Chapter One, work in progress

I have a memory of flipping a coin in the air and it landing on the edge, balanced. At this moment in time I don’t know whether this actually happened or not, or whether it happened in a dream or something, and it’s just a memory of a memory. It was behind a building at the school I used to go to, on the playground. I was amazed at the time.

sunday afternoon, in the bus-station. Waiting for a bus. The best time and place to once again attempt to use the power of the mind to move shit. No success yet, apart from a can rolling past, although I’m not gonna even bother trying to kid myself that it was me, and not a gust of wind. I’ve tried everything – started off trying to actually push an object, using my crazy little head, weird-bloke-in-‘subway’-in-the-film-“Ghost”-style. I’ve tried that spoon-bending thing out of The Matrix, trying to realize that the worn-out and alone glove that lies in front of me doesn’t really exist. It apparently does, ‘cos i can’t make the motherfucker wave at me for shit.
I’m aware of the fact that this whole idea of me doing telekinesis at the bus-station is obviously a bit odd, and so i’m not trying the rational steps of trying to start at the start. That whole learning to walk before you can run stuff isn’t apt here – i’m trying to make people levitate and move buses sideways n’stuff. The light and mighty-rollable can was just coincidental. And the glove? – well damnamit – I just liked the thought of it waving at me. Altho once again gravity, and physics in general, defies me. One day, Newton, one day, I tells ya.
The whole experience of trying to move shit using a person’s head can leave that person feeling empty sometimes, as it invariably reminds he/she/them that he/she/they have no supernatural powers. However this isn’t a science. Until I see some unequivocal, fuck-off and eat shit evidence that this can’t be done, then i’m gonna try this from time to time. Like now for instance.
The one good thing that bus-station-telekinesis-attempting does do for you is that it distracts you away from noticing the weirdoes that are also occupying the bus-station. Sundays in general (not to mention Sunday evenings – fuck me) have a habit of having loads of nutters out and about. Are individuals released from mental health institutes and dropped off here to find their way back to their homes?
“There you go, Mental Fred. You want the 82. Just go over to that place with the big 14 sign over there. Don’t try to eat any family pets on the way. You can mumble to yo’self all-crazy-like if you really want to tho. Loopy Len – you need the number 11, ...“
I find myself sitting next to a bloke who’s looking a bit too paedophillic for my liking. He’s probably a fine, upstanding member of the community, with a wholesome wife, and kids whom he plays football with (obviously not literally), where he goes in goal and lets lil’ Steve and Billy score goals against him, when he could easily have saved them. But you never know. Not in the mood for investigating. I’m in the mood for trying to make this fucking bus, which is coughing and farting in front of me, reverse. This does pose to be a bit of a reckless mission, regarding the fact that the occasional person is walking behind said bus, but my all too obvious lack of jedi knowledge renders the danger negligible at worst.
Awaking from a deep-thought (yet again wishing that i had a cat that would skin-up (do they exist?!). Trying to figure out whether they’d need to have weed, ‘cos burning solids would be a bitch for a cat (having no thumbs n’all)), i become aware that i have been staring at a girl to my left. Pretty, secretary-type (tiger in bed), also in mid-twenties. She passes an occasional worried glance in my direction, and i also become aware of the disappointing fact that i have joined the sunday bus-station weirdo club. Fuck. Last thing i needed on a sunday afternoon. Should’ve bought a paper.
Right – get on this bus (if it ever fucking comes), drop off this dog, get home, change clothes, pick up Phil and his bird, go home, spliff, food, watch shite tv.
After what seems like forever, my bus comes.

On the bus. My new friend, Ralph (good name) the Retriever, by my side, a few other passengers, and that girl a few rows in front of me. Glad that i’m not scaring her anymore (might as well go the whole hog, and sit next to her and start heavy-breathing). As if this sunday hadn’t shat on me enough, my mobile phone starts ringing. At least the tune’s discreet-ish. It’s Phil, and i’m in no mood for chatting to him now, and more importantly don’t need to feel more of a wanker on this bus than i already do by chatting on the phone. Ralph not being bus-trained is a big social no-no. If i spoke to Phil I’d have to explain that I’m gonna be late because i’m taking a dog i’ve found wandering the streets back to it’s owner. This will inevitably make him late. Phil ain’t giving up though – he’s gonna keep on trying, and leave a message. All good and well, but Ralph is taking unkindly to the noise. He’s got that crazy look in his eye. I’m hoping that he doesn’t lunge for my neck. Phone eventually stops, and Ralph chills a bit. Phone starts again. Ralph again loses Fonzy-coolness. Phil’s on a mission. I’m annoying the 7 people on the bus, including quasi-stalkee. Motherfucker. The thought of getting off at the next stop, abandoning the now vicious-looking Ralph is tempting, but then to look at the whole scenario i find myself in at this present moment in time, all i’ve done is taken a potentially lethal and human-hating dog onto a bus, pissed him off and then scarpered. Will endure shite journey. With phone on silent. About a mile left to the address on Ralph’s collar.

Coming close to destination. Get to the front of de bus (no need for dat), whilst not staring anywhere at all in direction of secretary girl. That doesn’t look a bit strange or nothing. I don’t look strange. Ralph does a bit more territory marking as we wait at the front of the bus. Might as well piss off the bus driver that bit more. I can’t explain my situation, stating that it’s not my dog, for fear of adding ‘dog-thief’ to my ever-extending list of attributes. Will accept ‘dog-owner with a dog who pisses on busses’ tag. Get off bus feeling duly embarrased. Like a twat, and for reasons unknown to me, I take a last, fleeting look at the poor girl. She doesn’t seem to give a fuck. Paranoia, often brought on by being in a bus-station on a sunday, is acknowledged. I then slap it’s wrists, and tell it to fuck off.

At the door of number 19, where Ralph normally resides in his none-wandering times i presume, a man in his forties opens the door. He doesn’t seem surprized that his furry companion was found meandering the city centre streets. Maybe he does it quite often. Maybe Ralph has been trained to use the vast array of public transport on offer. Wonder if he was a ‘backseat-driver’ on our journey home.
“The next stop would have been preferable. Sausages. Walls.”
I decline the man’s invitation for a tea, tell him his dog’s cool (when the phone isn’t ringing, and he’s not pissing on buses) and jump on to a bus back home. Like that.

© Tim Quince, July 2004

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