There are two people in Jim Allen’s Life. The one who wakes up at four am, terrified and anxious, and the other who goes to sleep at night relatively happy with his lot. The latter takes a generous amount of alcohol to reach that state, which, in turn, contributes to the former.
Both Jims are alone in their own ways, the first desperate to be so, the second craving company of any kind. They usually unite momentarily mid-morning when the bad Jim, as he calls himself, takes over for the day.
It hasn’t always been like this. Once there had been one Jim. Still waking at four am, but with her warm presence next to him. He would be full of energy and anticipation about the day ahead; the sunrise and what words would be in his head, ready to be brought to life on the paper.
He would sneak out of bed, careful not to disturb her. Taking his pen and book, he would allow the words to flow and the time to evaporate. At exactly six thirty, Jim would resurface and prepare the breakfast ritual. Her coffee making paraphernalia, and his tea equipment. Then he would wait. Before long the kitchen door would open slowly and his reason for living would bring the day to a start.
“Did you write? Thank you for preparing my things. You’re so thoughtful,” she would say, her arms enclosing him in their loving grip. He would lay his chin on her head and fill his lungs with her scent. Her unique aroma, a combination of human and animal, just like the two sides of the creature in his arms.
“Can I read it? Coffee first. You know I can do nothing before coffee.” His olfactory pleasure would switch to visual delight as he watched her stand by the cooker and instigate the coffee ceremony.
*
Then, she was gone, resulting in the splitting of his personality and dependence on alcohol. The mornings were a venue where bad Jim always won the bout, and he would end up on the Metro to Newcastle in search of his usual fix of company and alcoholic comfort. One such morning, everything changed, thanks to a chance meeting.
*
On that occasion, he dragged himself the half mile to the metro station. The wet leaves squelched under his feet. This was the other side of autumn. The drab, damp, filthy side, where the crisp, rich colours had been ruined by the overnight rain. You have to take the good with the bad, Jim thought, as soon, it would be the bad that was in charge.
Every thick, mulchy step was torture, but he had to endure it. He couldn’t escape the bad; he’d tried many times without success. Briefly, good Jim flashed up, clean and optimistic. Only to vanish under the leer of bad Jim. He was approaching the end of his sixty-third year, twelve months that had seen him age more than four times that period. As he shivered in the damp coastal air, he questioned his existence.
He’d always prided himself on his youthful good looks. The auburn hair, flecked with white, like the tea and sugar mix miners used to take down the pit, was now all sugar. His designer stubble, once of the same hue as his hair, was now a coating of uneven frosting on his chin. The Levi 501s hung on his lean legs, as did the navy sweatshirt on his stooping shoulders. Pulling his coat tightly around himself he quickened his step. Losing his wife to an aggressive form of cancer had taken its toll. Grief and a broken heart were his constant companions.
Come on man! What’s the harm? A few beers, the crossword and a natter with the old crowd. Jim was almost relieved to allow his lousy alter ego to take over. He checked the Pop app, two minutes, perfect timing. Then it hit him, his card wasn’t topped up. Two minutes suddenly turned into four as he recalled the temperamental ticket machine.
He entered the small shelter that housed the two machines. A quartet of teens were draped about the place, a menacing troupe in ill-fitting designer wear. Damned radgies!
Jim took his wallet from his jeans pocket. As he did so, a tight feeling gripped his groin. He felt like an injured rabbit surrounded by hungry vultures. Glancing over at the crowded machine on the far side of the platform, he conceded that other passengers felt as intimidated as he did.
He placed his card on the reader, between the spindly, dangling legs of the youth perched on the top of the machine, the immaculate, green Jordans inches from his face. He could smell the newness of the trainers as he tapped the spittle-covered screen several times.
Eventually, technology prevailed over dried saliva, and the signal to pay popped up, just as the rumble of the approaching train sounded. Jim presented his debit card to the contactless terminal, pinched between the tight grip of thumb and forefinger.
The beep of acceptance sounded, accompanied by the roar of the carriage entering the station. Monkey boy snapped his feet together, obscuring the screen as Jim juggled cards and wallet. He slammed his Pop card on the orange reader to complete the process, and turned to see the doors open with the accompanying tone.
Deciding to forgo the receipt, Jim turned on his heels and sprinted to the closing doors of the carriage, squeezing through like a sideways limbo dancer.
He slumped into a seat in the middle of the car, one of the new models where all of the seats faced inward towards the identical ones opposite. Shit! He’d forgotten the Metro paper and to validate his card! He leaned over, placing his head in his hands, and the cold sweat trickled from his armpits.
As his anxiety abated, he looked up to study his fellow sufferers. Unlike him, their journeys were compulsory, to the office, shop or factory. As a result, each face reflected the dread of the day ahead, diverted by earbuds, mobiles, or the flimsy free paper Jim had forgotten to pick up.
All except one. Like a solitary wild flower in a cemetery, a face stood out against the cold, grey slabs of stone.
Jim unhitched the straps from his shoulders and put the backpack on his lap. He placed both hands on top of it and stared out of the window at the speeding greenery in the foreground, behind which, at a slower pace, strolled row after row of thirties semis.
His gaze moved upwards to the banner advert a few feet above her head. The poster held his attention momentarily, although he longed to take in her countenance again. It was promoting this year’s pantomime at one of the city’s venues.
As he scanned the garish display of heads, complete with names, who they were playing, and what they were famous for, Jim realised he didn’t recognise a soul.
The main character was a balding Asian man, cast as Buttons, and we were assured he used to be the owner of the corner shop in some Soap Opera or another. By the time he’d arrived at the tiny figure in the bottom left corner, he realised how out of touch he was with the real world.
Apparently, the Prince’s footman was portrayed by a League Two goalkeeper who is married to a former Big Brother contestant. Celebrity for being a celebrity, he pondered. He couldn’t help but smile at his blissful ignorance.
Lowering his eyes to the face of the young woman opposite, he was stunned as she returned his smile. During the few seconds in which they exchanged expressions, he drank in her unique visage before embarrassment kicked in.
Jim averted his gaze and fumbled with the zip of his backpack, removing the tattered copy of The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
The upside of his brief encounter with the woman was that her face was etched on his retina, complete with its radiant smile.He closed his eyes and examined the image. The woman was by no means pretty. Striking was a suitable description. Her face was a perfect oval, that being where perfection ended. It was framed with a storm of black curls the colour of a raven’s wings, which shone like pitch on a road in summer.Her features resembled a display of artefacts rather than a regular arrangement. Each one stood out for its uniqueness, the combination producing a collection of priceless art.Her eyes were dark brown, intelligent and enquiring. They showed interest in everything and the ability to absorb it. Jim imagined jumping into those dark circles to find an ancient library on the other side. He’d encountered aesthetically superior eyes, but they were connected to nothing but an empty bucket.
Matching her hair, the eyebrows were thick and Latin. When she smiled, they performed a little dance. Coming together in puzzlement, then jumping with amusement, before the left one lifted slightly, pulling the corner of her mouth with it.
He closed his eyes tighter, taking in her small but shapely mouth. The edge curled up subtly, creating a dimple in her rounded cheek. The woman’s nose was prominent without being too big. It displayed a confidence which outdid its fellow exhibits.
Jim was desperate for a visual encore but decided to open his book instead. He stared at the words on the page. They crawled around randomly like bees in a hive. Jim couldn’t take in a single one. Stevenson’s elegant prose was failing to compete with the siren opposite.
Good opening for a story. Metro stations can be intimidating at certain times of the day.