
The Book of Fate
If I’d been privileged to see the book of fate at twenty, it might have scared me but I hadn’t and now I wasn’t surprised by the news. You only get so much in life before payback time. That’s what dad taught me.
The doctor, sitting at his desk, leans forward, elbows perpendicular, chin on his knuckles, peering over his glasses. It’s not the best news, was all I heard. He could have been a lawyer consoling a guilty client, or a bank manager telling that an overdraft was being called in, but it wasn’t that simple. He said some other stuff, but I never caught it. I’m thinking how I can walk out of the office on my own two feet and not show how badly my legs are trembling.
Outside, the sun is shining. Across the road, a brick building has pigeons perched on every level of its windows. Pigeons, I’m thinking, can go anywhere, just fly off, maybe to the ocean, the cliffs, yet they remain perched above the noise of London’s traffic.
I, on the other hand, cannot move. My legs won’t work. I feel somehow caught here, standing amid the London bustle, unmoved by happenings. Then a London bus roars by, people inside, upstairs, and below stairs, going somewhere. I want to wave, but cannot. On the side of the bus an advertising banner reads: Laugh and the world laughs with you.
Traffic crawls, inch by inch, along Euston Road. Frustrated drivers looking at each other. Farther up the street two enormous yellow diggers are digging up the road. Car horns sound out their impatience, everywhere noise, bustle, and confusion. People mutter, eat, walk, talk on cell phones, and hail cabs that fail to stop. I notice all this because it is happening in slow motion, as if I am no longer part of the rush. Stepping outside the business of society to see things clearly. Nothing is missed. Not the old woman sorting through the rubbish at the entrance to Euston station; or the chap on the bench smoking a cigarette as though it might be his last. And who, I contemplate, will bet against it. The kids on the green, outside the bus terminal, playing with a white paper bag, being lifted and swirled around in the twist of London air.
I want to take it all back, everything I’ve done wrong, all the bad practical jokes, my inability to be a good father, lousy husband, and worst lover; I want to take it all back and promise right now, standing on the corner of Euston Road, to be a better person.
No, I’m not going to say that. Not really my style, and anyway, what would be the point? I’m not interested in friends and relatives shelling out their cash to come and see me; each one telling their sorrow. No, I will make the farewell tour myself. Shake some hands, have a few drinks, stay no more than one day in each place, so as not to overload anyone, and leave them in a state of half graceful joy.
Then, at least, I can kick up my heels and fall dead with a good heart.
