Story - Strange Boat

 The end of lockdown appeared to be in sight.  The end of furlough, the end of sitting at home staring at the walls.  Joe Wicks and banana bread could go fuck themselves.  There had been no self improvement, no languages learned, no hobbies adopted.  Sleep, eat, game, drink, eat, game, film, sleep again.  On and on and on.  

In the beginning it hadn't seemed too bad.  They tried to set him up to work from home, but quickly realised it wasn't practical.  Too much hands on required.  So he'd been furloughed.  The reduction in income didn't hurt at all, for there was nothing to spend it on.  No gigs, no films at the cinema, no nights out at the pub.  He found himself with more money than month for the first time in his life.

There was even a briefly, socially distanced, period back at work, but it hadn't lasted long.  Back to his wee flat again, back to sleeping at any time that suited, back to only leaving the flat for milk, bread, beer and a few ready meals.  And cereal.  How many Coco Pops can one person eat in nine months?

But now.  Even the gaming held little appeal.  He'd tried to read, but his concentration was shot. In the beginning he'd gone out every day, into the Spring sunshine, he'd walked, he'd Whatsapped pals, called his mum, tried to build up a healthy routine.  By October it had all unravelled.  What was the point in going out if there was nowhere to go?  What was the point in talking to people if you couldn't arrange to meet up?  What was the point in trying to cook when it was just for you, and your taste buds had atrophied along with the rest of your body?   What was the point in anything?

2020 could get in the bin of memory.  So far 2021 could join it, although the recent government announcements flickered little spasms of hope before the eyes.  Except that he didn't know if he could cope with hope right now.  He didn't think he could cope with going out, with people, with work - with getting properly dressed or having to jump to the tune of the alarm.  He didn't think mornings existed any more.  The strangeness of this covid world had become a normality. 

This was making him ill, and he knew there was a need to break from his senseless nihilism.  He commanded Alexa to select a random track and half listened to what emerged.  He didn't recognise it at first, until the words connected in his synapses.

#We're living in a strange time

Working for a strange goal

We're living in a strange time

Working for a strange goal

We're turning flesh and body

Into soul#

"Alexa, repeat song" he pleaded.

#We're sailing on a strange boat

Heading for a strange shore

We're sailing on a strange boat

Heading for a strange shore

Carrying the strangest cargo

That was ever hauled aboard#

Strange Boat, by the Waterboys.  Strange times, even then, back in the eighties.  Mike Scott had it right.  Times were always strange, for strangeness was simply newness.  New situations, new people, new ways of working, new routines, new habits, new life.  New pandemics.  Always, for ever and ever.  Nothing was strange, just different.  

He felt surprisingly cheered by this revelation.  People demanded a return to 'normal'.  But this life, the one he was living, had become 'normal' through these strange months.  And when that 'normal' changed it would never be the same as the one he'd had before.  If he was heading for a strange shore that was fine with him.  He'd ride the boat and see where it took him.  

Story - Not My Fight

Midnight.  It had been a long shift.  The restaurant was packed out that night and I hadn't stopped for five hours.  Hence my dislike of Saturdays.  I was about to realise what an understatement that was.

We left when we'd cleaned up our own section, so it was usually odd ones and twos leaving for half an hour.  I was one of the last.  Stepped out the back door, hearing it clang shut behind me, and breathed in the cool night air.  It might be city centre air, but after the intense heat and steaminess of the kitchen it was like being up Ben Nevis.  As I looked up to the sky, I heard them before looking round.  A grumbling undertone, a questioning, the sound of tension.

At either end of the alley were five or six guys.  Hoodies, trackie bottoms, white trainers.  And, when I looked more intently, knives.  

"Where'd he fukin come frae?"  That from my left.

"Is he one a yous?"  From the right.

"Poofy wee git like that?  You takin the piss man?"

"Aye, looks like one o yous, eh?" 

Both groups took a few steps closer. I tried to remember how to breathe.  Gang fight?  Couldn't be anything else.  We all knew it happened round here, but so far our close had been spared.  At least as far as we knew.  Now they were very much here, and I'd walked out into the middle of it.  My brain fast forwarded through my options.  Didn't take long.

I could bang on the door and hope someone was there to let me back in.  But those blades were only about four metres away now, and they could be on me much quicker than anyone could open up.  Or I could try to talk my way out of it.  There was nowhere to run.  I talked.

"I'm no wi anyone.  Just finished my job for the night, I only want to get to my bed, so if you guys would like to let me pass..."  I looked left.  I looked right.  Passing through didn't look like an available option either.  

"You want him?"  From the left.

"Naw, you have him.  Needs to be oot the way and we can dae the business."  I didn't think being oot the way sound too enticing.

"Come on guys, I'm no a part o this.  You let me get hame and I'll leave you to get on wi... it."

"Is he takin the piss?"  From the right.

"Sounds like it, eh?"  From the left.

"You're deid pal."  Finality, from the right.  The one that talked stepped towards me, blade rising.

Right then the door behind me opened.  Fear turned me into an escape ninja.  Whirled round, shoved poor old Guy back and jumped in, grabbing the door bar behind me and pulling it tight shut.  

"What the...?"  Guy looked up from the floor, looking almost as scared of me as I had been a second before.  I told him the story.  We listened.  Talking.  Only talking.  My sudden appearance and vanishing act seemed to have created allies of a sort.  Eventually the voices ceased and we looked at each other, both sure that we weren't sure if it would be safe to venture that way again. 

We went back through the kitchen into the restaurant.  Only Tony and Bella left.  Our faces told them there had been trouble.  Tony called the police, they came to tell us there was nobody there and no signs of trouble, and they'd start checking round our back way more often.  They even drove me home.  I hoped I wouldn't need any more lifts.