Michael's story ..and the first time I was called a broad

Anyone who's ever been to Shepherd's Bush can attest to the fact that there's nothing pastoral about the place. It's pretty resounding, it does the name justice, if you look at it like that. It's brash, harsh, in your face and has the unique ability to make you feel like you don't belong and at the same time, that you can live there because in all the crazy there's no pressure and you don't draw attention. For a displaced soul, it's quite accommodating. Observing while blended, but not immersed, you find yourself a privileged spectator of quite a show and it becomes clear that art does imitate life. 

It's Saturday evening and of course I am expecting a dose of crazy. What threw me was the timing. It's 7 pm and by all standards, even Shepherd's Bush ones, too early for crazy.

I stop outside of the tube station to finish my smoke. A tanned, surprisingly young looking middle aged man also smoking outside looks at me and says "Hello!"

I smile and say "Hi!"

He's wearing a checkered shirt with short sleeves, a wife beater, white baggy shorts and bright white trainers. Basketball aficionado meets barbecue dad. Definitely not a product of the Bush. He's head is shaved and he has a silver goatee, beady eyes and a convivial look. Tattoos of some sort or Madonna and other biblical imagery peer out of the shirt to reinforce my assumption.

This followed:

"I just moved here 4 days ago.I landed and my friends and family sorted out a flat for me. If you ask me I'll tell you my story."

I didn't and wasn't really planning on it, as I had exactly one cigarette's worth of time, but I did ask:

"Where did you come from?"

"Los Angeles!"

"Wow! Why did you trade LA for this?!"

arching my arm over the depressingly overcast sky of the Bush

"I was born here...Newcastle."

pointing towards White City, as if Newcastle was just a bus ride away, but I guess in American distances that's pretty much accurately scaled

"I left when I was 5 months, this big"

cupping his palms to form a cocoon of about 20 inches and his gestures are becoming increasingly exuberant 

At this point he's clearly beginning to get comfortable with the situation because he starts taking charge of the space around him, moving in leaps and bounds, resembling a white but tanned rapper. He keeps his distance though and it feels like he's  dancing around me, talking at me, faster and faster and his voice mimicking his movements, is growing fainterand louder. All this time, I was feeling like my ears where somehow muffled,it may have been due to the atmospheric pressure  of that evening, or the fact that I hadn't left the house all day and those where the first 10 min of fresh air I was breathing.

He carries on :

"I spent 18 years and 143 days in prison and when I got out I got deported."

 
"Oh Wow! What were you in prison for?"

now I realize that my physical unease was justified and that this was going to be interesting

"8 armed bank robberies and one attempt. 18 years and 143 days, man!  You're a very good looking broad! Very attractive. I'm flirting with you, this is what this is."

wow! I've never been called a broad before and nearly choked on the cigarette smoke I had just inhaled 

"Ohhh....Okay, thank you."

"You know, we should hang out. It doesn't have to be sexual, though you know it should. I'm energy, you're energy..this is what it all is - energy, man! This is what I've been doing since I landed - drinking and meeting people."

 
"Cool. So....what's the plan?"

here's me with the pragmatic question to an ex-con fresh out of prison and barely just recovered from jet lag after having been deported...

"I'll give myself a break for a month or so. I have a flat that's paid for. I'm looking for a woman, you know, man? I mean I have a couple of girlfriends, but ya know....I'm looking for a woman. You're a cool broad!  Let's have a drink! Talk like this - it's nice. And I've got some money we can burn. Not a lot, but some..." 

the definition of a cheeky grin appears on his face, one that assumes I'm somehow in on something or that signals I'm just being let in and he's almost running circles around me at this point

"Oh...no... Sorry, I'm meeting a friend for drinks."

He launched into a confusing and at times inaudible tirade of compliments directed at me but also himself, assuring me he also is a cool guy and that he's aware he's not the smartest but he's got a lot going for him. 

We finished off with the unsuccessful negotiation of phone numbers and my nagging sensation that this is not the last run in with Michael, Shepherd's Bush's newest American outlaw in search of a woman. 

Part of me desperately wanted to hang out, to hear all about the 8 and half bank robberies, about life in prison and even more about life after prison. He was so upbeat, so unphased, unjaded and unapologetic. The other part was yelling Are you insane?! 

When all is said and done, here's a guy who sells himself at face value, for whom the anxieties of modern man around human interaction, the insecurity of the future, acclimatization and the conundrums of self image projection are non-existent. He simply wants to drink and meet people and that is what he does. Whenever I'd state emphatically that I would never be able to do something or other, or stand a certain situation, my dad would always say to me Necessity is the best teacher. So when you've spend a third of life confined, limited in your experiences and contact, approaching people on the street  with your story and an invitation becomes second nature.

P.S. this is not the first time a middle aged American ex-con asked me out. 

This happened 10 years ago in the store room of a Salvation Army outlet in a suburb one hour outside Chicago. I was looking to buy a cheap bike and he was working there. While fixing my bike, he explained he had just been released from prison after 13 years. 

A very cool,calm and naive 20 year old version of me asked "What were you in for?"

"I shot one of my friends with a shotgun because I caught him touching my daughter one morning after a party."

I said I would've done the same and began looking for the exit signs.

When he finished, he invited me to dinner and a movie. I declined, explaining I had a boyfriend (which wasn't exactly true). 

Still, he wrote down his number and said I could have two. 

I wasn't convinced and after leaving the parking lot, threw away the piece of paper, but thanked him profusely for the two free bikes he had given me.

Excuse me! Where am I?

Katy's story..and mine, on a bank holiday, on my way to a tattoo parlor  in Hammersmith


When you do all the talking your mind is engaged in so many different processes that it can at most, manage the function of hearing, but not refine it into the art of listening. I wanted to say you might, but in fact you will at best, walk past the very thing you need, that bit of inspiration, that shift in perspective, that smidgen of hope, that burst of laughter, that meet-cute you cynically dismiss as hollywoodian but secretly desire, that bright idea or distraction that helps it germinate, that story, that humanity.Worst case scenario? you walk by someone in need, headphones in, mind busy scheduling, computing, assessing, shades on, hood on, target locked, efficient, focused, trained operative. Heart off because you need the RAM for navigation.

It was Friday and despite having a day off - bank holiday, I was on a mission. I'm not sure people realise the gift of bank holidays, in an era and a city where in order for you and I to meet, my people must to talk to your people for at least a week. This is a day when if not most, at least a lot of people are free. Hence the shops are hives, the retailers, the tailors, the furniture shops and car dealers, the money draining, distraction providers of all sorts are busy bees, And we keep them busy, putting off our life admin and our (not so)essential activities to bank holidays, to days off, to that precious time that should be valued, not spent.

I was going to pay off a debt, for which reason, I feel comfortable subtracting myself from the bank holiday missioners. Someone trusted that I would return the next day with the 20 quid I was short, asking for no guarantees (this in itself, for any Londoner, is a victory). In fact, when I eventually arrived, much later than what I had declared the previous day, the guy who ran the place told me he had forgotten about it. I smiled and said I hadn't. He said I trusted you and  said I appreciated it and meant it.

I was making my way to the place of trust - and it is a place of trust, where the people who work there make their mark on you with the equivalent of a knife and ink and where the person who goes in surrenders their skin to become a canvas for their own vision, mediated by foreign minds, eyes and hands. It's non-judgmental, advisory but not enforcing, intimate, intrusive but not offensive, a sharing of the burden of responsibility, from which so many shy away in the world of free arbiter.

I was walking along Hammersmith Rd and passing St Paul's Gardens and the sky was dark grey, but not heavy. Full, plump drops of rain started falling and I pulled my hood up, hands in my pockets, music in my ears, smile on my face. I turn my head and see a blind woman in the garden, on the path, so I slow my pace. I have this curiosity, fascination and deep admiration for blind people and have recently felt the need to try scratch beyond the surface.

At first, I thought I could see her lips moving and thought she's talking to the pigeons she could certainly hear around her. I thought she's out for a walk, for air, it may have been part of her ritual, as I assumed she was a local. I walk on. And stop. I walk back, take my headphones out and watch. I watched to check if she was alone and saw she was. I thought she might like to talk to someone but instantly pulled back and thought of myself as presumptuous. At last, I step into the park, no game plan, but busy coming up with one.

"Excuse me! Where am I?"

The relief on my face, in my demeanor- I'm happy she did not see it.
"Hi! We are in a park, it's called St Paul's Gardens."

"I don't know how I got here. I stepped off bus no 9 and then took a right. I thought I was in the vicarage garden. You see, I am going to the vicar's house, which is to the left of the church hall on Edith Rd."

"Oh! I don't live around here but I'm headed towards North End Rd and I know Edith Rd is on the way. I can take you. Let me look it up on my phone to make sure"

At this point, she wrapped her hand on my right arm and I felt grateful but also felt this pressure like a student in an examination, like I couldn't fuck up on reading the map because I had her trust around my arm. 

She turns around, away from Hammersmith Rd. She's trying to retrace her steps and explains " I came in through here. Edih Rd should be at the back."

I follow obediently, indulging, though I clearly see that the shortest route was in the other direction . I was following the blind, fully aware we were going the wrong way, from a desire to not make her uncomfortable because she had lost her way. It was a quick sequence in my head - we'll walk the way she feels is right and surely there will be a right or a left turn to take us to our destination. It will take longer, but I can get us there.  I realise how awkward I am, tip toeing around, being politically correct and corseted when this woman needed guidance.

Luckily I come to.

"In front there is a flight of stairs and I am not sure where it leads to. I have Edith Rd on my map. We'll turn around and walk along Hammersmith Rd. My name is Ioana. What's yours?"

Her name is Katy. She lives in Hammersmith and has done for over ten years. She lives on her own, though her house is blind proofed and her phone speaks but is not smart and does  not have navigation. At this point my mind is blown! I have eyes and navigation and get lost, confused, I see landmarks, I can describe whereabouts, I don't need to remember the left-right sequence, the number of streets, the sounds around, I have a whole host of alternatives at my satellite's recalculating fingertips and still, I get stressed out, worn out and treat each target hit like a shiny girl scout  badge that reinforces my independence.

Katy doesn't work because it really is very difficult to find a job as a blind person. It has to be local because she takes longer to get to where she is going. She sings in a choir at her church and volunteers at church events. The people who go there are all very lovely. In fact this afternoon they are getting together to plan Easter at the church for the children.

I want to ask her so many questions but my maps and my smart phone played me. Edith Rd. We take a right and there it is, second building on the road - the church hall, with the vicarage to the left and a nice, welcoming, smiling, understanding, tolerating, warm and accommodating vicar in the doorstep welcoming his flock into his red brick house. It's surrounded by a beautiful, vibrant garden where raw green, scarlet roses and pink azaleas intertwine playfully to remind you that there still is tradition, faith, community and that it doesn't mean a thing to you, but a world to someone else.

I hand Katy over. The vicar welcomes her, assuring her she's not late. Katy explains she lost her way and couldn't quite see how. She introduces me to vicar, says thank you, then disappears into the house and I say good bye.

Katy was what I needed that Friday; and I was what Katy needed. I wanted to figure out Katy and she wanted to figure out how she lost her way. I guess we'll both have to piece our missing pieces together, on our own. Katy will venture out again on the same route and I will keep looking to shed more light on life in darkness. I will share when I do. The irony? Can't figure how to turn my satellite off and it's  draining my battery very fast, leaving me with no access and no support when I actually need it.