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last updated 3 June, 2008
Your Story
You are going to write a story.
The protagonist will be recognisable as a thinly disguised version of you, with some
of your flaws, quirks, hopes and fears. They will live in an anonymous street in an
anonymous town that bears a striking resemblance to your town.
The story begins on a Tuesday, or any other day, at that time of year that is not yet spring but no longer winter, when early blossom is at risk from frost damage, yet it is possible to enjoy a bright sunny day.
You decide to walk the last short stretch to work; it helps wake you up in the morning and makes you feel better about the hours ahead sitting still at a desk.
As you come out of the station there is a man sitting slumped against the wall on the side of the street. He is wearing a dark suit with freshly polished shoes. You can’t see his face as it is buried in his hands, but from the way his body is shaking it looks as if he is sobbing.
What do you do?
If you walk on by you will probably forget about him by this evening. You will continue your day, making phone calls, sending emails. Perhaps you will have some good news about a project you have been working on and celebrate with some colleagues at the local pub before heading home, with a warm glow induced by alcohol and conversation. All thoughts of the stranger will be driven from your mind.
If you slow down as you pass, you may see someone else approach the man, lean over him, talk to him. Thus reassured you continue as before.
But perhaps as you are walking by no one is looking his way, no one sees him, or no one wants to. What do you do? You have no idea who this person is. The suit suggests that he is unlikely to be dangerous but you can never tell for sure these days. You wrestle with your conscience and approach.
You say hello. He doesn’t respond. Perhaps he doesn’t hear you. Perhaps he doesn’t understand you. You try again.
Excuse me? Are you alright? Is there anything I can do?
He raises his head.
How does he look? Blotchy and tear stained? Pale and shaking? Unshaven and hollow-eyed?
No, he is laughing.
This leaves you unsure what to do next. Luckily, he makes the next move.
Could you help me up?
You hesitate for a moment, then hold out a hand. He takes it, and with an athleticism that belies his plea for assistance springs to his feet and throws his arms around you.
Thank you, thank you so much. You don’t remember me do you?
You shake your head instinctively, the likelihood of meeting anyone you know in a city of this size is so small after all. But then you start thinking. Is his face familiar? It is certainly unremarkable; dark hair, blue eyes, clean shaven, even features. At the back of your mind a memory is forming. He fills in the gaps.
School, well college. We went to the same one. I sat behind you in history class. Isn’t life absurd?
This last comment thrown in without drawing breath. He starts to laugh again. Does this relax you or make you uneasy? Either way you will be late for work if you hang around much longer. The initial relief that he is not upset is outweighed by the strangeness of the current situation and the look of sympathetic concern on your face is shifting. While you are considering your options he speaks again.
Look, I don’t suppose you have time for a coffee do you? Only I’ve just had a bit of luck and would love to celebrate with you.
Do you join this semi-stranger, talking as old friends with this person whose name you don’t even know? It could be the beginning of a great friendship, or more, and in years to come you could laugh together at the strangeness of the world and the way you met.
Or you could glance at your watch, anxious that this simple act of concern for the welfare of another could upset the pattern of your day. You see the disappointment forming on his face and reluctantly agree to spend an awkward five minutes drinking coffee and making small talk, you thinking all the while how you could simply have walked on by.
Of course you could still leave him now. The human contact makes that just a little bit more difficult, but sometimes you have to think of yourself. And there is that big presentation this morning that you have to prepare for.
So you manage to extract yourself from his embrace and make your excuses, wincing at the look in his eyes that suggests he knew all along that you wouldn’t find the time to talk to him. As you walk away down the street you turn to look back and see him standing, watching your departure.
It isn’t until you get to work that you realise you didn’t take history, and your wallet, phone and the strange man have gone.
Lucky this is just a story, don’t you think?
Evelyn Downing, 2007