Notebook 23.11
The red ‘do not walk’ glyph stops flashing and stays lit. The cars start again. He stops before the curb with all the others, out of the sharp morning sun, in the cool shadow of a tall, nameless building. He does this every day – either he makes the light just before it goes green or he gets there just as it goes red. It must be something to do with the timing of his train. Life has lost meaning for him. Not that it ever definitely had it. And not that his life’s loss of meaning saddens him. Maybe if he thought about it more, thought about it deeply, it would be upsetting. He wears sunglasses, the same big square ones he’s had for what, 15, maybe 20 years? He’s had them so long the style has come back into fashion. Fashion is an abstract for him. He puts a cigarette to his lips and holds it in the middle of his mouth. His cheeks hollow as he inhales and his brow furrows, the lines deep and thick from repetition. For a moment, he looks sick, ghastly. 34, 35, 36. A group of school children nearby count in unison and it annoys him. He doesn’t care what they’re counting, doesn’t try to to see. Black and grey curls sit in a clump atop his head, like somebody else’s offcuts have been put there as a joke, like his barber gathered offcuts, shorn like sheeps wool, off the barbershop floor and put them in a messy pile on his head. Brown trousers, a crinkled business shirt, a backpack slung over one shoulder. The logo on the backpack is faded and unreadable. Holes line its base. He doesn’t have anything in there. He does, but nothing important, just a ragged paperback, the pages browning and soft, the cover creased and faded from when he folds it back and around for easy holding, for when the train is full and he has to stand with one hand gripping the metal pole that is cold and warms quickly and gets clammy. He puts his house keys in his backpack too, some tissues, things he doesn’t want to bulk up his pockets with. He sucks on the yellow nub of his cigarette again, quickly, and again, then drops it. He steps on the butt, pushing it into the pavement, and exhales. An overweight lady next to him watched the whole thing. She has a semi-disgusted, ‘I-saw-that’ look on her face. He hates fat people. She wants him to hold on to his cigarette butts does she? Because it’s only him littering the city with them? It would be so sweaty to be fat. He sweats enough without having layers of blubber weighing him down, creasing and folding and getting in the way of his everyday tasks. A fold of fat hangs over her elbow. She’s probably covered in lines and blue veins and stretchmarks. And her skin is probably snow white. She’s probably hungry right now. Aching for food, something moist with grease, in the same way he’s aching for a coffee. 61, 62, 63. What are they counting? The children are younger than he expected – they’re looking at something ahead. Where are their parents? Is there a teacher around? The red ‘don’t walk’ sign switches to green. The children cheer, stop counting and scurry across the street. He walks too.
LI
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