THIS BAG WILL DIE FOR YOU

Sometimes, it seems like the whole world is out to get me.

Leaving the office I pass a small, quiet car. As I turn my back to it, the engine switches on. It could follow me. Does it want to? That van, the one with the emergency lights flashing? It’s coming towards me. No, no. It is parked off to the side, I’m the one walking towards it. Those lights. Flashing. What could they be trying to tell me? I pass two men. One chortles in the direction of the other. I check myself because I know. These three, they’re laughing, too. They’re all laughing. My mere existence is a cruelly embarrassing joke.

Stand, just stand towards the back, out of everyone’s way. Don’t think I’m not catching you catching sight of me in the periphery. You’re staring. What are you thinking about, though? I can’t bring myself to look at you directly but I know you’re staring at me.

The bus. Finally. You know the score, stick your hand out self-consciously. Stop. Stop, motherfucker, STOP. I’ll take it very personally, if for one of those big city reasons, you leave me standing in the cold. I couldn’t take another ten minutes. I couldn’t take another second.

I reach for my notebook to jot down these meanderings. Feign productivity to take my mind off. But my notebook isn’t there, where it should be. Everything has its place. Okay, fuck it, find something else. Sometimes it feels like the whole world is out to get me. This will do, though: an old envelope and a lucky pen that normally swims at the bottom of my security blanket/canvas bag. The bag that will die for me. It’s true. The inside flap says, THIS BAG WILL DIE FOR YOU. It hasn’t let me down yet.

The fucker behind me is looking over my shoulder. I don’t know who he is, but I know he is. Self-referential hand over the envelope. Protecting my thoughts like that kid in math class protecting his exam answers from prying eyes. This isn’t for you, motherfucker. This isn’t for you. This is for anyone who can’t see me and the one or few who can.In a dull, woolen haze, everything is delayed. Better slip the envelope away before backseat fucker gets a taste for so many implications.

Hop off undetected and walk purposefully up that way, the way you know. Your way. Keep your head up, your chin up. Don’t let them see you sweat, never let them see you bleed. You’ve got a right to this life. Butch. Up. Some of the mantras I sing to soothe.

At that little road now. My little road. Remember the script? Up the pavement on the right, until about halfway, just before the first working street lamp. Then, cross to the other side, nonchalantly through the cars, up a few paces and presto. We’re home.

People. Fucking strangers on my road. Fuck. Fuck fuck. Improvise. Straight ahead. Quickened pace through the burning yellow spotlight. Everyone walks, remember? Everyone walks. Almost home free, just turn the key quietly. Don’t let them hear you coming, don’t even let them feel you breathe.

Stealthy up the landing. Retaining the element to surprise the burglars. But all’s quiet. Once inside, first things first. Is the ringer off? Not today, real world, not today. Maybe not tomorrow either, but you never know. Keep hope alive, these things turn cyclical. In cycles. I haven’t figured out the average length to each revolution, but they tell me all things come to an end, even circles.

Sometimes, it seems like the whole of myself is out to get me.