Amber Bubbles

“THE BUBBLES” he yelped with alarming volume. Perched on the pavement, you and he gazed into a bottle of amber fluid, placed unsteadily on a bus shelter seat. You nodded your head in agreement. There were, indeed, many bubbles. The rain clattered down around the shelter. It's pounding noise dramatised the amber bubbles rising to the top of the bottle and bursting.

“The bubbles are many.” you remarked. He nodded. It was not the first time you had both noticed this. Clinging to the plastic, a lone bubble would detach itself, swimming for freedom to the top, only to find it shared a fate with many determined bubbles that, like it, would be lost in the greater world of gases, losing all sense of self.
“The bubbles are many.” he agreed. You both perched in silence as the rain began to stop.

Grabbing the bottle in both hands, your partner stood up and took a hefty swig. Throwing his head back, his clammy midriff made an appearance from under a padded orange jacket, with several little dark hairs poking out from his pale skin. He lowered the bottle back down and nestled it in his warm armpit before letting out a satisfied belch. You sniffed the air: beautiful cider air.

The two of you had been together for a long time. You and him. Him and you. You had always been similar but now it was difficult to tell the two of you apart. It made reflections confusing. You were round, roughly an oval excluding a pair of pink protruding ears. You wore baseball caps and his was a little too small for his head. You had grubby little sparkly grins and he had freckles. You both walked with a rhythmless skip, arms and legs flailing around the pavement.

“And so I said to him...” he told you, passing the warm sticky bottle your way. His flailing had caused its contents to splash around, coating the outside in a sugary film. You took it from him, throwing back a few mouthfuls and nestling it under your arm. It tasted sweet like sunshine.

“I told him I had not had enough.” You nodded, wagging a finger to reinforce your agreement. He joined you in the action as you both strolled across the road. Vehicles thoughtfully stopped to let you both pass, no doubt impressed by the vehement finger-wags. As you both reached the next bit of pavement, you noticed a figure at the bottom of the street. He was a youngish man in a crisp dark suit, emerging from an office. He looked weary, clasping his face with one hand and holding what appeared, from his posture, to be an excessively heavy slim-line suitcase with the other.

“Poor BASTARD” you spluttered, phlegm and spittle showering the pavement. Your friend strode towards him and you scurried to catch up. Now closer, you saw that his chin twitched, causing his narrowed lips to bob up and down. His forehead was crumpled and his eyes, which were not fixed on anything, had a look distant concern. This was a man in need of a helping hand.

Thrusting the warm bottle of cider in his direction, you stopped to enquire “Have you not seen the...”. You paused to share a glance with your friend before continuing. “Bubbles?”. For a brief second, it appeared he was looking into the bottle with you, watching the bubbles move. Screwing up his face further, it soon became clear that had not understood the enquiry, and was displeased by the object you had thrust before him. He backed off a few paces, looking from side to side. As if to have had his attire marred by his close proximity to the amber fluid, he began to pat himself down. He sighed loudly and, turning his back on the two of you, walked away at an uncommonly fast pace.

“Poor bastard.” your friend whispered, shaking his head with a pitiful smile. You paused to look at your friend, pleased to see his sparkle had not been removed by the pitiful stranger. You imagined that your own, also, was still in tact, but took a slurp of cider to make sure. Beautiful liquid sunshine. And with that, the two of you flailed in unison back to your bus shelter haven.

“What was it like before?” he asked you, as the sun was going down later that day. You paused to think, trying to determine where the line of 'before' and 'after' was exactly.
“I can't remember” you responded, moments later, unscrewing the bottle cap. You closed your eyes, as did he, and bathed in the sound of the bubbles being released: 'ttsssss'. It was the greatest sound of them all.
“Probably shit.” you remarked, throwing your head back and gulping down the cider.
“Piss-poor” he agreed, and smirked. You both let out a sly giggle.
“Then why do they bother?” he asked. “Why the briefcases?”
You shook your head, circling the rim of the bottle with your finger. You could tell that while talking generally, your friend had a particular individual in mind. It was a question you could not answer. You held the bottle up so that you could look through it. One by one, you watched the bubbles rise. They seemed to be endless.
“Bad advice?” you suggested, your eye brows raised. You turned towards your friend to gauge his reaction. He was nodding his head, his finger protruding and wagging slightly.
“Yes” he replied. “Bad advice.” He sounded out the words slowly, giving real thought to each.
“Could have been so different” he mused. And suddenly, leapt to attention, stamping his foot. Confused by your friend's sudden excitement, you leaned towards him, as if to better understand his movements at closer proximity. Noticing your puzzled expression, he threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh.

“We can help!” he whispered, scratching his inner-thigh with dirty finger nails. In celebration of this decision, he whipped an unlabelled half bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket and held it out on front of him with both hands. You smiled widely and, together, you made your way to your usual doorway and settled down for the night. What, you asked yourself, could be finer? That warm feeling of vodka inside you made it easy to sleep.

Your days together often wove into one another but monotonous they were not. You had chosen a busy street as your home and there were always countless people walking and talking and shopping. You'd sit together for hours, chatting and watching the fast paced lives of those around you. There were people you would see regularly and begin to recognise and others you would only see once. The local bakery was one of your favourite spots. This wasteful business would throw out bags of baked goods every evening and for those lucky enough to stroll past at the right time, relatively fresh produce was bagged and waiting. The removal of choice made for surprises: sausage rolls one day, doughnuts the next. It was all good. And there was always enough money, dropped on the road or thrown to you by passers by, for a lovely bottle of something nice. You'd never had it better.

Sitting across the road from the briefcase man's office, you watched him march from his parked car to the door. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a set of keys and clumsily dropped them on the ground. He wiped his eyes with his hand and let out an audible sigh. Bad start. He put his suitcase down, allowing it to balance upright on the pavement, and bent down to hook the keys with a finger. He put the key in the door and let himself in, all this behind the amber bubbles resting on your knee. Through the office window, you saw him open the blinds and settle down by a desk. It was early, the sun only just rising, and yet his working day had already begun. Your friend stretched, opening his mouth to form a yawn so powerful, it created a belching sound. It was a chilly morning and so you huddled together, the aroma of his breath combining with your own in the air around you. You joined in and let out a tremendous belch, the bestial kind, making you feel like a tiger or a T-Rex. The gratifying noise broke your morning silence. Your friend responded with another yawn, his mouth opening so widely, you could hear his jaw clicking.

“Shall we begin?” he enquired in a gentlemanly fashion. You nodded and got to your feet, helping him up as you did so. The two of you strode across the road, to the office door. You raised a fist and knocked on the wood with three hard bashes. With your hands clasped behind your backs, yours holding a girthy bottle by the neck, you stood side by side, awaiting the man's response. After the sound of eight or nine footsteps, the door opened slightly, and a face, clean shaven with a topping of blonde hair in a side parting, peered out at you.
“Can I help you?” he said, in a tone suggestive of a warning rather than an enquiry. You both smiled at him, rocking on the balls of your feet.
“Not likely.” you responded, tilting your head sideways and smiling.
“We don't need help.” your friend chimed in.
He narrowed his eyes, a look of trying puzzlement on his face.
“You knocked.” he informed you both. Of this you were acutely aware. You demonstrated this point with a nod.
“Oh for God's sake...” he muttered under his breath, blinking deliberately, as if in disbelief.
“WHAT-DO-YOU-WANT?”
“Do you need some help?” you asked him, attempting the most sincere of tones. You stretched your arms out, moving the bottle to its usual place under your arm. The man let out a deep sigh and disappeared back into the office, slamming the door with such ferocity that a breeze wafted against your faces. You turned to your friend.
“Poor bastard.” you commented. You looked down to find a shiny 50 pence piece looking up at you. Not a total waste of a morning then. And with that, the two of you resumed your place on the pavement across the road. You'd wait until he was ready to come out of there.

“Nice bloke.” you friend remarked, before you spluttered out a laugh. Your contact with this acrid fellow made you feel pleased with your own selves and grateful that all was as it was for you. His life must be truly horrendous, you supposed, to create such impatience. But this would change.
“He'll get better.” you reassured your friend. You were feeling particularly determined. You patted him on the shoulder with your podgy palm and passed him the bottle in hope of raising a smile. The sweet medicine worked a charm and he let out a relieved sigh.
“He'll get better.” he repeated in agreement.

The two of you spent your day on that particular piece of pavement, commenting on passers by and offering sad eyed youngsters your words of wisdom. “Chin up, son”, you'd say. “It's a wonderful world!”. You kept an eye on the office window throughout this time, just in case there were any changes with your new acquaintance. He occasionally paced back and forth. This sort of movement was easy to spot through the window. It seemed that whatever his business was, he was not all that well suited to it, given the upset it appeared to be causing him.

After the two of you had played a variety of games, including Pebble-Tiddley-Winks and Belch-the-Alphabet, not to mention the less enjoyable Pebble-Belch and Wink-the-Alphabet, the suitcase man emerged from his office and was met by a youngish woman. They spoke frustratingly quietly and as such, you could only guess their conversation from their body language. He put an arm around her narrow waist and whispered something in her ear. She then turned and glanced at you, raising her eyebrows and whispered something to him in return. It was perplexing. The two of you leaned back on the pavement, your crossed legs sprawling on to the road. You opened the cider: 'tss'. A little flat perhaps, but definitely drinkable. You raised your head to look back at them and as if out of nowhere she shoved him and took several steps back. His hands were reaching out to her, requesting that she reconsider. You heard him raise his voice to say “Cynthia. Please!”. “No, Martin.” she yelled back at him. “Not this time”. Her voice was shrill and cutting. He took a few steps towards her. “C'mon Cynth. Let's talk about this. It's not how it sounds.” he begged. Poor bastard.
“Poor bastard” your friend whispered, a finger tip in one nostril. You shook your heads in unison.
“At least let me explain.” he roared after her. She was already walking away. Her long legs, visible in her pencil skirt, had taken her to the end of the street and she turned a corner. Gone.
He put his face in his hands and bent down to sit on the office door step. He looked crumpled. Another thing to worry about. You turned to see your companion had been moved by the events, a tear forming in the corner of his eye and slowly running down his freckled cheek.
“Poor poor bastard.” he repeated. “It's just one thing after another.”

You decided to move forward with the plan. This was a man in need of help fast. You stood up and your legs flailed in his direction, carrying you to his side of the road. You crouched down beside him, his head still securely hidden in his hands.
“Chin up, son.” you said softly. “It's time for a change. Don't you think?”

His face emerged, wet from his tears, his cheeks pinker than before. Suddenly he had the look of a boy. His hair had developed a more tousled look, the side parting having vanished. This pleased you a little. He was making some progress. His brow was furrowed and his lips quivered at the corners. He took a deep breath and, screwing up his nose at your odour, stood up suddenly, turning away from you. Before you could look up, he had disappeared back into his office. Gone. You turned to your partner, who was still sprawled across the pavement on the other side of the road. He shrugged at you, his cheeks visibly damp. You returned the shrug. With the bottle in one hand, you called out “Dinner, then?” and took several heavenly mouthfuls. Nothing better.

Your job done for the day, you made for the bakery bins, where you and your friend found surplus tasty treats. Cheese and onion baguettes, cheese and onion pasties: it seemed it had not been a day of cheese and onion for the paying customer. Their loss. The two of you leaned on the large metal bin and finished off the leftovers. Perfection. You washed it all down with your usual liquid of choice and watched the remaining bubbles. Counting them was futile but you enjoyed the challenge.
“We'll get him in the morning.” your friend said before letting out a noticeably onion-scented belch. “He can't ignore us forever.”
You grunted in agreement. It was true. He'd have to listen eventually. He would realise the world of business and pencil skirts weren't going to treat him well.

The following morning, you made your way to the office. You were a little later than you had been the day before, having indulged yourselves somewhat the night before, and feared you may have already missed him coming into work. The two of you sat down on the pavement opposite and made yourselves comfortable. No sign of him. You arranged the pebbles as you had done the previous day and started a game to pass the time. Your friend had always had the edge over you with Pebble-Tiddley-Winks. His skill knew no bounds. Lining up the black stone, he took a deep breath and stopped suddenly.
“He's in there!” he yelped, pointing across the road. Right enough, the suitcase man was opening the blinds. Moments later, the door opened and he walked out, stretching his arms in the air. His suit was lined with creases and his hair more dishevelled than ever. His facial hair too, was unkempt. Your friend looked at you, raising an eyebrow and a smile. You both stood to attention and strolled across to meet your new comrade.
“It's time!” you called out to him, grinning widely.
“Forget all this.” your friend added.
The man jumped a little, clearly unaware that he had an audience. His eyes looked tired, the bags beneath them bulging wearily. You held out the bottle of cider in both hands and your friend unscrewed the lid: 'ttssss'. Together, you edged towards him, rolling on the balls of your feet, urging him to join you. His legs appeared to give way, and suddenly he was beneath you both, sitting on the step. He looked up with a resignatory smile and a shrug, before reaching into his suit jacket, which, you noticed, was not as freshly scented as the previous day, and pulling a bottle of whiskey out from an inside pocket. You could not tame the smile that was spreading across your face. The urge to grin was unstoppable. The drink had smoothed out his prickles and creased his shirt. It was beautiful.

The two of you sat down, on either side of him, in unison. You gave his back a hearty rub with one hand and watched as he sobbed into the bottle. Everything would be alright now. Life tasted better on the other side and he had two experienced new friends to help him through the journey. This was just the beginning.