Chapter 4 The Eternal Sunshine of The Spotted Minds

Rarely one encounters in a life time experiences of agony. And when such thing occurs, one knows not how to express one's feelings. You don't cry out, you shed no tears, you don't even talk, even if there are people willing to listen.

The afternoon after one night out, I got her call. "I must tell you..." (well, what she must tell me is on the you-don't-need-to-know base.) "Congratulations," I said, while I was in bed, in a room the decoration exceptionally elegant and erotic. But I didn't know to whom I congratulated.
Terry laughed dramaticaly when I told him that night in a Pub. "You are quick! Unbelievably quick! Ha ha ha!" Without any idea how I should feel about the whole situation, I went clubbing with them. It was always comforting staying with family, and they were the only family I got in London.

"I know how you feel now. We've all been there. You'll be fine," that was Terry's last comment on my issue. I wasn't quite sure where was there that he said they'd all been. If he meant 30 years of service in the British Navy transforming him inhuman as Andre said, seduced by widow of the neighbor and producing a boy that he could not possibly handle, then I couldn't have been there. Yet it was the privilege of the elderly to say such words, "you'll be fine." They lived it, and they knew it. Yet I'd just begun to experience it, kicking and screaming. That night in club, something was murmuring, mourning in me, and I couldn't stay with them. Also, I lost my mobile there. "You are really a trouble maker, aren't you?" so he said, with his typical ironic, wickedly warming smile.

The weekend ended without Terry's prophecy fulfilled. I felt worse than the first day she called.
Signs of one person in pain. First sign, one mutes oneself. It's not he or she has nothing to say, in fact, there's a hell lot of things going on on his or her minds. Yet one find no words that could possibly describ it. Second sign, one goes out, with no clear sense of direction or destination. You simply can't stay in, it's suffocating. You need fresh air, a lot.

So I went out alone the second night. Jump on the bus, I started travelling around London. At night, London is no different to other metropolis, dark, quiet, yet restless. I experienced this in New York years ago. It was as if there were things going on somewhere you couldn't see. Things you don't know. There were eyes watching in the dark.

But, of course, it couldn't concern me the least. I got bored of the sight from the bus window very soon. It felt the same as that of the window in my room. Everything looked the same. Maybe this is the reason why we went out when we are in grief. To us the world has changed, and we need evidence. It doesn't make sense when such pity happen to us while the world remains not moved.

There was an area in London surrounded by clubs. I got off the bus there. In pain, one does not think. All action was spontaneous, like the reflection of human body. I got off there out of the same reason. I didn't know what I was doing.

I met Elaina there.

Elaina, a woman at her 50s, wore clothes dingy and ratty, short, gray hair, spoke strong Irish accent. She appraoched me first, requesting the direction to a small area in London which is right next to where my place was located. "I'll wait for the bus with you," I said. I didn't need to, yet I needed her. I needed a company. Besides, it would be nice staying with the homeless. Oh, yes, she was one.
"I don't think the bus will come soon, let's walk to the next stop," she said, "and I'll buy you a beer." I liked her immediately. A poor woman, with dignity, and manner. What I didn't know, was that she had a kind heart, yet broken.
She talked all the way when we walked. At first she was trying to explain to me why it was so important that she got to the place. "My son will meet me there," she told me, and I saw excitement in her eyes. "You know, me husband wasn't good to me. He almost kicked off the my son from my womb. But I finally saved the baby. They are all good kids. Me husband..." She talked a lot, and I listened. It's witchy how her stroy calmed me down. Interestingly enough, when you feel like dying, you listened.
I didn't tell her about me, and she didn't asked. That's one thing I know about being with homeless people. They rarely asked questions. They simply tell you what they want to say, if they know that you would listen.

She really bought me a beer, an herself another. We chatted like old friends, her arm in mine, two stranger walking on the streets of London at night like kids from preschool taking the excursion. I said nothing about me.

"Let's sing" she said. We were both kind of drunk. I had stopped thinking about my own problem. She sang alone, a song I'd never heard, yet reminded me my pain.

(Her song)
You've got to hold on, hold on
Hold on to what you've got
If you think nobody will want her
Just throw her away
Very soon you will see someone have your girl
before you can count

The song repeated, only the "girl" was changed to "boy." It was a typical Irish song, celtic, melody extending far, rhythm went slowly, like praying, perfectly matched the scene we were in, an elderly sharing life with a youngster. Hearing the lyrics I couldn't help asking God "are you kidding me?", although so is said that He does have a sense of humour. But I smiled finally, kind of bitter, but from my heart at least. My first true-hearted smile since the phone call.

The bus came. I joined her and paid her fee. At night on London's bus, you see lower class people, niggers, drunkers, teenagers. Normally at time like this, nobody talks.
"Your turn, you sing," she asked me.
So I did.

(My song)
When you walk through the storm,
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of the storm
There's a golden sky
And the silver songs of the lark.
Walk on through the storm,
Walk on through the dark,
And you'll never walk alone
Walk on, walk on,
With hopes in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone
You'll never walk alone...

She joined me right away. I bet she knew the words by heart. It was a song I learned from a movie situated in Ireland. Terry told me few days latter it was an Irish song as well. We sang in the bus as if there were no one there. I saw one lass staring at us, and I returned her a careless smile. We got off the bus together, all giggling.

That night she led me to a dodgy area, asking for a few quits, and got herself some drugs, some thing I have no idea what that was. Seeing her asking for money, looking for friends that would "kindly" sell her drugs, friends that she could share it with, friends that shouted at her, looking down upon her, I felt sorrow. There were rules in that society, and I was previliged to have a glance. "Do you want some?" she asked. I didn't take it, didn't want to take things I don't know.
Thinking that I didn't use drug, she held my hand tightly, looking into my eyes, with her eyes so open, the widest I'd seen all through that night, asking me "then promise me, never ever touch this thing, never!" I saw in her eyes a horrible kind of seriousness, as much as the happiness when she talked about her children.
"Ok, I promise," I said.

Somehow I suspected whether her son would pick her up days later, or she would ever get back to Dublin, or not. Later that night she dissappeared, looking for other friends. Another friend of hers walked me home. Another life's story, heavy as well. Plots were similar, bad husband, kids, drinks, short of money, drugs. It was odd that these people kept me company when I was at my lowest. And they were sincere, all they want was a chat, someone to talk to, no questioning, no judgement.
I returned home when the sun came up.