Waiting for the rain

And then it begins again: the feeling that smothers everyday in a dull membrane of melancholy. The morning is a door opening downwards onto the vast and unexplained abyss that we call our universe, a drop into nothing. The sympathetic veil of sleep hides the roughened topography of the day that lies ahead and yesterday has been slowly and silently suffocated in a pillow. Somewhere hidden and distant there is a sudden stirring and the despair begins to reach you like the echoes of a forgotten dream as it envelops you like the black swelling nighttime tide. Evening comes and the sun recoils behind the horizon. The day passes empty and superfluous. If only for one day something would change. One incident: to bring a new dimension to this flat and barren wasteland, one event to tilt the plane, something simple and benign to change everything. Because even if it happens once: it lasts for a lifetime.

The day began as normal. Waking up is the easy bit and all is well until the tide reaches you and the horizon in your mind blends into the sky. I tilt my head back and lift the curtains to look outside. Heavy lavender grey clouds press downwards suffocating the air above the glistening sodden land. Even beneath the cosy warmth of my bedclothes I can feel how cold the room is. The thoughts in my head awaken and they twist and turn, tangled and knotted. The only option is to get up before I am lathered in a feeling of heaving apathy and inertia.

Standing in the shower the icy water sprinkles against my legs as I cower to one side waiting for it to heat up. The water shouts alive the reality of my existence and the burden of the hours ahead. Leaving the shower the cold once again grips me. Raindrops slash across the misted windows and I see myself in the mirror as a blur of pale pink. In the kitchen I begin to make myself some coffee and switch on the radio. Two personalities are feigning some kind of morning enthusiasm hoping to infect their listeners with the same mass-produced outlook to fill the voids of the cataleptic day that awaits them. And they do infect them because their armor is contagious. Why acknowledge the screaming tedium and inanity of the externally prescribed routine you’ve gliding into when you can gloss over your perspective with a self appointed complacency? My breakfast tastes just the same as yesterday.

Outside it feels warmer than it did inside. A gentle wind is blowing and a solitary patch of blue sky is diffidently peering through the cloud. The rain has stopped and the pavement and road looks dark and clean. The colour had been drained from the sky and is now concentrated in the grass and the trees which stand there immense and indifferent. The silence of the morning is broken by the perpetual crunch of tire against tarmac as people hurl themselves to their countless locations and vocations. The sweetness of the air and its freshness after the heavy rain is choked by the sickly odor of exhaust.

Arriving at the shop the day ahead hangs in front of me like an empty canvas nailed to an empty wall in a closed museum. As the minutes hemorrhage away people come and go, some to browse and some to project a presence of worldliness and distinction. One such customer is standing over the counter with both hands clasped onto a pile of eight or nine books. She wears a bright red scarf that loosely hangs over a smart dark blue suit. She has clearly had a voracious lifestyle, as her wrists, hands and neck are adorned in jewellery of green and gold. Her excessive waste line almost absurdly tapers out into maggot like feet that are squeezed into a pair of shiny black shoes. As I step behind the counter she has begun sorting through the books piling them one above the other as though congratulating herself. With her head still tilted downwards her small piggish eyes dart upwards to look at me over a pair of thin-framed spectacles. She holds this look and slowly, with her lips shut tight in a thin smile, pushes the whole pile of books towards me.

Just before closing the pattering of the rain against concrete is broken by the rustle of heavily wet clothes.

A man slaps the water off his jacket, which he holds over one arm, in the other is a small suitcase which glistens like smooth black rock. His eyes are dark with thought and he leans as though weary from a long and troubled day. This man is passing time; he has no plans to make any purchases. I feel a sense of frustration building. If the shop were empty I could close and make my way home, but this man has chosen to browse and fill his time at the expense of mine. He moves around in silence except for the smothered rustle of his sodden coat. Minutes pass and the man takes a sharp, hesitating glance at his watch. His sighs and stares at the glum wetness outside. I watch him curiously as he approaches the door where he drops his bag to put on his jacket. As he does this, a small black objects falls to the floor with a gentle thud. Before I have time to speak he is gone. Rain splutters from the gutter. Reaching down I pick up the wallet. Small beads of water have splattered onto the shiny black leather. The rain has stopped and the world is silent except for the mumbling gurgle of the drains. Without hesitation I open the wallet. Curiously there is no identification. Between the leather folds sits a clump of money; euros. My heart jumps with a sense of guilt-mingled mischief. Opening the other compartment I see a ticket. ‘Berlin’. ‘Schoenfield’. ‘Flight BB611’. Depart: 0600’. ‘9 Nov. 04’. Two days from now.

Walking home I can feel the ticket burning against me. The air is charged and rain roars against the ground. Thunder looms. The atmosphere is thick and heavy. My head weighs upon my shoulders. Colour burst around me: everything is clear and intense. Deep within me I feel the quiet hum of anticipation. I reach into my pocket and follow the edge of the ticket with my fingers. A sudden burst of thunder explodes in the air above me.

That night in the pub more faces and conversations forged by envy, confusion and doubt. At the table next to us sits a group of younger people, smartly dressed for a pub. Two of them are laughing and giving each other friendly punches. Others join them. Their greetings are loud and embellished. Their need for individuality and recognition has morphed them into clones. We are sat here drinking because this is what we do. I can think of a hundred other things I would rather be doing at this moment but circumstances and rules prevent them from happening. Time must be spent and this is what we choose. It is not a preference; it merely fits in with everyone else so as not to be alone. In the corner sits a solitary man. He raises his head towards the ceiling and drinks with an air of defiance and struggling pride. In a place full of groups of friends the last thing you want to be is on your own, exposed and out of your depth. When people are all we have, to be alone is imprisonment. Conversations slip through my head like so many of the days through which I have lived. Their meanings dissipate into the enormity of the world where they are forgotten forever. In such greatness and infinity, how can anything matter? I feel I need to chain myself to this world just to be able to tolerate it and become part of it. I would buy a car, find a job that paid enough money for me to be able to say I live and not have to plead to the world for my assimilation. Through my possessions I would radiate with existence.

Waking up, the sun blazes through the curtains. Small shafts of light break through the gaps and scatter the wall. I open the curtains and the trees and sky glow with a colour so strong it feels they transcend everything else. At work the meaningless routine and procedure behind which I am usually barricaded reveals its true nature and the day is sharp with mediocrity. Endless possibilities flood my thoughts, all the experiences available and I am here earning money in this one spot day after day after day. This is what makes up my life. Have I been blind to other options or is this simply my fate? I can no longer hold up pretence and participate in this work with feeling or interest. It is a fallacy that has finally run its course. Idiotic aims and a belief that working hard at something so banal can formulate meaning. In feigning eagerness I have only fooled myself. These hours and days are precious and are worth more than any wealth in the world. But the grip remains; this world has been warped and beaten into submission by the controllers and the big shots. There is no choice: adhere or die. People tell me I do not care- but how can I? How can I focus all my attention on empty promises and hollow ambition? I have no desire to rise above anyone else, to succeed where others have failed. I only want to live, and with every fiber of my existence tuned into recognition of the endless wonders and dreams around us. This for me is optimism. For others it is a joke. The people who succeed in this world rattle about like old tin cans. They drive their heads into an imaginary wind that only forms as a consequence of their running. The air is still and peaceful and therefore goes unnoticed. Inside me there is an escalating sense of purpose, spawned by fate in the finding of the ticket. In less than twelve hours I shall be at the airport although I hadn’t considered the possibility of someone coming to look for it. Leaning on the counter with both elbows and peering straight down into a book I fail to notice the man approach me. Startled I force a smile.
‘Excuse me,’ his voice is calm and calculated. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has handed in a wallet have they?’ My body betrays me, a shot of anxiety bolts through my chest. ‘I was in here yesterday and I..’ ‘Sorry. Nothing has been handed in.’ I realize with a stab that my immediacy may prove suspicious. ‘But are you sure? Perhaps there is someone else who may know?’ I pause and gently shake my head. ‘I’m the only one here, have been for the last two days.’ ‘Well then you will remember when I came in? It was about five o’clock’ I want to remind him that it was past five thirty.
‘I don’t’, I tell him. ‘Did you buy something?’ ‘Ah. I didn’t, no. Very well. Thank you anyway.’ He stands at the desk for a few seconds, thoughtfully tapping his fingers. He looks up, bows his head, and leaves.

The roads are still wet and dark from yesterdays rain. As I walk home a cold wind drives up against my back almost urging my quick return so that I might pack and prepare for the morning. I cannot decide whether to stay awake all night or get a few hours sleep. I have to be at the airport by four thirty and it is at least a half hour train journey. I place the suitcase in the hall by the front door of my flat. Every few minutes I feel for the ticket in my pocket. Switching on the television I watch channel after channel that prescribes fear and self hate. It is now nine o’clock and again I am in the pub. Outside street lamps flicker brightly behind trees dancing in the wind. Numerous conversations whisper through my conscience.

Leaving the warmth of the pub the cold, wind-swept November night embraces me, it's icy fingers sweeping beneath my clothes and against my skin. The night is alive; the trees shiver high above my head, leaves dance before me in circles above the dark grayness of the street, fits of ecstasy embrace the leaves that continue to cling to the branches, rusty and dry.

It is two o'clock. The taxi has taken me to the entrance of the airport check-in hall. I stand in the doorway; behind me the night is dark and empty. The hall is bright, lit by obnoxious unnatural light; a sickly shimmering paleness envelops the room. People are everywhere; blank faced, wide-eyed and tired. The atmosphere is familiar to me, my senses become sharp with the trembling anticipation of travel; rising beyond the usual humdrum of life, casting oneself into the wilderness and the unknown whatever outcome. Are we not obliged to subject ourselves to everything; pain, sadness, rejection, love, sympathy, joy, fear and humility? The volume of life should be full. Perpetual happiness produces little more than misunderstanding and ignorance. Sadness gives strength, humility and knowledge. Life should be rich; to be rich is to suffer, to suffer is justification; to be justified is to be alive. I look to the monitors; Berlin is desk 4. As I begin to walk down the hall a sense of uneasiness begins to build within me. This sense of insecurity becomes more apparent the closer to the desk I become. The air is humming with energy, my back tingles, and my arms are tense and my jaw clasped tight. The queue is short, just a few people. I urge them to hurry, longing now to enter the seclusion of the departure lounge. My legs feel heavy and tired. There is no name on the ticket; border control should not prove problematic. I stand there, eyes piercing the backs of the people occupying the desk. Movement in the edge of my vision attracts my attention away from the queue. A bustle of people moves aside to let someone through their group. It's him - he doesn't see me. I turn my head away in panic. He gazes across the room wearing the same jacket as he wore in the shop. I cannot let him see me. The chances of my having booked on the same flight as him are zero. He must not see me. I leave the queue and make for the rear of the hall towards the exit. I'll wait until check-in is about to close, let him think everyone who is taking the flight has arrived. Walking towards the door I reach for my phone, lift it to my ear and talk. The grey familiar morning chills the sweat on my back, the faint glow of dawn can be seen behind the trees that stand black against the pale sky. I turn to face the check in hall. At the door stands a porter, dressed in red with heavy lower eyelids, and sharp thick eyebrows. He has a naturally quizzical look about him. I cannot tell if his curiosity is directed towards me. I stand by the door, still with the phone against my ear. The man still stands at the pillar. My stomach is tense and my head is thundering with the pounding of my heart. The illegitimacy of the ticket punches into my thoughts. I have a nauseating guilt. I think of returning the ticket to him but I've lied too much for him to believe me and how would I explain the suitcase? Another flight? It wouldn't work; I curse myself. I slowly walk along the back wall to the food area; the porter’s eyes dig into the back of my head. I take a place at an empty table, people drink and read, exchange conversation or they just sit, quietly and endure the wait. I long to be submerged in their normality. Fifty minutes pass. My mouth is dry, my head weary and aching. I stand, momentarily the blood leaves my head, and dark grey and purple blobs smother the brightness of the room. I stand still, waiting. The lights return, I take a breath and head towards the desk. I stop suddenly. The porter stands directly in front, his eyes fixed on me.
"Excuse me sir? Is everything alright?" I pause hearing a few beats of my heart. "Yes….tired." "You on the Berlin flight?" Yes, I-" "Better hurry, check-in is 'bout to close." I glance towards the desk; the clerk sits there waiting for the final passenger to arrive. Now is my chance. I look back at the porter and mumble a thank you. Quickly I pace towards the desk, looking back the porter watches as I move away; his expression fixed and suspicious. The desk draws near and I feel myself relaxing when all of a sudden, from amidst a small crowd the man reappears, eyes fixed on mine. Recognition flashes across his face, his mouth moves and I notice across his eyes a look of panic and something else, something I can’t quite place. He lifts an arm towards me and his lips move “no”. In the flash of an instant I have turned around and I’m out of the door in the cold, shivering grey morning.


Outside is a warm auburn gold, the rain has stopped and only a few torn clouds scatter the clear clean sky. I lie on my bed watching the branches of trees scatter in the wind, a plane, no more than a white spec, glides along life the tip of a knife exposing the white innards of the stratosphere. The events of the night have left me feeling guilty and torn; my stomach is clenched into a fist that pounds my heart. On the table besides my bed lies the wallet shining and opened as if releasing the nature of my crime upon the watching, arbitrating world.

The sun is once again peering over the trees; the light feels exposing. Did I really think myself capable of taking the flight and performing such an adventurous, random feat? A slimy sense of self-realization grips me and I shrink inwards with a gasp of humiliation and embarrassment. The mendacity of my idea is abhorrent to me. The morning reeks of despair and hateful tedium: all too familiar. I look out the window, the sun turns it’s faceless ambivalent expression towards me. Its warmth is mocking.

I slouch in the bed with my arms crossed against my stomach. I look again at the wallet and from the screaming agony of self-ridicule that swarms my brain, I remember the concert ticket.

Before me stands the concert hall, grand and spectacular and reeking with life. The performance begins in two minutes; I have waited this long to remain inconspicuous and also to ensure there is no reappearance of the owner of the wallet. Tentatively, I pass my ticket to the usher. He directs me to my seat and I sit, unable to summon the courage to take off my jacket. Before me the auditorium hums with life and I feel, at last, a growing sense of ease. A place full of so many people offers a good hiding place for a miscreant such as I and I start to relax into smug warmth. Suddenly, a man sitting in the row before me turns and glares straight at me. He eyes widen with surprise and I freeze as he turns to the lady on his left who in turn looks equally astonished. Do I know these people? I expect them to offer some kind of friendly acknowledgement or at least some kind of movement of recognition. I stare at them as they whisper, looking at each other and back at me, alarmed and frantic. The rumble of the orchestra begins, the couple stand and hastily retreat from their aisle; faces drained of colour. On their way out they communicate with another man at the end of my aisle, whose face I cannot see. He too, quickly stands and exits the hall. The room darkens; now my heart is thumping. My temples feel tense and clammy; my face is flushed and sweat is dripping from my back. I want to leave; I want to leave now but I am frozen. The thought of being caught turns me to stone. I cannot move. I think of my flat, the pub, the sticky table and the rotten beer mats. I think of the bookshop, silent and grey yet familiar. I think of my bed and the view from the window, the trees flickering in the wind and the shimmer of the sun through the leaves. I watch the conductor. His sweeping arms guide the tempest of sound that swallows me; a sea of movement in the suffocating air. A sudden beat of percussion explodes against the air and a great pressure thuds against my chest. A sticky mist of red vapor billows out in front of me. A woman next to me lets out a cry that pierces my ear like a nail while others look towards me perplexed and confused. I cannot breath, tightness grasps my chest like a vice and the music, an echo from another world, slowly grows silent. I look down at a hole in the centre of my chest that spits great streams of blood. My stomach and legs are warm and wet. A screaming begins inside my head; “Not this, not this!”
I think of the trees and the calm of the sky.