Chunk number two

here's today's portion. Much harder, I must say.

He glanced up at me, then put his nose back in his notebook and began scrawling frantically.
�A pint of Bass again�, I said, and the barmaid (barMAID? She was at least fifty, with great sagging bingo wings flopping over red elbows, and a face like an overweight trout) filled up my glass. I looked at myself in the mirror, and behind me, at the seven or eight people ranged on sofas and barstools who were watching the match. Their faces were intent and fixed � the same kind of expressions you see whenever someone watches a not particularly interesting stretch of a game, or a play, or a debate, waiting to see the outcome of the next move. Myself, I looked weary, frustrated and beaten. I paid for the beer, then slunk off to my seat in the corner. I lit a fag, started trying to do the crossword again. Nothing. I flung my pen down again, and beat around in my own head for something, anything to do. Oh God, I muttered to myself. I�ve got to get my life together! For Christ�s Sake get me something to do!

Now here�s the laugh: Just as I�d thought that, the door opened. Call it divine intervention or diabolic or just an awful bit of literary plot-twisting (and why shouldn�t life be like a bad book plot, anyway? Let�s face it, most lives are twisted, confused, fearful and full of coincidences), but in walked someone I hadn�t seen for almost four years: Taylor Coleridge.

Taylor and I had travelled together for nearly a year, working our way up from India, round the Arabian Peninsula, then through the Red Sea and Suez Canal and finally to Beirut, where I lost him in a bar. He was a most excellent companion to have on any journey: witty, conversational, knowledgeable, creative and prone to following his own whims. I don�t think he�d ever settled down anywhere, but preferred to wander, merely because he could. In a way, he was somewhat like his near-namesake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, but without the laudanum or pomposity. After losing him, I�d continued up around the Mediterranean coast, while he, as I learnt from other people and from one badly torn letter and a few brief emails from him, had headed back into the desert, then up onto the Silk Road and subsequently towards China. While I would expect to find him in an Algerian souk, a Turkish pazar, on a camel in Tajikistan or on the summit of a mountain I�d just climbed, one place I�d never expect him was here on my home turf.

He saw me and smiled his lazy, feline smile.
�Ah, there you are�, he said.
�Jesus! Long time no see, my man! How are you!�
�Same as ever. Just chilling, thought I�d come along and see how you are. Nice place, this. How are you?�
�Ah, you know, not bad, not bad. The same. What are you drinking?�

I got him a beer and we sat down together. I asked him a few things about his travels and what he�d been up to, and he sketched them in for me. He seemed to be a bit more taciturn and less upbeat than I�d have expected, but then again it had been four years since we last met.

�So what happened to you last time we were together? I got up for a slash, I come back, you�ve buggered off.�
�I could say the same for you, Dan. I lean over to chat with that most enchanting babe, I turn around, and you were no longer there. I looked around, I couldn�t find you, someone said, there�s a party round the corner, do you want to come, I went, you were left behind. That�s the way it was.�
�You could have tried to find me.�
�You could have done the same.�
�True. Sorry.�
�Nothing to be sorry for. Here we both are, on this fine July day, drinking beer in your local in your home town�what could be better?�
�Yeah.�

We drank our pints in silence for a while and watched the TV.

�She says hello, by the way.�
�Who?�
�You know. Beattie.�
I was stunned briefly. Beattie was�.well, Beattie. I�d been pretty intense with her a couple of years previously, and in fact, I�d been thinking about her that morning, wondering about What Ifs.
�How the Hell do you know her?�
�You talked about her often enough � and I saw photos of you two together. Anyway, I came across her in Bangkok. Recognised her straight away, said hello, mentioned your name. This was two weeks ago.�
�Jesus! Really? How was she?�
�She was good, very fine �and, in fact, thinking about you. She�s the reason I�m here. I was heading for the UK and she still had your address. I decided to check it out, thinking to have a beer on the way, and here we are.�
�So what was she up to?�
�Still teaching, and still single. My man, you must have really done something to her � when I told her I was heading back this way, she asked me to look you up. Said she had some kind of premonition that you needed help, something like that, and your last email had sounded like someone in jail. And looking at you, I�d say she�s about right.�
�What�s that meant to mean?�
�I mean you look miserable as sin.�
He looked straight at me, and he was absolutely right. I was miserable. What could I say? I lit another cigarette.
�Ah, shit, Taylor, I don�t know. You�re spot on, but I don�t know what to do. I�m stuck here and I can�t see a way forward, it�s like, well, I don�t know, like I�m in the middle of a big wood in the middle of the night and I can�t see a way out. I feel � well, I feel lost, I guess.�
�That�s not like you.�
�It�s this place. It�s England. Once I got back here, it was as if all the travelling and working in all those places hadn�t happened, like some kind of dream. No-one was interested, no-one wanted to know �you know, �so what was it like?�, and you start, and they go �hm, yes��.
And I spilled it out � the months of frustration, the shitty jobs in anonymous offices, the whole hateful trudge of the nine-to-five with a whole bunch of others who hated their jobs, their lives and each other, and above all, man�s total indifference unto man. Taylor listened quietly, and bought another round.
�So why don�t you get out again?�
A good question, but how could I answer? I was stuck; that was the only answer I could give. The sunlight edged round the carpet; the match on the TV came to an end; and it came towards three.
Taylor knocked back his pint.
�Come on, finish off,� he ordered.
�Why? Where we off to?�
�To find yourself again, Dan T. To find yourself again. Beattie was right, you need rescuing. This is what we�ll do; let�s saunter into town, wander from place to place, and try to find where your soul went, my man.�
�And get utterly arseholed as well?�
�That�s the idea.�
Well, what else was there to do, but neck my pint, have a slash, then follow Taylor Coleridge as he led me down towards the wild hub of Reading on a Friday afternoon, evening and night?
As we came out of the pub, the weirdo I�d seen before sidled past us, glanced at me again, coughed an apology and crept around the corner. Suddenly, it felt good to be in sunlight again, especially with my old friend and the prospect of doing something rather than fester by myself. I felt a current of excitement, as if I was back to my journeys once more.
�Shall we take the bus?�
�No, we�ll have to wait ages from here. Let�s walk down the hill and catch one in Caversham.�
As we walked past the duck pond and down Peppard road, I noticed that someone had somehow managed to uproot, haul and then dump the sign that said �WELCOME TO READING. TWINNED WITH DUSSELDORF� from Henley Road and lay it on the strip of grass by the bus shelter, which had, as ever, been kicked in and graffitti�d by some arsehole. The word HELL, in large red letters, was sprayed on it.
�Nice welcome�, said Taylor.
We carried on walking down the road, past Buckingham Drive and Sheepwalk, where we could see the town beneath us, drowsy in a reddish haze; The gasometers at the confluence of the Thames and Kennet, the shopping centres squatting in the town, the church spires waving feebly between the tower blocks. We hit Caversham, and stopped in the Prince of Wales for a quick one. Sitting on the patio, we watched a large group of teenagers, all of them riddled with acne and all looking sullen and hateful in a way that only an English teenager can, wander past, then stop and go back, then redouble their steps once more. They were arguing between themselves about where to go, what to do. One argued for sitting on the bench on Balmore hill, another said to sit on a bench in the park, while someone else suggested sitting by the river. They went first this way, then another, aimless.
Fuckwits.