RSS 2.0 FeedWar Horse
It’s starting to rain, and I sit myself next to a man at a bus stop; don’t say much, don’t have to. You know the type: late to middling years, neatly dressed, tied and shirted, exuding a martial air. His jacket brushed, his tie shaped, his trousers creased – burnished black brogues mirrored to a shave-yourself sheen. It’s always a giveaway. On his hands the faded blues and blacks of inks indelible, criss-crossing his gnarled flesh, changing the once female-formed renderings into daubed ink smudges. Tattooed beauties picked out in some foreign port and needled for posterity on willing flesh. An age when there wasn’t a tomorrow, when one lived in the moment, for the hour, for the possibility.
The shelter’s cold and damp, stinks of piss, and, as per usual, the bus is late. The gent next to me looks to the front, his thousand-yard stare burning holes in the concrete of the municipal Ministry-of-What-Not across the street. Despite his tenuous hold on life, he has time enough. No rush, no haste, if not today, then tomorrow; obviously he’s post ticketed for the fast track experience – voyaged an ocean of pain – ridden the bullet train to hell – and in no hurry to go back. Been there, done that, and purchased the rights to a t-shirt printing press of the mind. No doubt remembering when minutes lasted hours, seconds a lifetime. A time when waiting for public transport would have been a luxury, a urine-splashed bus shelter a God-send.
You can always tell. It doesn’t take badges and medals, blue-blazered crested affirmation or regimental bands and battle honors. The horror of conflict under jungle canopies and death-raked beaches does something to a man. Marks him forever, stamps him as an initiate forged in an era of getting things done. No complaining, stiff upper lip, “mind your p’s and q’s’” back home for tea and crumpets – or more likely a beer and a cuddle at the Pig and Whistle.
Squared shoulders, straight-limbed bravado, the epitome of hidden youth. A warrior spirit concealed within the trenches of wrinkled skin, behind the camouflage of greyed hair and sandbagged eyes. Hard to shake memories of when the air sang. Dream-filled insomnia of death and destruction, oceans of sand and mud, of men screaming for their mothers. Seas of unforgotten faces left and lost on unpronounceable battlefields, on foreign shores in countries now packaged for summer holidays. The rows of white stones, part of the attraction, the Dunkirk Kodak moment that you can show to friends and smear onto the Web. Not happier times, just different. When thoughts of tomorrow were as improbable as moon shots, their only possession the here and now – love today because who knew what the dawn would bring.
The rain comes down harder, pelting the shelter, water streaking down the glass, framing the tardiness of a red number seven as it splashes its way to a hurried stop. The clang of bells and the crump of pneumatics as the door close. The old boy in front of me fishes for plastic tokens and a faded photo pass, the ephemera of a grateful nation. Life and limb given for half price transportation but then only outside of rush hours and dependent on calendar dates – excluding Easter and Christmas! There’s no complaining, no whining, just smiles as he thanks the driver and takes his seat. Surrounded by forgetful ignorance, a public more interested in commercialism than recent history, there are no handshakes, shoulder slaps or words of gratitude. Deep down he probably likes it that way; no fuss, no bother, just insulated anonymity. No point in blowing one’s own trumpet, nobody appreciates a bore, and what would be the point anyway?
The bus stops, and I make my way to the exit, hanging on to the handle before electing to eject myself into the dank wet of the city street and away from the wombed warmth of metropolitan transportation. I catch his eye, and he finally notices me. I scream my recognition, implore my understanding, open my mind to telepathic transmissions and broadcast my affinity with the warrior code – what it is to be a soldier. The old boy simply looks right at me. Does he recognize one of his old mates in my face, or is he even now crouched in a shell hole screaming for his life, pissing himself in abject fear? Perception is reality, and thankfully mine involves a takeaway Chinese and a couple of cans of lager.
I stare up at the rain-spattered windows and the condensed fug of the bus as it drives away – wheels splashing through gouts of water. I pull my jacket around my ears, tighten my scarf, and try to avoid the puddles. The weather is really starting to close in, and I have a hungry wife and a couple of starving kids at home. Decisions, decisions. What will it be, chicken Chow Mein or egg fried rice?
Colin James, an Englishman who emigrated to the U.S. in 2001, is contentedly married with two terrible children. After various junctures in New Mexico and New York, he and his family settled in Phoenix, Arizona.
Initially part of the British Army, then to the tops of Austrian mountains as a ski guide, he is now a professional in the semi-conductor industry. On the side he runs a successful window cleaning company. In between making computer chips and ensuring that the local population can see clearly, he writes and blogs.
A student of English literature at A.S.U and a member of the West Valley Writers Workshop, Colin is about to self-publish an anthology of short stories on Amazon, The Potion Peddler’s Almanac. His first novel Lord Alf, with an optimistic publishing date of 2011, is in the editing stages.
Blog site: www.writercrjames.wordpress.com His e-mail address: Colin James