So many vibrations, and faces, and names, and voices, and trash bags pecked to death by seagulls in the cramped, dark streets, lit up by neon marquees and burning cigarettes shoved between mumbling lips.
I was looking for a damn frozen yogurt place called Snog - funny name, Snog. The decision to go was very sudden - I had to simply get up and leave, or else I wouldn’t have gone at all. My nerves were going wild. London scares the shit out of me. It’s dirty and for some reason there’s always an old bum nearby, coughing up a loogie somewhere behind you. There’s a constant aroma of human feces or rat piss in the air, no matter where you are, and it’s only stifled momentarily by the random passerby who wears too much cologne.
I like the tube. I think its fascinating how even if you aren’t in a hurry, you find yourself running along with the crowd. It’s how I’d imagine cattle feel when they’re being herded into their pens. The crowd mentality is what it is, and it enthralls me. Instead of moving along as individuals, we are swept into this vortex of a giant moving mass. Stragglers break off and fall to the side, dwindling into the unknown. Unknown because all we do know, all this constantly moving mass knows, is one motion, and that motion is forward. Onward. Go. Go. Go. It is as if we’ve been programmed to function as a single unit.
But I hate getting on. You have to break away from your tube-family and become a single person again. You have to sit in squishy seats that feel wet, even though they aren’t. You stare at the empty seats across from you and you notice how parts of the seat are lighter than others. Then you realize that those prints are just from the material having been worn down by thousands of asses. Then you realize that you are one of those thousands of asses. Then when you realize your stop is coming up, you start to get really anxious. And then when it finally does come, you awkwardly jump up and step on someone’s foot and you feel like… one of those asses.
And then it’s back into the constant motion - the constant flow, the rhythm, a race to see who can make it to the next train first, who can make it up to fresh air, or rather up to less confined, just as smoggy, air.
I thought it would be easy once I got there. Take Kings Cross to Piccadilly, get off, it looks like I only need to take two corners and then I’ll see it. Behind Queens Theatre. It’s probably just a long strip of ice cream shops!
Oh, but wait - What’s that? It’s Friday night? Oh. What’s that? There’s also a festival tomorrow? Oh…
Oh.
The mass spills out into the busy street and comes upon: the giant Piccadilly statue. I remember you. The Regent Strip of elite retail stores, wasting electricity with all their florescent bulbs, burning through the night.
Everything is buzzing, everything is alive. People are spilling into bars, clubs, pubs. London is constantly full of people who know exactly what blazer to wear and what shoes to match. Men and women alike are so fashion-conscious it blows my mind.
I find myself picking a random street, still stuck in this mess of chaotic flow. I don’t want anyone to know I’m a tourist. I feel vulnerable when I’m recognized as an outsider, and this is certainly not the kind of environment where I want to feel vulnerable. I feel like a lamb. I feel like a duckling. I feel like a worm in, well… in the middle of the goddamn street, surrounded by millions of drunk people.
I walked in circles for hours. I lost any form of GPS I thought I could hold onto. I found myself walking through Chinatown. I saw a guy in front of me pull out his phone and discretely look at a map before slipping it back into his pocket while looking around. “You and me both, buddy… you and me, both,” I muttered under my breath and then we split paths.
I wound up in a completely different district, where I found a gelato shop I had considered going to called Scoop. The prices were too high. I didn’t want gelato. I wanted froyo. If I can’t spend money, I’m definitely not going to spend it on something I don’t actually want. I awkwardly stood in the doorway outside the gelato shop and struggled to find wifi on the street. Having eventually accepted failure, I lamely stooped inside and mustered up enough confidence to ask for directions:
“Okay, sorry, this is weird,” I lean over the counter, keeping my voice low, my eyes squinted. Kind of like, let’s keep this a secret between just the two of us, alright bud? “Sorry?” “I am looking for a place.” “Okay?” He doesn’t understand my hesitance. “It’s frozen yogurt.” I stare at him with bated breath. “Oh, that’s fine! We don’t sell frozen yogurt!” He chuckles. “True!” His outburst makes me relax a little and back off the counter a bit, “Okay, so it’s called Snog.” “Oh, all the way over in Soho?” “I guess… I don’t know! I have no idea where I am!” I throw my hands up and let them drop to my sides. “Oh, well… This is Covent Square. Welcome!” “Huh! Okay!” He comes around the gelato bar, and walked out the front. I follow, sheepishly. “So walk all the way down this road, then there’s a round about.. take the… first? second?” He’s counting his fingers, “Third…? exit.” “The third?” “No, the fourth.” “Okay, the fourth.” “Yes. You basically just keep walking straight and then you get to The Commitment,” he looks at me expectantly here, I look at him blankly (though I find out later The Commitments is a musical that is currently playing at the Palace Theatre), “It’s the giant theatre with the bright lights.” “Oh! Okay! Okay, okay. Commitment. Got it.” “And then… well, ask someone once you get there.” I laugh and thank him sincerely. He laughs, says its okay, and frolics back inside.
I walk I walk I walk I feel like I’m about to cry because I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going and I am slightly terrified I walk I walk I walk I walk I walk through a mass of bicycle carriers that don’t look at all trustworthy enough to steer anyone through an ever-expanding crowd of inebriated lunatics. I walk through a mass of taxis, looking like they lack just as much reliability. I walk past tourist and tourist and tourist and I wonder why I feel so uncomfortable when all the people around me are tourists. I’m alone. They’re all coupled up. That’s why.
I get to The Commitment and I pick a random street instead of asking someone else for directions. I see the Queen’s Theatre finally, which brings me comfort because that’s the only landmark I gave myself before leaving the hostel. I walk past it, I see a sign for Soho. I follow that, thanks to the lovely Scoop gentleman. I turn, I refer to the lame screenshot of the map on my phone, and I find my way through drunken crowds attempting to get into clubs. At last, I see SNOG in all it’s lit up globe-riddled-ceiling glory. The line is going out the door.
I wait.
I don’t care that I’m waiting because I’m just so happy to have finally found the place. I get a classic sized, original-tart froyo with double mochi because they’re all out of strawberries.
There are no seats inside. They don’t have wifi. I decide to go outside.
I sit down, I’m having a pleasant enough time.
I’m watching all the people. I notice a massage place across the street that I remember walking past within seconds of coming off the tube. I shake my head. Then I start to notice there are several massage parlors all around me. Strange. I see a larger woman with ragged clothes asking several young girls in mini skirts and heels for some change. They politely say no and walk on by. The woman laughs as her friend comes up: a tall, thin, jittery girl with short bleached hair and long features - her fingers, her feet - she wears large white flat sneakers. Skater shoes. The ones I used to wear when I was younger and thought I was cool. I start to wonder if I look at all like this woman - the ragged hair, the lack of care for my attire. I decide I’m being ridiculous, I just look comfortable. And cute.
And not like a crackhead.
I notice my yogurt looks very plain. I suddenly feel very plain.
A man walks by, aggressively encouraging two men to come get a massage. One guy seems into it, the other has this awful look of disgust on his face. He’s quickly walking ahead while his friend laughs and lingers behind, talking to the man offering the massages. For the sake of both yourself, the reader, and myself, the writer, we will call the man offering ‘Olaf’ and the man speeding away ‘Sam.’ Olaf shouts ahead at Sam, “Fine! Fine! You go on home! You (he grabs onto the arm of the other man - we’ll call him Larry) you just stay with me, come get the massage, he can go on home! Just go, go!” Sam is storming away now, livid. Larry says, “No man, no, we’re together, I’m leaving.” Olaf looks defeated, hurt even, “No! You stay, he can go!” And with that the two men disappear into the crowd of young drunks.
Olaf turns back to a friend behind him, standing in the midst of a crowd forming outside the froyo shop. Perhaps Olaf’s boss? I am suddenly doing that thing I do. I become too interested in a specific story playing out before me and forget I’m not just a fly on the wall. I make eye contact with Olaf’s friend/boss in the crowd. He’s an older Indian man. His two front teeth are crooked and point into one another. He’s wearing a tailored dark grey suit. He stands tall, hands in his pockets, with this really unnerving air of confidence about him. I don’t like this man. I am sitting alone on the bench. I am vulnerable. I am alone. I feel uncomfortable.
I look away quickly and start to panic. I’m breathing quickly, I concentrate on slowing down. I don’t need to have a panic attack in public - then I really will look like a drug addict.
I feel his gaze leave me and I calm down. I think he’s walked away. A few moments pass. I turn my head again, casually looking for more silent stories, and what do I see? The man is still standing there. We accidentally make eye contact again (I say accident, but it was really only so on my part) and that’s when he decides to approach me. I curse under my breath.
“Excuse me, do you work at the cafe?” “Nope.” “You don’t?” “Nope.” “I could have sworn that you do.” “I don’t.” “I’m sorry, I just, I swear you do.” “It’s fine.” “You sure you don’t?” “Yeah.” He leans in closer to me. I’m avoiding looking in his direction. I’m avoiding speaking to him at all. “Sorry, I just think I’ve seen you there.” “You haven’t.” “Well I’m sure I have!” “No, you haven’t.” I laugh through a tight-mouthed grimace. “What are you doing out here?” He sits down beside me on the bench. The entire bench is empty aside from the two of us. It’s a very long bench. “Just eating my frozen yogurt. Trying to enjoy a night to myself.” “What, why?” He looks… offended? Shocked? “Because I feel like being on my own.” “That’s crazy!” Okay, shocked, “Why?” ”I just want to to be alone and I want to enjoy my frozen yogurt by myself.” (WAS I SERIOUSLY NOT BEING CLEAR ENOUGH???) “Oooh, So you must work here then?” he points behind us to Snog and smirks smugly. I respond with a unamused stared, “Nope.” ”You don’t?” “Nope.” “You really, really don’t?” “I dont.” A pause. ”Are you from around here?” ”Nope.” ”Where are you from?” I sigh deeply and laugh again, annoyed out of my fucking mind, ”California.” ”Oh!” He fakes some weird sigh of intrigue, ”How long are you here for?” ”A couple nights.” ”How long have you been here?” ”A night.” That’s a lie, it’s only just my first night. He would not stop. He kept asking me these pesky little repetitive questions. He asks if I’m alone, tells me it’s “REALLY IMPRESSIVE.” I’m “REALLY INSPIRING. YOU INSPIRE ME.” Fuck off, man.
He asks where I’m staying, when I’m leaving. He tells me where he lives and smiles. I say cool. I hate answering these questions when I’m alone because I feel like I should lie so as to not get kidnapped and murdered, but I don’t know the place well enough to make up lies that are believable. I should say I have someone I’m with, waiting for me elsewhere. But I also firmly believe I shouldn’t fucking need to and so I won’t. I should be left alone if I ask to be left alone.
When he ran out of questions, he just sat there.
I couldn’t leave because I didn’t know where I was going and I just wanted to fucking sit and finish my goddamn frozen yogurt. I was having such a pleasant time before he came up. Why was he not understanding this? We sat there in silence. I kept my head turned away from him.
“Sorry,” I say, breaking the awkwardness that was putting a terrible kink in my neck, “I’m just not in the mood to talk to anyone.” I’m trying to get him to say oh, okay and get up and walk away. He doesn’t. He just asks why.
About halfway through the same bullshit interrogation routine I thought we had finished for good, a very handsome man (my age, dressed in everyday clothes) comes up and sits next to him. They have a quick chat about having “the stuff,” if someone wants “the stuff.” There’s a small misunderstanding and the kid (trying to stay as hushed as possibly) is obviously uncomfortable about the older man speaking so openly about their business transaction. “OH. You HAVE the stuff! Well, let me see if someone wants any and then I’ll come get you.” The kid nods quietly, irritated. Something tells me this isn’t how its all supposed to go down. The man gets up and I sigh a heavy sigh of relief, until all of a sudden he turns to me and says, “Unless she wants some?” He cackles and points that annoying fucking prick finger in my face. Staring me dead in the eye and refusing to look away, I quickly realize he’s not joking.
OKAY, WAIT. DO I ACTUALLY LOOK LIKE A CRACK HEAD, THOUGH?
I squint my eyes, scrunch my nose, and wrinkle my chin, pushing out my bottom lip, “Ha. Uh. No. I’m good.” He chuckles and swiftly diverts his attention. The kid continues to sit there, uncomfortably. I have a feeling he doesn’t actually enjoy this career choice he’s seemingly stumbled upon. He looks mortified. I quickly finish my frozen yogurt. I get up. The indian man appears taken aback by my sudden resolve to leave. I wave goodbye and cross the street as he begins saying something to me. I throw my cup away with furious vigor and storm off. It isn’t until I get to the end of the road that I realize I’ve gone the wrong way and have to turn around, which means passing him again.
I purposely go on the opposite side of the road in the hopes of not dashing directly past him. A gazelle past a lion.
He’s crossed to the other side of the road. I walk by him, attempting to hide my face behind my hair. It doesn’t work. He grabs at me. I don’t stop. He shouts, “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Yup!” I yell back, and as I’m storming off he yells,”HEY! YOU LISTEN HERE!” I basically sprint away, I’m so horrified. There are steps behind me and I’m afraid they’re his. When I get to the end of the road and slow down, a woman in heels passes me. I quickly look behind me. There are no more footsteps. They were just hers. I calm down.
I turn down the street. I realize I’ve gone the wrong way. I don’t care. I keep walking.
I get into an Underground station (the wrong one, but whatever) and I find myself back in the rhythm of the masses. As I’m walking, slowing myself to a pace where I can comfortably stand on the edge of the unknown and still feel the swarm passing left and right, I find myself suddenly unable to stop laughing.
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