The radio was pumping out some classic, 'Going down to the
crossroads&;#8230;,' rock at an earsplitting volume. Tom used music
as a 'gonna get..' laxative every morning 'high&;#8230;,' to get the
day off to a good start with a 'going down..' proper 'to the
crossroads' purge. After all, as a bus driver, he had to be prepared
for a long and uninterrupted sit.
"Bloody hell!" he cursed over the music. "This is for sure the land
that plumbing forgot. I can not find a proper toilet in this whole
bloody city." Tom continued to pump the handle, but to no effect. "And
sod that phony Eric Clapton anyway. He spends 20 million quid to build
a rehab for rich people in Antigua, right next to my poor old mother's
house, and they get drunk on the plane coming back to London anyway.
Probably thinking about not being able to flush their stupid toilets
when they get back here, that's what I say. Just can't take the bloody
pressure, that's what I say."
The radio interrupted Tom's rant: 'You're listening to Carlo
Braithwaite and that was classic Cream with Eric Clapton playing
Crossroads.'
"AND SOD YOU TOO YOU CHATTY MAGPIE FROM DOGDIRT. ERIC CLAPTON MY
GRANNY'S BUM."
The day was not off to a great start. Tom pulled on what passed for a
uniform, shot down the stairs and pounded to the bus stop just in time
to grab the baton from the night shift guy.
"Hey there Garcia, bloody good thing you got here. I was about to leave
the bus sitting here locked. Try explaining that to the boss."
"Cheers, mate," Tom responded, thinking to himself "Piss off you
&;#8230;."
Tom ground into gear and lurched off into another gray dawn. The bus
belched black smoke into the crisp autumn air as would-be passengers
all over London waited tensely to see if their bus would stop for them
that morning. Such is the daily crap shoot known as being a London
commuter.
None of this worried Carlo. He was already at work, and had been since
midnight. Carlo was the night shift guy, and his shift was about to
end.
Carlo was depressed. He used cocaine to stay up all night and get over
the depression. It kept him up all night, that's for sure, but the
depression came back with a vengeance as soon as he ran out. He had to
deal out of the station to pay for his own habit. It was becoming
increasingly difficult to explain why so many people showed up at a
radio station at 3 am. He had even taken to interviewing his suppliers
and customers on the air from time to time. Carlo called it "The Night
People Segment." He had to bleep out the incriminating evidence, but it
made for interesting radio. His bosses weren't listening in the middle
of the night. They were out clubbing. Carlo wanted to be out clubbing,
but he had to work, so he brought the party to himself. If Carlo can't
go to the party, the party will come to Carlo: Thus Spake Braithwaite,
Carlo chuckled to himself. Cocaine can be a barrel of laughs.
"That was 'Walk This Way' by Aerosmith Lady Mumbassa My Arse, and if I
could walk that way I wouldn't need all this talcum powder in my
skivvies. YAR YAR YAR Everywhere I go I leave a trail of talcum powder.
That's why I call this job the Talcum Trail. Hey, now that you're
awake, cop a quick earful of this classic." Hey, life could be worse,
he thought, and inhaled a week's wages.
It was not supposed to be this way. Carlo had ambitions. He wanted to
be&;#8230;., well he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to be, but
he certainly wanted to be more than the night shift guy at some radio
station playing music that peaked before he was born.
Back in his bus, listening with one ear and driving with the other, Tom
thought, Talcum Trail, yeah, right.. I'm sitting in this stupid bus all
day and he complains about sitting in a nice studio playing records.
Bloody stupid twit.
"Drivin' that train, high on cocaine."
'Shyte, it's the bloody Grateful Dead!' Tom swore. 'This is surely a
day of torture. A person must be high on something to listen to that
garbage. Bloody hell, bring back the Eric Clapton won't you?' Tom drove
past his first stop, leaving two old ladies, five school girls, and a
plumber standing quietly, waiting for the next bus. The schoolgirls had
waived their arms for the bus to stop, but no one said anything.
"That was the Grateful Dead drivin' that train, flat and slow like
Jerry Garcia's tombstone. Hey Jerry, watch out for the Continental
Drift! HAR HAR." Carlo was working up a lather now. Better living
through chemistry, he thought.
"Very funny you stupid twit." Tom drove through a deep puddle and
splashed a dog, a man selling the Big Issue, and two guys in suits
headed for the City. "HA HA! Gotcha!"
"That's it for me. Stayed tuned for the Morning Show, coming up in 60
seconds." Carlo cleaned up the studio as best he could and headed for
the exit. He wore sunglasses and kept his head low as he passed the
morning crew and the cleaning people. He looked like death warmed over
and knew it. He was ashamed. He felt guilty. The depression was
gathering strength as the buzz wore off. Carlo was not a happy
man.
He avoided the lift. He walked down the stairwell in the dark, not
wanting to meet any people on his way out. He stumbled a few times, but
managed not to fall. The darkness was heavy and closing in fast.
The darkness followed Carlo onto the sidewalk. He sweated his way
toward the bus stop, hoping to outdistance it. He failed. The darkness
was gaining on him. He could not see. He heard nothing. It was all a
blur of fuzzy vibrating pings and squeals and mumbling and gauzy light
struggling to break out of a black egg.
Tom almost saw him coming. He later told the police that he thought he
saw a movement but wasn't sure and certainly it did not look like a
person walking straight out onto the street in front of his bus. It was
only after the rear tires rolled over Carlo that Tom fully realized he
had probably hit someone. The broken headlight and the blood and hair
on the windscreen provided further clues, but it was the speed bump
effect of running over Carlo's body with the rear tires that finally
caught Tom's attention. There were a dozen or so witnesses, but no one
screamed for Tom to stop, no one called out to Carlo to stop or look
out for the bus. No one tried to grab Carlo back from the street. They
simply watched.
Tom was exonerated at the inquest. The autopsy showed massive amounts
of cocaine and other drugs in Carlo's system. Tom's radio and earplug
were not entered into evidence. Dead people have no union.
Tom never missed a day's work. His toilet still does not flush. He
still drives a bus. He listens to a new DJ now. Carlo's shift is
over.
