Commuting to Work on a January Morning
Today being 2 degrees outside, that meant a chance for ice on the road. I decided to take the bus. I got 5 minutes late the stop, at 8:30, I knew it as soon as I finished showering, sitting in my boxer shorts, sighing in front of the mirror. Didn't matter, I could still catch the next bus at 9:25 and be slightly late to work. So I get coffee, whittle away the time reading, carry on with the Red Station book (one that's not very good), I catch that bus. They switched drivers, and it was an old fella, the type that doesn't get this new electronic ticket machines. Different times, different times. After fiddling with it for what it felt like a cold eternity, I hop into it. It's the "slow" one to Didcot, goes all the way through Abingdon. I don't mind, I have my book.
"So you like heavy metal?"
There are four people on the bus, counting the driver. One is a girl, entertained with her own thoughts. The other two are me, with my Amon Amarth beanie, a dead give away that I'm into heavier sonic landscapes. The other is this fellow, must be bridging his forties, dresses like as if he was twenty. Nothing fancy, all sports clothes.
"So you like heavy metal?" he asks. "Yeah, I do." The conversation fires off into band trivia, Motorhead this, Lemmy that, Arch Enemy, Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest and so on. He wants to connect, but he's not turning my gears. I know my classics, but I'm into more outlandish stuff, recent, unknown, sometimes unknowable such as with the likes of Ghost B.C.
I've had this conversation a million times, no treasure troves of information are to be found between us. He's stuck in his twenties still, I feel. I'm forever set into the future, the next thing. I want to escape the dialogue, but I can't really be rude and just ignore him and carry on reading. So we enter Abingdon centre, because tiny towns also have centres, wouldn't you know? The bus fills up. An older gent sits in front of me. I'm still talking Lemmy with this guy, that immortal being of rock and roll being the glue between us.
"E-eie Claq, Phew Tay-oh, oh ded"
"Sorry, what?" I ask the gentlemen in front.
He mumbles again, this bit with a tiny more clarity. I ask him to repeat again, kindly. I figure out he meant Eddie Clarke and Phil Taylor, all dead. The legendary crew that composed the Ace of Spades era. He was talking how the full trio was now on the wrong side of the grass. I agree, I understand, I feel it too. He tries to hop into the conversation, but neither myself nor Forty-Stuck-In-Twenty are able to understand him clearly. I'm thinking if this keeps up, it's going to be a lurching, crawling conversation. The disconnect happens, it's not me. It's Forty-Stuck-In-Twenty loosing wind in his sails, knowing that if he keeps talking then the Mumbling Gentleman has to be included, too much hassle that.
I smile inside. The same disconnect happens with him, with a different guy, the three of us united apart. It's a little sad, but ironic how we can behave in the same way, just change a few variables here and there.
We are halfway between Abingdon and Didcot. The bus breaks down. Second time in a month, so says the driver.
"Must be the alternator again. There's another bus passing by in twenty minutes."
I'm outside, smoking and reading, standing in the cold, knowing I'll be close to an hour late. The background of my mind processes this morning of mine, an idea is formed then, executed now.
I'm a writer because I write something every day. That's how express stuff. I'm not a good writer, nor capable of laying down long form story telling. Much less even feeling comfortable of doing it for a living. But I can assure you what's above is better than the whole ten chapters I read of Red Station. Fuck that book.
Thus concludes my review.
"So you like heavy metal?"
There are four people on the bus, counting the driver. One is a girl, entertained with her own thoughts. The other two are me, with my Amon Amarth beanie, a dead give away that I'm into heavier sonic landscapes. The other is this fellow, must be bridging his forties, dresses like as if he was twenty. Nothing fancy, all sports clothes.
"So you like heavy metal?" he asks. "Yeah, I do." The conversation fires off into band trivia, Motorhead this, Lemmy that, Arch Enemy, Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest and so on. He wants to connect, but he's not turning my gears. I know my classics, but I'm into more outlandish stuff, recent, unknown, sometimes unknowable such as with the likes of Ghost B.C.
I've had this conversation a million times, no treasure troves of information are to be found between us. He's stuck in his twenties still, I feel. I'm forever set into the future, the next thing. I want to escape the dialogue, but I can't really be rude and just ignore him and carry on reading. So we enter Abingdon centre, because tiny towns also have centres, wouldn't you know? The bus fills up. An older gent sits in front of me. I'm still talking Lemmy with this guy, that immortal being of rock and roll being the glue between us.
"E-eie Claq, Phew Tay-oh, oh ded"
"Sorry, what?" I ask the gentlemen in front.
He mumbles again, this bit with a tiny more clarity. I ask him to repeat again, kindly. I figure out he meant Eddie Clarke and Phil Taylor, all dead. The legendary crew that composed the Ace of Spades era. He was talking how the full trio was now on the wrong side of the grass. I agree, I understand, I feel it too. He tries to hop into the conversation, but neither myself nor Forty-Stuck-In-Twenty are able to understand him clearly. I'm thinking if this keeps up, it's going to be a lurching, crawling conversation. The disconnect happens, it's not me. It's Forty-Stuck-In-Twenty loosing wind in his sails, knowing that if he keeps talking then the Mumbling Gentleman has to be included, too much hassle that.
I smile inside. The same disconnect happens with him, with a different guy, the three of us united apart. It's a little sad, but ironic how we can behave in the same way, just change a few variables here and there.
We are halfway between Abingdon and Didcot. The bus breaks down. Second time in a month, so says the driver.
"Must be the alternator again. There's another bus passing by in twenty minutes."
I'm outside, smoking and reading, standing in the cold, knowing I'll be close to an hour late. The background of my mind processes this morning of mine, an idea is formed then, executed now.
I'm a writer because I write something every day. That's how express stuff. I'm not a good writer, nor capable of laying down long form story telling. Much less even feeling comfortable of doing it for a living. But I can assure you what's above is better than the whole ten chapters I read of Red Station. Fuck that book.
Thus concludes my review.