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twnetyfive
Maybe my whole life will just be marked by starting new jobs and quitting old jobs. Maybe one day I'll find a job I love, move out of my Mum's house, find someone that loves me. Maybe some day I'll stop having crushes on terrible people; people that turn out to be racists.
I worked at a restaurant, then quit.
My friends left for university while I stayed here, determined not to live just by what was expected of me.
I got a job as a waitress, I paid my Mum rent.
I started having a crush on the kitchen porter who speaks a language I can't understand. I don't know what more to say. I don't know what else I can do.
***
I finished my last day of work today, slipping out without being noticed. Mozart was there. He looked up at me from his sink like he always did. Said 'Hallo.' But as of now he is no longer part of my life – just a character in the cast of my memory. Someone I'll be able to tell someone else about in the future: 'Did I ever tell you about the time I had a crush on someone called Mozart?'
I worked at a restaurant, then quit.
My friends left for university while I stayed here, determined not to live just by what was expected of me.
I got a job as a waitress, I paid my Mum rent.
I started having a crush on the kitchen porter who speaks a language I can't understand. I don't know what more to say. I don't know what else I can do.
***
I finished my last day of work today, slipping out without being noticed. Mozart was there. He looked up at me from his sink like he always did. Said 'Hallo.' But as of now he is no longer part of my life – just a character in the cast of my memory. Someone I'll be able to tell someone else about in the future: 'Did I ever tell you about the time I had a crush on someone called Mozart?'
END
twentyfour
My pumps clip off the back of my heals as I tread along the path running through the fields planted with stones and crosses. Names, numbers, bad poetry engraved on every one. I divert from the path and start cutting inbetween them. A face for each name appears in my head. I stop at one: a couple; the husband fell asleep at the age of 49; the wife fell asleep at the age of 103. I think about those fifty-four years she lived without him. I wonder how long my Mum will remain faithful to the memory of my Dad. He isn't here. That's not why I came here. I don't know why I came here. It's certainly not out of habit; I've only walked past before, but when I saw the sun shining on it today something compelled me to walk through the wide open gates.
It is silent here, save the the sound of flapping wings as the birds fly from tree to tree. I go back to the path, my pumps loose, clipping off the back of my heals.
A black and white cat is walking between two gravestones. It stops, solid and looks at me. I press my bottom teeth to my top lip and suck in to make the noise of a mouse. This has never helped anyone when trying to attract a cat, ever. But still I try. The cat bursts into a bounding sprint and doesn't stop until it reaches the trees that surround the cemetry. There it stops and looks round at me again, curiously, before dissappearing behind a tree trunk.
I start walking back to the entrance gates. Near the entrance there's an angel, righ arm raised, reaching towards the sky. In it's left arm it is carrying a harp, and it is looking down at the ground, but still it is reaching with its right arm towards heaven. The right arm ends half way up the wrist; the hand is missing entirely. I look at the grey figure for the longest time, but when I turn away I don't remember any names or dates engraved on the statue. It doesn't matter, I tell myself.
Walking amongst these stones of names, dates and bad poetry I don't feel any sense of sorrow, dread or sadness. I feel at ease. Maybe it's all just meant to trivialise death. It makes slipping into nothingness easier to deal with. I'm certain the woman that lived fifty-four years after her husbands death managed those fifty-four years by thinking of death simply as falling asleep.
I start thinking to myself, their twin gravestones read out the same message, but only the dates were different. Then Sarah phones. The only reason I know this is because my phone tells me, as I answer to the heaving sobs of self pity that are running out of my phone.
'I can't believe I slept with him again,' she cries.
I start to ignore her and my mind begins to wander. I think of year 7, the first year of secondary school. Me, Sarah and a few other girls would sit together every lunch time. I remember Sarah telling us about getting her period: she was the first. She told us how her parents took her out for Chinese and they let her drink wine. That day, after school, I went to Superdrug and examined all the sanitary pads and tampons, deciding which one was right for me. I decided to buy a selection to try on at home, but when I got to the counter there was a guy there. I felt too embarrassed, so put them back. I chuckle to myself. Sarah says it's not funny. I forgot I had a phone pressed to my ear. I contempate telling her what I was just thinking of but she is already talking about herself again. I think that most of our conversations have replicated that day at lunch time when she told us about her period. Always telling me her experience like I am naïve to the ways of the world. Her life will always be worse than mine, she will always have more to complain about, but she will become a more worldly, well rounded person because of it. I feel the bloody pumping through my hanging arm – the one not holding the phone – making my fist clench. My jaw clenches too. Teeth pulled together tight. Sarah s whining down the phone, winding up a leaver increasing my blood pressure.
'Why are you phoning me Sarah?'
'What?'
'What do you want me to say? I've told you what you need to do, but I don't think you listen. I don't think for one second you have ever listened to a word I have said to you. You're a moron. You never ask me how I am, you just phone me crying about your idiotic mistakes.'
I pause and listen to the silence running up and down between the phones connected by satelites. The phone goes dead. I consider calling her back, but decide not to. I realise I have just been shouting down the phone in the middle of a cemetry.
It is silent here, save the the sound of flapping wings as the birds fly from tree to tree. I go back to the path, my pumps loose, clipping off the back of my heals.
A black and white cat is walking between two gravestones. It stops, solid and looks at me. I press my bottom teeth to my top lip and suck in to make the noise of a mouse. This has never helped anyone when trying to attract a cat, ever. But still I try. The cat bursts into a bounding sprint and doesn't stop until it reaches the trees that surround the cemetry. There it stops and looks round at me again, curiously, before dissappearing behind a tree trunk.
I start walking back to the entrance gates. Near the entrance there's an angel, righ arm raised, reaching towards the sky. In it's left arm it is carrying a harp, and it is looking down at the ground, but still it is reaching with its right arm towards heaven. The right arm ends half way up the wrist; the hand is missing entirely. I look at the grey figure for the longest time, but when I turn away I don't remember any names or dates engraved on the statue. It doesn't matter, I tell myself.
Walking amongst these stones of names, dates and bad poetry I don't feel any sense of sorrow, dread or sadness. I feel at ease. Maybe it's all just meant to trivialise death. It makes slipping into nothingness easier to deal with. I'm certain the woman that lived fifty-four years after her husbands death managed those fifty-four years by thinking of death simply as falling asleep.
I start thinking to myself, their twin gravestones read out the same message, but only the dates were different. Then Sarah phones. The only reason I know this is because my phone tells me, as I answer to the heaving sobs of self pity that are running out of my phone.
'I can't believe I slept with him again,' she cries.
I start to ignore her and my mind begins to wander. I think of year 7, the first year of secondary school. Me, Sarah and a few other girls would sit together every lunch time. I remember Sarah telling us about getting her period: she was the first. She told us how her parents took her out for Chinese and they let her drink wine. That day, after school, I went to Superdrug and examined all the sanitary pads and tampons, deciding which one was right for me. I decided to buy a selection to try on at home, but when I got to the counter there was a guy there. I felt too embarrassed, so put them back. I chuckle to myself. Sarah says it's not funny. I forgot I had a phone pressed to my ear. I contempate telling her what I was just thinking of but she is already talking about herself again. I think that most of our conversations have replicated that day at lunch time when she told us about her period. Always telling me her experience like I am naïve to the ways of the world. Her life will always be worse than mine, she will always have more to complain about, but she will become a more worldly, well rounded person because of it. I feel the bloody pumping through my hanging arm – the one not holding the phone – making my fist clench. My jaw clenches too. Teeth pulled together tight. Sarah s whining down the phone, winding up a leaver increasing my blood pressure.
'Why are you phoning me Sarah?'
'What?'
'What do you want me to say? I've told you what you need to do, but I don't think you listen. I don't think for one second you have ever listened to a word I have said to you. You're a moron. You never ask me how I am, you just phone me crying about your idiotic mistakes.'
I pause and listen to the silence running up and down between the phones connected by satelites. The phone goes dead. I consider calling her back, but decide not to. I realise I have just been shouting down the phone in the middle of a cemetry.
twentythree
I leave the café with a strange feeling. I'm not sure whether I want to yawn or throw up. This is a purely physical feeling, or pain. I think the interview went well. I think about Melanie calling and saying I've got the job and then me working there and making friends with everybody and being excited about going to work in the morning. And then buying a flat closer to town and having everyone from the café round for a house warming party. I couldn't have that with Ant and Mozart, or anyone else from the restaurant.
I then think about Melanie phoning and saying I did really well but they found someone else with more experience. I tell myself it's best not to get my hopes up anyway.
I walk back to the bus stop slowly. The buses are infrequent and I have more than twenty minutes before the next one comes. I decide to go to the library and get a DVD out.
I get back to the bus stop with five minutes to spare. I read the back of the DVD case four times. The bus is ten minutes late. In the nine minutes before the bus shows up I think, maybe it came early while I was at the library. But if it had, surely it would have waited until it was on time? I contemplate walking home instead, but stay where I am. Eventually the bus comes and I get on and go home.
I then think about Melanie phoning and saying I did really well but they found someone else with more experience. I tell myself it's best not to get my hopes up anyway.
I walk back to the bus stop slowly. The buses are infrequent and I have more than twenty minutes before the next one comes. I decide to go to the library and get a DVD out.
I get back to the bus stop with five minutes to spare. I read the back of the DVD case four times. The bus is ten minutes late. In the nine minutes before the bus shows up I think, maybe it came early while I was at the library. But if it had, surely it would have waited until it was on time? I contemplate walking home instead, but stay where I am. Eventually the bus comes and I get on and go home.
twentytwo
The forty minute trial starts with me putting on a faded polo shirt over my dress and tying an apron round my waist. The shirt smells strongly of other people.
The managers name is Melanie. Melanie shows me how to use the coffee machines and how to ring up orders on the till. There is still a queue at the counter and I feel like I am the in line entertainment. My cheeks burn as I stand with my back to everyone. I can feel my cheeks burn and this make them burn even more. I imagine my face right now, glowing, bright red, like a beacon of embrassement.
'Do you make coffee at your current job?' she asks me.
'Yeah, but we use cafetiers,' I tell her. 'None of this newfangled malarky.' I say this as a kind of joke, but Melanie looks at me with a blank expression.
'Er….I actually think Espresso machines are older than cafetiers. I think cafetiers were invented quite recently. Comparitively I mean…' Melanie tells me.
I give a surprised but interested look and don't say anything.
'…and if you need any help with anything don't be afraid to come and find me, or ask Alex here.' She moves an open palm in the direction of the camp barista currently serving people. He looks over his shoulder at me, smiles wildly and says Hi.
After she has left, I stand behind Alex, motionless, not sure what to do. Alex is serving. I see some customers leave there table and pick up a tray from the counter to go over to clear it up. I come back to the counter with the tray, unsure of what to do with it. There's no queue now and Alex shows me where the dirty cups and plates go.
People come in. People leave. Serving. Collecting coffee mugs. It's the same as the restaurant, I think to myself. I chat to Alex. Alex loves working at the café, he tells me. He says it's the friendliest place he has ever worked. He asks me about the restaurant and why I'm leaving. I don't want to say I have a crush on a racist kitchen porter that works there, but if I give him some vague answer about not getting on with people there then he could think 'what's going to stop her from getting on with people here?' I give him a different answer about wanting to get more experience.
At the end of the forty minutes the tail end of the lunchtime rush are just finishing their drinks. Melanie comes out from behind her black door and asks if I want to follow her. She tells me to get changed out of the polo shirt and apron and then we'll have a coffee and a quick chat about how everything went. We sit in the café and she asks me what I want. I have a regular latte and she has a double Espresso. Every movement she makes at the coffee maker seems completely natural and professional. She is at one with the coffee maker. I imagine her staying in the café after dark and sleeping next to the coffee maker with a big blanket covering the both of them.
She makes the coffees and brings them over on a tray. She drops two cubes of brown sugar into her double Espresso and stirs it gently, but somehow precisely. She asks me how I thought it went, explains what kind of hours I would be working were they to hire me and asks if I have any questions. I still haven't thought of any but I feel like she’ll hold it against me if I don't ask anything. Like it will reduce my chances of being hired..
'Are there any opportunities for, I don't know, like, promotion? I mean I know it's only an independent café but I was just wondering…'
'Right,' she looks right at me in a very business-like manner, 'well, like you said, we're an independent business. We don't have a chain of stores like Starbucks or anything that we can send you off to manage. But, you know, we run lots of different events here. Live music. Art show cases. And we're always keen to let you experience the more managerial side to how the café runs.
'I hope this answers your question.'
The managers name is Melanie. Melanie shows me how to use the coffee machines and how to ring up orders on the till. There is still a queue at the counter and I feel like I am the in line entertainment. My cheeks burn as I stand with my back to everyone. I can feel my cheeks burn and this make them burn even more. I imagine my face right now, glowing, bright red, like a beacon of embrassement.
'Do you make coffee at your current job?' she asks me.
'Yeah, but we use cafetiers,' I tell her. 'None of this newfangled malarky.' I say this as a kind of joke, but Melanie looks at me with a blank expression.
'Er….I actually think Espresso machines are older than cafetiers. I think cafetiers were invented quite recently. Comparitively I mean…' Melanie tells me.
I give a surprised but interested look and don't say anything.
'…and if you need any help with anything don't be afraid to come and find me, or ask Alex here.' She moves an open palm in the direction of the camp barista currently serving people. He looks over his shoulder at me, smiles wildly and says Hi.
After she has left, I stand behind Alex, motionless, not sure what to do. Alex is serving. I see some customers leave there table and pick up a tray from the counter to go over to clear it up. I come back to the counter with the tray, unsure of what to do with it. There's no queue now and Alex shows me where the dirty cups and plates go.
People come in. People leave. Serving. Collecting coffee mugs. It's the same as the restaurant, I think to myself. I chat to Alex. Alex loves working at the café, he tells me. He says it's the friendliest place he has ever worked. He asks me about the restaurant and why I'm leaving. I don't want to say I have a crush on a racist kitchen porter that works there, but if I give him some vague answer about not getting on with people there then he could think 'what's going to stop her from getting on with people here?' I give him a different answer about wanting to get more experience.
At the end of the forty minutes the tail end of the lunchtime rush are just finishing their drinks. Melanie comes out from behind her black door and asks if I want to follow her. She tells me to get changed out of the polo shirt and apron and then we'll have a coffee and a quick chat about how everything went. We sit in the café and she asks me what I want. I have a regular latte and she has a double Espresso. Every movement she makes at the coffee maker seems completely natural and professional. She is at one with the coffee maker. I imagine her staying in the café after dark and sleeping next to the coffee maker with a big blanket covering the both of them.
She makes the coffees and brings them over on a tray. She drops two cubes of brown sugar into her double Espresso and stirs it gently, but somehow precisely. She asks me how I thought it went, explains what kind of hours I would be working were they to hire me and asks if I have any questions. I still haven't thought of any but I feel like she’ll hold it against me if I don't ask anything. Like it will reduce my chances of being hired..
'Are there any opportunities for, I don't know, like, promotion? I mean I know it's only an independent café but I was just wondering…'
'Right,' she looks right at me in a very business-like manner, 'well, like you said, we're an independent business. We don't have a chain of stores like Starbucks or anything that we can send you off to manage. But, you know, we run lots of different events here. Live music. Art show cases. And we're always keen to let you experience the more managerial side to how the café runs.
'I hope this answers your question.'
twentyone
I am working for McDonalds. I don't think I am actually working there, but I just have this feeling of 'I can't believe I'm working at McDonalds.' I try and hide it from my friends, but it's like this uncontrollable feeling of shame. I'm sure actually working at McDonalds isn't quite as bad as I make it out to be in my mind. I wake up early and lie in bed for about an hour thinking. My interview is at 12pm and at 10:30am I realise I don't have anything ready. I look through my clothes and think about what I am going to wear.
I get out of the bath and dry myself and brush my teeth, looking at myself standing in front of the mirror, naked. I look at my nipples. I once found a really long hair on my right nipple and was terrified with the thought of having hairy nipples the rest of my life, or having to save up to get electrolysis on them or something. I pulled it out with one of my tweezers, follicle and all. One hasn't grown since.
I get dressed in black leggings, black undershirt, blue checked flannel dress and a grey cardigan. I think to myself this looks good! Good interview clothing.
It's 11am. I make breakfast and earl gray.
I get the 11:24am bus into town. The buses are infrequent really, hourly. Always late too. I look at my watch when I sit down and the bus starts pulling away: it's 11:29am. I still have plenty of time, but my mind is a mess. My thoughts about interview questions and answers are spinning round in my head. I count my breathing for a minute to try and calm myself down. 16. A second minute. 14. I press the button and the bus pulls over.
I step off the bus, sun shining in my eyes. I figure I may as well get to the interview early and start walking towards the café.
It's busy when I get there. I start to wonder why they decided to hold the interview at lunch time on a Saturday. There's a queue at the counter, so I wait in line before telling one of the baristas that I am here for the interview. I'm fifteen minutes early anyway. He is friendly and tells me to take a seat wherever and the manager will come and see me in a bit. I look around the café and there is nowehre to sit – everywhere is taken. I stand to the side of the counter and try and stay out of peoples way, but people seem to get confused and ask me if I am waiting for anything. I blush and say no.
Eventually, the manager comes through a black door, She is a woman in her mid-30s, I guess. Business like in a post-hippie/free spirit sort of way. Confident. She strides up to me and says Hi, shaking my hand vigourously.
'Come through here with me.'
She takes me through the black door and into a narrow corridor. Abstract pictures of coffee beans and stovetop espresso makers are on the walls. She leads me up to a door with a metal sign fixed to it: MANAGER. She takes a key from her pocket and unlocks the door.
'Take a seat,' she smiles, ushering me into the room. There are two seats: one is a big comfy-looking computer chair behind a computer desk; one is a chair from the café. I contemplate the computer chair for about a second, then sit down in the one obviously meant for me.
'Did you get here alright, parking wasn't too bad was it?'
'Ah no, I got the bus.'
'Oh excellent. You live near-by then?'
'Yeah, just outside town really.'
'Right, so first of all, I'd just like to let you know that there's been a lot of competition for this position. We had over fifty applicants and out of that we're only interview 10%. So don't feel too bad if you don't get the job!
'The way this interview is structured, I don't know if anyone explained to you on the phone, but what we do is I'll give you a formal interview for twenty minutes and then you will actually work the floor for forty minutes. Is this okay?'
'Yeah.'
She leans down on the desk to write something.
'I will have to write down all of your answers, so don't worry if I seem a bit unresponsive. It's all part of the interview. Okay? And then afterwards we'll talk briefly about how it went and you can ask me any questions. Now, before we begin, do you have any questyions that you want to ask me?'
My mind is utterly blank. I don't even know if I'll make it through the first question. But the questions begin. I answer automatically.
'Right, excellent,' she says. 'And now as a last question: if your friends or co-workers could describe you in three words how do you think they'd describe you?'
I pause. One by one people come to my head. They're being interviewed in a dark police cell. Being asked questions about me. They're being interviewed on the local news saying what I was like after I was killed by a sex offender.
EX: Stubborn
ANT: Flat chested
SARAH: A good listener
MUM: Un-ambitious
MOZART: ???
'Um…I have no idea, I guess… reliable.trustworthy, and… funny?'
'Okay.'
'No wait, that sounds silly, I mean…'
'Don't worry,' she says, 'Good, okay. Do you want to come with me and we'll get you an apron and a shirt?'
I get up out of the chair and a drip of cold sweat runs down the side of my body. I shake my head and tell myself to stop thinking so much. I tell myself I am not living in the moment.
I get out of the bath and dry myself and brush my teeth, looking at myself standing in front of the mirror, naked. I look at my nipples. I once found a really long hair on my right nipple and was terrified with the thought of having hairy nipples the rest of my life, or having to save up to get electrolysis on them or something. I pulled it out with one of my tweezers, follicle and all. One hasn't grown since.
I get dressed in black leggings, black undershirt, blue checked flannel dress and a grey cardigan. I think to myself this looks good! Good interview clothing.
It's 11am. I make breakfast and earl gray.
I get the 11:24am bus into town. The buses are infrequent really, hourly. Always late too. I look at my watch when I sit down and the bus starts pulling away: it's 11:29am. I still have plenty of time, but my mind is a mess. My thoughts about interview questions and answers are spinning round in my head. I count my breathing for a minute to try and calm myself down. 16. A second minute. 14. I press the button and the bus pulls over.
I step off the bus, sun shining in my eyes. I figure I may as well get to the interview early and start walking towards the café.
It's busy when I get there. I start to wonder why they decided to hold the interview at lunch time on a Saturday. There's a queue at the counter, so I wait in line before telling one of the baristas that I am here for the interview. I'm fifteen minutes early anyway. He is friendly and tells me to take a seat wherever and the manager will come and see me in a bit. I look around the café and there is nowehre to sit – everywhere is taken. I stand to the side of the counter and try and stay out of peoples way, but people seem to get confused and ask me if I am waiting for anything. I blush and say no.
Eventually, the manager comes through a black door, She is a woman in her mid-30s, I guess. Business like in a post-hippie/free spirit sort of way. Confident. She strides up to me and says Hi, shaking my hand vigourously.
'Come through here with me.'
She takes me through the black door and into a narrow corridor. Abstract pictures of coffee beans and stovetop espresso makers are on the walls. She leads me up to a door with a metal sign fixed to it: MANAGER. She takes a key from her pocket and unlocks the door.
'Take a seat,' she smiles, ushering me into the room. There are two seats: one is a big comfy-looking computer chair behind a computer desk; one is a chair from the café. I contemplate the computer chair for about a second, then sit down in the one obviously meant for me.
'Did you get here alright, parking wasn't too bad was it?'
'Ah no, I got the bus.'
'Oh excellent. You live near-by then?'
'Yeah, just outside town really.'
'Right, so first of all, I'd just like to let you know that there's been a lot of competition for this position. We had over fifty applicants and out of that we're only interview 10%. So don't feel too bad if you don't get the job!
'The way this interview is structured, I don't know if anyone explained to you on the phone, but what we do is I'll give you a formal interview for twenty minutes and then you will actually work the floor for forty minutes. Is this okay?'
'Yeah.'
She leans down on the desk to write something.
'I will have to write down all of your answers, so don't worry if I seem a bit unresponsive. It's all part of the interview. Okay? And then afterwards we'll talk briefly about how it went and you can ask me any questions. Now, before we begin, do you have any questyions that you want to ask me?'
My mind is utterly blank. I don't even know if I'll make it through the first question. But the questions begin. I answer automatically.
'Right, excellent,' she says. 'And now as a last question: if your friends or co-workers could describe you in three words how do you think they'd describe you?'
I pause. One by one people come to my head. They're being interviewed in a dark police cell. Being asked questions about me. They're being interviewed on the local news saying what I was like after I was killed by a sex offender.
EX: Stubborn
ANT: Flat chested
SARAH: A good listener
MUM: Un-ambitious
MOZART: ???
'Um…I have no idea, I guess… reliable.trustworthy, and… funny?'
'Okay.'
'No wait, that sounds silly, I mean…'
'Don't worry,' she says, 'Good, okay. Do you want to come with me and we'll get you an apron and a shirt?'
I get up out of the chair and a drip of cold sweat runs down the side of my body. I shake my head and tell myself to stop thinking so much. I tell myself I am not living in the moment.
twenty
The restaurant starts to clear. I start to wipe the tables down. I begin to stack the chairs while this last few customers are finishing. I ask John if it's okay if I can go and get my bus. He says he'll be fine. I go to the changing room to get my bag. Mozart is there, changing his shirt.
'Getting the bus?' he asks me, top-half naked.
'Yeah.'
We walk to the bus stop not saying anything to each other and wait there in silence. It's dark now and the street light next to the bus stop isn't working. It flickers on and off and is a dull orange colour. We get on the bus and sit next to each other. Mozart pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts writing something in Polish. All the letters seem to have accents, dashes and moutaches on them. I watch as he is writing his text, punching at the keys with his weather-beaten thumbs. He writes and deletes then writes a bit again and then saves the text to drafts instead of sending it. I want to ask him something stupid, but I restrain myself. I think about how old Mozart is. I think about all the things I know about him. I think about him in his living toom or study or someone else living room or study giving a violin lesson. He is standing patiently with his hands behind his back, listening attentively as his pupil finishes their piece - I imagine the pupil as a young girl with tied back brown hair and deep, big brown eyes. She has come straight from school and is still wearing her uniform; skirt, shirt, tie, blazer, white knee high socks. She stops playing and Mozart says 'very good', and then gives her some advice on the way she is holding the violin or how she should put more emphasis and feeling onto certain parts or certain notes. And when the girl gets home she writes in her diary on her bed about her violin teacher from Poland. And the next day at school she tells her best friend how she thinks she might be in love with her violin teacher from Poland and it suddenly becomes big news.
Mozart wakes me up to ask if I have found anywhere to work yet. I tell him about the interview at the café tomorrow. He says he knows the café and says it's nice.
'Very good cakes,' he says, winking at me, 'Don't eat too many!'
I blush. I ask him about his violin lessons and ask how many pupils he has at the moment.
'Only two at the moment. But I put advert in paper…?'
'Right.'
'So, who knows…' he purses his lips and moves them from side to side, like they're not really attached to his face – fake lips – making a vague expression.
'Well, if I know anyone who wants violin lessons, I'll send them your way!'
We both laugh at this, even though its not really meant to be funny. He looks forward grinning to himself; I look forward, confused, and not sure what to say next. I think he says something like 'I'll miss this,' and then I say 'pardon?' He puts his arm on the back of the seat and turns so he is facing me.
'I need to get off,' he says.
'Oh, sorry, okay,' I get up and let him get past me.
'Thanks,' he whispers and then walks down to the front of the bus, pushes the bell and waits for the driver to stop and open the door,
I can see him under the light of the street lamp out of the window and then we start to pull away and Mozart is swollowed by a blob of darkness.
I think about all I know about Mozart. This vague person in my life. This co-worker. This racist. This confused feeling in my stomach, like a knot untying and retying itself. This violin tutor. This apparition that slowly seems to be becoming a physical entity in my life, and who will just as quickly disappear again at the end of next week. What will I know about Mozart then? What will I have of Mozart then? I want to get off the bus and follow him. I want to know if he's still a racist or if he thinks it's okay to call Ant a nigger. I want to confirm his status as a living human being.
I get home and my Mum is lying with the dogs on the sofa. They are all staring intently at a crime drama on TV. I can't help but laughing as I look at them.
'Good day at work then?'
'Not too bad,' I say, still laughing. 'I heard back from the café. I have an interview tomorrow.'
'Oh, excellent precious!' She sounds genuinely pleased for me.
I get a yoghurt from the fridge and eat it in the living room, asking my Mum questions about what is happening. She grunts answers and ignores me.
'Getting the bus?' he asks me, top-half naked.
'Yeah.'
We walk to the bus stop not saying anything to each other and wait there in silence. It's dark now and the street light next to the bus stop isn't working. It flickers on and off and is a dull orange colour. We get on the bus and sit next to each other. Mozart pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts writing something in Polish. All the letters seem to have accents, dashes and moutaches on them. I watch as he is writing his text, punching at the keys with his weather-beaten thumbs. He writes and deletes then writes a bit again and then saves the text to drafts instead of sending it. I want to ask him something stupid, but I restrain myself. I think about how old Mozart is. I think about all the things I know about him. I think about him in his living toom or study or someone else living room or study giving a violin lesson. He is standing patiently with his hands behind his back, listening attentively as his pupil finishes their piece - I imagine the pupil as a young girl with tied back brown hair and deep, big brown eyes. She has come straight from school and is still wearing her uniform; skirt, shirt, tie, blazer, white knee high socks. She stops playing and Mozart says 'very good', and then gives her some advice on the way she is holding the violin or how she should put more emphasis and feeling onto certain parts or certain notes. And when the girl gets home she writes in her diary on her bed about her violin teacher from Poland. And the next day at school she tells her best friend how she thinks she might be in love with her violin teacher from Poland and it suddenly becomes big news.
Mozart wakes me up to ask if I have found anywhere to work yet. I tell him about the interview at the café tomorrow. He says he knows the café and says it's nice.
'Very good cakes,' he says, winking at me, 'Don't eat too many!'
I blush. I ask him about his violin lessons and ask how many pupils he has at the moment.
'Only two at the moment. But I put advert in paper…?'
'Right.'
'So, who knows…' he purses his lips and moves them from side to side, like they're not really attached to his face – fake lips – making a vague expression.
'Well, if I know anyone who wants violin lessons, I'll send them your way!'
We both laugh at this, even though its not really meant to be funny. He looks forward grinning to himself; I look forward, confused, and not sure what to say next. I think he says something like 'I'll miss this,' and then I say 'pardon?' He puts his arm on the back of the seat and turns so he is facing me.
'I need to get off,' he says.
'Oh, sorry, okay,' I get up and let him get past me.
'Thanks,' he whispers and then walks down to the front of the bus, pushes the bell and waits for the driver to stop and open the door,
I can see him under the light of the street lamp out of the window and then we start to pull away and Mozart is swollowed by a blob of darkness.
I think about all I know about Mozart. This vague person in my life. This co-worker. This racist. This confused feeling in my stomach, like a knot untying and retying itself. This violin tutor. This apparition that slowly seems to be becoming a physical entity in my life, and who will just as quickly disappear again at the end of next week. What will I know about Mozart then? What will I have of Mozart then? I want to get off the bus and follow him. I want to know if he's still a racist or if he thinks it's okay to call Ant a nigger. I want to confirm his status as a living human being.
I get home and my Mum is lying with the dogs on the sofa. They are all staring intently at a crime drama on TV. I can't help but laughing as I look at them.
'Good day at work then?'
'Not too bad,' I say, still laughing. 'I heard back from the café. I have an interview tomorrow.'
'Oh, excellent precious!' She sounds genuinely pleased for me.
I get a yoghurt from the fridge and eat it in the living room, asking my Mum questions about what is happening. She grunts answers and ignores me.
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