Doing it

“Night bus to Eastwell not due for nearly an hour?”

“Yeah, guess,” grunted the kid. He couldn’t see his face; the grey hood of his jacket was up.

He sat down on the far edge of the uncomfortable red plastic perch. The kid shuffled his way towards the other end, kicked the discarded drinks cartons and KFC box out of the way. Then: “Bit old to be wandering up Eastwell at two o’clock in the morning, mister?”

“Didn’t know there was an age limit.”

“What you doin’ up there? It’s dicey.”

“Is it? Well, if you want to know, I’ve got a woman up there; lives in Traynell Tower. Know it?”

“Know Traynell Tower. That’s dicey an’ all. Why don’t you take an Uber?”

“I’m tight. Besides, she doesn’t get back from work till three. Got time for the bus.”

“What you do for a living, Mister?”

“I write books. Not that it’s a living, really, I’m retired.”

“Write books? What, like stories and stuff?”

“Yeah, short stories, mostly.”

“Wow. Never met anyone who did stuff like that.”

“You’re not working yet, I guess?”

“Nar, don’t leave school for another year, nearly.”

“Any idea what you’ll do?”

He shrugged his grey-clad shoulders. “Sell weed, or crack, maybe.” He looked up at him, his jaw set slightly.

“That what you want?”

“What’s it to you - Mister?”

“Genuine question. I write stories for a living, remember. See it as something exciting, glamorous, maybe?”

“See it as something to do, make a few dollars. Are you goin’ to put me in one of your stories?”

“Could well, could well…Ever thought of something a bit more … structured? Something with a few more prospects?”

“Prospects? With my school record?”

“School’s not everything. People used to think Einstein was subnormal.”

“Who’s Einstein?”

“Theory of relativity? Had a big part in developing the atom bomb. His teachers all said he was stupid, then he started coming out with all sorts of…stuff.”

“Atom bomb? Maybe it’d been better if he’d stayed stupid.”

“Yeah, could be right. Anyway, you shouldn’t write yourself off, just because of what it says on a report card. Be it, do it.”

“Be it, do it? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just came into my head. Didn’t Nike have an advert like that? Can’t remember. I mean, set your mind to something and then devote all your energies to achieving it. Don’t listen to what other people say. What would you really like to do?”

“Dunno.”

“Think of something. Doesn’t matter how outrageous.”

“Airline pilot.”

“You could join the air cadets.”

Air whats? They wouldn’t have me.”

“Don’t think they can stop you joining. My niece was in it for a few years. Don’t think it’s that expensive  - couple of hundred, maybe…”

“Two hundred quid!”

“You could sell a bit of weed to finance it…”

 

*****

 

The elderly gent in blazer and lightweight trousers stumbled over the cabin door and gripped the top of the seat. Then he swivelled and half collapsed down into it, panting. He thrust his walking stick on top of the unoccupied window seat. He’d move into it if another occupant showed themselves, but the Business Class cabin on the flight to Madrid didn’t seem busy.

The door to the flight deck opened and two smartly uniformed crew members appeared, the captain and the female first officer. It was company policy at British-Spanish International; show yourselves to the passengers, at least those in business class, interact with them. Besides, Captain Geoff Simms liked doing it, made the job more interesting.

“Off anywhere nice?” he said, conversationally.

“Same place you’re going. Madrid. You tell me. Never been myself.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“A writer’s conference. Business – if you can call it that…”

The captain stood for a second. Then cleared his throat. “Tell me if I’m talking rubbish but ... you wouldn’t be the chap who had a conversation with a young lad waiting for the Eastwell night bus 20 years ago?”

“The very same. You’re him … aren’t you?”

“Thought I recognised the voice! This is amazing! Susan, you remember that story I told you, about the guy in the bus shelter, the air cadets…”

“Yes, Geoff. Many, many times…”

“I can’t believe it! It’s really you. I don’t think we ever got as far as names before the bus arrived?”

“No. We didn’t.”

“Well, I’m Geoff Simms. This is First Officer Susan Williams, by the way. And you are?

By way of reply, he pulled a chunky red paperback out his holdall. “Name’s on the cover … keep it. I’ve got five hundred more cluttering up the front room.”

“You know, all these years, I always wished I’d had the chance to say thank you … though, I have to say, there were a few times during flight training when I cursed you. Took me a long time to master all those charts.”

“That’s comforting, for a flight over the Pyrenees.” He chuckled, sharply.

“Don’t you worry,” broke in Susan. “Captain Geoff’s one of the best. He’s my mentor.”

“Slow and steady wins the race, I guess,” said the Captain. “Well, you must have done well, business class … I know we’re not cheap. So the writing game must have worked out well, then?”

“Not really. I have a certain amount of critical acclaim, but not the sort that translates into cold, hard cash, I’m afraid. But I did well in my other enterprise.”

“Other enterprise?”

“Weed, crack, cocaine, discreet home delivery to the discerning middle classes of Upper Cheam and district, no questions asked. Cash and all major credit cards accepted. The internet’s been a boon to small business, you know.”

“What? Really? Surely not?”

“Why not? I’ve always said, you can be anything you want to be…”