A TITLE. NO NAME.

A TITLE. NO NAME.

Cold. Solitude. Torment. Resentment for those who appear esteemed in their positions in life, the reality is they are products of an ideal society. A mere few possess the sincere quality that is: love.
The word love; it surrounds an overwhelming amount of situations, yet all so diverse. A small child looking wide eyed and smiling at his first magical glimpse of ‘white rain’ - snow. ‘Love is: holding hands, a tender touch.’ There are many heart-warming and somewhat clichéd impressions of love. Mine: a miscellaneous antonym of all the passionate ideals.
The animosity experienced in my life is compelling enough to convert any brutal being into a kitten loving pansy. Life harbours many possibilities and maybes but it is inevitable that there will be at least one tragedy throughout someone’s life. Life is a gamble. Life is an enigma no one yet seems to fully comprehend, but I’d like to think I’ve grasped a few small elements.

Living: to be alive; to exist.
I am not living, I merely exist.

The shadows of the somewhat guarded tress shroud the walls of the thriving bars and restaurants. You might see the odd taxi, bike or bus drift past as you gaze at the kaleidoscope screen that faces opposite. Cold. Solitude. Torment. The general outlook for each day. It is ironic that when you’re enjoying life you don’t seem to appreciate the minute things that are the very elements that make us content. Warmth. Family. Laughter. Healthy food.
It’s surprising how alone how one can feel when constantly surrounded by flocking crowds and the persistent chatter of busy people. Yet, the crowds shift by without a gaze, not even a look of sympathy or guilt that they have no time nor money. I don’t exist in their world. I barely exist in my own. I am only visible to a certainty which is defined by the enigma of life.

I have lived. Once.

Imagine a watch, a rather handsome silver pocket watch. That was my life. Everything in order; tick tock, tick tock. The relentless routine sequence repeating, repeating, repeating. Every day, month and year. For years to come I was content with engaging in this secure cycle. Until…

…Dec 11 1994.
Transfixed on her beauty, I pursued this vision in black whom elegantly floated up the stairs. Unaware of my attention, or so it seemed, she remained andante. Tick tock.
Peter was expecting me home no later than midnight, I would be late. Tock.
A strange sensation simmered through my body that evening. Rivets of pulsating anxiety shocked my composure now and then. No. I had to keep my cool.
Finally! I had acquired as much confidence as I needed to feign an almost seductive glare at the figure through the shifting smoke clouds. After an exceedingly long two minutes deliberating with myself, I strolled. Strolled consciously, as any hopeful man would through the swarming, pale dark bar. There she sat; indeed a vision in black. Striking dark eyes penetrating my not so seductive gaze. Gypsy black hair that fell almost perfectly over her bronzed shoulders. Nothing seemed to disturb her repose, her focus, unless she wanted it to. She was in control. I was transfixed.
I eventually spluttered; “Would you like a drink Miss?”
Feeling ferociously proud of my venture, I summoned the bar tender and with a keen reply, “Miss” (as I had so hastily called her) uttered, “Why thank you, a dry white wine.” I cautiously sipped my heavy lager and ventured eye contact on a few occasions. What to do? What to say?
She needn’t have uttered another word. Her alluring motions and hypnotic gaze had me under. Gone.

It must have taken me about fifteen minutes to recognize that scenarios like this certainly aren’t routine in my relentless and calculated life cycle. I am a banker. Well, I was, as of six hours ago. The only things I had ever excelled at: mathematics and money. I’m a workaholic, never advanced socially. Until now it seemed.

I felt a sudden shiver in my suede jacket pocket. My phone. It was Pete. Peter, my brother. He had decided to stay with me a few weeks as he knew I’d be fragile. I had not long lost my wife of ten years and son Jimmy in a fatal crash. I had only recently started to come to terms with the reality, however harsh it is. The thought of Pete had reminded me of my late wife Jen; at that precise moment I felt a shard of guilt pierce my spine as I was drinking with this attractive woman. The twinge stopped. I answered the phone.
“Hi, hi there Pete. Yeah I said midnight, sorry I should have called. I’ll be back no later than one. Alright yeah, thanks for remembering Kid. See you in the morning, take care. Yeah, bye.”
I cancelled. I sighed. Felt incredibly impolite for not making a more endured effort with this lady, this picture. I didn’t even catch her name.
“Sorry err…Mi-“
“Isabelle Jones, Mr..?”
“Hope you’ve had a pleasant evening, I appreciated the company. Errmm…I’m sorry I really must get going, see you around…bye!” I exclaimed, as I somewhat frantically scurried out of the grid locked bar. A mission. I had made it outside, the cold air hit me with sustained impact, it took a few more seconds to catch my breath. I flagged down the nearest taxi, hopped inside and headed for home. I was looking forward to seeing Pete. He had postponed a lot of important business to support me, I always declared my appreciation but he used to say it was ‘nothing’. I knew it wasn’t.

Pete and I did not have a close relationship as children, in fact you could barely call it a relationship at all, more a conflict. As the eldest I seemed to gain most of the attention. I was the small, fragile academic deemed more ‘useful’ than Pete in many ways. Yet, Pete had the kindest heart and eventually, as we matured we developed a strong friendship. The ‘tougher’, louder more courageous of the two, Kid, (as I ironically named Pete) looked out for me at school and later on in life when our parents had perished in a plane crash returning home from Paris. Those years were incredibly testing. Ever since, Pete and I phone each other at least three times a week, regardless of priorities we made a concerted effort to catch up. I was certainly glad he was staying; he’s quite the comic so I’m hoping the next few weeks won’t be dull.

BANG.
I slammed the rusty green taxi door while handing over a twenty to the leather faced driver who grunted with approval and thanks. I couldn’t blame him; it was late. I knew how he felt. Off he screeched; the smell of burning rubber lingered in the cold damp air for half a minute or so. Once again I rummaged through my deep and dirty jacket pockets to try and retrieve the front door key which I had a habit of losing. I sighed. A slight indication of relief and satisfaction that I’d found it. My legs were heavy, my head was pounding and my gut was gurgling. I was in need of cigarette.
However, nothing remotely narcotic could prepare me for the scenario I faced inside.
Pete. Dead.
“Peter J Elderson, local MP, was found dead in his brother’s Crawley home with multiple stab wounds to the abdomen, back and face. He was 36. Police suggest it was a disrupted burglary attempt. Police also state his brother is not a suspect…”

No-one really knows the intensity of the depression I suffered. I barely knew myself.
As I had suggested, in everyone’s lives it is inevitable that there will be at least one negative division to the sequence. The pattern. In my case three. Three terrible tragedies and losses. Not counting the almost insignificant ‘ups and downs’. From that evening onwards the tick tock tick tock was no the momentum of my life, my sequence. My existence.
My existence now consists of the scurrying feet of seemingly important and exceedingly frantic people, living seemingly important and exceedingly frantic lives. The more ‘vital to society’ they assume they are, the faster they seem to hurt by. Not offering a second thought. Not even a stare. A conversation. Spare change. Nothing.
Just A TITLE. NO NAME.
Title: Tramp. Wino. Bum. Scrounger. And other stereotypical euphemisms that could describe a shattered, homeless man of age 49.

Name: Jeffery Graham Elderson.

THE END.