the wall, or even better still, the floor to stop moving forward and simply shake back and forth violently, knocking people off their feet. What a glorious sight that would be, seeing business men and woman thrown unexpectedly from their moorings, watching them try and get to their feet, their sculpted hair dishevelled. What fun to see the fury on their faces because they can’t take a joke. I’m laughing openly.
Sam looks a me. ‘What’s so funny?’ He looks around like an excited puppy. ‘What have you seen?’
I compose myself. ‘It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Just a thought in my head.’
‘Oh, okay,’ he says, then jokingly he pokes out his bottom lip. ‘Be like that then.’ He spins, stomps forward a few steps and looks back over his shoulder. ‘I’m not talking to you.’
‘Fine,’ I call after him. I stomp my way to the end of the conveyor belt. Pout my bottom lip and look back over my shoulder. ‘I’m not talking to you either.’
Bang. Something sparks a memory in my head. Déjà vu. I’ve been here before, done this all. The feeling fades as Sam reaches the end of the walkway and crashes giggling into me. We stumble forward, remaining on our feet.
‘Please don’t block the exit,’ Sam says into my ear.
I burst out laughing, I can’t help it. ‘You fucking wish,’ I whisper back. He looks confused, then a penny drops. He joins me in my laughter.
I think we’ve upset the masses, they’re passing us with fleeting looks of disapproval. All I can do is carry on laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I hear Sam shout at the moving mass. ‘I’m sorry we’re having fun, please forgive us.’ He looks at me and smiles. I love that smile, I want to pull him close and kiss him. Instead our feet guide us off in the same direction as the drones of society.
Music floats over us, its notes weaving their way above and around the moving forms of the people existing in this underground world. When you stop to think about it, there’s often music being played down here, buskers putting their heart and soul in a performance. Stood in their designated places, breaking up the monotony of everyday life with their enjoyment. Happy doing what they do even though no one pays scant attention to them, no one thanks them for filling the air with their passion. You have to wonder if the passing looks of dismissal and grumblings about time wasting are born through jealousy. Jealousy at watching someone enjoying a passion, a dream when theirs have faded to dust.
This music is different. It grabs me, shakes me. Its notes rhythmical. These grooves don’t come from a guitar or voice, it’s percussive, igniting the tribal desires inside of us. The slap of hands on tightened skins seems similar, despite the magic it makes as it floats towards us, all this seems like I’ve been here before, like I’ve dreamt it, experienced it. Wipe my face and move on, putting aside the temptation to dance through the crowds to the beat of the drums, skipping like a child after the Pied Piper. We’re approaching the source, soon to see the cause of this sound. Sam bursts out laughing, I can’t help but do the same.
I will my body not to stop moving, not to stare but I can’t, I’m not in control of it. I stop, I stare. I stare at the monkey man slapping his hands across two congas. What, so now you think I’m being racist, making fun of the black man from the jungle playing tribal drums. Well, you couldn’t be further from the truth. This guy really does look like a monkey, long arms flailing around, his beady eyes zipping around at various passers by. His mouth hangs open in his excitement, showing his yellowing teeth.
I hope you realise how hard it is to stand here and not laugh. Suppressing giggles which, in their anger at not being released, cause your stomach to ache. Try to breathe and keep control at the same time. I force my brain to listen to my commands, force it to instruct my feet to move, force it to make my arm reach out and grab Sam, pull him away from his staring and advance forward.
We turn a corner and let go. Let it all fly out. Laughter rips through our bodies, threatening to tear us open if we can’t get it out quick enough. There’s always constant movement down here, always people moving by, passing judgment on the two figures stood backs against the wall laughing for no reason. They really should lighten up, I mean how hard is it to laugh, or will it crack the amount of product caked on their faces?
Deep breaths, control. In, out, in, out. Slowly everything calms down. The internal organs stop jiggling about and the jaw fucking aches. Rub my hand against it, I haven’t laughed that hard in ages. I mean, today all seems to be very merry. Sam and I existing on the same plain. If I could sit in the hand of perfection for one moment, this would be it. One moment shared in a tunnel I’m rarely likely to ever return to, our presence locked into its fabric. The ghostly echoes of our laughter doomed to silently bounce around for eternity.
Breathe, step, walk. Eventually our feet land upon a platform. It’s amazing, beneath the feet of a city are miles of tunnels and platforms, yet not one looks alike. White tiled walkways, the same in design but all unique in their imprint, their atmosphere, not one truly the same. This platform is no different, unique, everywhere different faces on display. This is the only time we’ll ever see this station this way, no matter how many times we return. That’s the way life is, nothing stays the same. You can walk down the same street everyday of your life and simply dismiss it, but if you take a look, take the time to observe, you will see the leaves are in different places, different birds, different people. How much of our lives do we take for granted? Ever stop to appreciate what you have?
Here we are, walking along a platform with no intention to jump on the train, here for no reason at all, we’re just observing everything, well, okay, maybe that’s a lie. We’re observing the group of teenagers in front of us. Friends, each one experiencing moments together as part of a gang, what happens to one happens to them all. Life as a tribe. A locked group, to get introduced into it you have to be really skilled at grabbing their attention, first appearances count for everything.
They’re singing, their music familiar, wafting over and hitting our ears, we're their only captive audience. We mimic them, mocking them through imitation. They notice and laugh, enjoying the attention they’re getting from strangers. Have we broken their guard? Obviously they like us. The leader looks posed to say something, to greet us, but then he sees our eyes and the words lock in his throat. Pupils pushing all colour out of sight. Virtually black, un-reacting eyes looking out of faces, faces making stupid dumb grins and emitting laughter without control. The group’s hackles go up, protect the leader. A whispered word as we pass. Druggies.
Turn a corner and disappear from sight. Will we be a memory they remember or shall we be forgotten within moments. Who knows? Who actually cares?
I look at Sam, we just stand there. What to do? Why is everything so seemingly normal? I rub my face, this detached observation seems too familiar, done before. Déjà vu. Why can’t we see the fucked up shit? Why is there no eagles bursting through posters or talking rats? Have we become so used to seeing the world this way that the barriers have been shattered. Hand across my face. No, I’ve already thought that today, haven’t I?
Sam nudges me. I look, he nods, I look. A man in front of us walks by, okay, ‘walks’ is the wrong word, he struts past. Tight, clenched movements, foot placed gracefully in front of the other. He reaches a point and stops, strikes a pose and then back he struts. A pointless parade down an invisible catwalk.
‘What the fuck?’ says Sam.
‘Not again,’ say I.
We make our way back to the tunnel with the conveyor belt. Standing on it, I lean against the side, resting my arms on the moving handrail, placing my head in turn on top of them. Sam does the same. As we move along we watch the other side, people lined up like a moving police identification parade. Everyone individual, suits cut differently, styled by different stylists. As we watch, we can see the types of people. The alpha male marching along turning people’s heads towards him wi
th his pheromones. The insecure woman hidden beneath the armour of a suit, power dressed to escape the torment of her inner being. We watch people stand, talk, trip over their own feet. We watch, emotionless. We make no comment. Then it hits me, I’ve seen all this before. Stood in the same position on this same conveyor belt, watching the same people pass. It’s too familiar. Déjà vu. As the sinking feeling hits my stomach I stand and turn, rubbing my hands down my face. What the fuck is happening?
‘What’s wrong?’ Sam asks, concern in his voice.
‘We’ve done this before.’
‘Have we?’
‘Don’t you feel it? This is the same as something we’ve done already.’ I look him straight in the eyes, something lurks in them, a message, a message I can’t read. ‘We’re just repeating. Déjà vu. Don’t you feel it?’
He shakes his head in the negative, that message in his eyes again. I can’t read it but I know mine are trying to communicate the same. A secret code yet to be deciphered. I smile at him. ‘Never mind, it’s probably me just being stupid. Thinking too much.’
‘Yeah, probably.’ He smiles in return.
We turn our gaze back to the other side, just in time to see a woman stumble, the