(c) Dele Oke
A free writing experiment for a recent Off Assignment letter-writing competition. A true story.
It’s something and nothing.
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To the Tearful One on a Bus
I tend to keep myself to myself on public transport. Book. Music. Daydream. Not necessarily in that order, and occasionally all three at once.
Isn’t that the way in a place like London? The big city can either feel like the epicentre of life or the loneliest place in the world. So many of us drift around in our own bubble, voyeuristic yet detached. A satellite in its own orbit.
As the doors open, we quickly claim our own little space. A personal sanctuary from the outside world just before re-entry. It’s like we are all playing a pointless game – who can avert human connection the best?
From trying to contort oneself around others as they wriggle past, or turning away from someone as they sit beside us, to pretending not to notice the dishevelled woman begging in front of us as we sink deeper into our screen or page. If only we could all be a little more in the world at once…
Some people are tired and want to be left alone. I get it. Take the evening we met. It had been a particularly frustrating week for me, waiting for responses to emails, calls, prayers – longing to feel a sense of purpose. Delays. Queues. I wore the solemn look of someone adrift and out of sync with the world.
Just then, you edged on to the bus – distraught, confused, impossible to ignore. I could tell from your accent that you were far from home. Exactly where was a mystery though. I recalled all those times I had wandered off-piste on my travels, with no Google Maps or guide to keep me on track. Empathy kicked in.
You looked to the driver for help, drawing only a blank stare. The kind a tourist gives to someone who asks them for directions. This man checked his job description and confirmed, no, I cannot be anything more than he who drives. And appendage to the steering wheel and pedals.
Eager to get moving but unsure how to handle the situation, he looked to someone, anyone, to intervene. That would be me, his gormless assistant, the last person on the bus before you and the closest by.
Now I consider myself to be a helpful guy but this move was quite out of character on a bus. Perhaps it was my chance to be useful that day, to achieve something. I looked at you and thought, this could be me. With a few less tears though…
You mentioned a name I assumed was the road you were staying on. I checked on my phone. No luck. I tried a different spelling. Still nothing. In the end, in garbled English, I tried to work out whether it was near or far from where we were, gesturing with my hands like I was mid-mime or on the dancefloor. So I thought, let’s walk and see if you can pick out the place.
When meeting people for the first time, we make judgments about one another in the first five seconds, ‘experts’ say. First impressions can be so misleading though. Some of us are completely different people from one five seconds to the next. It depends on the situation, right. And who we are talking to.
As we walked down the road in Forest Hill, a quiet suburb of South-East London, you dried your eyes and began to find your way with every step. Your words reunited as sentences, telling me you were from Andalucía, staying here with a family while you learned English.
But you did it with such modesty and self-deprecation. It’s always so endearing when ESL students do that. As if you can’t teach us Brits a thing or two about abbreviations, possessive pronouns, dangling modifiers and so on.
In that moment, there were so many things I wanted to ask about, like I had a day’s worth of socialising to get out of my system. But I didn’t want to overwhelm you on a difficult day. Besides, it felt like you were upset about something more than your current predicament. So we just dipped in and out.
No elaborate exchange of life stories. Aimless chatter to complement our aimless stroll. Just a comfortable co-existence on the quest to find home.
I put my gangly arms to good use and pointed this way and that. And as we walked, your face became a homing beacon or detector. Wrong turn: jaw tense and head shaking. As we got closer, a toothy grin appeared … your flaring eyes radiating relief.
And there it was. A two-storey family home not too dissimilar to others in the area, except for a giant stone tortoise and Bambi in the front garden. How come you didn’t mention those before? No matter. We made it.
There was no prolonged goodbye. Just a smile, a nod and a “hope you enjoy the rest of your trip”. “Next time, don’t forget your map,” I said, walking away. “Or a piece of paper with your address written on. Preferably both.” How grandad that must have sounded. I use apps too, you know.
Anyway, I hope this letter finds you well and able to breeze through each clunky paragraph with confidence, as you look back with fondness on your summer-not-summer in the city.
Three years later, I still remember that evening. Although it was a brief encounter, it felt meaningful.
One lost stranger lost in London. Make that two.