I was sitting in the library reading the paper when I felt someone looking at me. I peered over to see this man staring. His face was expressionless. He just looked plain. His face reminded me of the stickmen drawings I used to do at school, two little peepers and a line for a mouth.
He asked me what I was reading in a slow monotone voice. It was so slow I could guess what he was about to ask me before he even finished. I looked over at the front of the paper facing him and told him a newspaper. He incidentally was reading Cooking Basics for Dummies so decided best not to venture down that path. The boring man waited for me to speak, and in conversational etiquette it was my que to ask him something but I couldn’t be bothered. His peepers just blinked in anticipation and when he realised I wasn’t going to say anything and not wanting to lose the moment of communication that was fast diminishing he asked me what I did. I told him.
“Oh.” Was all he could say in his slow voice. I just stared and thought even his clothes were boring, a plain beige jumper with a frayed collar and grey jack-up trousers. His hair was short and, well, just uninteresting. I was completely uninspired by this guy to even share a few words so quickly returned to my paper. After reading the first few words about the rioting in Kenya it dawned on me that maybe everyone thinks he’s boring. Maybe it’s hard for him to make friends because he speaks so slow and looking so characterless that people would just walk away before he finished his sentence. Getting girls must be hard for him too, thinking of a witty comment during a moment to impress is half the job but timing and delivery is crucial and he doesn’t seem to have the tools for that. Then I thought what does he do for a living. Is he on the dole? That would explain him sitting in the library on a Thursday afternoon staring at people. Maybe he was an undercover police officer who often use the library to keep surveillance on the local brothels. If he was undercover he definitely was doing a good job. I suddenly realised that I was now intrigued by this person and wanted to find out more about him so I looked over my paper to ask him what he does but he was gone. Boring being had vanished.
He’s probably writing on his blog right now saying how he met a twat who was too aloof to speak to him.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
Yannish rocked back the wooden chair and slid out. He’d never been interviewed by the police before in an interview room. He imagined he’d be questioned by an aggressive policeman who’d slam his fist on the table so that his glass of water would wobble. He was expecting the interrogator to push his face right in and invade Yannish’s personal space, so that when he spoke his saliva would sprinkle all over his face. Instead this middle aged policeman sat calmly stroking the last piece of his body that reminded him of his youth, his blond moustache.
“Aren’t you going to ask me more questions?” Said Yannish now standing next to the officer and feeling slightly that it was he who was about to do the interviewing.
“No.” Came the swift reply. The officer didn’t even look up to acknowledge him.
“This isn’t right, but I’m tired and I’m going to get some rest. You should be out there looking on the field for clues and evidence or even for him. He could still be in the woods hiding. You should be bringing in an artist so I can tell them what he looked like and so they can sketch it and we can plaster a poster all over the place and you can show it on local television, or something.”
“No, not today. Now go.”
Fuck. Thought Yannish as he walked out where another policeman was waiting for him ready to escort him to the first aid room. Yannish refused, he didn’t want to be in this building anymore. He was tricked into coming here and now he wanted to leave. The constable offered him a lift but Yannish vehemently shook his head until his neck started to hurt. He turned his back on the constable not even bothering to say good bye, nothing, and started to stride out of the building.
Even after about fifteen minutes walking down the street he was still peeved with the police. They didn’t seem to care what he told them. They should’ve been looking to lift out key information, not stroke their moustache and look out for ques when to nod. He noticed a park bench not too far away and decided to head for it. Once settled he brought out his rolling equipment from his pocket. He pulled of the rolling papers and then got the tobacco, he withdrew one paper and scooped a small amount of tobacco and started to spread it. He noticed that it was difficult to do and was missing the rolling paper. He was shaking. He looked at his right hand and he could see moving intensively but beyond the control of him. He tried to stop it but it was still moving. He used his left hand to hold it still knocking it his smoking gear all on to the ground and scatter everywhere. Still it was shaking. He began to cry, it was silent at first with a few tears pushing themselves through his eye lids and trickling down slowly.
2 comments:
I find the people in this world that don't quite 'fit' to be the most fascinating. However, I would have acted exactly the same as you given that he was trying to strike up a conversation. By all means, look bland to the point where it's almost bizarre and I'll observe you with detached interest but try and TALK to me (in a library! Whilst I'm reading!) and I will have nothing to do with you. I often wonder if I've got a low-grade form of autism (especially since reading JPod).
Yeah, I missed a trick with this guy. Now that you've mentioned it I really would like to ask him why he chooses to strike up a conversation in a library. Hardly anyone else would.
Post a Comment