Thursday, 23 September 2010
Last Bus To Woodstock (Or Thereabouts)
The woman at the front of the queue doesn't understand. She pulls at the pockets of the fur-lined coat and pulls out a small purse. She waves it at the sour faced guard.
He shakes his head, 'Sorry luv'
The queue is growing. The smell of dampness hangs around us all, makes the place stink of days old washing. Human washing, pulled in from the storm outside.
She waves her credit cards at him again and complains, 'Look' she says, 'You must take one of these cards'
He shakes his head, 'Your bank's six feet underwater luv' he explains, 'Your money's no good here'
A few of us are getting weary of this now. It's been a long couple of weeks. Homes, jobs, families: all are swept away. The army of the dead are marching and this woman thinks she can buy her way into heaven.
You can tell from the way she holds her head that she's used to getting what she wants and she tries the trademark icy smile that has frozen so many people into submission. But the guard is impervious to her looks and her pleas and is not swayed by her expensive perfume
'Your name's not down luv' he explains. The waters are rising now around the remains of the terminal. There's only a few seats left on the last bus out. I wonder if i should have joined the queue with the nun at the front, but see that she is still arguing ecumenical matters when she should be climbing onboard.
Somewhere behind me someone breaks ranks, runs through the crowd towards the gates and tries to climb aboard the bus. He is struck down. No one says a thing.
The woman watches for a while, unable to comprehend that this fate could befall her, 'Look,' she explains again, still not getting it, 'surely everyone accepts AMX these days?'