Present Tense
The coach driver announces on the tanoy
“We have errivez at ze serrvice stob, we will be herre forr zirty minutes, can all passengerrs blease leave the coach and be back at one zirty”
Slowly the passengers file off the bus, some smiling at the driver as they pass, others in the midst of personal conversations. The driver looks at the back of the coach and sees trouble. Reluctantly, he walks to the back and says
“Blease mister, you need to leave ze bus”
The dozing passenger looks up, his eyes open and vacantly looks at the crisp white shirted uniformed driver.
“what!”
“Blease mister, We have errivez at our ze serrvice stob , you need to leave ze bus”
“ohh, okay, good I need a piss”
The passenger lethargically peels himself off the seat, the smell of stale beer and whisky follows him out of the bus. The driver follows the shuffling figure, looking at him and seeing the shadows of his past. The driver methodically puts the bunch of keys in his pocket, drapes his coat over his shoulder and leaves. As he turns to lock the bus he sees his ripe smelling passenger sitting on the bumper of the National Express coach, he sighs.
“Misterr, ze toilets arre overrr zere”
“right, right, I know, I am not a complete moron. I am going!”
The figure drags himself through the car park towards the service stations neon sign, the driver follows his limp progress and notices the falling ticket. A car drives past and the ticket catches the wind and is carried away towards the grass verge. The driver picks up pace, he has not run for 20 years and is not going to start now. He plucks the ticket from the grass, it is an airline ticket, a flight to Hamad International Airport leaving tomorrow, putting it into his pocket he walks to the service station. As he enters the familiar stop, he makes straight for the toilets, at his age, regular “comfort breaks” had become more regular and more insistent. He digs into his pocket and extracts some change, in this country, spending a penny, really means spending a penny. At the turnstyle in the entrance of the loos, he sees his favourite passenger, the passenger looks at him, recognising the uniform he complains.
“mate, these bloody toilets, you gotta pay for everything, pay for a piss. Have you got change for a fiver, I am bursting?”
“herre take zis, no no, I zon’t want your fiverr”
“cheers, very kind”
They both pay their dues and enter the urine stench white tiled facilitites, heading straight to the urinals. They both stand at their respective stations, and find the peace of the simple pleasures.
“here, are you from Qatar? cause you sound like my mate Daoud we were stationed out in Doha together a few years ago”
“no, I am not from Zoha or Qatarr, close but no cigarr”
“doesn’t make sense, why leave somewhere warm with good food to come to this dump, it rains, the food is pants, never makes sense”
“I am bus zriverr, yes? I have my bus keys, one to open ze doorr, ze other to start ze bus. But, I have anozerr key, key to my home in my countree. I lost my home, my family. So, I have two keys that go somewherre, and one, which goes nowherre.”
“You came here because you lost your family, I am going back to Doha because I want to loose mine”
They look at each other, breaking the unwritten etiquette of the male urinal. A momentary recognition, one desperately holding onto their memory and the other trying to renounce theirs.
Past Tense
The coach driver announced on the tanoy
“We have errivez at ze serrvice stob, we will be herre forr zirty minutes, can all passengerrs blease leave the coach and be back at one zirty”
Slowly the passengers filed off the bus, some smiling at the driver as they passed, others in the midst of personal conversations. The driver looked at the back of the coach and saw trouble. Reluctantly, he walked to the back and said
“Blease mister, you need to leave ze bus”
The dozing passenger looked up, his eyes open and vacantly noticed the crisp white shirted uniformed driver.
“what!”
“Blease mister, We have errivez at our ze serrvice stob , you need to leave ze bus”
“ohh, okay, good I need a piss”
The passenger lethargically peeled himself off the seat, the smell of stale beer and whisky followed him out of the bus. The driver followed the shuffling figure, looking at him and seeing the shadows of his past. The driver methodically put the bunch of keys in his pocket, draped his coat over his shoulder and left. As he turned to lock the bus he saw his ripe smelling passenger sitting on the bumper of the National Express coach, he sighed.
“Misterr, ze toilets arre overrr zere”
“right, right, I know, I am not a complete moron. I am going!”
The figure dragged himself through the car park towards the service stations neon sign, the driver followed his limp progress and noticed the falling ticket. A car drove past and the ticket caught the wind and was carried away towards the grass verge. The driver picked up pace, he had not run for 20 years and is not going to start now. He plucked the ticket from the grass, it was an airline ticket, a flight to Hamad International Airport leaving tomorrow, depositing it into his pocket he walked to the service station. As he entered the familiar stop, he made straight for the toilets, at his age, regular “comfort breaks” had become more regular and more insistent. He dug into his pocket and extracted some change, in this country, spending a penny, really meant spending a penny. At the turnstyle in the entrance of the loos, he spotted his favourite passenger, the passenger looked at him, recognised the uniform he started his complaint.
“mate, these bloody toilets, you gotta pay for everything, pay for a piss. Have you got change for a fiver, I am bursting?”
“herre take zis, no no, I zon’t want your fiverr”
“cheers, very kind”
They both paid their dues and entered the urine stenched white tiled facilities, heading straight to the urinals. They both stood at their respective stations and found the peace of the simple pleasures.
“here, are you from Qatar? cause you sound like my mate Daoud we were stationed out in Doha together a few years ago”
“no, I am not from Zoha or Qatarr, close but no cigarr”
“doesn’t make sense, why leave somewhere warm with good food to come to this dump, it rains, the food is pants, never makes sense”
“I am bus zriverr, yes? I have my bus keys, one to open ze doorr, ze other to start ze bus. But, I have anozerr key, key to my home in my countree. I lost my home, my family. So, I have two keys that go somewherre, and one, which goes nowherre.”
“You came here because you lost your family, I am going back to Doha because I want to loose mine”
They look at each other, fractured the unwritten etiquette of the male urinal. A momentary recognition, one desperately holding onto their memory and the other trying to renounce theirs.
The passengers backstory :- He comes from a family who have served in the military, he followed his father into the army and was posted into Iraq. During his tour of duty he witnessed the brutality of war, and has reoccurring nightmares. He has been diagnosed with depression and has PTSD. The weight of melancholy drove his wife into the arms of a yank, his ex-wife and child have been taken to Las Vegas and live with their new “pop”. He looks to his father and sees war, and so rejects him. He is running away from his military past and wants to atone by working in the middle east. His childhood friends have been swept aside for his new best friend, Daoud. For him, awakening, peace, tranquillity resides in the middle east, he can only achieve this by doing penance by isolation.
Concept :- This work will be in chapters (or series of short stories). The coach drivers background will become apparent over the series. For each story / chapter the coach driver will meet another passenger, and we will learn the passengers story, during the telling, we find out about the coach driver, but all will not be revealed. The reader needs to join the fragmented clues together to build the coach drivers story.
The passengers backstory :- He comes from a family who have served in the military, he followed his father into the army and was posted into Iraq. During his tour of duty he witnessed the brutality of war, and has reoccurring nightmares. He has been diagnosed with depression and has PTSD. The weight of melancholy drove his wife into the arms of a yank, his ex-wife and child have been taken to Las Vegas and live with their new “pop”. He looks to his father and sees war, and so rejects him. He is running away from his military past and wants to atone by working in the middle east. His childhood friends have been swept aside for his new best friend, Daoud. For him, awakening, peace, tranquillity resides in the middle east, he can only achieve this by doing penance by isolation.
The coach driver back story :- He was born in Lebanon in the 1970s to a leading Maronite Christian family in Beruit. During the 1940s and early 1950s his grandfather was the first post-independence President of Lebanon. He and his family live in the knowledge their family name attracts support and derision. Our coach driver has experienced civil war which was anything but civil, sectarian hatred which appeared to cross religious lines, and favouritism. He was the beneficiary of a plum government job in the ministry of Energy and Water. His privilege and relative immunity from the law fostered an egotistic man, the war taught him violence, and his job gave him influence over the lives of people. He was cruel, he collected mistresses, cars, debts, and enemies. He drank, gambled, fought… when he finally married he treated his wife and later his children with distain. Alcohol numbed the dumb man, he did not see the gathering storm of enemies, debts, mistresses, brutalised wife, resentful children. When the storm hit, he was thrown out of his job, disowned by his clan and rejected by his family. He was alone, and his name now offered no protection. He left Lebanon in 1991, to London Heathrow. He became a bus driver, living in a bedsit in Reading.