I Met Myself Today

I met myself today, when I was eight years old. It was raining. Cars pushed puddles onto the pavement and the water rolled along the concrete and licked the large panes of glass in front of me. Behind the glass weary travellers tried to restore their senses with a shot of caffeine. These were the ones who could take no more but less than a hundred metres away, concealed behind a row of trees, their counterparts continued to roar along the motorway, perhaps spurred on by a previous shot of caffeine.
Looking into the cafeteria it was easy to imagine what the interiors of all those cars in motion looked like. This place of rest was merely an extension of the motorway; the families were there, the lone drivers, the group of twenty-somethings. Everyone kept to their own units as if still confined by some invisible cage, and everyone sheltered from the rain – except me.
Never having been one to be troubled by the rain, I chose to take my rest on a seat outside the cafeteria where the darkness and rain formed an antidote to the highway. I was sat there only a few minutes before I was joined by a young boy. He greeted me and I returned his greeting and for a few moments he seemed to join me in watching the crowds inside the cafeteria. The boy’s attention, however, waned quickly and suddenly he turned and pointed at the car-park. ‘That’s my car,’ said the boy. Away from all the other cars stood an immaculate white vehicle, sporting the newest letter of the registration. Reclined in the driver’s seat was a man apparently seeking sleep. The boy beside me began to chew the end of his coat sleeve as he stared at the car. ‘Is that you dad?’ I asked and the boy’s white hair flapped up and down as he nodded enthusiastically. ‘He must be rich,’ I said. The boy shook his head and murmured something into his coat sleeve.
Cradled in the boy’s arms was a soft toy that was soaking up the rain. I asked where the two of them were going but the boy shrugged and said he didn’t know. At first I thought the brevity of the answer was a sign that the boy didn’t want to talk but after a few moments he said, in broken sentences and mumbles that were hindered further by the coat-sleeve, that he liked car journeys. With a little encouragement to talk some more, the young boy said he liked sleeping on car journeys; he said he could choose his dreams by pressing buttons on his head like it was a TV set. Though I tried to prevent it, I felt my face betray my thoughts, and you don’t need to show a lot of expression for a kid to see it.
‘Do you do that?’ asked the boy.
‘Not any more’ I said, and silence fell between us, but not in the world around us, which continued to roar with passing cars and falling rain.
Back inside the cafeteria bleary eyes rested upon sterile tables and minds driven numb by endless roads were somehow soothed by the insomnia of these service stations. The rain continued to strike the window-pane. I became aware that someone was watching us. On a table away from all the other travellers sat an old man who was watching us all with a look that was hard to read. He cradled a mug of coffee as if the mug contained all the warmth that had been lacking from the highway.
For some reason, the situation has stirred some memories I had not thought about for a long time. I began to talk aloud to myself, ‘It’s strange how time changes memories. There was always music in the car, those songs always covered the silence between the driver seat and the passenger seat, but I never suspected what it meant. I was happy because everyone I loved was so close, but now I think of that silence and it makes me sad.’
I had forgotten the boy was listening, or perhaps I thought he wouldn’t understand but, whatever, his face changed; his eyes fell to the ground and he began to chew the end of his coat sleeve.
Feeling uncomfortable myself I looked to change the subject. Gesturing toward the soft toy in his arms I said ‘You should go. Your friend is getting wet.’
The boy looked at me seriously, ‘He doesn’t mind the rain,’ he said.
The comment made me smile. ‘No,’ I agreed, ‘he doesn’t mind the rain.’
Nevertheless the boy stood up, smiled a goodbye and walked slowly back to his car.
Back in the cafeteria I exchanged looks with the elderly man. The man released hold of his mug and walked straight to the door. He didn’t look at me again, but opened the door and opened his arms to embrace the rain.