How About Something Less Ordinary. (A Collection of Short Stories)
I'm not obsessed, just impolite.
Ding. Dong. Ding. Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.
The old man with the xylophone and a hat containing just three coins happily sat on the icy concrete hitting completely random notes, no real tune at all. I threw in a ten, earning a toothless smile and a salute, which I returned and walked around the corner of the bus shelter, half-wishing I had never had that spontaneous burst of excitement at travelling here on my own to surprise my brother.
After a creepy taxi ride that took at least twenty minutes longer than necessary, I had arrived at his place to find a note on the door reading:
“Gone drinkin”
My frustration was quickly replaced with relief that I had brought enough money to get another ticket home. After picking the lock I crashed at his place for the night and left before he got back this morning. I called my parents to say I was coming back home and after fumbling with the schedule (curse my insanely thick gloves!) I read that I was to be back at 11.30, just in time for a party they were organising, apparently.
I got the bus no problem, and after about half an hour on the road, we had stopped on a bridge somewhere so the driver could fiddle around with the engine and people could have a cigarette. As I waited patiently with about fifteen others, I leant on the side of the bridge and looking down into the black water, my mind began whirring with strange ideas and extremely weird thoughts. Apart from the concern that I hadn’t read this months issue of Vogue, I started wondering just what would happen if I jumped off the bridge.
Not that I have suicidal fantasies a lot, I really don’t. But all these questions flew into my head. Would the water carry me away? Is it deep or would I just injure myself? How long before people would notice? How much news coverage would this get? What would my mother think? It then occurred to me that jumping off a bridge just to answer such questions would be quite narcissistic.
I got back on the bus and plugged in my iPod. Another hour of lovely scenery later and the bus had stopped on yet another bridge, but no-one was getting off but the driver. I settled back into my chair and closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes, I realised we hadn’t moved in a very long time. The driver was still outside, talking to a couple who were obviously very distressed.
Someone had jumped off the bridge.
I tried very hard not to think about the message that the universe was trying to tell me. First the police came, then the helicopter and the ambulance and news trucks. I plugged in my iPod again. I bought some woman’s Vogue off her for eight dollars. I read it cover to cover before we got home. I called everyone, Jason, Katie, my parents, James.
James said,“If they didn’t want to go home before, I bet they’re home now.”
I got home at 3.56pm. I missed the party, so I ate all the leftovers I could get my hands on. I buried myself in quilts and pillows when I went to bed, and shut my eyes as tight as I possibly could.
I’m glad I stayed on this side of the bridge.
The old man with the xylophone and a hat containing just three coins happily sat on the icy concrete hitting completely random notes, no real tune at all. I threw in a ten, earning a toothless smile and a salute, which I returned and walked around the corner of the bus shelter, half-wishing I had never had that spontaneous burst of excitement at travelling here on my own to surprise my brother.
After a creepy taxi ride that took at least twenty minutes longer than necessary, I had arrived at his place to find a note on the door reading:
“Gone drinkin”
My frustration was quickly replaced with relief that I had brought enough money to get another ticket home. After picking the lock I crashed at his place for the night and left before he got back this morning. I called my parents to say I was coming back home and after fumbling with the schedule (curse my insanely thick gloves!) I read that I was to be back at 11.30, just in time for a party they were organising, apparently.
I got the bus no problem, and after about half an hour on the road, we had stopped on a bridge somewhere so the driver could fiddle around with the engine and people could have a cigarette. As I waited patiently with about fifteen others, I leant on the side of the bridge and looking down into the black water, my mind began whirring with strange ideas and extremely weird thoughts. Apart from the concern that I hadn’t read this months issue of Vogue, I started wondering just what would happen if I jumped off the bridge.
Not that I have suicidal fantasies a lot, I really don’t. But all these questions flew into my head. Would the water carry me away? Is it deep or would I just injure myself? How long before people would notice? How much news coverage would this get? What would my mother think? It then occurred to me that jumping off a bridge just to answer such questions would be quite narcissistic.
I got back on the bus and plugged in my iPod. Another hour of lovely scenery later and the bus had stopped on yet another bridge, but no-one was getting off but the driver. I settled back into my chair and closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes, I realised we hadn’t moved in a very long time. The driver was still outside, talking to a couple who were obviously very distressed.
Someone had jumped off the bridge.
I tried very hard not to think about the message that the universe was trying to tell me. First the police came, then the helicopter and the ambulance and news trucks. I plugged in my iPod again. I bought some woman’s Vogue off her for eight dollars. I read it cover to cover before we got home. I called everyone, Jason, Katie, my parents, James.
James said,“If they didn’t want to go home before, I bet they’re home now.”
I got home at 3.56pm. I missed the party, so I ate all the leftovers I could get my hands on. I buried myself in quilts and pillows when I went to bed, and shut my eyes as tight as I possibly could.
I’m glad I stayed on this side of the bridge.