Everything is Steady

You are trying to tell your story but everyone on the bus has stopped listening. When you first stepped on and said your things to the driver and sat next to the old ladies, they greeted you like one of their own. Everyone agreed that we were steady. They said it with believable eyes.
Now they are looking out the windows and having other conversations. No matter how much you raise your voice, they cannot hear it. You are operating on a scale that is different to others.
You are thankful, and you suppose they are too, when your stop beeps and the driver says that this is the name you suggested.



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They give you free drinks (on the house, they say, but there isn't a house in sight) because they like you and when you say your things you can make them laugh. You know this and you say your things even more often because you enjoy having friends who will give you the pints of John Smith that you feel like you deserve.
One of your main friends is a man with fake curly hair and a scrunched-up face who loves to talk about the Pakis. You are not really sure what they are, but when you say the words too, he laughs and orders you another pint of John Smiths.
It seems that this is the way friendships are made. You have known this man, and others like him, for over twenty years. Sometimes he talks about the good old days and you nod and smile, pretending you can remember these as well.



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To please the landlord (who changes faces and names but never his attitude) you clean around the building. He always tells you that it is not necessary, that they have cleaners who do that for them. But you know that secretly he is impressed with your performance, and that none of these so-called cleaners use their bare hands to clean up all the things that clog the gutters and fall out of the overflowing bins. He tells you that you need to wash your hands, clean up, does this landlord with his many different faces and many different names. But you know he is only joking because he smiles and holds your shoulder when he says these things. You will keep on doing your job because you know that he is secretly thankful, secretly impressed by your bare-handed performance.

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You hate the cars and they are red and blue and silver and white and honking their horns at you and revving their engines angrily. But you will not move and you want them to charge at you so you can demonstrate your strength. But instead, they drive around you and roll down their windows and call you crazy and other names you dare not repeat.
Your friends from the pub stand at the door and clap their hands, laughing. You begin to laugh as well when your friend with fake curly hair says that it is his round.



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She says you have had enough but you disagree. The bar is not a barrier now because she is spraying down tables and a bell has rung out and it is closing-time. You disagree so strongly that you grab her neck and push her up against the wall by the toilets. Her eyes are wide and scared and somewhere in the other room you can hear your friends laughing and finishing off their own drinks.
The landlord has his hand on your shoulder again, but his many different faces and many different names are no longer laughing. You realise now that twenty years doesn't really mean anything to some people. You let go of the barmaid, who is very young and very scared and running off now crying into the backroom where she will tell your friends about the kind of person you are.
It is time to leave, suggests the landlord. And this time you agree.



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When you get back, they are disapproving. Where have you been, they ask.
“Everything is steady,” you reply, “I have been with my friends.” But from the looks on their faces, you know that this is an incorrect answer. This is not where you are supposed to be.
Come in, they tell you, come in and tell us all about it. The door is closing and you know that that is not what will happen. No-one will tell or say anything. You will swallow pills and everything will become very quiet. They will not ask you any more questions.

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(for Steven)