Entry: Dropping Zone

I’m still not quite used to the bitterness of winter in London, even after living here for a year.  It tears through my swaddled layers of clothing and stings my African skin, so that not even the celebrated “sunny spells” help to melt the winter blues from my heart.  It forces me to take the bus to work today, even though I would much prefer to walk off the mutton chop, beef stew and mashed potatoes that my homesick boyfriend served up for me last night (I have him well-trained).  Instead, it lines my stomach with a new layer of fat to fend off the cold while I stand waiting for the bus to lurch into view. 

As I enter the bus – late as usual – I am hit with the heady stench of recycled stale breath.  Every window is fastened shut.  I don’t know what’s worse, the cold outside or the breathy-warmth of the bus.  I settle into a vacant seat next to a steamed-up window, and snatch a London Lite newspaper from the seat beside me.  I hate reading it because it makes me stupid – I can almost hear the plopping of useful brain cells dying out with each word I take in about Amy Winehouse’s weekend.  The only reason I continue to do so, against my best interest, is because it saves me from accidentally making eye contact with another one of London’s crazies, who always take it as a signal that we’re friends.

I’ve learnt from my mistakes.  Boy, have I learnt.  Once, on a cramped bus, I stood clasping for dear life onto the hand-rail, squished under the armpit of an aged man who was talking to himself (as you do).  When the bus driver slammed on brakes (as they do), I looked up from examining my shoelaces and, for a fleeting moment, made eye contact with the talking man.  Having locked on to a livelier victim than his filthy grey scarf, he proceeded to direct his conversation at me, repeating “Every day I go dropping zone, everyday.  Every day I go dropping zone, everyday.”

I was the proverbial rabbit in the bus’ headlights, while amused passengers sniggered into their London Lite newspapers.  I got the impression that he wouldn’t stop repeating himself until I replied, so I blurted out, “Everyday?  Even on Sundays?” 

Exploding in head-bobbing excitement, he replied, “Every day!  Every day I go dropping zone, everyday.  Every day I go dropping zone, everyday.”  I couldn’t have hit the red “STOP” button quick enough to escape the madness. 

Now, I am the one who sniggers at unfortunate people forced to speak to the crazies as I burrow into my London Lite.  I continue to gaze with interest at the “Out & About” section when, from the corner of my eye, I notice a burly woman heave into the seat next to me.  She is big.  Her rolls ripple into my side as her body overflows onto my seat, despite my desperate shuffle towards the misted window.  I hear her sigh loudly, then mutter something inaudible.  I lift the newspaper up closer to my face, hiding myself from her.

But a moment later a thick pudgy index finger jabs my shoulder.  I can’t pretend I haven’t felt it, I can’t just continue reading about Amy Winehouse punching a fan in a Camden Pub last night, and so I lower my protective paper and look at her.

I hate to stereotype people, but she has the touch of the crazies in her appearance: most of her teeth missing, those that remained rotting, soiled jumper, fatness, oldness, each eye gawping in a different direction.  Once our eyes meet – well, two of mine and one of hers – I know that I have made a mistake.  I should have pretended that she didn’t exist, even if that meant being stabbed to death by her fat finger.  At least I’d make the London Lite headline in tomorrow’s edition. 

Her deranged red-rimmed eyes are wide and unblinking as she whispers to me, “Don’t look at him, love, but that fat bugger driving this bus is trying to kill us.”

Help.  Give me dropping-zone crazy any day.  This, I cannot cope with.

Londoners would have simply ignored her.  But, being South African, I haven’t quite mastered the art of indifference, so I reply, “Oh, no.”

She nods, thrilled that I haven’t disregarded her, “It’s true, love.  Hand on my heart.  It’s true, hand on my heart.  He’s been paid by our Prime Minister, Margaret Bleedin’ Thatcher, to assassinate me.  I saw it in the fat bugger’s eyes as I paid my one Quid bus fare.  One Quid!”

I nod.  One quid is a ridiculous price.

“I can see you’re not from here, love,” she says, patting my face with her hand, “Where are you from?”
“South Africa,” I choke out, clutching the newspaper so tightly it starts crumpling at the edges.  I hope she doesn’t think South Africa is also in on her assassination plot.

“Aye, South Africa.  So you understand me then, both of us have been treated harshly by the British government.  Of course, being colonized isn’t quite as bad as being hunted down by Margaret Bleedin’ Thatcher, love – what with building railways and roads and educating you lot.”  Her eyes still haven’t blinked in the duration of our conversation – the biggest giveaway of a crazy.
 
Then, with a whisper, her fusty breath thawing my ear, she utters the words, “It’s because I’m plotting to kill her and she knows it.  Tony Bair told her, bloody traitor.”

I can't, won't, contradict her.

She doesn't seem perturbed.  In fact, she's taken me in as her confidant.  “You will help me, won’t you, love?  As a South African, you will be very useful for my plot to take over the world.  But, of course, I will need you at my side, everyday.  I need you to be at my side.”

“Every day?” I ask, “Even on Sundays?”


Word count: 998