Night Bus To Abingdon

I leant against the bus stop, two am, cold and eating a greasy burger with an egg in. I swayed slightly under the influence of an evenings drinking. As I finished the burger the bus pulled up. The doors opened, I bought a ticket to Abingdon, found a seat and pulled out my book, Gasoline by Gregory Corso. As I sat reading, my drunken eyes fighting to focus on the words, the bus slowly filled up with other drunkards and party-goers. “What you reading?” came a voice from the seat next to me. I replied with a “huh? Oh, Gregory Corso.”

“Who?”

“He's a poet from the Beat Generation, 1950s American.”

“Who reads poetry on a bus this late at night?”

“Who reads poetry?” I asked back.

“Read us some then.”

“Nah, I'm not good at reading out loud.”

“Give it here then, I'll read one.” Hesitantly I handed over the paperback. He flicked through and began to read. Once he had finished he said “actually that's not bad.” Not bad I thought? That's Corso! His girlfriend seemed impressed as well.

“I work in the book shop in the precinct,” she told me.

“I know the one, you've not much in the way of Beat, or Bukowski though.”

“What do you expect? We're a small independent in a small town.”

“A small town that could do with something to read.” I said back.

“I've not heard of Bukowski,” she said.

“You should check him out.” With that I went back to reading. The bus started to move, now filled to capacity and probably some more besides. As we left Oxford, someone lit a cigarette, the driver pulled over and told him to put it out. “Fuck you!” he shouted at the driver. The driver returned to his seat and carried on driving. At the next stop a police man boarded the bus and dragged the smoking guy off. I laughed inwardly, it was freezing outside, had just started to rain and the next bus wasn't for an hour. Karma?

As the bus hit the A34, the duel carriage way that stretched the length of Oxfordshire and a few counties south two, linking the M40 and M4 motorways, someone shouted “Didcot is the best!” Time for idiocy I thought. “Fuck You! Wantage is the best.” This was turning into an uncomfortable journey. Next, in a unison of about ten, “Abingdon is the best!” I love the night bus, I thought. I heard a loud slap from the seat behind, I glanced around to see someone having his face punched. I put the poetry book away, this was no scene to be reading in, education and literacy were like a red rag to a bull in these situations. More sounds of violence, screaming, angry shouts and all for the glory of a run down backwards town in the south of Oxfordshire. Well, passion is passion. I moved over to the window seat and someone got pushed down the aisle, once he was down boots came from nowhere and stamped his body. “Fuck you, Didcot, Abingdon.” Then a throng of people began to chant “Abingdon, Abingdon, Abingdon!” and over them more started “Didcot, Didcot, Didcot!” and then “Wantage, Wantage, Wantage.” A blood splatter his the seat where I had been sat, I caught a glimpse of the driver in the mirror up at the front, he looked horrified, but in a very “been there, done that” kind of way.

More punches, kicks and pushes were thrown, some woman screamed “Stop it! Stop it!” but she was ignored and then punched herself, they didn't care where she was from, just wanted to shut her up. The chanting continued and the punches rained down, the back of the bus was a mass of flailing arms and legs and blood. As soon as the bus was off of the A34 the driver pulled her to a stop. The doors opened and a group of Policemen boarded, the throng separated and found seats in the blink of an eye. “What's going on here?”

“Nothing, Officer, nothing.”

“Who was fighting?”

“Fighting Officer? Not us.”

“So what's the all the blood on your face?”

“I had an itch, needed to cut me nails, sir.” A mass of muffled giggling erupted.

“Right, everyone off the bus.” I groaned, and now my bladder felt like it was growing out of my body. The driver approached from the front. “It was from this point back, Officer,” he told the Policeman as he patted the back of the seat behind me.

“Right, everybody off from this point back.” Reluctantly the group all piled off. Once they were off the Policeman instructed the bus driver to continue. I pulled out my book and read a few more pages before it was time to get off.