while waiting in london for jude to be done with work, i wrote:
He has ordered a glass of red wine. Bald, hunched over with bamboo walking stick and dignified umbrella, tweed coat and nearly matching tie, he tottered in. and now he is sitting next to me, folding his money, bill by bill: Elizabeth upon Elizabeth. He clicks his tongue and mumbles incoherently to himself in a grumbly Yoda voice. I'm sitting at the tiny table next to him, smoking a Camel Light, drinking a lager. He looks at his watch, clicks his tongue. Stares blankly forward. Whitney Houston is asking where broken hearts go. Can they find their way home? He is a perfect fixture at the Horse and Groom pub.
And now, another man, middle-aged and bushy-haired is struggling with a bottle of beer at the bar in front of me. His back is to the bar; he's facing me, wearing a remarkably bad sweater of some native design. I won't look, I won't look. These are the men who always want to chat me up, buy me a pint, ask me if I have a boyfriend. This is my demographic, I always joke with my friends. And it's true. Oh no, he has stood up, looking out the window behind me. Yoda clicks. He sits back down. Saved. For the moment. Yoda crosses his leg and gnaws a toothpick. Did he bring it with him? What kind of man brings his own toothpicks to pubs? I light another cigarette. Clear my throat.
It took an extra three hours to get to London today. Delay upon delay due to the fire brigade strike. Instead of the simple Piccadilly/Victoria Line tube trip to Oxford Circus, I had to detour along the District Line. And it was so crowded, full of people to stare at because you have to look somewhere. You pick your favorites: the ones who look the most interesting and also don't seem to notice you're staring. Therefore, you don't feel like one of those staring kinds of people. I found two: The first was a Hasidic mother, blue-eyed with olive skin, holding her baby and keeping her eye on her two boys and two girls, who were all very excited to be on the choo choo train. Her husband sat idly, distinguished in his black woolen trench coat and yarmulke. She looked so tired. Her lips were full and quiet. She had a sleepy profile.
Then, as I stood cramped in against a door with all my weight shifted onto my left ankle, I watched a woman in purple: knitted cap, scarf, and jacket were all various shades of lavender. She was small and pensive with animated blue eyes. She was seated next to a bearded Indian man—they were obviously a couple—talking quietly. She often looked past him as he talked with her ear cocked toward him. She had the deepest crow's feet around her eyes when she smiled, but she still looked very young. She held his hand with her pinky; appeared to be elsewhere much of the time. We made eye contact once, briefly. I looked down at my aching ankle. We arrived at the station. I nearly fell out the door. That was goodbye.
Yoda seems to have fallen asleep. His chin is buried in his chest. He's leaning, leaning…sits up with a start. Looks around, clicks. Closes his eyes and leans. Bad sweater man is talking to a friend, laughing.
