(Inspired by Tracy Chapman’s ‘Fast Car’)
He stares down at the ticket. The only other thing on his table is a coating of grey dust. Tears roll down his cheeks, splash in the dust. Ticket to paradise, ticket to life.
He sits down with a thud. Ah, the years gone by! He was younger then, restless, carefree. What could he have done differently? Nothing. How could he have lived better, in his twenties? There was no way. His childhood was a struggle: not financial, just emotional. Having to be responsible for everything, a firm anchor. Deep down he wanted nothing more than to drift away on a strong current. But his overriding thought was to keep things anchored, precisely to resist such a current. They might splinter in a thousand pieces on some alien shore. So he kept them in calm anchorage. Now what?
The storm has calmed since then, the anchor now winched up, dumped carelessly on deck. Its years under water have thinned it with rust. The pull of the sea has bent one fluke out of shape. But it did its job. It held.
It’s a different landscape now. He fends for himself. Can this rusty anchor be refashioned to a sleek craft? Then he can explore the wide ocean, its turbulent, desolate spaces. Through his twenties he’s floated friendless, in an uncertain world. Enough! He’s had to learn boatbuilding from scratch. To be best in the world will be good enough. He’s reached his thirties and ready to sail the seven seas.
He looks again at the ticket, colourful like the new life it promises. A life all his own, in which nobody else may stake a claim. Forged inch by inch like a chain. Strong enough to pull his sleepy existence from its backwater out to the encompassing ocean, which connects every continent. Will he be ready for the right tide when it comes? Can he wait silently till then? Mustn’t be caught unprepared. He’ll say that he did it all himself. From now on, he will control his own direction; or just cast his fate to the winds. Either his own doing or the wind’s. So be it, let the wind decide. But let him live!
He looks back to his youth. Oh yes, girls came and went. Some would have offered themselves as crew for the long haul. But they didn’t come ready to trim the sails, take their turn at the oars. Some he would have picked, but they didn’t stick around. Let him travel alone then, with only the wind for company and no pilot. His boat will take care of itself. If it crashes on the shore, there’ll be nobody to weep. He’ll go with the flow.
You wouldn’t have known about his preparations. You’d never have guessed. You’d have thought he was quite the young man about town—the one who’s got it all, cutting a dash without being flashy. But all this time he was getting his boat ready to sail. First he laid the keel, then he assembled the hull. He had to start again several times to get it right. Then he carefully installed the mast, attached the sail, unfurled it to see how it responded to the wind. He had to try different weights of canvas, fitting and retesting till he’d got the balance right between hull, mast and sail. Not till he’d mastered boat-building and sail-making, not till then was he satisfied.
He lights a cigarette, sighs softly, watching a silver wreath of smoke curl up like an unfurling sail. Perfect, diaphanous, shapely.
He glances out the window. There’s the world, it never gives a damn. Cars whizz by, people walk purposefully past in the yellow darkness. Dogs chase a cat, the cat runs up a tree. The dogs wait patiently round the trunk. There’s a man with a bag of apples to take to his kids. He doesn’t want to be jostled by the proles. Drunks stagger, curse the world, vomit beside the hydrant, collapse on the filthy sidewalk.
Nobody cares. Nobody looks beyond his immediate vicinity. Children turn into youths, fall in love, fall out of it, fall again in love, marry, have kids and then die. Life is simple. Thus are they blessed, that they never had to live submerged, like a trusty anchor. They didn’t have to die each day to learn how to live. But this rusty anchor has broken free. It has chosen life.
The ticket will take him to a country he’s never been. For the first time, he’s living for himself, purely and selfishly. Pleasure has to be seized! Why couldn’t he have indulged long ago? He’ll be going to his dear friend’s place. They’ll drink English ale; talk about love, loss and life. He will learn how to live and will tell his friend about falling in love. Things will fit into place.
He’ll say hello to the world, dedicating his life to seeing, tasting, feeling and touching it. Seeing the sun rise in every corner of the world. Keeping vigil while the moon rises above his head. Waiting for the stars to appear in the darkening sky. He’ll pick out the brightest star and greet her. “Hello, you look beautiful from here. How do I look to you from there?” Checking her out through the telescope, in case she too is starting to show signs of age. She will be his! Following him constantly on his travels, joined in a faithful bond.
Now is his time to see the world, live on his own behalf, be free—as he now is.
Three months ago, he had called his mother.
“Momma, will you let me go now? Am I free now? I fulfilled my promise. Didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Are you proud of me momma?”
“I am.”
“Do you think I could have done things differently, would you have wanted me to be different?”
“No. Not at all. You have exceeded my expectation. I thank you.”
“Why was I born Momma? Why did you drag me here?”
“I am sorry. But that was your destiny.”
“What’s my destiny Momma?”
“I don’t know. Go figure it out.”
“Where do I start?”
“Inside you.”
“I am blank, Momma. I don’t have an inside.”
“No, it is sleeping. Just nudge it a bit, it will wake up.”
“What do I do with it when it wakes up?”
“Ask anything. It will answer.”
And he nudged, and it woke up, and he asked, and he got an answer.
And he called his momma again.
“Momma, I want to live.”
“Live. I am sorry to have kept you hostage. ”
“Am I free Momma?”
“You are.”
“What do I do now?”
“I can’t answer for you, my boy. You want to live. You need to know how you want to live. I can only suggest what my narrow outlook towards life tells me to. It tells me that you should settle … raise your own family. Have a wife. Have kids.”
“I don’t want to start it again Momma. I am tired.”
“What do you want then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go figure out. Give yourself time. Don’t rush.”
He gave himself time. He drank, he loitered around aimlessly, he fell in love. He got hurt. And then he figured out. It was always so apparent. He always knew it was the case. He wanted to drift away. He wanted to drift away to an unknown land. He had made his boat, built it with care. He had hung a figurehead from its bows, in the shape of a vagabond clutching a broken spear, ready for his last fight, unto the last breath. A boat for drifting away.
“Momma, I have found my answer. I want to drift away from everything. I want to live momma. Will you let me go?”
“Yes, go.”
“I won’t be coming back momma.”
“I know. I don’t want you to come back.”
“I am leaving you momma.”
“I am crying.”
“Why are you crying momma?”
“I never yet cried for you. That’s why.”
“Why didn’t you cry for me momma?”
“It would have made you weak. You were my last hope. I was selfish. I robbed your childhood.”
“What is childhood momma?”
His mother didn’t respond.
“Momma, you there?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you silent?”
“I am crying. I am crying for you.”
“Shall I leave you momma?”
“Yes, please.”
“Will you miss me momma?”
“Every moment of my life.”
“How will you live without me momma?”
“I have lived my life. Now you must live yours.”
“How is my elder sister?”
“She is doing great.”
“How is my younger sister?”
“She is doing good. She is on her own now.”
“Shall I stay back for a while more now, momma?”
“No. We don’t need you anymore.”
“I will not return momma.”
“It’ll be the saddest day of my life if you return.”
“I am leaving then momma.”
“Yes, son. Please go. Live your life. Die your own death. Breathe your own air and walk your own way.”
Here is his ticket. Now the boat can be launched. Let the wind take it. Let it find anchorage in the lee of an island, or drift away to a blue lagoon. Let it run aground on Poverty Bay, or take up a berth on Affluence Marina. Trial and Error have taught him in the boat-yard. Now let Wind teach him how to sail. Then he will become a master mariner. The world will be at his feet.
His momma has set him free to die his own death; maybe to die alone, curled up like an old tattered sail, stowed and forgotten. Till then, he will be a pilgrim. The ticket to paradise lies in front of him. He picks it up. Never mind the dust, it can stay. He’s leaving.
edited by Vincent (inspired by Joan Armatrading’s ‘Rosie’)
and we both liked her ‘Me Myself I’
a wayfarer’s notes 