The Bus Ride Home

The following prose is a non-fiction story, written in the third person immediately after the events contained within. It was inspired somewhat by Norman Mailer's "The Armies of the Night" and at points employs a stream-of-consciousness style in order to paint a more accurate picture of the author's psychological state during said events.

He never spoke to the boy he sat next to, though that was hardly a surprise. Nobody ever did. Still, it is probably worth mentioning him, as he was present for almost the entirety. There was not much difference in their ages, Alex thought, though he wasn’t quite certain. He had jet black hair, wore a coat of a similar complexion and looked to be Asian in ethnicity. Such matters as race bore little importance to Alex, but it was a detail he could not help but note. He liked to create little mental profiles of people he didn’t know, though he was never quite sure why when he thought about it later. In his mind, it was partly a reaction to a comment he recalled from his mother, years before, when she accused him of being unobservant. Almost intentionally, he developed a mind for detail so that she may never make such claims again. The second and – he accepted – more bizarre reason was in case he ever had to help in a police investigation. Alex only really realised how odd this compulsion was when he dwelled upon it in detail, but to him it made sense. He did it to everyone – black, white, male, female; he could be called as a witness at any time and he wanted to have his facts straight...

Like almost everyone else sitting alone on the bus – and, soon, Alex himself – the familiar white cables of iPod headphones extended from the boys ears. What was he listening to? Alex mused upon it briefly, but decided that he’d much rather listen to his own music then contemplate the strangers’ preference. The two would never talk; they would not even make eye contact. Essentially, thought Alex, they were extras in one another’s lives. The concept was daunting...

He turned his attention to the rest of the bus. It had reached Canning Circus before he had made the decision to listen to the remainder of the of Montreal album he had started listening to on the opposite journey, 4 hours previous. Tonight had been fairly successful, he thought; the show was amazing, and the band – a Hip-Hop duo from California called Themselves – had been two of the most sincere musicians he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. He had also enjoyed pleasant company – mostly composed of friends he had made in High Soc, the alternative music society he belonged to and, recently, had been elected President of – and overall not spent too much money. That was important. He had felt bad about not buying anything other than a badge from the band’s merchandise table – especially as they had been so nice to him – but right now, he really couldn’t afford to. He looked up. The bus was whizzing through Lenton now. Had it stopped at all so far? This was unusual. Usually it stopped all the time, but it was already nearing the roundabout at the edge of campus. Alex was not complaining, though. A fast bus journey always equated to a good bus journey...

Already, the bus had reached the Dunkirk roundabout. It exited in a different lane than usual and continued towards the first set of traffic lights. They were just changing from red to amber, but the car in front took a moment to start up. It was moments like this, thought Alex, which had made the 20 years of his life feel so long.

A few minutes of dull thought passed (he often underwent moments where he simply forgot he existed; switched off, if you will) where gaze was entirely directed towards the red “Stop” button on the pole directly in front of Alex’s face. He wanted to press it so badly, but his was at least another 3 stops away. What was it about big red buttons?

The dead thought quickly ended as Alex’s eyes turned to a strange looking, portly man sat over to the left of the bus. He was dressed largely in denim and wore a bandana of the American flag over his wispy grey hair. He seemed to be asleep. In Alex’s mind he named the man “Hulk” as he thought he looked somewhat like an aged version of Hulk Hogan. Not long passed before he woke up and began talking, apparently to himself. Alex could not hear him, thanks to of Montreal, but watched, intrigued. Hulk looked backwards. He looked at Alex. He did not return Alex’s smile.

In front of Alex, there was a girl. He – for once in his life – hadn’t actually been paying her much attention and only really observed that she had brown hair. In fairness, that was all that he really could observe, being seated behind her, but his profile of her was consequently lacking. Hulk was looking in her direction, still talking, but she was looking away. It was when the bus reached Broadgate Park that Alex actually heard what he was saying.

“I think you’ve pulled, love…”

She was ignoring him – or, at least, that’s what Alex assumed – and appeared to be talking to someone on her mobile phone. Nonetheless, Hulk persisted. Alex made a conscious effort to look away. In his isolated state, he began to ponder. Was this man really just a harmless drunk, aiming above his station? Or was he a sinister, potentially dangerous stalker? The girl chattered away, happily, oblivious to Alex’s concern, as Hulk continued to eye her. Alex’s stop was approaching. He would be getting off the bus soon and was extremely worried that Hulk was the kind of man who would wait until the girl did the same. In his mind, he hoped that she would be getting off at Humber Road, like him. At least that way he could keep an eye on her. At least that way she would be safe. He was not a confrontational man, but Alex suddenly felt extremely anxious about protecting her. Somehow, it felt like destiny. In his mind, potential scenarios flashed. Surely, he could not confront Hulk? No, he did not know what the man was capable of, whereas he knew his own abilities well enough to disregard this option. Perhaps he should at least warn the girl? That did not seem feasible, either; at best, it would piss Hulk off. At worst, it would piss them both off. Humber Road was the next stop. The girl was not moving. Alex hit the button. Lovely red button. He was standing now. Walking. Should he warn the bus driver? No. He just thanked him. He got off the bus. He stared through the window. Hulk stared back, the girl still happily chatting on her phone on the other side of the bus’ aisle. He could take a picture on his phone? At least then, if something bad did happen, he could come forwards. Again, back to the police investigation. The damage would have been done by then. It would wrack him with guilt forever, if that happened. No. Now the bus was gone and Alex stood on the edge of Humber Road, with another girl who had exited the same bus.

He had not acted. Intervention had not been his destiny. Destiny? What was destiny? There was no such thing. No destiny, just decision. He had decided not to act, just as he could have decided to act. The girl would be fine, he told himself. Hulk was just a drunk old pervert and no harm would come to her. Hope became fact in his head. It always had to in these situations. He remembered once, a few months before, when a group of youths had knocked on his door and enquired if he knew where “the Chinese people” lived. He informed them that he did not and they left. The question had concerned him and he had very nearly phoned the police. In the end, he did not. It was nothing; just suspicion of everyone, invoked by the media. He clung to this, pretending to ignore the guilt that consumed him. He never heard anything about the sought “Chinese people” again, so assumed they were fine. How does the saying go? When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me...

He felt like an ass, but, really, what else could he have done? He would never know if that girl made it home safe, and just had to live his life on the hope that she did. Surely she did. These things only ever happened to people on TV – never in real life.

The girl who had exited the bus when he did began to walk away, in the same direction that Alex was headed. Moments such as this always bothered him. Much as he had worried Hulk had ulterior motives, he could understand why any girl could feel the same about any man whilst walking alone at night. He walked down Roberts Yard – a small side street which led to an alleyway just off the street he lived on. This would bring him out onto an abandoned car park, which he would cross to arrive at his house. This was the way he almost invariably walked nowadays – a crafty shortcut was a crafty shortcut, regardless of whether it was potentially unsafe. A few days before, he had spotted some youths on the car park, with a big dog. They had been unpleasantly dressed and he had felt uncomfortable passing them, striving to not make eye contact or even acknowledge their existence. Don’t look at them and they won’t look at you. The fact he held this mentality worried Alex somewhat – had the media really engraved such unhappy images of the world into his subconscious that he couldn’t even look towards teenagers anymore without feeling nervous?

As he crossed the desolate car park, he saw a figure ahead. It was the other girl. She had walked around the long way (her destination, too, had been Derby Street) and now their paths were almost equal! Now Alex definitely felt like a stalker, and kicked himself for this strategical mishap. Her pace seemed to pick up somewhat.

Don’t act suspicious. Act normal. You are not a stalker. You are not a stalker. Just take the keys out. Focus on the house. Focus on getting to the house.

She was walking parallel with Alex now.

Don’t cross the road yet. Don’t even look in that direction. Don’t make eye contact.

Suddenly, she turned around and walked a few paces back. What was she doing? Trying to throw off the crazy stalker by changing tactic? It was an odd move, certainly, but Alex did not dare to look back. She was gone now. He had to prove to her that he was not a crazy stalker. He actually lived here! It was just coincidence! He made it to the welcoming blue front door. Key in. Turn. Open. In. Close.

That was it. It was over. The first girl, she was fine. She made it home safe. Hulk didn’t even get off at the same stop as her! The second, she too was fine. She made it home, too. She hadn’t even noticed Alex, let alone thought he was a stalker. She was just checking that the bin was out on the curb for the morning pick-up. It was all perfectly innocent. Surely that was it. Surely there was nothing to worry about.

Surely there was nothing to worry about.

Feeling Lonely in a Busy Food Court

On Monday, I am in University for the longest time of my week - my first class starting at 11am and my last concluding at 5pm. This, admittedly, is not the longest working day of all time and I crave no sympathy over it - especially as I'm actually only in class for three hours (I am "in between" class for the same amount of time). In the middle of this mess-of-a-day, I have a two-hour solid block of freedom, during which I usually go to the University bar/restaurant ('Mooch') with a selection of my friends (for simplicity's sake, and - as this is not a bitchfest - for logical purposes, they are John, Ollie and Rhiannon), eat dinner, do work in preparation for our seminar, etc. It is not an 'institution' or 'tradition', but it's just basically what we do. I like to eat some hot food and I like to have company while I do it.

This week, that was not the case. All three of my regular dining comrades found themselves caught up in one small distraction or another (I believe the lower classes call it "work") and I was left with a dilemma - to attend 'Mooch' alone and risk standing in a momentous queue before feasting upon an over-priced burger alone, all the while wallowing in my self-pity, or seek alternative sustenance (self-pity remaining, of course, concrete).

I decided, somewhat uncharacteristically, upon the latter (I am rather fond of 'Mooch', regardless of whether or not the microwaved morsels they serve there can adequately be classed as 'food') and set out on a quest which, were our generation one of oral tradition, would no doubt later be recalled in some distorted form of epic poem. Actually, I feel I may have romanticised the situation somewhat - I actually just went up lots of stairs, got lost a few times and considered going to Boots to getting a cold chicken wrap instead. Eventually, however, the hero of our tale prevailed and arrived at the veritable Valhalla of the Portland Building - 'Chicken Joe's'.

I'm not certain that anybody really knows who Chicken Joe is, or (as a matter of fact) if the gentleman actually even exists, but his establishment was an Elysian Field before my eyes (I was quite hungry at the time...) and also employs my delightful friend and cohort, Ms. Abigail Susan Rowse. A look of delight crossed her already delight filled face as she squealed in delight (what I'm getting at here is that there was a lot of delight). She seems to regard me as some variety of God, though I - being a modest man, by all accounts - fervently deny these benevolences and offer instead that I should regarded more as a prophet or holy messenger. Regardless of my blasphemous rank, Abigail failed to render me free portions of poultry and I found myself rather short of pocket as a result. The chicken was proper good, though.

I ate alone, slowly and silently, with only the music of the wonderful Quasi offering any degree of company. As I sat there, immersed in my loneliness, my mind began to wander. Here I was - a gentleman of (and forgive my arrogance here, but if one does not think highly of oneself, then who does?) considerable brilliance - forced into social isolation for reasons far too few and invalid to mention. Meanwhile, the bleached blonde harlots with their orange dyed complexions and the guffawing cretins with their collars folded upwards as if monuments to the mighty Ra himself find ample company and pleasure. Perhaps these fools stared upon me, the solitary traveller on life's weary road, with a certain air of pity. What a fallacy! To be pitied by the piteous! Lame!

Not just regular lame, though, my dear friend. Ultra super mega lame. We are talking here of degrees of lameness and lameosity hereto unexperienced by mortal man. The plights of Prometheus and Sisyphus cannot even begin to compare with this utter abomination of a lameness. Though, perhaps I exaggerate ever so slightly.

Nonetheless, loneliness - in all senses of the term - is a social evil unparalleled. Seated in the busy foodhall, my heart and mind danced to unholy rhythms and entertained guests of a similar nature. Moments such as these - moments of the most unexplained and unfortunate loneliness - seem to me to be the moments which characterise our lives. Do the cretins and harlots know loneliness? Or is loneliness an invention of the thinker? An introspective realisation that, even when surrounded by hordes of one's alleged peers, one is most always singular? Like I said before: lame.

You're probably wondering what I'm getting at here, with my pompous prose, and I'm not really sure. I just think it's really rather strange that right now I am sitting in my room, very much alone but not at all lonely, yet can be seated in a room packed to the rafters with laughing, smiling people and feel utterly ostracised. Maybe I think about these things far too much?

And, yes, as you're wondering, my dinner was wonderful. I went back and talked to Abi (who always makes me feel not-alone) and met up with my friends less than an hour later. The whole thing was over... OR WAS IT?

Just some things to think about. Here are some songs to listen to while thinking:

Azure Ray - These White Lights Will Bend to Make Blue
Quasi - Fuck Hollywood

Reinventing the wheel

What has happened to you, Alexander Christopher Hale? You used to be so different; hard-working, conscientious, moral. Has it all been for nought? Vanished into an air of self-pity, debauchery and despondency? Is this the way of all mortal endeavour - decadence marching hand in hand with decay? The brightest of stars entinguished in the night sky, their dying embers to shine no longer?

Nah, not really.

I'm still cool.

Why am I writing this blog, you ponder? It has been bloody ages since I last wrote a blog (clue: my last entry was penned whilst living in the dungeon of St. Peter's Court) and, you may notice, that that entry, as well as my other previous posts, has completely vanished. "Where has it gone?" you ask, before errupting further with the more poignant, "Why has it gone?"

If you'll be quiet for just one moment, I will explain.

As a historian, I will accept and agree with the consensus that editing the past for one's own intent is a negative approach. Sources should be preserved and not simply cast aside to force one's own agenda. In short, deleting records is a very naughty thing to do. However, in this case, I feel I am just. Do you really want to read the public love letters of antiquity, knowing - with hindsight - the doomed nature of these efforts? As much as I agree that the past must be preserved, this particular past should not be a public one. In short, those entries have lost their relevance to me and, thus, should hold no interest for you, either.

I am undergoing a period of reinvention in my life and I feel that this blog should reflect that. I have new friends, new interests, new beliefs - basically, lots of new things in my life - and I do not wish to be dogged down by the memories (happy as they were) of what used to be but is no longer. I may be a historian, but I look to the future for my answers.

So, in a striking contradiction to what I just said about not looking to the past, what has happened to me in the last 6 months? Like I said above, I have made new friends - some minor, some major. I am amazed that I have only known some of these people for such a short time. These are the friends I came to University to find, and I am happy that I have now found them. My only regret is that I did not meet them sooner - as there have been times in the last half year when I could have done with them.

I have been to a very dark place since turning 20, though I think I am nearly (if not already) free of it. I owe this to my friends, new and old (though, admittedly, not all of them), and them alone. The experience has transformed me without a doubt and, though I'm still not necessarily happy about the cause of the whole thing, I think I'm better off because of it. I am more open to trying new things now (examples being alcohol and riotous dancing) and have begun to cast off the restraints that previously bound me to my unhappiness. I'm still very insecure, of course, as one naturally is when suffering an uproot of this variety, and am yet to regain my confidence, but I like to think that I am on the way there...

I regret that this entry might be turning into a thinly veiled self-pity trip. "Oh, look at me, I'm Alex. I got dumped and was sad for a bit and now go on about how insecure and damaged the whole thing made me!". I can understand fully how people could interpret my ramblings as such, though it does sadden me that so many people fail to miss the point with these things. A few weeks ago, I made a hilarious self-derogatory joke about my situation and a friend of mine spat in response that I "just need to get over this!". Surely the very fact that I am able to joke about this now should be a positive sign? I often wonder if people really 'get' me at all...

Fuck those guys, though. Fuck them. If you're one of those guys, fuck you.

God, I hate re-reading things I've written like this. They always sound so pretentious and annoying and make me want to die inside. I spend a lot of time deliberating over what to write, almost as if I'm treating the endeavour as an essay - with some sort of point to communicate. In reality, there is no point, though. There is no point. That's a positive thought, by the way (not an emo "oh man, there's no point"). There is no point to doing anything, but we still do the things. There is no point to writing this, but I still am. I guess that's the main lesson that I've taken away from the last few months: there is no point but it doesn't actually matter that there's no point.

Here's a picture I drew. It's meant to be me and Calum when we were at school. We didn't really look like this, though:

Here's a variety of songs that have meant things to me lately. You should probably download them, love them, then buy the albums they're on. You should also listen to my radio show at http://urn1350.net - it is called Do Not Disconnect and it is possibly my favourite thing in the world.

Songs for you:

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone - "Lesley Gore on the T.A.M.I. Show (version)"

The Mountain Goats - "Woke up New"

of Montreal - "An Eluardian Instance"

Hello Saferide - "Anna"

Titus Andronicus - "My Time Outside the Womb"

Quasi - "It's Raining"

Margot & the Nuclear So and Sos - "There's Talk of Mineshafts"

The Long Winters - "The Commander Thinks Aloud"

If you should care for more information about any of these bands, in particular where you can buy their albums, do get in touch. Remember, these .mp3s are only for sample purposes...

I'm going to try and do this regularly. I kept a diary for two months, but I kept slipping up and eventually there was no point. Maybe this will be more fulfilling?

-- A