Stephen Vigors \
another bus journey T
here were lots of wistful clouds that looked like meringues resting on a sheeting of beautiful, pure blue. For some bizarre reason I thought that the world seemed perfect today. It didn’t matter that some things were bad as that’s what makes the world beautiful. I was sat towards the back of the bus, raised slightly so that I could spy on all the passengers in front of me. “SINGLE TO WAKEFIELD PLEASE.” I was messing around on my phone, trying to get Google Earth to work. It wouldn’t. It refused to be part of the beautiful world. I was trying to look at pictures of New York. I wanted to teleport myself and be there instantly but it was taking too long. I was still on the bus to Wakefield. “DO YOU MIND?” The man smelled of alcohol. I couldn’t tell you much more than that because he had already walked passed me down the aisle when I heard his profoundly loud voice for the second time. He sounded old. The smell reminded me of my father coming home from the pub, before I even knew what alcohol was. I always liked the smell, even more so now, but the first thought that goes through most people’s head when confronted with the odour of alcohol in a public place is “ALCOHOLIC! ALCOHOLIC! ALCOHOLIC! ALCOHOLIC! ALCOHOLIC! ALCOHOLIC! ALCOHOLIC! ALCOHOLIC!”
“No,” she said. She was sat on the seat behind me, so I couldn’t tell you what she looked like, but I heard a weak, young voice that made her sound shy. “THANK YOU.” I presumed that if she’d been hit by the same stolid stench of hops like I had then she would have preferred anyone to sit next to her than this ALCOHOLIC. “WOULD YOU LIKE A CIGARETTE?” “What?” “WOULD YOU LIKE A CIGARETTE?” “You can’t smoke on the bus.” “DO YOU WANT ONE THOUGH?” “You can’t smoke on the bus. You’ll get thrown off.” “IT DUNT MATTER. HAVE YOU GOT A LIGHT? “I don’t even smoke.” “ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT. I’M ONLY KIDDING, I WON’T SMOKE. I’D LOVE A FAG. FUCKIN’ `ELL IT’S HOT. AM SWEATIN’ BUCKETS. WHERE YOU GOIN’?” “Leave me alone,” she pleaded. But he continued to strike up conversation. “I’M SMASHED ME. YOU LOOK LOVELY. I’M GOING TO GET SMASHED. DO WANT TO GET SMASHED?” “Stop talking to me.” “SORRY LOVE. I’M JUST BEING FRIENDLY. WHY DON’T YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?” “I don’t know you. You’re just some random guy on the bus.” “ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, CALM DOWN. I’M JUST BEING FRIENDLY.” Sat opposite me was a girl, slumped lazily. Her pumps and
slightly torn black tights were pebble-dashed with specks of mud. She wore an over-sized navy blue raincoat and greasy, scraggy blonde hair covered most of her face. She was texting, texting and texting. “ALRIGHT LUV,” he said, cutting his losses and changing his attention. “OH,” he said. She brushed back the greasy hair on one side of her face and swivelled so that she could see the ALCOHOLIC. Her face was prettier than I thought it would be. “ALRIGHT LUV, HOW COME YOU’RE SO DIRTY?’ “Pardon?” “HOW COME YOU’RE MUDDY? WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?” She smiled lazily and then reshrouded her face with the strands of grease. Shortly afterwards she got off and her seat was taken by a man I often saw on this bus. He was short, stocky and simple looking. I’d often wondered about his mental state. The ALCOHOLIC had no interest in talking to the simple man. He carried on talking to the shy girl. After a while she seemed to find his persistence funny. Eventually the ALCOHOLIC got off the bus, stumbling, grey hair, coughing, white jeans, leather jacket, and immediately lit a cigarette. I looked to the left and the simple man was looking round, past me, at the seat behind. Poor girl.
TheLeedsDebacle_27