Paper Route
by Bianca
Posted to Stories on 2003-07-18 03:41:00
I felt the liquid breath on my neck and etched further forward, jutted my arms – accidentally – into a rotund and rather ominous smelling man, he was short and I apologised, a somewhat incoherent mumble, but my mood was less than solicitous. I stood, uncomfortable in my body. My legs, as ever, were aching, and I was hot and my face was beaded with perspiration. At last, it was my stop! And, pushing past all the beings that I had spent the last thirty minutes sharing moans, sighs and bodily fluid with, I sighed in silent relief and hopped off the train.
I desired a coffee, I passed the ubiquitous Starbucks, choosing not to enter and purchase what I considered to be predominantly milk with a smidgen of weak, dire coffee – but ambled on until I discovered a small surreptitious Greek café and ordered an espresso. I sat down, and silently and glumly I dragged desperately on a cigarette. I was early; I had chosen to be early as the early mornings were where I took a few minutes to build the peaces of my mind. I gulped down my espresso, lit another cigarette and read through the Sun, a quick indulgent read, I caught up with the finer points of the news, and feeling decidedly better I left the café, and waited at the bus stop perusing my book. I was not reading as much as I was skimming through the words, not much was heeded, but nonetheless, it was something to do – as I am easily bored. I felt someone touch my hand, and instinctively, I jumped back. I am not tactile and simply loathe human contact, I fear it and retract from it and journeys such as the tube put me in mild states of mania. I looked up and saw a figure walk away, in my hand was a piece of paper. I opened it, confused and nervous. There was a number on the paper, in blue, and underneath the writing in red was written in bold and underlined writing: –
Do not throw this number away; it is vital to all that you phone. PLEASE!
I stared at the writing, the moment felt superbly surreal, as though my dream had become a black comedy. I even took note of what I was wearing, expecting – I suppose – to find that I was still dressed in my pyjamas, instead I was in work attire, the day was continuing as in normal sequence, and around me people were awaiting in all degrees of patience, for the bus. I held a piece of perplexing paper, the paper itself as though it had been clutched by many, many hands and on a closer look, I noted that someone had written over the number with new ink. I stared, as though riveted, as though lost – and it was only when I felt a push and an irked sigh that I noted my bus had arrived.
I sipped on my second cup of coffee, and numbly stared at my computer. Work seemed a treacherous chore, and I had to force myself to do the most minor of jobs. Time had become relative, I noted. I had always disputed such a notion, saying that time was exact, but now the minute seemed taunting, the seconds an hour, I stared at the clock and tried to eschew the anger arising. My colleague made comments with regards to my indignant mood, which naturally only provoked me further. Eventually, I asked her to please shut up, keep quiet, speak to someone else, but blatantly NOT me. It worked, it kept her quiet, but then I became concerned that perhaps she would make a complaint, speak to my superior, and I was not too enamoured with, once again, being out of a job. And so it was, even more incensed, I had to apologise, and in attempting to appease I explained the morning occurrences.
‘It’s probably just someone who fancied you.’
I shook my head, “No, it sounds too urgent, and if it were as simple, then how is that going to help ‘all’” I asked, pointing huffily at the bolded writing.
She shrugged, not too perturbed, and continued with her work, irritated, I grabbed the note and left for my lunch.
I picked at my baked potato, took a sip of my coffee and pushing the plate aside, I lit a cigarette.
At last, the clock said 5! My whole body stood tense, I had spent the entire day staring and panicking and bizarrely, just over a note, over a scrawled phone number. Deciding to end the charade, I picked up the phone and dialled the number; it rang for about a minute, as I was about to put down the phone, a breathy voice answered,
‘I didn’t think you’d call…’
I listened. The voice spoke on for ten minutes, I sat and absorbed every word, in a mild shock, unbelievable at first, and then slowly absorbing the words and the instructions and the facts I began to nod, to answer assents, I felt my ears brim with tears, my hand was clammy, it was a movie, slow, silent, twisted, unreal. Such could not be truth, but doubt had been evaded by absolute assurance and the fear I felt overtook, and as quick as it arrived so came a desire to help, to sort it out, to pass on the message – but to who?
‘You will know, it will come.’
At home, I went straight to my bedroom and climbed into bed. I pulled my duvet over my head, curled into foetus position and cried, tears streamed down my face and I literally continued to cry, until sleep saved me. I awoke with the silence of dark, I climbed out of bed and ran a bath, and I lay in the warm comfort, and attempted to clear my mind of thoughts. After which, I slowly began the task of ridding my flat of any newspapers, magazines and noisily and with effort, took the television down the stairs, and to save it from being used elsewhere, kicked at it, and with a tennis racket did as much damage as possible.
I did find the person, eventually. It took a while, it never did come to me as I continued and searched and then gave up on searching and in the interim did as I was told, and attempted to save and tried to act brave and rid my self of tears – though they did come, and at last stopped when a fortitude took over, and I could continue somewhat fearless. But, most importantly, I found him. I was walking through the park, it was hot and sticky and the park was inundated with bodies, pallid and burnt, and I saw him on the bench, sipping a beer – aged and liver spotted, his hair was completely grey, and thin and dark spots protruding on his head. It was patent that it was he, and so I walked up, behind the bench and leant over, placing the paper in his hand – and quickly walked off.