There is something about seeing a dog run at birds. I don’t quite know what it is. Freedom, joy. That’s what I feel. It scampers across the waterlogged grass, water lapping up and hitting its underside, any chance of a sneaky approach abandoned as the sound of the hurried pitter patter of raring legs jolt the white birds into flight. You can hear the birds communicating in a hurried, fearful manner, you can hear the different sounds, the different elements of their conversation. Once one wave ascends, another follows. Until the sky is filled with frightened white birds and a dog looking disappointingly upwards, as the birds go in search for worms brought to the surface by the rain in a dog free zone elsewhere.
2 older boys sit on one bench, a little further down, three younger boys sit on a bench as well. The older ones, stretch out, manspreading, smoking cigarettes and drinking Fanta from the can. The younger ones squirm as the bench is too small for their twitchy adolescent pangs, unwilling and unable to sit still and are eager to irritate one another so that one may leave and leave more space to stretch like the older ones are doing. They engage in allegiances of convenience to target the perceived weak link, flicking his ears until he gets up irritated and with ears stinging in the early afternoon chill. The older ones know they are cool, rebels, bad boys, as they smoke their cigarettes to nubs. Kicking back on a Sunday afternoon. But as their cigarettes disappear and the sight of goyims begins to bore, they require some entertainment. One of the olders gets up and shouts to the younger ones who stand to attention. Go running, it’s good for you. The younger ones have no choice in the matter even though they can’t hide how pissed off they are by the prospect of laps. They take off their black coats and leave them neatly on the bench. They start running, one hand on their yarmulke to stop it flying off, their tzitzit bounces everywhere as they run together, safety in numbers. The older ones stand and watch their charges efforts. They laugh at their trudging and struggles, blocking out the memory of themselves only a few years ago being forced to do something similar by those older than them and how much they hated it. Inherited behaviour and a desire for all to be treated as badly as they once were. It’s fair apparently. They grow bored of the younger one’s running and sit down, lighting another cigarette in the process.
He wears a white or cream suit, depending on the light he is seen in. Burgundy tie and a black shirt. He removes the blazer early on. He looks prim and proper throughout, no creases, no evident sweat sheen. He wears a wide brimmed fedora hat that sits on his wholesome big slab of meat between his ears and stuck to his neck. He has broad shoulders, strong arms and a reasonable gut, nothing serious and the black shirt thins him but a pouch is there, for safe keeping. He likes to make jokes and fill the time between songs freestyling and spitballing his ideas on WW2 Axis uniforms. The all-encompassing performer. The air smells of soapy, shitty weed. And those biscuits that are placed in the urinals to disinfect. Imagine eating one. Squidgy, squeaky, pissy. The audience is packed with balding, bearded, receding, bespectacled gentlemen and a smattering of women in their 40s and 50s. Alone or with friends, their families at home, Dad’s and Mum’s night in London like the old days. And then the last train home back to their suburban sprawl.
Where you live and the answer that you give bears such weight in determining whether this conversation will endure. It seems to be the preliminary question, up there with name and career choice and can dictate whether this person thrust upon you through random chance or decided by a higher being, will bode you worthy of their time. It feels like an interrogation. Anywhere too North or too South or too East or too West is beyond their realm of comprehension and so you become uncool and they will look for an exit as swiftly as possible. But, if you reside in just the right area, or close enough to an up and coming place that you could be seen as almost visionary in your ability to predict trends, rather than desperation and the cheapness of rent, then you can stay. You can stay and talk dubstep or putting 4 grand on a credit card for new decks or the truth behind why we all wear hats, not because it has a cool, rustic, trucker vibe, but to hide the poor genetic make up that is making us go bald at an ungodly rate. Lucky our girlfriends or partners settle for those they can rely on rather than bad boys. Happy Days.
James Creber 