T is for Time
by
Paul Vayro
*****
T is for Time
Copyright 2011 Paul Vayro
For Nora, Sheila and John; and for everyone who knows the moon isn’t made
of cheese, but likes to think it is because it makes life that little bit more
interesting.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty One
Forty Two
Forty Three
Forty Four
Forty Five
Chapter One
Brick rolled over in his sleep and proceeded to drown. Being such an unlikely sequence of events the subconscious doubled checked all the senses before reacting, it didn’t wish to repeat the motorway fiasco of last summer. With the peril confirmed, the relevant muscles were tensed to lift Brick’s spluttering body clear of immediate danger. The commotion was enough to stir the conscious mind in to resuming control. It wondered what all the fuss was about. As far as it was concerned they were on the way to the bar amidst a thoroughly enjoyable night out.
It wasn’t the first time the mid twenties misfit had awoken amidst such confusion, and he knew exactly how to deal with it: he kept his eyes firmly closed and denied it was happening. As far as he was concerned he’d made it home to bed after being the entertaining life and soul of the evening, nobody had been offended by his antics and there would be no official charges forthcoming; however the evidence against such an outcome was difficult to ignore: the sound of running water occupied his left ear, the right contended with the ambience of many people walking in sullen silence. Brick’s stubborn mindset saw it as further evidence for being in bed, although it wouldn't be pushed on how it came to such a conclusion.
Whatever the truth, he had to accept the night out was over, but had no idea how, why, or where it had ended. This wasn’t good. Inappropriate behaviour followed Brick’s memory lapses like a sequel follows a box office hit.
Brick was a man of principle and routine, and always gave his mind and body ample opportunity to doze back off after waking. When it came to sleep, he opted for democracy over a dictatorship. The decision would oft be influenced by the severity of the hangovers he regularly faced, but for now the familiar sense of nausea and empty agony stood back and waited. It could see he had enough to deal with without its hindrance, even if the man himself was still unaware of the full situation he was in.
Time passed, but Brick’s eyes remained firmly shut. Despite clearly being waist deep in water he was convinced he may still nod off. It was only when his arms went numb, and the shivering threatened to rupture several internal organs, did he relent and lift one eyelid. The sight that met him had both open immediately.
The plan for the evening had been simple: drink, dance, speak to women in a mature manner, get food, walk home, pass out on the sofa, and crawl to bed riddled with regret. At no point did anyone discuss sleeping in a fountain!
With a large dose of confusion, Brick scrambled from the overly ornate water feature, not a gracefully accomplished feat with numb arms, and proceeded to greet the morning commuters as they wandered past. They could only offer an overwhelming sense of not wanting to be there in return. It was an aura they combined with an expression that yearned for an extra hour in bed. Most didn’t even offer this social pittance and completely ignored him. They were either scared of becoming involved in whatever predicament he was in or just plain disbelieving of what they saw. Brick tutted his disappointment at such a reaction, then straightened his clothes and stood proudly. Wiggling the top of his T-shirt, as though it were missing a tie, he began the short stroll to the bus stop, delving back in to his memory for any clues as to how he’d come to find rest in the centre of Puddleton.
Puddleton was a moderately sized town that acted like a city in the hope everyone would believe it was one. Brick Wall was a resident and regular visitor to its many alcohol serving premises. He would almost always be accompanied by his similarly aged and long standing friend and housemate, Spiritwind. Thrown together by circumstance, a common love of sitting and throwaway philosophy had maintained their bond. Brick believed their unusual names brought them closer; Spiritwind couldn’t be bothered to argue.
Spiritwind’s parents had despised their surname, Jones, and its dull nature. When their first son arrived they were determined to counter such normality and saddled him with the moniker, Spiritwind Capernicus Jones. Brick’s parents had a misplaced sense of humour, and when Mr and Mrs Wall had a child they couldn’t resist the temptation to name him Brick. The joy they had anticipated it bringing never surfaced, replaced instead by their son's cynicism and sense of injustice in the world.
Brick continued on his journey to the bus stop, all the time perusing the blank space where the memories of the previous night should have been. The occasional moment flashed by, teasing him with answers he didn’t ask for and would rather not have known. The more useful recollections flitted past, although assigning concentration merely weakened their clarity. Experience had taught Brick that focusing on drunken memories only scares them away, often never to return; however a casual glance from the corner of the inner eye could catch them unaware and leave them open to observation.
Brick's eyes roamed his face as he walked, watching his thoughts with feigned ambivalence as the previous night continued to appear in short, non sequential bursts: the flashing lights of a club, sitting on a kerb, on the floor looking up at a statue, a disappointed looking girl, stood on top of a statue, stranger's faces, chips being spilt….The show reel paused as Brick’s focus turned to the bus stop he’d arrived at. The collective interest of the transport hut had equally found a new source of intrigue.
Those already in the queue shuffled nervously, ignorance of the dripping mess their only defence. Brick could see a gap on the bench that was incorporated into the shelter, and assessed his size in relation to it. He was generally accepted as tall. His build edged past lanky but not in to big. He’d once been described as long, and although he didn’t know entirely what it meant it seemed to fit him well. His defining feature was his hair; it had an un-nerving ability to look good without any effort or styling, a comforting quirk for a man who never intended on doing either. Brick felt confident his slender frame would fit and filled the space left on the seat, much to the disappointment of the people sat there. They ignored him with extra determination as social punishment, refusing to either acknowledge or reciprocate his attempt at an appeasing smile. Brick sneered as though everyone else was the odd one out.
After a few awkward minutes, Brick attempted to break the tension and opened his mouth, only to close it as he remembered he may have some money left. Standing, to see how reliable the information was, he dipped into his right pocket, retriev
ing a ball of something paper based from within. It was either the remnants of last night’s float or the note he’d written to remind him not to get too drunk. As the corner peeled back it revealed a judgemental eye beneath a crown. Brick had never been so pleased to face royal scorn.
The man to Brick’s left had been successfully blanking the human puddle and the endless streams he created. The morning commuter wanted desperately to bury his head in his newspaper so he could ignore the situation in a socially acceptable manner, but Brick had inadvertently sat on it. The man’s heart sank further as Brick spoke.
“Could I possibly trouble you for a lighter?” Brick had a plan to make his tender more acceptable.
“Of course.” The man placed all annoyance to one side in order to maintain the sense of politeness he believed society needed to function. Struggling to retrieve the lighter from his pocket, panic took hold. He wanted the encounter over with before Brick could engage him in further conversation. It popped loose, along with several pence in change. “Here it is. It’s here. I’ve found it.” The sense of relief expressed itself as words.
“Alright, it’s only a lighter.” Brick took the lighter and somehow the moral high ground with it. How the man on his way to work had ended up as the social misfit was never fully explained to him.
Silence fell on the bus stop once more as Brick began the drying process.
After five minutes the people at the bus stop had begun sharing looks of disapproval. Brick was oblivious as he dozed where he sat, the flame still flickering across his bus fare home. As the strip of metal on the lighter increased in temperature, so did Brick’s thumb, until the pain startled him back to consciousness with a yelp! The other passengers returned to oblivious ignorance as Brick instinctively inspected the cash. Aside from a slightly singed brow the Queen was still in tact. Rubbing the smouldering tender he was pleased to see his bus arrive, a pleasure shared by the other occupants of the shelter. Standing, the newspaper still at one with his pants, Brick suddenly realised the driver may not be as pleased with his offer of payment.
The doors slid open to reveal a beaming face in charge of the bus, clearly a morning person. Brick knew instantly they had nothing in common.
“Is it raining outside?” The driver waited for Brick to join in the joke. The soaked one could only look around bemused. Glancing down at the note, he thought of a way to pass it off unquestioned.
“You’re surrounded by windows. It’s practically impossible for you to be unaware of the world beyond this bus and yet you need to ask me what the weather’s like.” An open mouth was the only response, allowing Brick to continue. “The door is a foot behind me and wide open. You can clearly see it is not raining.”
“It’s a joke, ‘innit, because you’re wet and that.” Where was the mutual laughter the driver had been counting on?
“So because I’m wet it’s alright to mock me? Do you not think it's hard enough, walking through the centre of town, confused as to why you’re here and soaking wet, without people pointing and making feeble jokes about your predicament?”
“I didn’t really think about it like that. I just thought it’d be a funny thing to say.” The driver took off his smile and replaced it with thoughtful concern.
“Liar. You didn’t think at all.”
“Don’t be like that about it.”
“Life is hard enough, Mr Bus driver, without the cruel taunts of our fellow man. Just take my money and offer me the pleasure of a seat.” Brick threw the note in to the tray and stared down, dropping his shoulders along with his face. The driver looked at the note, then back towards the vertical reservoir. Brick offered a sigh and an extra shrug as he could see the beginnings of a challenge. The driver reconsidered his challenge and handed over the relevant change. Brick squelched his way upstairs with a sense of satisfaction to accompany the short journey home.