One such lesson in/on writing, was the time a girl I know sent me a brief email, highlighting the concept of Voice. As I often tell customers, I'm not as dumb as I look, so I did previously have some understanding of the concept, but the way she explained the power and subtlety of Voice and how it applied to me, provided me with a sense of newfound empowerment. I felt like a new driver might feel the first time she 'gets' parallel-parking and is suddenly more in control of her choices (I know I just said 'her' and 'she' and that we all know a woman could never actually be in control of a parallel-park, but this blog is a work of fiction.).
I'm not going to recount her little lesson - you can get your own inspiring friends. I only bring it up because, just a few short days into the New York part of my Journey, I feel a shift in my Voice. I like where it's going and believe I know where it's going to end up, but I haven't quite settled into it yet. It is going to take a few days to reacclimatise. My feeling is that at around the same time that my body-clock lines back up with Eastern Standard Time, will my pencil realign back in sync with my Voice. Until then, I just have to be resigned to waking up at 6:45am and scribbling random introductory notes to another chapter from 'Don't Wanna Go Home'.
Lucky for you, this is one of my favorite chapters.
2006
The apartment looked about right. The ten minute shuffle around satisfied the level of clean I desired. It wasn’t like I had woken up to credit cards splayed out on used up plates and empty deal-bags sprawled around the house. But I had been pushing back a few lines when he called the day before. That’s probably why I agreed to his coming over. I told him that we were heading down to London in a few weeks and I could swing past and pick the coat up then.
“Well Mr. Helm, I’ve just had the coat come in and I was just going to drive it up to you. I’m free tomorrow, so if you’re going to be at home?”
“Really? Um, ok. Yeah I suppose that’d be fine”
I didn’t think that’d be fine. In fact that sounded way to accommodating on their behalf.
“Great. Well, I’m gonna grab a car first thing in the morning and head straight up. Just need your exact address in Stratford."
Oh, fuck it. Just give him the address and hung up the damn phone. Talking to a Police Officer whilst coked-up isn’t the most pleasant place to be. Besides, pretty soon he’s going to pick up on the fact that I seem to be sniffing an awful lot.
“Yeah, listen, the best thing to do is come to the corner of Meer and Wood in the centre of town and I’ll pop down and grab you from there. The actual little court we’re on is blocked off to cars during the day and it’s also a little tricky to find the entrance to the apartment.”
Damn. I needed a line. Now. I only answered the phone because I was waiting to hear back regarding some of the resumes I had sent around. That would’ve been a call I could’ve handled in this state. Surely if I could run a place whilst coked-up to the eyeballs, I could conduct a phone interview halfway similar.
“Just give me a heads-up call when you’re about ten minutes away.” I said, stifling another sniff.
We exchanged goodbye pleasantries in the British vernacular that was slowly becoming mine as well and I tossed the phone into the couch. Wait till The Brunette hears about this, I thought as I crushed out another line
I headed up Meer St., pushing against the thick tide of tourists rushing past me. I noticed one stationary figure leaning against the pylons set in place to prevent vehicular traffic. At first glance, there was a disproportionate character to The Cop’s physical make-up. He pocessed the broad shoulder and stubby neck combination of a veteran rugby player, but was otherwise slight and lean more in the mold of a tennis pro.
My first instinct was to sense a nervous air about him as he surveyed the cinematic panorama of an early summer’s day in central Stratford-upon-Avon. But I immediately dismissed this judgment as projection, for any correspondence or meeting with the law always left me clammy.
I led him through the antiquated white wooden door, secreted beside the entrance to the clothing store that filled the level below our abode. The oh-so-groovy-gear they hung in their windows and it’s juxtaposition against all the faux Tudor, tourist aimed, dribble that hung in the other shops on the strip, always gave me cause for sarcastic smile. We came up the stairs and pushed through the barn-like front door and into the kitchen.
“Great spot Mr. Helm. Can you see Shakespeare’s house from up here?” The Cop asked as he wandered beyond me and to the right to ascertain his own answer from the window in the next room along.
“Yeah, sort of. Kinda catch a corner of it through that window.” I called back from the kitchen, not wanting to follow him into the living room.
“Not a bad spot.” I continued, “Lots of Japanese and American tourists everywhere, but you get used to them. Can I get you a drink?”
By now I had pushed only my head around the corner of the door post.
“No, I’m fine Mr. Helm.”
Sensing my desire to get on with things, he came straight back into the kitchen and fell into one of the chairs around the table. In the same movement, he flipped a large package and an A-4 envelope onto the table.
Quite a graceful little display for such an ungraceful looking fellow, I thought.
“So there it is Mr. Helm.”
Stop calling me that.
“I also brought up some information about two support groups. One is for all the people affected in one way or another that day and there’s also some information about a group that’s only for people who were on the Piccadilly Line train.”
“Oh. Thanks” I replied with a tone that suggested intrigue only one small level above total disinterest.
I leafed through the envelope’s contents, not really doing much more than noticing a few highlighted phrases and headings. Nothing about sitting around with a group of others recounting my version of the details of that day, even remotely sounded enticing. I then turned my attention to the package sitting next to it on the table. Carelessly tearing open the brown paper wrapping, I revealed that vaguely familiar brownish, in an almost denim like consistency, thick woolen material. I looked sideways to see The Cop smiling almost triumphantly at me.
“We had it dry cleaned for you, Mr. Helm.”
I’m going have to say something about all this ‘Mr. Helm’ business, I thought. But instead, all I managed was a feeble,
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Helm.”
Stop it!
“We really do appreciate all your help with the investigation and am really sorry you felt mistreated by us. We’re sorry we couldn’t return this coat to you earlier.”
“Ah well. It could’ve been dealt with a little better."
The Cop half expected me to lift the coat out of it’s folded state and hang it out with outstretched arms almost like a bride taking upon delivery of a one off, designer wedding gown. Instead, I just fingered the material and gazed back down at it. What was I thinking when I bought it on that cold day in Brussels? It really did look hideous. I really did need it at the time – it was so much colder than I expected it to be when I arrived in Belgium - but surely I could’ve spent another half an hour looking for something a little less garish.
Wow, all this drama over something I’ll probably never wear again. Ah well, I had my little moral victory over ‘The man’, now time to get him out of the house. I had my exit strategy preplanned, now to execute it.
“Well thanks for driving all the way out here. I really would’ve been happy to pick it up in London, but thanks anyway.”
Now, gaze across at the digital time display on the oven.
“Oh, look at that. Gotta meet the girlfriend at work. We’re gonna grab a quick bite on her lunch break.”
“Where does she work?”
“She runs the cinema around the corner.”
“That sounds like a fun job.”
“Yeah, it is. So, um….” I trailed off, rising a little out of my chair.
“Well, Mr.Helm, there is one more thing.” The cop recounted, staying firmly put in his.
Suddenly and in another display of unexpected slick grace, out of thin air he produced a thin, robust, yellow folder. He just reached down below my line of sight and clean came up with it like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
“After that little misunderstanding with the Detective, a few months back Mr. Helm, you lodged a complaint with the Independent Police Complaints Commission.”
Hmmm, I thought, as I continued to watch him blankly. He flipped open the folder to reveal a single, A-4 typed sheet. Seemed a little ostentatious that such an insignificantly small item, necessitated such a firm folder as protective armour.
“Well, Mr. Helm,”
Really? Again? Twice in the same paragraph?!?
“We were wondering now that we’ve returned the coat in question whether you’d like to withdraw the complaint.”
As he finished his request, he slid the opened folder towards me and with his free hand, began to pass along an uncapped pen.
In an instance it all clicked. The emails and phone calls. The drive up from London. The attempt to seem concerned for my mental state. Even all the ‘Mr. Helm’ing. It was all leading up to this moment.
So here’s the question facing me:
On the one hand – Fuck ‘em! I mean they were completely disinterested in my wellbeing both on the day and subsequently. They lost two of my statements, took my coat for evidence with a refusal for any compensation and then finally harassed me for months to provide a third retelling of the same statement, cumulating in the phone call from some dickhead Detective trying to guilt trip and bully me into talking about what I so badly did not wish to revisit.
On the other hand – Yeah, fuck ‘em, but they are The Police. Why would I want to get on their bad side? Why make a rod for my own back? It’s not like I have anything to gain by keeping the complaint alive.
I reached over, sent The Cop a very slight, sly grin and wordlessly, with an exaggerated flourish, signed the bottom of the form. Almost like he was worried that I’d change my mind, he grabbed the folder back off me, slid it back towards him and snapped it shut and began to rise.
“Well thank you, Mr. Helm. I hope your second visit to our country will be a little less dramatic than the first.”
He was suddenly real keen to end this little scene. He must have been holding down the deflation to his ego necessary to build up to the subtle bit of groveling of his end game. Now, ready to release his clenched stomach mussels, The Cop couldn’t head back down to his car quick enough. Suited me just fine.
“Well, safe driving, Detective.”
“Yeah, Cheers mate.”
Finally, he now had no more need to throw that ‘Mr. Helm’ around.
I did not feel the need to follow him back down the wrought iron stairs and around the rear of the Street Wear shop, to see him out back out. The status of his authority over me had greatly diminished because of the awareness I now had of his pandering towards me. Let him see himself out. I didn’t even feel the need to keep up the ‘lunch date’ charade .
Carrying the torn open package into the bedroom and tossing it onto the bed, I saw him through the window wandering through the tourist sea below.
“London Police.” I announced to no one in particular. “You guys are fucked!”
