From behind my computer I'm observing how she rushes for her bottle of water (which has "MINE" written on it, in marker) and then carries it around while preparing to smoke her joint, a daily ritual - and I remark something about what the symbolism of that would be. She thinks I'm alluding to some phallic connotation, but I'm not and we fill in the blanks together: how a baby always carries his bottle around ... "well, a baby doesnt actually carry anything around much", I add, at which she: "When I was a baby I'm sure I used to carry my bottle around" - adding at a beat - "till they took it away from me".
We had already missed half of the "Cultural Day" by the time we got our act together - me, up finally from a long night, she, returning back from her for-the-money job. That was a bit sad. But undeterred, we trekked to the Railway Museum. There, an old train would ride, especially for this occasion, to Central Station, and there'd be a storyteller on board. When we got there I remembered you could have your picture taken there too, just today! So we did. I picked up one of the vintage suitcases, she leaned near me and we looked suitably serious, like people used to, when they went for a journey. I missed not having a hat.
Once inside, the train turned out to be pretty full. Chock-full, in fact. It was a pretty train, though. It had nets for luggage racks over the seats, and it had a dining car with tables that had little lamps. I explained that I remembered the "dining" cars from when I was a kid - except by then, the tables were white plastic or formica and there were no lamps; but there were signs saying, "playing cards and drinking forbidden" (though I can't remember anyone ever trying). And little stickers on the windows sternly warning you not to throw bottles out of the window, too. Ah, the proletarian past, when people were still just people.
Meanwhile, we were pretty much squeezed into the hallway near the exit. She posited herself at the window, though it didn't slide down like the other window did, where a guy was standing and looked straight into the clear air. Outside there were pretty little garden plots, and the kind of messy plodding backsides of interbellum houses that I like so much. But then there was concrete and graffiti and an ugly soundwall. Those again made way for a view, though.
When it started going, the train made this creaking sound, like, we're riding!, like a machine getting into its rhythm, and we both recognized it, and mourned it, and liked it. By now she had her little girl face on - off into her own recreated world of times she perhaps never had. "Does it have a whistle?", she whispered, excitedly, conspirationally, to me, her eyes already agaze, full of wonder, or perhaps expectation. I dont think so, I said, and read her the plaque that said it was electrical, and had been in use since the twenties. In the war, it was taken by the Germans, and in 1946 it had been found back somewhere in the east and taken back home; in '56, it was turned into a more modern railwaycar. Amazingly, it apparently kept on going until 1986. So it did feel familiar. She looked out of the window, her face near the glass, dreaming a newly made distant memory perhaps. "Wheet wheet!", she singsang to noone in particular when she didn't know I was looking, imitating the sound of a train whistle - "chook-chook-chook wheet wheet!". I held her, I held her close, and kissed her head.
Bus drives, late at night, always. We would have gone out, down to the pub or from one to another, late enough to get drunk. (She could get pretty drunk). But you gotta be in time for the last bus home, out to the highrises in the suburb. Late-night buses were a drag, of course: long coats, raindrops, people mutely bunched up down the aisle, dark outside, tires swishing, a drunk lout, not enough room for friends to be fun so everybody just kinda falls into silent commuter monotone. It was a long ride, the night bus takes a detour. She was tired, and wanted to go home. Too late, we'd waited too long, but what can you do when the bus only goes once an hour? You're stuck in the last cafe, with one vodka too many.
She'd lean against me, eyes closed or trying, done with the incessant talk and provocative cheer. In their place the little girl (as I'd later realise), feeling overwhelmed and not understanding. "Are we almost there?". Not quite yet, baby, I'm sorry ... "Can we be home now?". Little 'un felt alone and cold, and indeed, who wouldn't, looking out at the slab-type construction outside in the dark and not understanding why, why did they take me here and where did they leave my place called home, some place with some comfort? We'll be home soon, baby, I soothed and pleaded, don't worry, we'll be home soon, really. Makeshift home.
Came home, walked into the door, out from the sun inside. So dark. And its been really smelling musty, always when I come home I immediately open the balcony door and windows to let some air in, damn.
Anyway, I came home, there's a letter on the table, from her of course. My first reaction, always, oh-oh. What will be in it. Hope I didnt do something wrong again. Hope she isnt angry.
But instead of instinctively glancing at it and then putting it away to read "later", I just sat down and read it. And it was very sweet actually. There was a kind, random note, and with it, a one-page letter she'd written earlier, and it was really nice.
She'd obviously been sitting here for a mo', catching her breath and recovering herself before going on the long haul to work, right after our session. Difficult day. Musta been looking for a moment of comfort or bearings before soldiering on.
On the table, or the free space on the table next to my piles of papers, there was the letter, neatly in front of the chair; to the right, a whole bunch of crumbs, a torn open paper of my treacle waffles, and two almost-eaten waffles. They were still stuck together. The waffles come by two inside a plastic wrapper - she'd torn it open and probably never even noticed she was eating two at a time, that they just accidentally stuck together. Oh girl.
Somehow that really moved me. Next to the letter, all those crumbs, and then those two waffles, still stuck together as one and half-eaten. Dont know why. Like it stood for a whole bunch of stuff.
Clarification about these posts. Its not like I go around being moved by every of this girl's incapacities or something. That whenever she falls, I go, aww. In fact, in actual 24/7 life, away from the patient space of these little vignettes, I couldn't cope with them. Or at least not with the whole tangle of things that came right along with them, the fierce light along with the fragmented dusks, the blame guilt responsibility hopelessness fighting recoveries every-day efforts caution and helplessness. I mean, I failed. Now, I'm looking on from a little distance. But I still see these moments. And they provide a sudden view to the inside, through the day-to-day bluster and insistencies. It explains a lot. And the understanding allows for more patience, sympathy. Cause its not her. Its this whole story. That I'm trying to tell.
Its a bit unfair. I mean, I wouldnt want anyone to recount all my moments of weakness or insecurity, and call it "About a boy". This is not the whole story.
One time I still actually went to see her - well, I tried to bring her a Little Nemo balloon. I'd seen it on the train station, where I'd gone on a Sunday afternoon for stopgap groceries. It made me think of her. I doubted, not having spoken to her, seen her, anymore, respecting her determination, and mine no less ... but the little balloon, it made me think of her. (I could picture it, in a corner of her room, an innocent reminder of someone, somewhere caring - blink of meaningful comfort. She took much from such things ... puzzle-pieces for the bottom in a glass of storming water.)
So I bought the little balloon and cycled to her place, down the long street. The stick of the balloon clenched in my left hand, along with the handlebar. The wind blew, unexpectedly, and the balloon flapped this way, that, precariously. So I turned it around, balloon underneath my left wrist, stick pointing forward.
When I arrived at her place, Safmel was standing outside, calling out, you want speak with her? I call her? No, no, I said, I just came to bring something for her ... I just came to bring this balloon. But when I looked what I was showing her, all I held up was an empty stick. All I'd brought her was an empty stick.
There's something very symbolic about that, and it's very sad.
