Love and Garlic

Just a random chat I had yesterday at a bus stop

“You know me, you know me. I’m alright me…”

He wheezes, his familiar face a red currant clock reminding me not to waste time.

I often see him at the bus stop and here we are alone, the two of us with a whole twenty minutes to wait together.

He uses that same line “you know me, I’m alright me” the way other people comment on the weather. The way they used to say “what time is it?” before everyone had phones. They are phrases that fill gaps as mortar between the dry brick of forced social situations.

He has the skin of loose onions pickled in raspberry vinegar. His lank hair is fair whilst his eye sockets host blurs of glacial cordial. He wears both the world on his face and the devil on his back.

I know from previous chats that he is only one year older than I am.

“I’m clean now….. you know I am…”

His mangled voice is rounded by nervous laughter.

He always wants to tell me this story. Of how he was once an alcoholic and ‘on gear’. How he used to sit in the park drinking every evening……

From the slurring of his speech, I’m never sure if he is indeed ‘clean’ or if he has learning difficulties, a medical condition or mental health problem. I try and reserve judgement because I always sense whatever the situation, he has a good heart.

“I only do weed now. That’s all I ‘ave now….I’m alright me…..you know me…”

He plunges his tattooed fingers into a thin paper bag and they surface to offer a sweet. Or more accurately, he picks it out for me, as though I am five. Presses some wrapper-less pink and cream weight into my palm.

“I’ll have it later”

I say politely, popping it into my shallow coat pocket.

He raps on the metal bench with those tattooed knuckles, the clench showcasing his poor circulation in milk and port blotches. 

I think of the benches they used to have at bus stops when I was young. The warmth of wood. The way those sturdy seats would sit at the foot of the road as hunks of bread meet broth. I remember fondly the graffiti. The way you’d wait, happily scrolling the scrawls like somebody’s diary. Love and life documented in red felt tip hearts and black permanent marker. “Claire 4 Gaz”, “Sharon is a slag”…..

“Stainless steel”

He says, breaking my nostalgia trip.

I root around in my handbag. It’s something I often do at bus stops. Rid it of old bus tickets, useless receipts and random pieces of chewing gum. And today, faffing about in my bag means I don’t have to keep looking at him - into the eyes of this man who circles my town like a sad red kestrel on weary wings.

A slightly older guy approaches.

“Used to be a cop ’im. We all ’ated ’im….was a right cunt. He’s retired now though. He’s alright now….”

As the ex-cop comes closer, he smiles and puts his clenched hand out to fist bump.

“Y’alright?”

The ex cop obliges, nods and is on his way.

“See….he’s alright ’im . Now. I’m alright, you know. Now I am. Wasn’t always…..”

It’s just us two again.

“You wanna know what saved me?”

He asks, leaning in for dramatic effect. I’m unsure what is coming next.

“Love”

He says with mysterious lilt.

“………and garlic!”

I contemplate what to reply.

“But hopefully…… not together!”

I say brightly.

He laughs.

“Ooh I don’t know……”

I look away.

There is a long pause and the bus shelter becomes a carousel and he a horse. Round and round he goes.

“I’ve not managed to stop biting my nails though”

I raise a gnarled rose hand.

“Same here”

He laughs again and it turns into a hacking cough. His chest makes noises no-one’s should. The heaves of sleeping giants.

“You’ve got lovely teeth”

I shrink back at the compliment, becoming conscious of my smile, the gaps. How without bright lipstick to give contrast, the shade is closer to camel than ivory these days.

“Yours don’t look bad”

I reply.

No sooner have I said this, he propels his bottom teeth forward with his tongue to show me they are false.

“£400 these cost me and thee still don’t stop me biting my nails.”

I fiddle some more in my bag. This time my shopping bag; rearranging fruit and vegetables, willing the bus to come soon.

He is off in another world again, like some Dickensian ghost visiting a chequered past.

“Me dad….”

The glacial blurs are pooling.

“It were the asbestosis that got him…..”

I assume his father must’ve worked at the old asbestos factory as I know it’s close to where he lives. I recall hearing the stories. It was next to an infant school. One time, the kids were all playing out when a large quantity of asbestos escaped, sweeping into the playground like snow. The story goes that they played with it, not knowing any better.

The thought of those children out in that yard chasing something they thought harmless fun, always haunted me. The idea of them running around after a substance that would lodge like stuck pear drops and wait quiet as growing white mice to one day crush them…..

I consider whether his toxic red rattle means he too has those snowflakes dancing death within his chest.

“Me mam though…..that were more recent. Died in me arms she did…..”

His humanity is rising like film on a simmering stew.

The bus is coming and I wonder what to say that won’t sound crass.

I pull something out of my bag, rabbit-from-a-hat style.

“What’s that?”

He says.

“Garlic!”

It’s my gesture of solidarity. I hold it to the light so he can see the purple pattern speckling the bulb pretty as a chiff chaff egg and it lifts him.

We board, sit down and as I consider what to cook for tea, I can tell he is still cradling both parents in those arctic eyes of his.

I reach into my pocket and find my fingers nudging against the hard, round sweet.

I wonder if it has a soft centre.