A teenage boy sat listening to his friend, patiently waiting for the supply of tales about the previous evening’s parties and misdeeds to finish. Once they did, he sank back as if relieved and, in defiance of a nearby sign ordering patrons to refrain from doing so, stretched his legs out across the seat.
“Gawd, this place…” he said, shaking his head.
The friend jumped, as if surprised the impact of his storytelling had already diffused. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I just get so fucking bored.”
“What else did you expect in our final year? Don’t worry – it’ll be over soon enough.”
“Not soon enough for me,” the boy mumbled, turning to look out of the carriage into the darkening afternoon. The silhouette of a major shopping centre was visible on a hill in the distance, neighbour to a construction site of a new residential tower; cranes loomed protectively over its rooftops, tendering safety to the occupants of the future. The boy examined his fingernails, as if deciding whether to bite them or not, before curling them into fists to shove under his armpits. He shivered and went silent.
His friend, sensing weakness, pressed his advantage. “Come on, if your life is so boring, tell me what you’d rather be doing instead.”
The boy smiled and sat up, leaving his feet on the seat.
“What do I want? I want to take a gap year, for starters. Get a passport, go overseas. Live out of a backpack. Stay at hostels. Get drunk in Ireland. Get drunk in Germany. Run with the bulls. Go skiing until my skin peels off from the sun.”
Warming up to his speech, he took out his hands and moved them in space, as if turning an invisible globe to stop at suitable destinations.
“Cuba! Smoke a cuban cigar in Cuba. Taste absinthe. Visit the Red Light District in Amsterdam. Fuck it, visit all of Amsterdam. Go to New York and sit in Times Square, feel the energy, be absorbed by lights.
Get lost.
Be.
Just, be.”
His stunned friend could only nod before finally finding words to reply. “Not a bad plan,” he said.
The train began to slow; all the passengers leaned forward in response to the braking, even the two youths, no match for physics. The friend whipped his head around and elbowed the other boy in the ribs.
“Come on, this is us, dreamer boy.”
Once the train arrived at the station, the teenage boy grabbed the assistance rail and swung himself up in a graceful arc. As he passed my shoulder, sitting across the aisle, I dipped my head, hoping I hadn’t been caught eavesdropping. After pressing the exit button they were gone. Last I saw of the duo was their hitching up of their jeans in a near synchronised movement before they moved off towards the ticket barrier.
It wasn’t a bad plan at all, I thought, agreeing with the friend. I don’t think I’ve dreamed like that since I was their age.
And I think it’s time I did.
This event took place shortly after this occurred. It was a providential kind of day…
