The Cobbled Road

Staring out of the window, he considered that it wasn't all he'd expected it to be.

He saw all the same things he always saw on this drive. Not a lot.

It was early, too early to be out already. Night hadn't quite lifted yet, but the first light began to illuminate the world. This little part of it anyway. Everything looked grey and dull. He passed the grey and dull school, the grey and dull office buildings, the grey and dull appartment buildings.

He'd never even seen what they looked like in the daylight. For all he knew, they might be brightly coloured, cheerful and full of life. He grunted. Like it mattered to him, he only ever saw them like this: grey and dull and dead.

He had hated this road from the first time he had encountered it. Not because it was grey and dull, most of the roads he passed by at this hour were grey and dull, and when they were not, they were lit up artificially in such a way as to make them even less appealing.

No, it was the surface that made this particular road such a pain to his existence.

The surface was old. The cobble stones had seen their best days, they were no longer straight and aligned, but crooked and jutting upwards, making the road a hazard for bikers and a scourge for all other traffic.

He was a reader, you see. The entire bustrip he would read. He would read even though it was early and his eyes were still tired. He would read even though the lights of this old bus were less than stellar. He would read even though there were often very noisy people on the bus. He would read so he would not have to sit and stare at the grey and dull landscape that showed itself in all its unglory outside of the dirty windows of the bus.

The bad state of the cobbled road made it impossible to read. He would shake. His hands would shake. His book would shake. His eyes would shake. He would lose his place on the page. He would be unable to continue the sentence. He couldn't read. For 15 minutes of grey, dull, deteriorated road, he'd be forced to just sit there and stare out of the window. He grew to hate that road.

Of course he had made attempts to find something else to occupy him. A portable gaming computer, same problem. Writing, same problem, aggravated even. Listening to music, not enough of a distraction. Socializing with his fellow passengers, they always turned out to be anisocial Iranians, on their way to Allah knows where, definitely not in the mood to talk to him. Or even listen to him talk. He had tried to observe his fellow passengers as entertainment, but antisocial Iranians didn't like that either. At least they were only silently expressive of their dislike. He'd completely put this method of distraction to rest after an altercation with a very drunk white man who had taking his staring slightly wrong. It seemed best to no longer pursue it.

And now this was his latest attempt. Slightly dissapointing so far. He stared out of the window. The bus had stopped at the same red light it always stopped at. There were no pedestrians. No self-respecting pedestrian would be waiting at a red light at this hour anyway. After what seemed like an eternity (cliché, his mind yelled about his internal monologue - clichés are clichés because they work, he yelled back at his mind) the light turned green again and the bus creaked and heaved as it was forced to spring into motion again. To say it sprang into motion might have been an overstatement. He wondered, not for the first time, why they did this to them: so many new, comfortable buses, driving all day long, but for people that had to take the bus at this unholy hour, who were already screwed as it was, they had this old wreck on the road. It didn't seem fair.

The bus hit a particularly nasty bump in the road and his body shook and trembled on his seat. A thrill went through him. Not bad, he thought. He noticed he had a wide grin on his face. The man he happened to be directing it at looked rather disturbed by it. Another antisocial Iranian probably. He looked back out the window. He was feeling it full force now. Not bad at all.

They were almost off the road. The bus stopped at the last red light. It dragged itself forward again, groaning like an old work horse that should have been put out to pasture years ago. It turned left onto the smooth surface of a road that had been paved in recent years. He opened his book. Page 247. He recommenced reading exactly where he had left off when they had turned onto the detested road. Another twenty minutes and he would be at his destination.

Page 272. The bus stopped, he got up, winced a little, grinned again (no more antisocial Iranians or drunk white people, they always got off the bus before his stop), and stepped down the dirty boards of the pitiful bus.

He walked, somewhat awkwardly, the last 7 minutes to his work. All was still dark, he was always the first to arrive. He unlocked the door and walked through the main room into the kitchen without turning on any lights. He lit the kitchen light and squinted against the sudden attack on his pupils. He made the coffee, read the book (nothing interesting happened yesterday evening, but they had to check the book every day), and checked the message board.

Ten to seven. His co-worker would be arriving soon. He exited the kitchen and went to the toilets to light them. He went out again and entered another door, going to the employee toilets. Looking in the mirrow he saw a very tired face. Some sleeping dust (crut, his mind insisted, not being fond of fairy tales and euphemisms) was stuck in the corner of his right eye. He picked it out. He unzipped his pants and sat down onto the toilet. With a grimace and a light groan, he pulled out the buttplug and held it up in front of his face. Black and shiny.

Not bad, not bad at all, he thought.