Sunlight, she had made mention of the department she worked in there, which had sparked them off. The cloth carrier-bag one fellow had with him had the legend ‘Unilever Pension Fund’; and their conversation had led to my intervention, with my mention of my Father, the factories model-maker. The fellow to my immediate left knew of my Uncle, while the fellow opposite him knew of my Grandfather and knew of bits of his history, like the fact he’d been the only proper army captain, amongst the home-guard in the area. The young lady was tickled when I’d mentioned that my Dad had built me a full-size Dalek, when I was about four. And, we’d continued talking all the way to Birkenhead Central, where all of us, bar one of the fellows had disembarked the train.
On the bus to Wallasey, I sat and wrote, but not what I had intended, as I’d got distracted…
‘How is one expected to sit on the bus writing of stuff, when the back of the seat has come off the seat before you and sits at your feet; and, the girl on the left, of the two girls in their late teens before you, has her black tee-shirt and jumper riding high, blue-jeans sitting low and much of her white thong, a contrast to the tan of her back, there just before your eyes?’
I got off the 409 by Liscard Park, then walked to Simon’s on a sunny afternoon.
Like my parents, he had a cold.
Well, as time had passed, I’d got the cold-ridden invalid his burger ‘n chips; ‘n his tobacco, as a number of intense conversations were had, during which a few of my character flaws were laid bare.
We’d had a pleasant evening till then, which I’d revelled in much as I had the last time I called. But, in the kitchen, Simon had come close to losing his temper, seemingly at me, although in hindsight it may have belong somewhere else.
One could blame the whiskey, but it came from him, as did the remark that hurt, really hurt; and above all else, I recall him saying: “Face reality… you’re parent’s are going to die and then where will you be?”
Though he added, ‘that’s not what I meant’ and ‘I was generalizing’, he said it.
To me, he came across as the same ‘fascist bully’ he thinks his elder brother is, who he doesn’t talk to anymore.
Either way, that remark had been one of the most horrible, hurtful things anyone has ever said to me.
Confrontation I can deal with, not aggression. I’ve had enough of that in my life.
So, I had left the kitchen and his flat.
As I’d left, our other three friends in the flat looked aside and he’d mocked me saying, “Oh aye, touched a nerve, have I?”
I’d picked up my tin and lid, then left.
I hadn’t been until I’d been at the busstop and looking for a smoke, did I realise the lid was mine, but the tin wasn’t.
So, I had to call back, before the last bus of the night, for tin and burn.
Simon had come to the door, in silence. I’d entered the flat, gone through to the front room, picked up my tin and made to leave, ensuring I said ‘goodbye’ to everyone in the room, mentioning Simon, by name.
He had said ‘goodnight.’
I got back to the busstop, in time, to get the bus to Birkenhead, the events of the evening still very much in mind.
At Hamilton Square, I met a fellow outside the station, who was one of the crew coming back from the Swinging Arms, where I’ve drunk. The fellow was all in blue-denim and about my age, or older, with blonde thinning hair that fell to his shoulders and smiled as finished my smoke.
“Alright,” he’d said with a nod and a smile.
“Aye,” I’d replied with a light smile.
He’d gone in to the station and then I’d followed a few minutes later, totally surprised to find the fellow and his two mates still in the lift when the doors opened.
The fellow I’d spoken of had looked to his friends and said, “See, I told you we hadn’t gone anywhere.”
One of the fellows said, “Seems like we kept it for you.”
I’d pressed ‘down’, after saying “thank you” with a smile.
As we travelled downward the fellow with the ‘Peter Stringfellow’ countenance asked me where I was off to.
“Home,” I’d replied.
“It’s too early for that,” he’d retorted.
“Not after the evening I’ve had,” I had responded with a wry smile.
Then the lift doors opened and the fellow and his friends had continued their night, as they travelled to Liverpool, while I got my train home, to my sleeping parents and my welcoming duvet.
COMMENTS
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Vampiress25
01:48 Sep 30 2008
Nice! haha :)