The night before departure I drank a bottle of cheap red wine, read pages of Flowers of Evil, A Moveable Feast, Giovanni’s Room. In the morning I woke tongue dry, around the time bars empty out and bodies spill into the streets. Beyond my window view, another Saturday night of excess and forgotten memories burned in a city with rising crime and unemployment. It was far too late or early. Silencing a Dylan ringtone that throbbed temples, I stood with caution in an almost empty room.
How does it feel, how does it feel?
To be on your own, with no direction home
A complete unknown, like a rolling stone…
The electric hum of dead night buzzed in my ears. Flicking a lamp switch, I took on water that made my teeth sting—dressed quickly in a space where I could see my own breath. Once clothed, I placed a passport and wallet in the inner pocket of a worn overcoat. Then I slung a backpack that smelt like damp over a shoulder and made my way to the streets.
An ink black sky hung over me like a magician’s cloak—at night city tricks are everywhere, I thought. The sound of broken glass was followed by screaming. A blood rush like an uptown junkie gave me an injection of speed. I moved through an inner city of off-licences, betting shops and council houses, telling myself that if any men approached from the shadows to stand tall.
Entering the city centre, voices of the could care less bellowed. The sound of people who’ve had too much rose like tidal waves with each step I took forward. A police siren. Soon I would be among excessive individuals found among the working poor or even worse.
Stand tall, I thought.
The city centre smelt like vomit, drink and sex. I weaved through crowds of ill-dressed teens with multiple haircuts showcased on individual scalps: fade, dye, curl. Staggered adults with football tattoos and bloated bellies scanned their surroundings as they exited drink holes. The women on their arms looked angrier than the men. I moved between bodies towards my next destination with clenched fists.
Stood at a bus stop, I could see no other sober people. A show between two men who blamed the other for not going home with two women they had met earlier in a bar entered its final act right in front of me. Things began to spiral beyond insults—a push and a shove, more clenched fists. Then two young women appeared on the scene. They looked pocket money young, wore pink miniskirts and black boob tubes, high heels that blistered toes. Their starry-eyed presence was enough to soften the men’s rising tempers. After a few minutes of flirtation, they fell into a taxi and were driven away.
The bus was late. By the time it arrived, I could not feel my own toes. I stepped onto the bus and bought a ticket from a heavyset man with yellow teeth. Wheels began to turn. Soon I would be on a plane that would fly me to Paris, France, fuelled by a desire to get out of my current situation and into another, one of enlightenment and reason read about in books.
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