The 8:15

There is a rather prominent school of thought which advocates the notion that all human beings choose the path of least resistance. Of course, there are always people who hate schools of any manner. These are people who would go to considerable lengths to disprove established theories about the human psyche. Perhaps they take umbrage to the idea of them being figured out. There is, however, another branch of this clan which seems to have found an easier way around this predicament. Their modus operandi is to gradually distance themselves from the very crowd which is under the constant scanner of psycho analysis. This is akin to a self inflicted mutation, though in a very non intrusive way. Yet, another prominent clan which, by the looks of it, is multiplying like rabbits is the one which neither understands nor could care less about the aforementioned drivel. And then there was Luke.

See, the thing was that Luke was never particularly fond of his bus journeys to his place of employment. Some people revel in the romanticism involved in the imagery of them starting, cappuccino in hand,  a fresh working day. And it would not be too much of a stretch to imagine a little sparkling blue bus as the backdrop for this lush visual. This tale, however, is about Luke. These romantic bus commuters may have figured in the story had Luke boarded the 8:15 that morning. Which brings me back to the fact that Luke was never particularly fond of his bus journeys to his place of employment. Certain though I am that you would like to know a bit more about the nature of his employment and draw inferences about him ,this is precisely what I will not have you do. Neither would Luke, for that matter. I would like to take a moment to clarify my position in the scheme of things. My role in this little tale is that of a dispassionate chronicler of events. The only thing that I knew for certain about Luke was that he harboured a distaste for his ride to work. So how did I figure that out?

What often bothers me about smart theories is that they tend to be conspicuous by their absence when they are needed the most. It is only after the solution has reared its elusive head that they furtively crawl out of their holes. Put more simply, the mind has a propensity of approaching problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe its just my mind. But that is hardly my point. What I mean to say is there was nothing about Luke that would make me doubt his intentions to board the 8:15 as he stood next to me at the bus junction that morning. If I was privy to his reluctance, I would have undoubtedly searched him for the usual indicators like furrowed brows, twitching lips and similar expressions of hesitance. But people don’t notice these things, do they? Holmes did and he was fictional. The truth of the matter was more Watsonesque . Which, by the way, is a more witty way of saying that the truth of the matter was more mundane. In plain words, I knew because he told me so. With furrowed brows and with a twitch of the lips he said, “I am not particularly fond of my bus journeys to my place of employment”.

The more perceptive of you may wonder how this dispassionate chronicler came to know the name of this shabbily sketched character that he encountered at the bus junction. Ah, but therein lies the rub. It is rather difficult to know how to narrate an incident when you are not quite sure about how it panned out in the first place. Although I am positive that he was christened Luke within days of him being born, for most part of the incident he was just another face in the crowd for me. Therefore, revealing how I came to know his name would involve me revealing far more than I intend to at this stage. I don’t, however, wish to create an impression that the incident to which I allude was a long drawn out one or even, for that matter, one of life altering ramifications. Indeed, as I may have occasioned to mention before, the truth of the matter is rather Watsonesque.

The time is ripe for an analysis of the control that a seemingly innocuous cigarette exerts on the life of a man. I like smoking. Make no mistake about it. I like the smell of cigarettes. I like the smell of people who smoke cigarettes. I certainly yield to nobody in the knowledge and trivia associated with tobacco wrapped in paper. And yet, it causes me no slight perturbation. I am sure I speak for a lot of smokers when I say that stubbing out a cigarette before it burns out brings forth sentiments not dissimilar to unrequited love. Obviously, the cigarette being the spurned party bears the brunt of this sentiment. I don’t wish to imply it is actually the flame of passionate love that you extinguish when you rub your rugged shoe across its smooth, slender and smouldering body. No, that would be rather daft. Anyways, my point is, for a fleeting moment before you actually decide to stub out the thing it exerts an invisible force on your being. It is a force which I like to refer to as control. Control has an illustrious list of victims and achievements and it was, for it, the work of a moment to ensure that Luke missed the 8:15.Luke puffed away as the little sparkling blue bus spewed out some smoke of its own.

As you may have already figured out, I wasn’t exactly waiting at the bus junction to board the 8:15.Or the 8:25, for that matter. Indeed, I must confess to having no intention of commuting anywhere. Suddenly, I can feel the gaze of your attention diverted from Luke to me. Who is this dispassionate chronicler anyways? What is his story? Admittedly, I have taken the liberty of concealing myself behind the protagonist. It is not something I am ashamed of. It is a literary tool employed with a great deal of success in the past, most notably by one Dr. John.H.Watson.  Nevertheless, I find it extremely difficult to move on without taking you into some sort of confidence. Watson did not and he was fictional.

Do not dismiss this tale as a culmination of an hour idled away at a local bus junction. Quite to the contrary, my life seemed to have gone into auto pilot mode. You know how they say “Stop the world and I’ll get off.”? Well, they deserve a thump on the back and a pat on the head for having succinctly described my sentiments that morning. The 8:15 had been an inseparable part of my existence for years now. The arrival of the little sparkling blue bus seemed to signify, each morning, the last independent choice that I had each day. The moment I boarded the bus, I was in the tenacious claws of control. Don’t get me wrong- I did not detest my means of livelihood. In fact, it would not be overstating it to say that I fairly enjoyed it. Nevertheless, like the cigarette that I hated stubbing out, it exerted a control on my actions. It arrested free will. And I could not live like that. At least, not that morning.

Solitude has a distinct way of going about its business. The business being, quite obviously, to eliminate the lack of itself. At times it slowly pushes you into a corner with a workman like diligence. On other occasions, its actions are precipitated by the assistance of little blue sparkling buses which seem to suck all that can move into them. The 8:15 had come and gone and when the smoke from its exhaust had cleared, Luke and I were all that remained. I don’t know if you have ever been confronted with a situation when a bloke suddenly ceases to be just another face in the crowd and you feel compelled to walk up to him and make small talk. If you had inquired of me that morning as to why I had walked up to Luke and asked him the time, I would have been at loss to answer. The question would have posed a formidable challenge. However, looking back now, I am able to propose a smart theory behind my action. The reason why Luke had ceased to be just another face in the crowd was that the crowd had now disappeared. And since I find the human connection infinitely more interesting than the spotted cat on the opposite pavement or the patterns traced out by the smoke from cigarettes, Luke became the object of my undiluted attention. You may deride my theory as mere elementary and you may be right. My position, nevertheless, on the matter is that the worth of a theory should be estimated decoupled from the time at which it was thought out. What was smart then is but elementary now. Maybe I am just making allowances for the propensity of the human mind to approach problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe it’s just my mind. But that’s hardly my point.

“8: 15” replied Luke curtly, his lips still engaged in passionate lip lock with the filter of the cigarette.

“Next bus isn’t until another 15 odd minutes”

“I know”

Ordinarily, there would have been precious little I could have said at this stage without sounding like a complete pest. Missing the 8:15 should have had a liberating effect on me. My sentiments, on the other hand, could be compared to the schoolboy who after having bunked classes for the first time was in need of a place to lie low. I was anxious, fidgety and in need of a conversation. It disturbed me that after all the lofty thoughts about regaining free will from the clutches of the 8:15, my free will, seemingly, wanted nothing more than the return of normalcy. It was like an expensive purchase of a football club failing to live up to the bloated expectations.

“You know, they should reserve the window seats for smokers.” I said.

Luke turned to look at me, perhaps for the first time. Although he may have caught a glimpse of me earlier, it was probably because I was obstructing the path of light reaching his eyes. He must have suddenly decided that I deserved a second look.

“And that would achieve…?”

“Well, you obviously seemed to have missed your bus.”

“And you yours.”

“You don’t know that. I could easily have been waiting for the 8:35”

“My sentiments exactly”

Ordinarily, there would have been precious little I could have said at this stage without sounding like a complete pest. But I had raised the bar once and now there was no looking back.

“So did you?” I continued shamelessly.  I realize that having promised to be the dispassionate chronicler, you probably feel that I should stop judging myself. But I am not judging myself, you see. I was shameless. With a vengeance; intentionally, and with beastliness of forethought. I needed this conversation.

“Did I what?”

“Miss the bus.”

Luke let out a soft chuckle and took a deep drag from the cigarette. As he watched the ash doing an involuntary jig on the grey pavement, the chuckle condensed into an almost beatific smile. He reached into his pocket and offered me a cigarette. I have always believed that there must be an ingredient in cigarettes that stimulates bonding in general and male bonding in particular. Someday it may transpire that this ingredient also contributes to cancer. Very often, life is like that.

“I wouldn’t quite phrase it that way” said Luke.

“Well, how would you phrase it?”

“The bus missed me.”

“That’s not rephrasing. That’s….lying.” I was being argumentative. And I am not judging myself. Again.

Luke let out a second soft chuckle and lit up a second cigarette to go with it. He gently stroked his stubble with his fingernails and pretended to straighten the tie that he had obviously forgotten to wear, having lost it, perhaps, in the recesses of his cupboard together with the shaving cream and razor.

“Its Thursday, you see.” he said

“Quite so.” I replied, nonplussed.

“It’s my mid week break.”

“What sort of an employer gives you a mid week break?”

“The sort that wants to hire me anyways” he retorted.

“So you spend your off day watching people boarding buses to go to work” I suggested with a hint of unconcealed sarcasm.

“And smoking at the same time,” he replied bluntly.

“I stand corrected”

People say that it’s amazing the things one can do when one doesn’t have to look at oneself in the mirror. I guess it follows that you can confide a great deal in people when you are certain to never cross paths with them again. My ignorance about Luke was comparable only to his ignorance about me. And yet Luke, who was, by now, well into his third cigarette, was opening up fast. He was smoking even faster.

“That’s a little sadistic. I take it that you are not particularly fond of your employment?” I continued after pausing to take another drag of nicotine.

With furrowed brows and with a twitch of the lips he said, “I am not particularly fond of my bus journeys to my place of employment”.  And he said it with a great deal of poignancy.

All of a sudden, the conversation seemed fraught with opportunities. I had initiated this conversation with the sole intention of steering myself away from the anxiousness that my situation had presented me with. Now, the meandering route adopted by it had, eventually, shoved me headlong into a confrontation with the same anxiety. Of course, I realized that the reasons for his dislike of the bus journey may have been more mundane than mine. However, there was something about the way the cigarette smoke brought out his grey, dreamy eyes that should have told me that he would not attribute his reluctance in boarding the 8:15 to the infernal crowd or the rising prices of gasoline. But as always, I didn’t quite think of it then.

“And it’s not because of the infernal crowd or the rising prices of gasoline,” he continued.

By now, another cluster of people had surfaced to board the 8:25.

“Right now, the only thing these people want is to board that bus and begin their day. I derive a little peace in seeing them get what they want. Is that sadistic? If I stand here long enough and see enough people beginning their day, I feel…… ahead,” said Luke. He was not so much addressing me as mouthing a soliloquy staring into empty space.

“But they have begun their day, haven’t they? You haven’t.”

“Neither have you,” was his riposte.

There was nothing to be said. And as we smokers often do when there is nothing to be said, I took another puff. A pregnant silence ensued at the end of which he suddenly turned and looked straight into my eyes. I tried to avert his penetrating gaze but it was an attempt in futility. Even now, in my most vulnerable moment, I didn’t want to be figured out. Very often, people are like that.

“Tell me something,” said Luke. “You watched the 8:15 come and leave without you. You smoked and engaged in a conversation with an utter stranger. Stretched before you now is a day with endless possibilities and limitless opportunities, without any strings attached. It’s a day when you have to do nothing and yet there is so much you can do. How do you feel?”

There was another one of those pregnant silences which was rudely aborted by a sudden buzz of activity at the junction. The 8:25 came to a screeching halt before us and the customary mad rush followed, accompanied by a generous helping of an awful din. There was only one thing left to be asked.

“What is your name?” I shouted out loud.

“Luke. The 8:25 is here. You can choose to get on it or you can choose to walk away. Either way, go begin your day.”

When the 8:25 had left and the smoke from its exhaust had cleared, I found myself standing alone at the junction. Six half-smoked cigarettes adorned the spot where Luke had been standing. The spotted cat from the opposite pavement occupied his place with the regal air of an heir and purred with lazy content.

Looking back, my mind is now pestered with doubts as to whether his name was actually Luke. Did he just over-pronounce the word look? Maybe I am just making allowances for the propensity of the human mind to approach problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe it’s just my mind. But that is hardly my point.



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