God knows what possessed me when I booked a 7AM flight to Rome. It’s all fun and games, until you realise that if you want to check-in a bag you have to be there at least 40 minutes before they start boarding the plane. Which, in my case, means at least two hours in advance, since I recently discovered through an attentive and through diagnose via Google and Yahoo! Answers that I’m slightly OCD and I probably have a burgeoning anxiety disorder.
So today (or tonight?) I dragged myself out of bed at an ungodly hour to catch a bus to the airport, the fun part being that when I got at the bus stop the fact that the bus would not be there until at least 40 minutes hit me. It was basically one of those awkward moments when you stand in a soft drizzle at 3.50 in the morning (or in the night?) with the only company of a couple of seagulls that keep flying around weirdly in tune with what you’re listening to (Sherlock‘s soundtrack, in my case) and of course…the killer cabbie.
Nothing’s creepier that standing in a shady street behind a train station at , again, fucking 4AM, and all of a sudden becoming aware of a cab parked just a few feet away from the bus stop. It is probably very innocent, and it does make sense that a cabbie might choose a train-slash-bus station to wait for customers, but it’s still super creepy.That feeling of being watched. The headlights going off when the soft purr of the engine dies, and you can only make out a faint outline of somebody lying over the wheel, staring? You try to look casual, sitting on your suitcase, which is just the ideal size for resting comfortably on top of it.
People get out of the train station, backpacks and long hair, merrily chattering away as they walk past the bus stop towards that black car. Did they call it? Are they going to get in? No, they walk past the cab as well, uphill towards the University, they probably just came back from a weekend somewhere out of town.
The cab is still there, waiting. You are still there, still waiting. You look up hopefully when a pair of strong headlights show up over the top of the hill, the bus is coming!, you think. But it’s out of service this one, “sorry”. Sorry my ass, you think, as you glance nervously back to the place where the cab is still parked, just as the engine goes on again, the lights blinding you as they brush over the street when the car starts from the edge/sidewalk and creeps slowly towards the bus stop, where you’re still waiting.
Downhill it goes, past you, past the stop, past the crossroad and on into the night. And you stand there, still waiting.
…So, this wee writing exercise out of the blue apparently came out of nowhere, or out of the waiting – I reckon it’ll be just another scrap of paper (screen?) where I laid some jumbled up words and that it’ll be treasured by scholars and academics when I’ll die poor, obscure and little BUT leaving a heap of worthy stories and writings that will make people think back to me and my wondrous talent. Or it will be just another post rocketing around the internet for as long as I’ll care to keep a blog and actually write stuff into it instead of forwarding other people’s work. But I like to think I’m a little bit more mature than that now.