Miss World

MISS WORLD

Tom had ugly days and beautiful days. Today was definitely ugly.
As he stood in the bus shelter and watched the parade of passers-by,
their ugliness was achingly apparent. It made his eyes hurt.
On days like this, killing-spree fantasies whirled in Tom's brain.
Flashing images of multiple-car pile-ups. Great sweeping fires that
engulfed the populous and cleaned the streets.
Then the bus came.
He stepped backwards and waited for a gang of uglies to disembark, and
then another hideous group barged past Tom to board the bus.
This always happened. Complaints made no impact, so he waited, and
waited, and waited, and finally a small woman moved to the side and
gestured that he could go in front of her. Tom stepped up without
acknowledging her small act of kindness, flashed his tatty pass at the
ugly driver and searched for a seat.
There were none.
"Fucking typical," he muttered and grabbed the orange pole that
bisected the gangway. He reached into his inside pocket with his free
hand and depressed the play button on his personal stereo. Tom then
rolled the volume to its high limit and sincerely hoped that all the
ugly bastards around him could hear the chaotic noise he was listening
to. And he hoped they hated him for it.
Tom always kept two tapes in his bag. One mellow, quiet and soothing,
for the days when the world was beautiful. And one harsh and noisy
tape, for a day like today, when everyone was ugly and ugly things fell
from their mouths. He could see the darting glances of disapproval he
was drawing and he smiled.
He was still smiling when the bus turned into his road. He walked to
the front and waited for it to halt.
The bus stopped.
The doors swung open with a piercing hiss and Tom stepped down to the
pavement without thanking the ugly driver. He never thanked bus
drivers, even on beautiful days. In his experience they were surly,
impolite, arrogant wankers who resented anyone with the audacity to
board their vehicle. He stood on the kerb and lit a cigarette as the
bus pulled away, belching pungent blue fumes into the air behind it. He
expelled his own stream of smoke to join it, turned to his left and
walked towards his house.
A mist was cautiously descending and gave a hazy glow to the few
streetlamps that worked in Tom's road. A peaceful hush seemed to grow,
as if the mist had the ability to muffle sound.
He didn't notice the mist; he was staring straight ahead at nothing in
particular. And the peaceful hush existed only on the outside of his
headphones, still assailing his eardrums with relentless drums and
violently distorted guitars.
Tom reached his gate and threw the smouldering filter of his cigarette
to the floor and ground it under his boot.
He kicked the gate open.
The green, flaking front door looked as appealing as gallows, but he
nonetheless inserted his key and stepped inside.
He could hear the TV cackling in the living room and its blue neon glow
illuminated the hall. He could picture the scene in there without even
entering the room.
Tom's father would be sat in his brown, frayed armchair with an ashtray
on his right and the remote control on his left. The content of the
program held no significance, game shows or news programs were observed
with the same 'out of order' expression.
Tom's mother would be perched on the right-hand edge of their sagging
four-seater sofa, as far away from his father as she could be, without
actually leaving the room. She too would have an ashtray to her
right.
His parents had been using separate ashtrays for ten years.
He walked straight past and climbed the stairs.
His room welcomed him in and enclosed him with a warm hug. He sat on
his bed and looked around. Scores of posters adorned the walls; his
heroes. Good, strong, talented people with money, self-respect and the
adoration of thousands of people. They were never ugly.
Tom stood and walked to the stereo atop his chest of drawers. The
furniture in this room had been here for as far back as his memory
reached. The wardrobe doors were still adorned with stickers of
football players most of whom were now managers.
He selected a suitable CD, inserted it into the machine.
He pressed play.
The reaction from downstairs was instantaneous.
"Turn that shit down!" Tom's father bellowed from his chair.
Tom ignored him.
He returned to the bed, lay down and contemplated the ceiling. A
familiar hot sting began behind his eyes and the tears came
immediately. His sobs were mercifully drowned out by the loud music. He
could predict the reaction from his parents if they were able to hear
him; "Stop fucking crying!" would be his father's sympathetic response,
his mother would say nothing, light a cigarette and probably turn the
TV up. Tom cried for ten minutes, until the front of his black T-shirt
was cold, wet and heavy. His eyes burned.
Then he stopped.
He turned onto his front, his head sinking into the dent he'd left in
his pillow last night. He hoped tomorrow would be beautiful.
And Tom slept.
&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;..
He boarded the bus and walked to the last but one row from the back.
He'd always sat there, since school. He was about to switch his Walkman
but heard something and turned around.
On the back seat, behind Tom and left was a very old man in a beret.
His walking stick rested between his knees and his tightly laced black
shoes sat firmly on the floor of the bus. But his hands and mouth were
what really grabbed Tom's attention.
Pressed to his lips was a harmonica, his wrinkled fingers danced in
front of it. The tune he played was obviously older than Tom. It
instantly overtook all the usual background bus noise. Tom could no
longer hear the engine he sat upon, the incessant chatter of the people
at the front instantly faded to neutral murmurs and drones. Just him,
the man and the music.
Two teenagers in front of Tom laughed conspiratorially, giggling and
pointing. He ignored them and knew that the old man hadn't seen or
heard them anyway.
He was lost in the tune, his still-sharp eyes focused on a point
somewhere in front of him, his fingers kept up their dance and he
played on regardless.
After a minute or two, or maybe a day, the tune ended. The old man took
no bow and anticipated no applause, but in his head Tom gave him a
standing ovation. He took the instrument from his lips and reached into
his coat pocket. He pulled out a creased white handkerchief and wrapped
the harmonica as carefully as a dead pet. The instrument returned to
the safety of his pocket and the old man stood. The old man walked past
him with a strong gait that belied his age and Tom wondered if he
really needed the walking stick by his side.
The bus pulled to a stop and the man disembarked. Beautiful.

? 2001