Story for performance #37
webcast from Paris at 09:37PM, 27 Jul 05

We who are listening to this story, are observing from the safety of height and distance. We see a woman busy, bustling through an ordinary looking morning. We look closely at her. She is thinking and talking to herself. We can hear her. We are drawn to her.

I’m doing my best here, I am racing against the little things of the day to day to get there. Get the breakfast over, must be done. Change the answer phone message. Load the dishwasher. Get the rubbish bagged up and out. Move the milk bottles. Feed the cat. Sort through the stuff for recycling—bottles, paper, plastic, tins. How can I get through so much waste in a week. Check the freezer. Check the fridge for supplies. Make a list of today’s shopping. Call the dentist and change the appointment for a month’s time. Check everything needed is in today’s bag. I am always organised. I don’t let little things put me off track. I can catch them up in my own rhythm and convert them to mine. I am proud of that. Shower. Neaten up. Smarten up. Loosen up. Get confident in front of the mirror. All done. The everyday in order. Nothing left to mess it up or make it chaotic. Must calmly collect and leave the flat. Button up.

We watch her take the slow lift downstairs, out of the hallway, past the janitor at his desk. We notice the unconscious nod from him, he doesn’t raise his head from the newspaper at the sound of her approach, just nods. We see her walking briskly in her office skirt suit, the legal secretary efficiently striding towards the newsagent. We watch her waiting for her turn to buy a book of bus tickets. She is calm and kind, talking with the chattering girl behind the counter. She smiles as she takes the tickets and leaves the shop.

The bus stop. A bench under a paltry shelter. Stop. Bus. Wait…Wait…No bus.

More people are gathering at the stop. There’s a blonde child teetering a miniature buggy to keep upright, monitored to the bus stop by a blonde adult. I watch the teenagers in black school uniforms lean on each other as they walk towards the stop. Chewing lollipops and shouting and texting and phoning and laughing and scorning. Multi-skilled. They collect under the shelter, their noise gives them space.

Now the chat is starting amongst the older women—they’re always the ones who chat on about the lateness of buses, the changes in the world…I want the distraction. And the bus. I want that bus to come now. I hate the wait. I’ll watch the chatting women. I can move close up to them. They don’t seem to notice me listening to them. I’ll find out what’s happening in the flats up the street and who is visiting the doctors and why. And what the cures should be. Today they seem a bit aggressive, probably because the bus is late. The traffic is crawling past and does not bring a bus.

We can lean back and watch her as she makes her way into the day. As she enjoys the little bits of the day that make up a life, that make up the lives of all the people crowded at the bus stop. The crowds thickening, the people pressing closer to her. Is her neat suit getting crumpled? She takes a tiny step closer to the curb, looks across the building traffic for the bus.

‘Terrible init? Terrible, I say, init? This waiting and waiting…’ One of the older women has started to talk. Is she talking to me? Or is it just another of those complaining-into-the-air occasions? No, she is looking right at me. It makes me uncomfortable. She is getting into her stride, I suspect a lecture’s coming. Something is pressing on my hip under my suit jacket. Why doesn’t she leave me alone and talk to someone else? There’s plenty of others here. Blah blah the traffic, the lateness of the bus…I try to tune out. ‘But you know if I’m late then the specialist won’t see me, you know it’s my eyes dear, can’t get a clear picture but still…you know…got to struggle on don’t we. Just get on with things as best we can…’

We see her pull back from the older woman and adjust her shoulder bag, put it to the other side. She tries to put a little distance between her and the woman. It’s not working.

‘An’ then, what with the traffic an’ all those cars ’n extra buses coz of the trains bein’ up the spout…it’s no wonder we have to wait but really if the others hadna dun it…’ I’ve heard this story a hundred times before. I’m sorry she can’t see clearly, but glad she can’t see me raising my eyes. The teenagers scramble themselves up and tumble to the curb edge. There is a whisper that a bus is coming. Heads turn.

‘Yes’, I say to the talking woman, ‘the bus must be caught in the traffic.’

The traffic doesn’t look like it’s shifting. I breathe out, sigh. I can wait now. It will come. My jacket is riding up over my waist, must be the weight of my bag. I give it a tug to smooth it out. I can feel the coldness of a button pressing on me. I squeeze it between my thumb and forefinger. Hard. Certain.

We see her lean towards the older woman and chat, nod her head in agreement, glance up at the teenagers as they rustle around the space, then she looks back at the talking woman. We see her as she reaches under her jacket as if to straighten it. But something else happens. As she makes that movement we see that she is a little surprised by what she is exploring under her suit jacket. Her face has a look of questioning and delight as if she might say ‘oh!?’ But she says nothing.

All is chaos and shattering and light.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Helen Idle.