Blue planet, two hours

Imagine.

You’ve just spent an awful lot of money to come to the Blue Planet and spend 2 hours being ALIVE!

Should you land on the blue part or on the green/brown?

Don’t worry about that.  You’re already here.

So,

Do you drop in behind the wheel of a Mercedes-AMG GT R, rumbling V8, feet stretching towards the all-conquering three-pointed star? The only thing in front is blacktop surface of the M1 and a nine mile queue of stationary traffic.  The next junction is twelve miles away.

Or,

Drop into the Park & Ride queue?  The snaky silver bus shivers at the side.  Door open.  Door closed.  Hi-Viz man waves to driver and off it goes.  I thought I’d have a hair-cut.  The hair-dresser’s in town.  The town is York.  The Park & Ride is beside the sewerage works but, mercifully, it’s winter.  The next snaky silver bus draws up.  The doors open.  People off.  People on.  £3.80.

I’m not sure of the protocol.  I sense someone wants me to stand up so they can sit down.  I didn’t research this.

I have an envelope in my bag.  It says “Luftpost”, “Priority”.  I read the briefing notes.  The envelope contains a Christmas card.  It has come from Germany, but was posted into the wrong address in the wrong town.  Points can be earned from taking the card to the Post Office and asking for it to be delivered to the intended recipient.  The bus makes its bumpy serpentine progress and finally judders to a stop by the same river it set off from.  I alight, head to the Post Office and queue.  An assistant comes to me and I show her the card.  She writes on it “Try again” and drops it into the post box.  It seems better coming from her.

Tramp.  Tramp.  Tramp.  York is very busy.

I arrive at the hairdresser’s door and look in.  The bench is lined with heads of hair.  Others stand.  One smokes a cigarette outside the door.  On the way, I'd passed a book shop I hadn’t seen before (it says in the brief).  I abandon the hairdresser’s.  Life’s too short.

I push the bookshop door open.  It shakes on its hinges.  I have a pack on my back.  On my planet you’re assumed, first, to be a thief.  The man sitting behind the counter makes no comment about my pack.  I begin wandering around the shelves.  The man says hello and asks if he can help.  I say “No, thank you.”

The eyes I’ve been given don’t work too well.  There are glasses in my bag, but I don’t want to open it in case it’s assumed I’m stealing the books.  I scan the shelves, trying to focus on the surname of author.  I work out roughly that I’m among the Hs and the Is.  I decide to look for “Kerouac”.  There’s one.  “On The Road”.  That one’s even been translated into our language.  I ask where the poetry section is.

The man – who I now assume to be the owner, making up my own world as I go along – comes around the counter and takes me to the section. 

Somewhere behind a cluster of bookshelves it sounds like someone has just fallen down the stairs.  When I crane around and look, it turns out they've just knocked a pile of books over.  Somewhat embarrassed, the culprit/victim exits the front door.  

I find a row of Penguin Modern Poets.  A mate steered me towards one of those featuring William Wantling.  I can’t see it here.  Then, when I run my finger along the row of spines, there it is.  My copy is in a box somewhere on another planet, so I pick this one up, which sparks a conversation about giving books away.  I trot out my story about Peter at Manna Books and the Penguin Solzhenitsyn Short Stories and Prose Poetry, which I posted off to a friend in Italy and now miss.  This drew a tall, balding, white-bearded man out of an alcove where he’d been looking at collectable editions of Hertzog.  “Still £25?”, he asked.  Still £25.  Ever more collectable in hardback.

“Every book has a story.” He offered, having listened to mine about Solzhenitsyn and Wantling.  “Just as every book contains a story.”  I’d edit that, but he said it.

We spoke about books and stories for a while.  I’m at biographies by now, but haven’t the slightest interest in the lives alphabetically arranged in front of me.  I complete a circuit of the ground floor.  I’d switched off whilst the owner was listing the subjects he held at the top of the winding stairs, not feeling active.

Beckett.  “B” is almost on eye level with “J” in the next section.  Too late.  I bought the paperback of “Ulysses” the other day, having lost him on Kindle.  No sign of “Finnegan’s Wake”.  Never mind.

There’s one Beckett.  “Watt”.  I’ve got my glasses on now.  Holding my intended purchase in my hand, I feel less under suspicion, as opposed to under less suspicion.  “Watt fits into the series somewhere between Murphy and the trilogy…. Blah, blah.”  I flick through and read a few sections.  Seems like Murphy.  I tell that to the perceived owner.  I put it back on the shelf.  The tall, bearded man has exited, wearing his long grey coat, which I forgot to mention.

For conversation, I ask if the ..owner has seen “Arcadia” by Stoppard.  He hasn’t, but leads me to the “Plays”.  I tell him, for no fathomable reason, that I’ve seen “Arcadia” at the Tobacco Factory in Bristol.  Very moving, I tell him.  We find Stoppard on the shelf and “Arcadia” isn’t there.  Then he remembers there are three stacks of plays on the floor, already in alphabetical order by playwright.  I lower myself down on my knees.  Somewhere in the middle pile are three more Stoppards.  I pass them over.

He resumes his place behind his desk where someone is waiting to feed him a query.  I flick to the inner cover of Penguin Modern Poets and see he wants £3.50.  I take my purse out and dig out the coins.  He holds his hand out like the young of some Arctic mammal.

The hairdresser’s is still full.  I give it up, which means something else now, I understand.

Colliergate.  King’s Square. Footpaths and roads alike are teeming.  Petergate, past the fish and chip shop where my mam and I ate a few days ago.  Past what had been the toyshop, past the butchers that was.  Past the busker and his original songs – available on CD.  Out into Minster Yard, and looking back to see a hearse backed up against the door of Martin le Belfry.  Everyone’s busy today.

A gentle breeze blows me into the York Arms.  The snug is empty.  I order a pint of Old Brewery.  I’ve been dreaming of this place from afar.  The pint arrives.  I order a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.  I sit down and take out the poetry I’ve just bought.  Then BBC Spanish.  Then Dharma Bums.  I read Wantlings “Poetry”.  San Quentin.  Turk.  Shanks.  Plain as day. 

Four men come in.  Leeds accents.  I nod, then keep myself to myself.  They’re talking about beer, then work.  A young lad comes in.  He seems addled.  Then another, with a woman.  He’s heavily tattooed.  So is half the population these days.  He knows the other lad.  He orders a drink.  “You’re barred.” comes the reply.  

The barman goes back into the other bar to serve.

The big tattooed youth comes the injured party.  He stands his ground.

“I’ve told you.  You’re barred.”

“But I got served yesterday.”

“I’m not arguing with you.  You’re barred.”

The barman disappeared again.

The couple murmured to each other and walked out.  The other youth finished his drink and left.

The men maintained their good spirits.  The older one among them was speaking about diesel engines.  Then I worked out he was speaking about diesel-engined railway locomotives.  He knew a thing or two.  They finished their drinks and got up to leave.  I caught the eye of the older one.  We exchanged a goodbye.

Four women and a man next.  Lager all round.  Chatting about shop work.  A Christmas drink maybe.  They only stayed for the one.

The snug door slid open again.  A conflab, and in came a family group with a little boy.  Drinks ordered and they sat down, filling up the little space.  They were all dressed in black.  The men wore black ties.  One, with combed back white hair, bought the drinks and sat next to me.  I was reading Spanish grammar.  The imperfect.  _aba.  _ía.  Getting it.  A little.

They chatted amongst themselves.  From Carlisle.  Eventually I had to ask.  “Were you at the funeral at Martin le Belfry?”

They  were.  An old friend of the man with the white hair.  He’d moved to York a long time ago.  “Who’ll come to Madrid?” I wondered.  It didn’t matter.  We chatted for a while.  I can’t remember what about.  Then the younger couple with the little boy left.  We said goodbye.  I went to the toilet.  

When I came back a big fella and his wife or girlfriend were sitting between me and the man.  Two other men had arrived  and were standing at the bar talking about driving lorries.  Been there, too.  Long days.  Trying to tip when you’re on Driver’s Hours and Working Time Directive and the drop is being an arse.  Everything they said made sense.

The man from Carlisle got up to leave.  He dragged his black coat on and reached his hand out.  We shook goodbye.  The dark-haired woman, who I took to be his wife, held her hand out and I shook it.  They slid the snug door open and slipped out into the street.

I drank up and put the books and glasses back in my rucksack.  I made my way to the back of the pub, through the curtains to use the toilet.  I didn’t see the barman on the way back out.  He must have been serving in the other bar.

Not a bad way to spend your two hours.