Instalment 5 – Passenger on Board

this nonsense first appeared in issue 17 of Open Wide Magazine 

… He gives in all to easily though. Throws in his hand, like he know he’s beaten, takes a big breath and draws himself up to his full height, opening his mouth wide and singing in a beautiful, if slightly fragile voice. I don’t recognise the song but it has a sort of jazzy after hours feel and is something to do with trees and fruit. It is the most jaw dropping, heart wrenching sound I’ve ever heard. His eyes are shut and his head tipped back and the sheer clarity of Benson’s voice rocks me. He finishes on this really long note and as it fades his eyes go all sort of watery and stuff. Benson wipes his eyes and nose on his sleeve and stares ahead silently. Now I want to tell him stuff, to let him know how much he’s hurt me and how I wished it had been me who’d mangled his leg on the football field all those years ago. If he only knew how many times I’d murdered him in my dreams and how I’d rehearsed aloud in the cab what I’d say to him if I ever came across him. If he knew how much I hated him for ruining music lessons and making me feel so useless. So here he is, in the cab, staring at me and making me feel useless all over again but he has this amazing voice, managing to hit every note perfectly and now he’s just waiting … waiting to see what happens next. Waiting to see if I’ll hit him, swear at him or throw him out onto the road or lock him in the boot whilst I cruise around town like some sick maniac. The door clunks as it’s released. Benson is free to leave but doesn’t. He just sits staring at the back of my head before announcing, “I do remember you now … quite clearly in fact. You stand out as one of them most unpleasant kids I ever taught and you disrupted my class. You’d no right to do that young man. You’d no right to ruin it for everyone else.”

He won’t leave and just sits and for some reason I can’t turn around. Benson didn’t like me because I’d misbehaved in his precious music lesson and it is as simple as that. Perhaps he hated me because I knew that he couldn’t cut the mustard. I could see the Emperor was naked. I knew he was musically impotent! 

Today in my puck ridden cab he auditioned. A moment in the spotlight as he sang for his supper. Today he was a star and he’d proved it to himself and his audience of one.

“Leave now!” I gulp.

“Thought you’d got big plans. You and your mates were all going to do great things. You’re how old? No don’t tell me you’ll make me feel ancient … and you’re driving miserable old cripples like me to the hospital. Really showed me didn’t you?” Benson then kicks the door open with his good leg and gets out, clinging onto the side of the cab for support. And, yeah, before  you ask, I did think about it – putting my foot to the floor, leaving him a sprawling crippled mass on the concrete.

Upright and dignified Benson hobbles up the pathway to his front door and I watch every limping step … can’t take my eyes off him in fact. He turns to salute me before lurching inside.

  

*   *    *

  

After I clock off I go straight to my room to wash the two mugs which have been on my draining board since Gill left, scrubbing really hard to remove the tea stains. Don’t want her thinking I’m dirty stinky, Then I tiptoe downstairs, in the dark and leave them outside her front door. When I get back I’m on the phone to Philpot.

“Alright Philpot! Watcha’ doing?” I ask.

“Sleeping,” he replies groggily.

“Let’s start rehearsing again at the weekend.”

“Got a drummer?”

“Nah, let’s get a computer or something shall we.”

4th Instalment – Passenger on Board – short story over one week (or so)

 4th instalment – this nonsense first appeared in Issue 17 of Open Wide Magazine

My spirit lived on though as he terrorised my baby sister when she went to the school just because of me. Took the piss out if her because of her lazy eye. He delighted in telling her how he’d humiliated me in front of my classmates and he he’d do the same to her if she gave him any grief. When you’ve got a lazy eye, life’s bad enough with hop-along Benson on your case.

So I take my foot off the gas and cruise along the rainy roads, using the time to figure out how to make the most if this opportunity. It doesn’t take  long. I mustn’t make him suspicious. Everything has to appear completely normal. Handing over his change I flip the door locks down, making out it was an accident, like I’d knocked it over or something.

“Sorry Mr. Benson!”

“Let me out!” he barks.

“Still murdering the piano?” I demand.

“How do you …?”

“DON’T YOU RECOGNISE ME?”

Benson winces, stammering, “Umm … err … well … umm maybe. Now you come to mention it your face does look …”

It is obvious he doesn’t have a clue who I am and why should he?

“I’m Rutherford. You used to teach me music.”

“I’m sorry … I can’t. I mean I’ve retired now on health grounds … don’t teach any more … my leg … couldn’t manage,” he stammers.

“Maybe I can help you remember. I want you to think of your favourite son Benson. Come on tell me what your favourite song is will you!”

 “I’m can’t think …”

“Well you’d better start … pretty quick … otherwise!”

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise I’ll take you out into the middle of nowhere and drop you. On a day like this you’ll freeze to death while you hobble to the nearest village!” He makes a grab for the door, trying to wrench up the lock. “It’s no good Benson. You can’t get out. Bit of a safety feature I’m afraid. Stops people trying to fuck off without paying. So start singing!”

I’d like to tell you the obvious. Like to say that he refused or that when he started singing it was really pathetic. Like to say that he was really pathetic, weak and much smaller than I remembered or that he looked old and feeble, as if he wouldn’t harm a fly, but it isn’t true. Sure he looked older and could hardly walk. He’s obviously stuffed full of pain and has spent his fully pensioned early retirement hobbling from one side of some scummy room to the other but he still possesses the arrogance and energy of his former years. His anger, bitterness and determination not to be pushed around is what seems to drive him and it’s probably what keeps him alive.

tbc … nearly there!

Passenger on Board – short story over one week (or so)

3rd instalment – this nonsense first appeared in Issue 17 of Open Wide Magazine

…

“You visiting someone then?”

“Never you mind,” he barks, “just you keep your eyes on the road and let me worry about my health!”

  

*   *    *

  

When we get outside the hospital Benson speaks for the second time, urging to me to get as close to the entrance as possible, shouting , “Closer! Closer!”

“If I get any closer,” I tell him, “we’ll be in the fucking ambulance bay!”

Benson reluctantly counts out the fare, taking coins from this worn leather purse, before limping off towards the entrance. To be honest we tell the punters we wait but if a local job comes up we skip off, do it and return – that way you make two fares in the same time (perk of the job). Thing with this Benson bloke is he’s the kind of punter who’d complain to your boss or the licensing authority, so I just slide into my seat and go to sleep, figuring I won’t give the old bugger anything to whinge about.

*     *     *

  

Next thing I know Benson’s whacking the window. It takes a while to come round and then I can’t work out where I am or anything but he’s staring right at me through the window. Blinking awake he comes into focus and I can see close up he isn’t the old man I’d first thought. Don’t get me wrong I’m not saying he’s young or anything but he definitely isn’t someone in the last throws of life. Clatter! My teeth smack together again as he clambers into the back, slamming the door behind him.

“Everything alright?” I ask.

“Never say do they? I’m the last person they’ll tell if there’s anything wrong!” he murmurs. He’s speaking in a much softer tone – not exact encouraging conversation but at least making some sort of effort. Anyway I’d worked it out by now.

Our first lesson with him was like this pathetic attempt to explain the Lennon and McCartney song writing partnership. As it wasn’t the most stimulating of educational experiences I start chatting to Philpot. When Benson catches me he makes me stand in front of the whole class and sing this poxy hymn. My voice catches in my throat and my face burns red as I mumble my way through.

“Sing up Rutherford!” he shouts. Everyone’s laughing at me now. This other time he sends me out. When he comes after me he shakes me until my head spins. Over the years it got worse … he seemed hell bent on breaking me. Even as I progressed through the school, dropping music as an exam subject, the bastard took every available opportunity to humiliate me, gradually becoming almost paranoid about my very existence.

He knew that I knew his secret so he was keen to find any excuse to send me out when he was playing. He knew that he was unable to play his beloved piano in public without freezing. No bottle, glass jaw, a choker. Every open day or school orchestra performance at which Benson was required to play or conduct he’d blow it. A wrong note here, a dropped beat there, invariably sending his charges into a couple of bars of mangled confusion. Strange thing though … nobody ever mentioned it. A silent conspiracy of incompetence. But he could tell I knew that he lacked the big match temperament. To be honest I could’ve forgiven Benson for humiliating, embarrassing and hurting me but the one thing I found unforgivable was that he killed my enthusiasm and interest in music. They should make that a sackable offence.

tbc … don’t worry there’s not that much more

Passenger on Board – short story over one week (or so)

… Once at school there was this kid in the year below (his parents were hippies or bohemians or something) who was having the crap kicked outta’ him. I saw the glasses go, fly right off his head and clatter on the floor but he wouldn’t go down – and believe me I was willing him to drop – figuring if he did they’d probably kick him a bit and maybe move on to someone else. The kid was a tryer and so I had no choice, I had to help him out. To be honest he looked as though he’d be able to take care of himself but four against one isn’t fair. That’s what I’m saying about injustice and stuff. If it had been a one-on-one situation I’d have walked on by and let him take his chance. I stopped it, picked up his glasses and tried to bend them back into shape but they just sort of fell apart in my hands … hopeless. Handing them back I informed him I was sorry for busting them and stuff and he shrugged. There were tears. Not like he was crying or anything but just like they were there in his eyes, waiting. I asked him his name and what class he was in and if he’d got any mates but he couldn’t speak and just kept shrugging. Blood started coming out of his nose ad he was wiping it on his sleeve which, to be honest made me want to puke. Awful thing was this kid wouldn’t stop following me around. Couldn’t get rid of him for months. He found out where I lived and started waiting outside the house … underneath my bedroom window. My mum wanted to invite him in ‘cos he looked … well he looked kind of pathetic I suppose. I wouldn’t let her. Funny thing is I heard this kid’s a doctor now. Guess I should sign up with him for special treatment or something but I wouldn’t know where to find him ‘ cos I can’t remember his name. They used to call him ‘Hippy’ anyway.

With the long hours and the lights and the fact I’ve got nothing to look forward to this stuff  is floating back. Stuff I thought had been buried and stuff  I didn’t even realise I’d remembered.

 Pick up at Leopold Avenue, Mansion Block. A Mr. Benson going to the hospital. Wants you to wait for him and run him back when he’s finished. 

So what? Another call like hundreds of others. At this time in the morning after the rush hour dies down we get a lot of hospital runs and old ladies going shopping. Nothing unusual. Benson is waiting outside the building in the rain, wearing a fishing hat and long coat. I’m telling you this guy obviously wears the coat indoors ‘cos it’s covered in fag burns and food. Usually I’ll help them to the car, opening the door, carrying their bags or whatever. He beats me to it though, limping towards the back door, and wrenching it open with such force it makes him go that really worrying kind of red. He dumps himself on the back seat like a breathless sack. Once settled he slams the door shut so violently that my teeth clatter.

“Where to boss?” I ask.

“The hospital. Don’t bother going around the houses either! I know the way and I know how much it is … so don’t even bother alright bud?”

Passenger on Board – short story over one week (or so)

This monologue first appeared in Issue 17 of Open Wide Magazine 

Only started in the minicabs because it suits me. Pick your own hours, be your own boss. Also means there’s time to rehearse the band but even that’s gone off the boil lately. We lost our drummer about three months back and drummers are really hard to come by. Philpot reckons we should get a computer or a machine or something but I dunno’. I’m just in it for a laugh anyway and the truth is I haven’t got a clue how they work or anything. Anyway, you can’t have three guitars and a machine – it’d look all wrong. Try naming one band with a drum machine and three guitars … although Philpot keeps going on about this band called … can’t remember now. Anyway, I told him I’d never heard of them whoever they were. So, because it’s been kind of slow and we’re all broke we’ve sort of let it slide I suppose … mainly ‘cos of the cost the rehearsal space now we can only split the room hire three ways.Since Gill left and we stopped rehearsing it’s been a nightmare. Too much time on my hands. Not that Gill went very far – only back to her place downstairs. Should never have started seeing her, not living on top of her and stuff. Used to say she could run but she couldn’t hide. Wouldn’t have minded being dumped except within a week she was with some other muppet and I had to listen to them going at it. I mean she could’ve played away from home.

Started the longer hours just to stay out of the way and keep busy plus I reckon I’ve got some catching up to do. What I mean is that at my age I should have some money in the bank and a decent place to live. Anyway I haven’t so maybe all these break-ups are like a blessing … some sort of blessing … a chance for me to think about what I’m going to do and maybe earn some extra cash. All these hours at the wheel gives your brain time to wander forwards, sideways but mainly backwards. Your past is in front of you. Recently the two main things on my mind (as the lights flash past) have been women (under the categories: What Could Have Been, Missed Chances and Bad Behaviour) and stuff I thought was long forgotten. This stuff makes me angry … really angry. Not that I’m an angry person or anything. You ask anyone … they’ll tell you I’m pretty laid back. Thing is my mind keeps settling on the same old things and it’s like this feeling injustice and that’s one thing I hate. Doesn’t have to be an injustice done to me or anything – could be anyone – even someone I don’t know.

tbc …

‘Fine Line Form & Function’ wins poem of the quarter – ‘Poems That Kick’

A simple post.

http://poemsthatkick.blogspot.com/2007/08/announcing-best-poem-of-summer-quarter.html

The poem itself may be found here:-

http://poemsthatkick.blogspot.com/2007_07_01_archive.html

you’ll need to scroll down a bit.

Flash Fiction Published in Summer Edition of ‘Bent Pin Quarterly’. ISSN 1937-2620

Pleased to announce the publication of a little bit of flash fiction entitled, ‘The Jigsaw on Your Floor’ in the summer edition of ‘Bent Pin Quarterly’. ISSN 1937-2620

Follow this link to read this and other pieces as well as some nice graphics too. Click on ‘Current Issue’ and follow the link entitled ‘go’ from my contributor bio. Enjoy.

http://bentpinquarterly.net/