It’s at least another hour before I fall asleep. I keep seeing that poor guy’s face when he was getting beaten up. There was such a strange look in his eyes, like a kind of resigned fear. I think he knew his fate the moment he snatched that bag. I think that despite how inexorable the result, it was a decision he had to make. I wonder how desperate he is. I wonder if he’s just an ordinary guy whose every effort at making a living has failed and he had to turn to crime or slowly starve. I wonder if we’d be kinder to criminals if we knew their stories. But then again, maybe he is a scumbag. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe he would feel nothing plunging a blade between someone’s ribs for a cell phone. It’s so difficult to be truly empathetic, because you just never know who deserves it. Though who’s to say who deserves what? Those jocks that beat him up have probably date-raped girls before, drunkenly kicked the crap out of a gay dude or slept around behind their girlfriends’ backs. Which crime is greater – that of necessity or of simple wantonness? Why can’t there ever be clear-cut answers?
I love this country, but it’s so troubling sometimes. It was a small thing, but a while back I was driving along and saw a guy who’d blown a tire on the side of the road. He pleaded with me to stop but I dropped my eyes and drove right past because I’ve heard too many stories about blown tires being setups for hijackings. It feels like no one can feel free to be kind here anymore because the risk is just too great. Or is it? Is it worth living in a place where simple acts of help don’t exist? Maybe those very small acts are completely worth the risk of theft or death. Without them, we live in such a dehumanised place.
Ever since my life got turned upside down I feel like I’ve been swimming through jelly. Nothing seems real any more. What I wouldn’t give to be ten years old again, scuffing my feet outside, scurrying up trees, riding my bike like the devil around the garden, hurling insults and sand clogs at my brother. Where did that child go? At what moment did he scamper away and leave me suddenly older, self-aware? I guess there’s been too much tragedy recently to even warrant at guessing an answer. I think about reading the letters again. I told myself I wouldn’t, but right now I need them. Fortunately before I can, sleep comes and gently carries me away somewhere else, somewhere deep into the night, somewhere sacred, mine, where sadness cannot touch me.
I wake with the sun on my face. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in the night. There are two tall trees outside, and the sun shines through them like a dandelion in negative. Why is the sun shining? It’s unfair that it should be so bright when I feel like this. It’s not right that there are families eating breakfast together now, or newlyweds delightedly surprised to wake up next to each other on honeymoon. I scold myself for thinking like a morbid, self-obsessed teenager carrying on about how unfair life is and how no one has it so bad.
But I can’t help indulging in my mood a little bit. My flat is so quiet. It feels dead. It makes none of the noises a living house should: a cupboard banging closed; a runny nose being blown loudly; the clatter of spoon on bowl as cereal is eaten; the scuttling of a dog’s claws on floor tiles. There’s just my breathing. I hold my breath to allow the sounds of the city to slowly make themselves known. They come to me in tendrils. From under the door I hear distant steps as someone down the corridor leaves for work. Someone in the flat next door bumps something against the wall. The windows rattle gently as a truck gears down in the distance. There is life here. It’s timid, different, but it’s here.
The alarm on my phone breaks the peace and I jump in fright. Time to face the day.
© William Edgcumbe
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 4
Okay, so I don’t hate this city. It’s more of a mild dislike. It’s beautiful, sure, but in my opinion there are too many people walking around wearing scarves and drinking box wine obfuscating (my favourite word) about crappy artists. Everyone here looks like they play in a drug-addled indie band. We can’t all be ordinary I guess.
My flat is a mess. I moved in three weeks ago, and with each day that goes by my “I’m still sorting through my stuff” excuse holds less water. Or it would if anyone ever came to visit. The loneliness of a new city is oppressive, but I can’t really complain about that seeing as I came here to be anonymous. I wonder if I’m that guy – there’s always one – everyone sees and takes a little pity on sitting alone in a coffee shop reading his book, or watching a movie by himself. Solitude, the social sin.
I clear my coffee table of the tottering piles of cds and books for the five stolen pieces and look at them properly for the first time. Piece of Contriband #1 is a photo of an old ship. I flip it over and “Ovington Court, 27 November 1940, 4 died that night, he was one of them” is written in a beautiful flowing hand. A woman’s handwriting I should think. The way the letters loop into each other look like an intricate dance. There’s something very sad about the detachment of what’s written, the selection of facts and the impersonal mention of someone the writer knew. I put the photo put face down on the table.
Contraband #2 is an old art deco clock. It’s small, about the size of both my fists and surprisingly heavy. It’s peach and turquoise, with a stylised swallow painted onto the clockface. There’s a small chip on one of the corners. I notice the mechanism is working. I compare it to the time on my microwave which is plugged in on the floor next to the couch. Surprisingly, it’s correct. Not bad. I put it next to my bed.
Contraband #3 is one of those fancy teaspoons old ladies collect. It has a family crest it with some kind of latin motto. Man, these things are dime-a-dozen at all the antique places I visited today.
Contraband #4 is a locket without a chain. It looks like it’s made of silver and gleams prettily, even in the yellow light of my flat. I try to open it, but the latch is stiff and my bitten nails can’t get a grip on it properly. I’ll come back to it later.
Contraband #5 is dainty little teacup. It doesn’t have a saucer. I turn it over and there’s something written underneath, but it’s pretty faded. I’m feeling a bit too rattled to try decipher it, so I put the teacup down and sink back into the couch.
I don’t know what to do. I was hoping one of these things would have an owner’s name on it, or at least some kind of vague clue as to how I could find them. I feel like such an idiot. I could have offered to buy them from the old lady instead and then just given them back to her in the street or something, and I would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble and a whole lot of elaborate fantasies of birdshot turning my chest into a pulpy sieve.
I close my eyes and realise how tired I am. I think I’ll just have a quick snooze---
---a scratching at the door wakes me. My stomach sinks into the springs of the couch. So my number’s up is it? I can’t imagine how the police have found me. Surely stealing a handful of antiques isn’t that big a deal that they’d send out a squad to hunt for me in the midle of the night? I adjust my weight and the couch groans loudly. The scratching stops and I hear footsteps hurry away. I hold my breath and strain to hear if there’s any more movement. I get up slowly and in my stealth manage to kick the table and then a stained coffee mug, which rattles over the parquet floor. I walk slowly to the door and can’t help but have visions of Anton Chigurh waiting there with his cattlegun and looking at me in his bored but somehow fascinated way before asking me to hold still… I shiver. I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything. I unlock it painfully slowly and then turn the latch. I inch the door open and stare into a sliver of the passage but can’t see anything. I take a deep breath, open the door completely and step outside.
Of course, there’s no one there. No Anton Chigurh, nobody. I decide to try bluff anyone who might be hiding there.
– I can see you you idiot. Come out.
The plan is to make my voice deep and intimidating, but I balldrag on idiot and just sound stupid. The only way anyone who might be hiding would give themselves away now is through laughter.
I feel like a dweeb. I obviously watch too many movies. I go inside, turn off the lights and flop into my unmade bed. The art deco clock says it’s 2am. Crap, I have to be up in four hours. I know this is going to be a bad day already. I can feel it.
© William Edgcumbe
My flat is a mess. I moved in three weeks ago, and with each day that goes by my “I’m still sorting through my stuff” excuse holds less water. Or it would if anyone ever came to visit. The loneliness of a new city is oppressive, but I can’t really complain about that seeing as I came here to be anonymous. I wonder if I’m that guy – there’s always one – everyone sees and takes a little pity on sitting alone in a coffee shop reading his book, or watching a movie by himself. Solitude, the social sin.
I clear my coffee table of the tottering piles of cds and books for the five stolen pieces and look at them properly for the first time. Piece of Contriband #1 is a photo of an old ship. I flip it over and “Ovington Court, 27 November 1940, 4 died that night, he was one of them” is written in a beautiful flowing hand. A woman’s handwriting I should think. The way the letters loop into each other look like an intricate dance. There’s something very sad about the detachment of what’s written, the selection of facts and the impersonal mention of someone the writer knew. I put the photo put face down on the table.
Contraband #2 is an old art deco clock. It’s small, about the size of both my fists and surprisingly heavy. It’s peach and turquoise, with a stylised swallow painted onto the clockface. There’s a small chip on one of the corners. I notice the mechanism is working. I compare it to the time on my microwave which is plugged in on the floor next to the couch. Surprisingly, it’s correct. Not bad. I put it next to my bed.
Contraband #3 is one of those fancy teaspoons old ladies collect. It has a family crest it with some kind of latin motto. Man, these things are dime-a-dozen at all the antique places I visited today.
Contraband #4 is a locket without a chain. It looks like it’s made of silver and gleams prettily, even in the yellow light of my flat. I try to open it, but the latch is stiff and my bitten nails can’t get a grip on it properly. I’ll come back to it later.
Contraband #5 is dainty little teacup. It doesn’t have a saucer. I turn it over and there’s something written underneath, but it’s pretty faded. I’m feeling a bit too rattled to try decipher it, so I put the teacup down and sink back into the couch.
I don’t know what to do. I was hoping one of these things would have an owner’s name on it, or at least some kind of vague clue as to how I could find them. I feel like such an idiot. I could have offered to buy them from the old lady instead and then just given them back to her in the street or something, and I would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble and a whole lot of elaborate fantasies of birdshot turning my chest into a pulpy sieve.
I close my eyes and realise how tired I am. I think I’ll just have a quick snooze---
---a scratching at the door wakes me. My stomach sinks into the springs of the couch. So my number’s up is it? I can’t imagine how the police have found me. Surely stealing a handful of antiques isn’t that big a deal that they’d send out a squad to hunt for me in the midle of the night? I adjust my weight and the couch groans loudly. The scratching stops and I hear footsteps hurry away. I hold my breath and strain to hear if there’s any more movement. I get up slowly and in my stealth manage to kick the table and then a stained coffee mug, which rattles over the parquet floor. I walk slowly to the door and can’t help but have visions of Anton Chigurh waiting there with his cattlegun and looking at me in his bored but somehow fascinated way before asking me to hold still… I shiver. I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything. I unlock it painfully slowly and then turn the latch. I inch the door open and stare into a sliver of the passage but can’t see anything. I take a deep breath, open the door completely and step outside.
Of course, there’s no one there. No Anton Chigurh, nobody. I decide to try bluff anyone who might be hiding there.
– I can see you you idiot. Come out.
The plan is to make my voice deep and intimidating, but I balldrag on idiot and just sound stupid. The only way anyone who might be hiding would give themselves away now is through laughter.
I feel like a dweeb. I obviously watch too many movies. I go inside, turn off the lights and flop into my unmade bed. The art deco clock says it’s 2am. Crap, I have to be up in four hours. I know this is going to be a bad day already. I can feel it.
© William Edgcumbe
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