Tunnel Vision

He is stood holding onto the safety rail and I am just staring at
him. I'm not self-concious in the least, I am simply mesmerised by his
appearance. He rocks with the movement of the train, looking a little
unsteady. As I sit there, eyes locked onto him, following his every
sway, the ridiculous idea occurs to me that this is some sort of joke,
some kind of sick wind-up. Of course I know this is impossible but I
can think of no other explanation. Why else would this person appear
before me ?
I'm supposed to be attending a meeting of department heads half an hour
from now but I've just decided not to go. I won't get off at Manor
House, I'll simply wait here and keep this man in my range of vision.
I'll probably get a serious ticking off from Rupert but I don't give a
damn. Rupert can go hang himself for all I care, the last few minutes
have put some things in perspective.
You know those moments that just seem to transcend all practicalities,
that elevate your mind from day to day life? Like a car crash or a
berievement or the moment you fall in love. Your not sure if its
terrible or wonderful, you just know that it will be crucial to the
kind of person you become. Well this is one of those moments, I'm sure
of it.
I decide that I can't stare at this man indefinitely so I discreetly
keep him in the corner of my eye and turn away.
I'm sitting opposite a man who has a child on his knee, a young boy. He
is trying to read a heavy metal magazine whilst his son asks him cute
questions. Unlike most people who make any sort of noise on the tube, I
don't hate these two people. I like the way he's tolerant with his son,
the way he stimulates him without trying. Two stops back he had to
explain what the Elephant and Castle was, his son was intrigued. The
child must be three or four years old and he scrambles around his
fathers neck and shoulders like he's a climbing frame. The father wants
others on the carriage to hear him speak to his son, as if he is giving
a lesson in fatherhood. Without looking up from his "Metal Hammer"
magazine he calmly instructs his boy to sit down and be still. With a
hint of sulkiness the boy plonks himself back down on his father's lap
and folds his arms. I'm not patronised, I don't have any children, but
if I did I would want to behave like this man.
There are only four other people riding on our carriage. Two men and
two women, all the proffessional types with glazed over expressions on
their faces. It scares me because I know I look the same, just a poor
quality copy of everything I never wanted to be. I even have a
briefcase on my lap for Christ sake!
Yes you're right, I am looking for a diversion. He's still there and
I'm trying to pull my mind away from him. I know that most people
caught in this situation would put it down to an odd coincidence, just
a freak of chance. There is no reason for me to be troubled by him and
yet I'm sure this will haunt me for some time.
You see, he's a potent image from my past, a representative of the
moment which broke me. I turn towards him again. I don't think I have
ever seen this man before and yet he holds a terrible power over me. He
reminds me of attending church as a child and looking up at the
biblical quotes daubed over the archways. I would read them over and
over again, knowing they were of great importance but having absolutley
no idea of their meaning. Well I suppose I'm looking upon this stranger
in the same way, observing but not comprehending.
Inevitably my mind is turning to that day, six years ago when my
decline began. There can be no solice in repeating the events in my
head and yet I have done it countless times. I wallow in it because it
gives me an excuse to feel sorry for myself, a reason to justify the
way I have become. It is tragic and pitiable but I have lost the will
to change. Six years is a long time out of anybody's life. I should
still feel like a young man, but I don't. I'm stale and used up. A 28
year old should not have these sensations and yet with me they're ever
present. Your late twenties should be the time to reap the rewards of
your youth. Your a man whose learned from his mistakes and has seen
others fall by the wayside. Although I never actually sat down and
thought about it, I know that between the age of 24 and 30 I was
supposed to really make my mark. I had this vague idea that I was going
to be a famous academic working quietly but effectivly for my chosen
political cause, developing the theory that my fellow radicals would
put into action. I was your typical lefty student tosser, revelling in
being anti-this, anti-that, anti-everything. Some people couldn't stand
me, my friends admired my enthusiasm even if they tired of me
sometimes. But despite everything, I have the distinct recollection of
liking myself.
I remember talking with her one-night as we were lying in bed, probably
a couple of months before it happened, and telling her my fantasies for
the future. We laughed with eachother because we both knew that it was
stupid and that nothing ever really works out the way you want it to.
Even so, it was great just to have that feeling of hope inside of me.
The real beauty of it was that another person loved me enough not to
think I was ridiculous. That was six years ago and a lot of things have
changed since then.
I'd been shopping in Leicester square, trying to get her a present for
her birthday. I was feeling exasperated because I had no ideas at all
and everything in the shops just seemed so tacky. After a while I
stumbled on a odd little place just off the main square. It seemed out
of place among all the other chainstores and theatres, lacking any huge
signs or bright lights. The sandwhich board outside informed you that
inside hats and bags for young women could be purchased. I went in and
browsed about looking for anything that Wendy might go for. Pretty soon
I saw this weird sort of purple beret hanging from a plastic pole in
the centre of the shop. It had this ludicrous green and violet feather
poking out of the top. It made me smile as soon as I saw it, so
stupidly continental, so funny. I was sure she would appreciate the
joke, that was Wendy's sense of the humour, she liked to parody
herself. With a sense of relief I bought it and trapsed my way back to
the station.
When I got there I decided to phone her, just to see how she was
getting on. I remember she had some kind of design project to do at the
time and it was troubling her greatly. She aswered after eight or nine
rings and seemed to be irritated from the start.
"Yes?"
"Alright, its me."
"Hi, Where are you?"
"Leicester Square, I've been buying your birthday present. I was
thinking of coming round. Are you busy?"
"Yeah I am right now Tom, come round tommorrow, I'll have this work
done by then."
"Are you O.K., you sound a bit off with me?"
She didn't seem to have heard what I said to her.
"Hello, Hello. Earth to Wendy."
"Yeah sorry Tom." Her tone changed. She became more sweet. "Its nothing
babe, I'm just busy. I'll look forward to getting that present
tomorrow."
I was plecated. "O.K. lover, I'll see you then."
"Bye."
And that was it. That was the last time I had a conversation with
her.
I was happy enough to be spending the night around my place in any
case. I would go out with my flatmates for a few beers, perhaps we
would have asked along those two girls who had just moved in next door
to us. The evening that lay ahead of me was attractive enough. I knew I
loved Wendy, I was very sure of that, it was just that we didn't seem
to be having as much fun together as we used to. Three years into a
relationship and I was beginging to feel a little trapped. I was
starting to look around at other women with a curiosity that just
hadn't been there before. Simultaneously, I craved her affection and
knew that to lose her would destroy me. As I look back I am fully aware
that none of this really adds up.
The only way I can explain it all is by admitting that I am a fool of
the very highest order.
Perhaps I was always likely to be woken from my laxity with a sudden
jolt, perhaps that was the only thing that could wake me. But just look
at how things have turned out. I still walk around in a deluded state
of slumber, just the same as I did then. But now instead of the cozy
dreams and youthful optimism I have nothing but the images of that day
flashing infront of my eyes whilst I sleepwalk into a premature and
tragic middle-age.
I stood on the platform, shoulder to shoulder with rush hour comuters
waiting for my train. I can still remember smiling at the thought of
the meal that was awaiting me at my flat. Danny, probably my best
friend back then, was due to make us all a curry as a thank you for
some exam coaching we'd been giving him. I used to enjoy those communal
aspects of student life, that silly kind of bonding common with young
men living together.
A man came up to me and asked what the time was, an odd request
considering there was a large clock on the platform. I point at the
clock and tell him that it is quarter past five.
"Thank you." He said
I think it was two years later when I was going over things for the nth
time when I realised that the man must have been blind. He turned away
from me and shuffled across to the wall. I was not feeling alert, I was
missing obvious things because my mind was sought of floating around. I
was like that all the time as a student. Too busy holding up the world
to notice what was under my nose.
The platform had filled up rapidly, people were becoming irritable with
eachother as their personal space reduced in size. It was hot down
there, waiting for the refreshing breeze of an approaching train. But
it never came.
"This is important announcement. All trains between Charing Cross and
Euston Stations on the Northern Line have been suspended due to a
security alert. Replacement bus services will be in operation shortly.
Please could all passengers waiting for Northern Line trains please
vacate the platform. I repeat . . ."
There was a collective sigh followed by the slightly angrier noise of
jumbled up voices. I swore several times, not quite under my breath,
adding to the vitriol. For a moment we were all united by our common
frustration, knowing glances were exchanged, eyes were rolled. Then ,
just as quickly, our structure broke down into its individual particles
and the rush for the exits was on. It took me half-an-hour to get out
of the station, getting hotter and irritable by the moment.
All I knew was that I needed to get a number 58 bus to get me to
Neasden, so my temper softened as one promptly turned up beside the
stop. Yes the bus was packed but I managed to bag myself a seat without
much bother. I was on my way home at last.
I was sort of dozing with my eyes open for a little while, you know,
not really paying attention to anything. The bus had got six maybe
seven stops when I noticed that something wasn't quite right. I didn't
really recognise the names of the stops, but some of the buildings were
ringing bells. Then it dawned on me that although I had got on the
correct no. 58 bus I had neglected to check which direction it was
travelling in. Instead of going north to Neasden I was bound
southwards. Shit. But, then maybe it wasn't so bad. If I stayed on the
bus it would take me in Wendy's direction.
The evening ahead would have to be modified a little in order to take
account of my predicament. As a student with a girlfreind, I was a
little like Royalty. I had more than one London home. OK, so I was
travelling away from ladish conversations about women and football and
towards a quite night in watching a video and eating take-away Pizza
with my beloved. My expectations altered, the feeling of disorientation
subsided and I was contented again. Wendy wouldn't mind, I'd be quiet
whilst she worked, making myself scarce, but then I would give her the
present and she would be happy with me.
I had another nine stops before I was in walking distance of her flat
and so I dozed again.
It was getting dark when I parted company from the London Transport
system for the day (I don't suppose my lift in the police car later on
that night really counts). I must have arrived outside Wendy's ground
floor flat at about half seven. She lived with two other art students
but they were often out visiting their own boyfreinds. Lights were on
and I could hear loud music coming from inside. This was most unlike
Wendy who could never work whilst listening to music. She said it upset
her creative flow or something like that. I knocked on the door.
I realised imeadiatley that she wouldn't be able to hear me. I was
considering going around the back when, as chance would have it, my
final knocked pushed what I had thought to be locked door, gently
open.
The music was almost deafening, cascading out of the door. I smiled
because the song was one of my favourites, "Wild Horses" by the Stones.
An acoustic soulful track. I closed the door behind me, now thrilled by
the oportunity to surprise her, and walked down to her room at the back
of the flat.
Now, you must have noticed how in cheap, straight-to-video, Hollywood
movies a director who has run out of ideas will always resort to slow
motion in order to maximise the effect of a dramatic scene? Well, I
possess just such a feeble mind and so my memory always recalls the
following seconds, (It can't have been more than twenty.) in the same
hack-neyed way.
I stood in front of the door and opened it gently expecting to find her
sitting at the desk opposite the door, working. She wasn't there and so
I peered around the corner, humming along to the music as I did so.
What greeted me was not a smile or a even a frown, but instead it was
Wendy's naked back.
There was a can of Coca-cola resting on the bed-aide table. It was he
same can that I had left there two days earlier, I was sure of it. My
slightly worn out green courdroy jacket hung on one of the bed posts.
On the other side of the bed the phone lay on the floor, reciever off
the hook. Her arms were reaching up to either side of her head as if to
hold it in place. She moved jerkily, up and down above a pair of male
legs which appeared magically from between her own. She was fucking him
hard, really hard. Now, even above the music I could hear her
shrieking. There was an aggression to her movements, something almost
exhalted. She was working energetically to make sure each movement gave
maximum satisfaction. Its fair to say that it was the most terrible
thing I have ever seen.
The sickness that had taken hold of my whole body seemed to double up
as I realised what the telephone was trying to tell me. When I had
spoken to her earlier she had been fucking him, I knew it for sure.
Imeadiatley asking where I was, the irritation in her voice until she
eventually shrugged him away so she could pretend to be mine for a
couple of sentences. This was a powerful image. The song
finished.
"Wendy." I said.
She stopped, turned her head around, recognised me and closed her
eyes.
I turned and sprinted out of the house. I ran so fast there was no way
she could catch up with me. Nobody was gonna catch up with me. I ran to
the end of the road, turned left and then ran to the end of that road.
People were still coming home from work and they stared at me as I went
past them. I kept going for about twenty minutes, having no idea of my
destination. The night was drawing in and it was getting cold, but I
just couldn't think about anything, not even physical needs. Eventually
I sat down on a bench opposite an off-licence. I was all screwed up. I
just sat there for hours trying to think about nothing. Eventually a
couple of policeman took an interest in me from a passing patrol car.
One of them shouted from road:
"You O.K. mate?"
I didn't answer. The car pulled up and they both got out.
"I said are you O.K. mate."
I have no idea why I couldn't answer him. I wasn't trying to be
difficult or dramatic, but I just couldn't get the words to come out of
my mouth. They both looked at eachother with knowing glances and
proceeded to pick me up from the bench and drag me into their
car.
When we reached the station I was corralled to a desk where I was told
that I had been arrested for vagrancy. The two officers then moved me
into a cell where they lay me down on a small wooden bed. And that was
it, that was all that happened. I was released the following morning
and made my way home. I never spoke to her again even though she rang
me many times. I just couldn't bare to talk to her. I didn't want to
know who he was, or how long it had been going on or why she had done
it. All I had was all I wanted: the image of her naked back bobbing up
and down above a human being that wasn't me. I went to pieces, I'm sure
that you've guessed that. Friends tried to console me, to understand
but nothing seemed to help. I dropped out of university, but luckily
they let me back in the year after. Life didn't seem to progress,
everything just seemed to be frozen at that moment. If I'm honest then
I have to say that I just wasn't strong enough to move on. My
confidence was shot to pieces but really you should get youself back on
line, right? Well I don't think I ever have.
So now, an absurd physical representation of that day is standing next
to me. I suppose to other people he looks like a street entertainer or
a busker or something. His brightly coloured clothes covering a
painfully thin body. The man just looks absurd. When he stepped on the
train the first thing that caught my attention was the beret. Purple,
with exactly the same green feather as the hat I had bought for Wendy
that day. That was what made me sit up and pay attention to everything
else As I look at him now his face seems to fade into nothingness
compared to his apparel. The Rolling Stones T-shirt complete with
grotesque red lips and potruding tounge, covered only by a green
coudroy jacket. Whilst one hand hangs onto the railing the other clasps
a a can of Coca-Cola.
It takes a great mental effort to take my mind mind away from these
potent symbols and bring this person's face back into focus. At first I
didn't regonise his face directly but I knew there was something
familiar about him. Longish dark hair and a goatee moustache with
vacant eyes bringing this odd looking character a slightly haunting
edge. As a result his face doesn't address itself to anything or
anybody. He just stands there.
Now I realise this is no joke. This is the blind man who had asked me
the time all those years ago. He looks no older than he did back then.
My memory and my senses collide over and over. The effect that all this
is having on me is dramatic. As the months and years have passed from
that day my mind had become numb and the pain no-longer invaded me each
day. It wasn't that time healed my wounds but more that I drifted away
from the person that Wendy had helped me become. I turned apathy into
an art form, deciding that a retreat from abstact ideas like love and
hope was the safest option. Six years of indifference had been a
powerful pain-killer, allowing me to forget how I felt about her. This
man is wiping all that out and taking my mind back to a place where I
don't want it to be.
I find a tear rolling down my cheek as I rest my chin on my chest. The
father and son opposite me have noticed that I am crying but I don't
feel embarressed. I try not to make any noise but its difficult. I
bring my hand over my eyes as I begin to sob. I sob like the broken,
pathetic person that I have become. A blind Rolling Stones fan wearing
a purple beret and sipping from a can of coke has reduced me to a
blubbering wreck.
Then a strange thing happens. I hear a phone ring, a muffled
intermitant bell. I look up and see him removing a mobile phone from
his pocket. He puts it to his ear and calmly says: "Hello . . . Yes he
is here . . . hold on one moment." With that he turns towards me,
staring blankly through his redundant eyes, and holds the phone out
towards me.
"Its for you" He said. I wipe the tears from my cheek and stare up at
him. He repeats himself in exactly the same tone. "Its for you."
Without saying anything I take the phone and put it to my ear. My mind
is so frazzled by all this that I just comply.
"Hello." I say.
"Yes." Comes back the voice. I recognise it imeadiatley. I can hear a
rustle of activity and the low drone of a man's voice in the
background.
"Look Wendy what the hell is going on, Have you set this up?" I can
hear more activity, but there is no imeadiate response. Then
finally:
"Hi, Where are you?"
"I'm on the the underground. Look, your ringing me, not the other way
around and this isn't even my number. It belon . . ."
"Yeah I am right now Tommy, come round tommorrow, I'll have this work
done by then." She says. Now I'm silent in response. Nothing I can say
is of any importance. Again I hear a male voice and then very quietly I
hear her whisper, "Its him." Then her voice again..
"Yeah sorry Tom . . . Its nothing babe, I'm just busy. I'll look
forward to getting that present tomorrow." Silence, more silence and
then Wendy's final word to me.
"Bye." Then the phone goes dead.
The man has stopped reading his "Metal Hammer" magazine and is watching
me intently trying to work out exactly what is going on. The oddball at
the end of the carriage was strange enough on his own without my
blubbering and now the slightly confusing phone call. Perhaps he thinks
the oddball is my secretary.
I hand the phone back to the blind man but he doesn't take it. Then I
realise my mistake and stand up to place it in his hand.
"Thank you" He says.
The train stops at Manor house station with a sudden jerk. I prevent
myself from crying again but it's difficult. I stand up and get off the
train, desperately trying not to look over my shoulder as I go. I walk
straight across to the Northbound platform of the Bakerloo line and
stand there waiting for my train. I'm definitely going to be late for
my meeting.