King Commute
By Mark Daniell
22/01/2010
Picture the scene: A bus journey, a cold but sunny day, you’ve got an early morning meeting and for once you’re looking forward to it. Suddenly you realise you’ve been stationary for ten minutes, you’ll be late if you don’t move soon. You peer ahead and see an endless line of traffic, but that’s okay because your meeting is only one block away.
You approach the bus driver.
Excuse me, could you let me off here? We haven’t moved in ten minutes and ...
No. The bus driver doesn’t even turn his head.
Okay, well why not?
Which part of no didn’t you understand?
You take a breath. It’s not that I didn’t understand, I did understand, which is why I asked why not?
The driver looks away.
At this stage you’d like a gun, or at least some kind of truncheon, and to be in an episode of Spooks, also you’d like a quick backstory on the driver to reveal him as some kind of wife-beater so that the retribution you’re planning would in some small way be justifiable.
But you have none of those things. All you have is an uninvited seething mood.
You walk down the bus quietly and casually like a good passenger, you dawdle by the doors and then quickasaflash press the emergency button and step out.
What’s he going to do? Leave his precious bus unattended?
It’s roughly at this point you get slammed by the cyclist.
Picture the scene: A beautiful crisp blue day, you’ve been cycling for the best part of half an hour and your hands are frozen. Your gloves were still wet from last night’s drizzle and you forgot to put them on the radiator.
All along the river you’ve been jostled by stinking, smoke-spewing cars. There he goes, red Peugeot, N reg, an engine built in the nineties, probably on an eighties design. How’s that still allowed to chug along city streets?
It’s always the same thing along this stretch of river: you get overtaken by the same cars time and again. You catch up with them at the lights, wiggle through, leave them behind, and then get overtaken again. They get angry when you cut the lights, it’s dangerous they say. But it’s not dangerous, they’re just jealous. If they really cared about your safety they’d give you a bit more space as they overtook. Instead they skim closer and closer.
The red Peugeot nips past again, the bike wobbles and you squeeze the brakes gently. It’s almost as if he’s doing it on purpose. You regain your balance and replace your weight on the pedals. Wanker.
Still, it’s a beautiful day. And you’re not far from work now. The trees skim by.
He’s up ahead, stuck in some traffic. You accelerate to overtake, and just as you pass, you snort a gobfull of phlegm and aim it at his wing mirror. Splat! Direct hit, you skim between the cars up ahead and press on along the curbside. He’s probably only just realised, he’s probably trying to convince himself it was unintentional. You smile to yourself at the perfect crime.
It’s roughly at this point that you slam into the pedestrian.
Picture the scene: A freezing morning. The radio is crackling because for some reason the people at Peugeot decided to run the aerial through the rear-windscreen heater and now you have to choose between being able to see out the back and listening to Wogan. Why do you listen to Wogan anyway? He’s such a sarcastic old fart. But there’s nothing else.
The traffic is bad. It’s always bad in the mornings, ever since the congestion charge. All it’s done is force everyone onto the surrounding roads. There’s a surprise.
Still at least it’s not raining. The car smells of cat’s piss when it rains. How does that work?
Your petrol light is on. It’s been on for a while, but the needle isn’t quite at the bottom. At what stage does it light up? Is it the same with all cars? Is it a government requirement? Has anyone really ever run out of petrol except in the movies?
You stare up ahead at the parade of red brake lights. You’re going to be late for school again. Late again. Still it’s a Friday, who isn’t late on a Friday?
Something flicks against your window. A bird has done a shit on your wingmirror. You pat the steering wheel, Lucky Betsy. You look over at the bird shit and realise it isn’t bird shit but spit. Someone has spat on your car. You look up and see a cyclist in a fluorescent jacket disappear off down the line of traffic. Son of a bitch... You start to get angry but realise, what can you do?
It’s roughly at this point that you imagine writing a story in which he smacks into a pedestrian.