{Note: This came out a lot more depressing than I originally intended it to be...oh well!}
I loved the tube. I loved the way its grimy, used smell was covered up by the chemical spray of bleach based cleaning products. I loved the perfect English accents of the automated announcers telling me each and every stop and the safety guidelines of ascending and descending the train. I loved overhearing trivial phone conversations, especially the ones filled with drama or juicy bits of gossip. I loved tuning out the wooshing noise of air created by the sudden movement of the train against the multi-colored tiles with my headphones.
I had a vague destination in mind but tried not to think about it as an end. The ins and outs of the city seemed to be exhausted at times while at other times I was surprised to find something new in the ancient petrified bodies of the mummies at the British Museum that I had visited more times than I can count, or a new joy in the wetness of my inappropriate footwear when the inevitable drops of rain fell from the sky expectedly nearly every day. Borough Market seemed to be calling to me even though my funds were running desperately low and I had no real need to purchase any more food, or unusual beverage, or bag of nuts. It was different alone though, and whatever reason compelled me there was worthwhile, no matter how useless the repetitive trip seemed to be.
While there is thrill in the unknown, there is also thrill in the known, in the something you think you know, but which catches you off guard in a fantastic display of change. I needed to ride the tube everyday, even if I had no where to go, because I knew the lines, I knew the schedule, and although sometimes it was late, it always came. But you were different, malleable, unexpected. And everyday I needed to go to the store, in a composed, impassive manner; I needed to shop and buy useless and kitschy things.
I took the St. Paul’s stop so that I could walk the half-mile extra in the chilling drizzle over the Millennium Bridge. My steps were slow and deliberate and all of the steps that passed me seemed clumsy and unconscious in comparison, as if no one else cared about anything at all. As if all of their minds were simply blank and clear, all with an unambiguous sense of themselves and their direction. The bridge expanded before me in perfect lines of white symmetry above the ugly grey water, and maybe my steps were not so much deliberate as heavy.
I suppose you, among others, picked me up when I most needed it. And I suppose that’s why it was so easy to accept it and the consequences it inevitably brought. Things were complicated by the new scenery, the new sense of independence in a city without limits and an indescribable feeling that my once subtle emotions were magnified beyond my control. But, like I said, there were consequences, one of them being the magnified crush and crushing of what I thought you held dear.
I thought today might be my last trip to Borough so I took it in as much as I could: the sights, the smells! Signs of the imminence of Christmas surrounded me, and while I smiled at the ten-plus piece jolly little band in holiday garb perched at the entrance, the realization that I had come alone suddenly struck me as odd. There was no reason for it, really. The vulnerability I felt even when surrounded by picturesque happiness, represented in steaming Styrofoam cups of mulled wine wrapped around the gloved hangs of cheerful middle class families, was unwarranted. I felt at any moment I would become lost in the twists and turns of the marketplace though I knew them well. The whole, pink carcasses of pigs and the half-plucked ducks that hung against the walls of the meat stands seemed menacing, and everything I knew seemed like one big question.
I guess you could say I thought you were the one. Maybe not the one but a one. One of the ones. With youth there is excitement, and with excitement there is an invincible power to find what one is looking for, then loose it quicker than in the blink of an eye, in less time than it takes to acquire it in the first place.
The nut and candy bins were usually where we stopped when we went together, but now that I stood contemplating the sweet taste of candied macadamia nuts before the colorful spectacle, I realized I had no interest in any of it. I don’t think I ever liked it to begin with. Unaware members of the crowd bumped into me without a second thought but my feet stayed glued to the ground. Sometimes others I went with liked the nuts too, it seemed like everybody liked the nuts, but I did not like the nuts. With some effort I managed to leave their sight and ventured to what I thought I really wanted, the exotic olive and smelly cheese stand.
Here I delicately sampled the wide array of pungent olives, some darker, some lighter, some more intense and bursting with tart flavor and some more mild and tame. I washed them down with blocks of cheese attached to tiny toothpicks, deciding that a firm Gruyere that was a bit pricy was the perfect one. Its flavor brought sparks to my tongue and tickled the back of my throat and would be the perfect complement to the wine and cheese parties that had been frequently occurring in my flat. I really just wanted it all for myself, but decided it would be best to offer it to others. Besides, wine was usually the feature of the event anyway and the cheese might go unnoticed.
Alcohol plays a central role in meeting and subsequent…meetings. The darkness of bedrooms and hallways and windowsills accompanied by the lulling factor of almost constant intoxication can lead to overly confident proclamations. Everyone in the world seems to know this, yet conveniently ignore it. Was my mind more genuine? To me everyone else was empty and false, lying their way through conversations in the hopes that it would all come true in the end. And it happened over and over again, sometimes working itself out in a tolerable ending, sometimes crashing and burning.
My chunk of cheese amounted to nine pounds, about 17 dollars. Somehow I was able to justify such a ridiculous purchase as I reached for my wallet that held the thick pound notes whose origin, I chose to ignore, came from my mother. My bag was a flowered sack, an endless pit of dark matter that held many objects that always strangely seemed to feel very similar. The woman selling the cheese became impatient as I searched with my hand through the contents of my life and eventually turned to another customer who kept inquiring about the various consistencies of Brie. Finally I decided to actively find my wallet with my eyes instead of relying on the touch of my fingers, but as I gazed into the hole using the waning light of the overcast afternoon, I still didn’t see it. I refused to believe it wasn’t there and in disarray began removing items by the handful and placing them all over the cheese display. Multiple tubes of chapstick, crumpled receipts, a mirror, an unsent postcard, my phone, change and more were spread out, exposed for all to see. Embarrassed, I mumbled to the woman that I had changed my mind, scooped up the loose items and moved away from the table, into a corner out of sight. My pulse skyrocketed, my bitter aloneness like a physical injury while I faced this highly unfavorable situation.
My flat seemed miles away, and I held no hope of finding my lost, precious item that was probably miles away by now. Adrenaline lifted my heavy steps though, and without thinking twice, I started walking back, knowing that it would take more time than I could imagine. I had no desire to figure out what happened; the patter of my numb feet disappeared over the bridge.
August 2008
