James

It’s a chilly Thursday. One of those Spring days that promises to be warm and sunny, but sneaks in enough cloud and drizzle to make James’ bus journey more uncomfortable than he’d like. It’s his cousin Peter’s birthday, and he’s on his way to an upmarket restaurant for a celebratory lunch. James doesn’t mind the expense, it’s that he suspects (from a previous lunch at said restaurant) that he will come away hungry — no matter what he orders from the fancy menu. The tiny portions (that would barely feed a mouse) rankle him. Not to worry: this time, James has armed himself with a bar of chocolate and a peanut butter sandwich, just in case. He has them carefully stowed in his raincoat pocket. He also took the precaution of a second breakfast (buttered toast) so that he would not be tempted to eat the table cloth while enduring the interminable gap between ordering and the arrival of the food.

The journey to the restaurant involves a twenty-minute bus ride, but the bus arrived right on time - and he was able to get a prime seat that allows him to indulge in some people-watching. Take Mrs. Knitted Hat for example: talking too loud, squarely ensconced in the middle of a seat designed for two people, chatting on her phone. He picks up snippets of the conversation: “I haven’t had a chance to… Probably, I should think so…Eighty-year-olds can’t afford to retire these days…” He wonders who is at the other end of the call. Another knitted hat, perhaps? Opposite him sits Peacoat Man. James tries to read his expression: in too deep, seen too much, hardened, blank. A leg stretched out, a yawn suppressed, a knee that moves impatiently. He looks out of place - James wonders what he’s doing on the bus at all. Car off the road for some reason? Meanwhile, another passenger - Man Bun Dude is preparing to get off the bus at the next stop. James instinctively likes this chap: open, hopeful, fiddling with newly-minted wedding ring. Dude hops off the bus and thanks the driver as he strides purposefully towards his destination, collar turned up against the rain. A new person gets on, and sits next to Peacoat. Ms. Gen Z: heavy black jacket, chunky knitted scarf, kohl-rimmed eyes…texting one-handed with hard-bitten nails. James considers for a moment what it might be like not to have experienced a world without smart phones and social media, and concludes that he’s glad he was born some decades earlier. He checks his watch. Should be at the restaurant in good time. He wonders what he will order for lunch. Probably the toddler-sized crispy chicken sandwich - although they don’t call it a “chicken sandwich”- that would be far too pedestrian.

At this moment, the bus judders to a halt. Even Ms. Gen Z looks up from her texting. Blue lights flash past as an ambulance is given room - followed by a couple of police cars and a fire engine. The mood in the bus becomes almost instantly nervous: Peacoat Man fidgets, his leg tapping in time with his frustration, his face clouding with annoyance. No traffic moves in either direction for a minute or two. Knitted Hat, having finished her phone call, is now industriously rifling through her handbag for something. James makes a bet with himself that it will be cough sweets. He’s not far wrong - a large bag of mint imperials emerges, and Knitted Hat pops several into her mouth. The bus driver opens the front door, and steps outside to find out what is going on. “Ask them how long?!”, Mrs. Knitted Hat calls after him, her mint imperials impeding her words like a mouthful of marbles. Five minutes pass. The atmosphere is now getting panicky with passengers calling ahead to explain why they will be late while others crane their necks to see if they can ascertain the cause of the delay. James worries about what kind of calamity would require the services of all three first responders. At last, the bus driver returns and has an announcement: “OK, listen everyone. There’s been a nasty accident up ahead. It doesn’t look good, so the traffic is going to be stuck for ages. I’ll have to make a detour down Barclay Street, so if you want to get off here and walk, that might be your best bet. Sorry about that.” The response from most of the passengers is quiet acceptance - they gather their belongings and make their way off the bus. Knitted Hat, however, is not as easily mollified. Scowling and huffing, she makes her presence felt, banging her umbrella against the doors as she hobbles off the bus, brushing off James’ attempt to assist her. Meanwhile, Peacoat has gone from infuriated to incandescent in 60 seconds. He’s up in the bus driver’s face, barking his displeasure with language that would make a sailor blush. James attempts to remonstrate with Peacoat, appealing to his better angels, but to no avail. Instead, Peacoat turns on his heels, and punches James in the face. Fortunately, Peacoat is no Tyson Fury and, although stunned, James is able to absorb the hit. With every scrap of dignity and composure that he can muster, James looks his assailant squarely in the eye as he asks the bus driver to call the police, since he will be pressing charges. “Already done!!” James turns to see Ms. Gen Z waiving her phone, “I just called them, and I got that all stuff on video. I’ll make a statement if you want?” His anger spent, Peacoat, slithers silently off the bus like a greasy eel. 

As if by magic, a police officer arrives - she had been called out to the accident, and since that situation is now contained, she has been diverted to assist James. She is quickly followed by a paramedic, who has been asked to see if James is OK. James, wanting to avoid a scene (and is still hoping he can still make it in time for lunch), waves him off, insisting that he is quite alright, and can make his own way home. The paramedic ignores this suggestion and gives him a thorough check over before setting him in the back of the rapid response car and driving him with (in James’ judgement) indecent haste to the hospital. Upon arrival at the ER, James (to his great surprise) is whisked through the department and is being seen by a doctor before he can say Jack Robinson. “You’re a police case, so you get seen straight away,” the doctor reassures him, “I need to make sure you’re not concussed.” James nods awkwardly, and submits (rather uncomfortably) to a slew of tests to confirm that there is no serious harm done, and that he’s fit to go home. 

Once back in his comfy apartment, James makes himself a strong cup of tea with extra sugar, and sits down to take stock of his day. His overall feeling is one of gratitude; with so many harrowing stories on the news cycle, he’s reassured by the kindness of strangers: the professional, kind first responders, the helpful bus driver, and the wonderful Ava (aka Ms. Gen Z) who followed through on her offer to give a statement to the police. He wonders if they will catch Peacoat and hold him responsible for his appalling actions - perhaps the security cameras on the bus will help uncover his identity? As these thoughts drift through James’ mind, his doorbell rings. “Only me”, calls a familiar voice. It’s Peter - bearing a huge slice of birthday cake.