Failing to Fall

I don't know if you are familiar with the story of the guru who told his pupil that the meditative life was simple, as long as you never, ever, once thought of a monkey. Naturally, after this, the pupil's meditations were filled with monkeys of every colour and description, arranged in a series of faintly mocking poses.

I was reading to try and improve my condition of mind and I had come across this story. Every time I walked down the street I would think of the pupil, the guru, even the monkey, and none of them would help me because my particular problem was the taxis. They were everywhere. I didn't want to wonder where they were going and why, but I did wonder. I didn't want to lie on my back in the night and hope that the phone might ring and there would be a journey and hands I could hold with my hands. I didn't want to wish for dreams of falling. Everything I did was something that wasn't wanted.

You can guess what came next. What else could I do but another thing I'd never intended? Who else did I know who had even the slightest experience in this field? I had no choice.

I hadn't thrown the stranger's number away. I had hidden it right at the back of a drawer in the hope I'd forget where I put it or that it might spontaneously combust: just disappear and go away. I took under a minute to find it–a corner of paper torn from something more important with seven numbers printed on one side. I had a coffee and called. Engaged. The next time there was no answer; an hour later, the same. I gave the number one final try on two or three other occasions, the last of them late on a Sunday afternoon.

'Hello.'

I couldn't think what to say.

'Hello.'

We had never introduced ourselves and, even if we had, I wasn't precisely certain of what I was calling for. Perhaps help.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Hm?'

'Look, I'm going to hang up now.'

'No. I mean I–Hello.'

'Well, well, well. We met at the taxi rank, isn't that right?'

'Yes. Yes. I'm sorry, we did.'

'You're sorry we did?'

'No, I'm not sorry we did, at all. I didn't mean that.'

'So why are you calling? I gave you my number for a reason–not for a casual chat. Why are you calling?'

'I . . . because I . . . am afraid.'

'Of what?'

'Of what I might do.'

'To whom?'

'I don't know. Mainly to me. I can't get this out of my head, the taxis, the journeys . . . the whole thing. I seem to have nowhere to go now. I thought, because you knew about it . . . You gave me your number.'

'All right. Don't worry. Now . . .'

I could hear a small disturbance at the other end of the line. Imagine that, the same noise, far away in a stranger's room and inside my head. Telephones are wonderful.

'Yes, here we are. Are you listening? Are you there?'

'I am, I am.'

'I want you to catch a taxi at the stance. I want you to tell it to go to the Odeon cinema. When you get there buy a ticket for the next screening in Cinema Three. Go in and take a seat in the fourth row from the back. Is that clear?'

'Yes–'

Far away in that other room, the receiver was replaced and I couldn't even say thank you, or goodbye.

Outside, the half moon risen, people were moving together again, the music was back; we were special. I stepped inside the taxi, rested my hands in my lap and let the world dip away to leave me somewhere altogether better. Even in the half dark, I knew my fingers were jumping a little with every heartbeat, and we were in hot blood again.

Cinema Three was almost empty, pleasantly cool, and I tipped back my head while the trailers reeled by, feeling my breath going all the way in and then all the way out again.

'Good film, wasn't it?'

I held the receiver in both hands to stop it from shaking.

'You never came.'

'I'd already seen it.'

'I thought you would be there.'

'You thought wrong. Did you enjoy the film?'

'I. . . Well, yes, I enjoyed the film, but I was waiting for you.'

'You shouldn't have been. I didn't say I would be there. You don't know what you're calling for, do you?'

'What?'

'Give me your number at home and your number at work. Are you still there?'

'Yes.'

'Then give me the numbers. You do want this to continue, don't you?'

And even if I had no idea what we were doing, I did want it to go on, so I passed over the numbers and that was that.

I don't think I lack pride; do you think I lack pride? In my position, you might have fed those numbers down the line and not considered it humiliating. I hadn't known why I was going to the Odeon and, yes, I had expected company, but at least something was happening now. I felt so much better, so much more special again. That isn't something you come by every day. Perhaps a month or two in the Seychelles would do it for you; a fridge full of vodka; a night-sighted rifle and two hundred rounds. These things would be of no interest to me, but I never would blame anybody for making the best of whatever they'd got: I had a voice on the telephone.

So I do believe I kept a little of my pride, while admitting that I waited for the next call with something less than dignity. When it came, I was invited to wait by the Sunlight Cottages in the park. Call three sent me to the sea front; call four, the necropolis, and on every outing, I met no one, spoke to no one, saw no one I recognized.