The Rose

Instead of telling you all about what has happened in the last week like finding a new brave Japanese friend; crocheting twenty hats; watching a male friend pick up a gorgeous girl who in turn tried to pick up my sister; experiencing a smiling French boy called Surkin making a dance floor of people go wild; becoming mesmerized by the enthusiasm of the drummer in "The Midnight Juggernauts"; drinking way too much but ever so good Cooper’s Sparkling Ale; watching my sister trying to pick up a sexy bartender only to see him fall head over heals for her Aussie male friend; and finally even though I fell asleep on my desk yesterday at work from exhaustion, I went to the concert of "Arcade Fire" last night and came out more awake than ever before.

Well, instead of telling you all about these things I thought I would tell you about another of my favourite Unusuals.

I don’t have a name for him, this old man who lives on the same street as I do. He is probably around 65 years old, tall and very thin. His face is papery and lined, all the lines are vertical they start somewhere and all go straight down as if water has run down his face for a very long time leaving imprints. He has greyish eyes that are very alert and they look up from under very bushes white eyebrows, every hair in the eyebrows point downward as well so they form a little curtain from under which the eyes peep. To match his very white eyebrows he has a spectacularly bushy white moustache. The moustache is so big and since it also strays straight down it completely hides his mouth.

One morning as I went to work he stood in the tunnel that leads to the underground. This tunnel is one of the most uninspiring and windy places to stand in. It has a dirty yellow floor and even dirtier but glazed yellow tiled walls. The light is bright, hard and white. The length of the tunnel is about 30 metres and it leads into the ticket hall of the underground.

Well as I was saying, one morning at about 6:30 a.m. this man stood there, hands behind his back just staring straight ahead into the wall opposite him.
In the afternoon when I got back from work, he was not there anymore but the next morning - there he stood again, slightly rolling on his feet from heel to toe. He nodded to me and other neighbours whom he recognised.

This behaviour went on for about one week, every morning he stood in the windy tunnel, hands behind back and nodded to people passing by.

Then one morning he had a small keyboard standing next to him. He didn’t touch the keyboard, just stood silently by it.
For a few days he stood next to his keyboard not touching it until one morning as I was walking down the stairs to the tunnel I heard him tinkling on the keys, just one or a couple of tones at a time. Not a tune, just randomly plonking away. The man still nodded seriously to us neighbours as we passed by.

After another week he had increased not only his props with a small mat and a stool on which he sat, but by now he was playing melodies on the keyboard. Nothing too complicated, simple stuff like “When the saints came marching in” or “What a wonderful world”.

Also next to the old mans foot on the dirty floor lay a single red rose wrapped in plastic.

This old man stood in the tunnel every single day for about six months, playing the same tunes over and over again, seriously nodding to his passing neighbours and next to his foot lay the red rose wrapped in plastic.

Beautiful.

Old Young Man

It was Friday after work and some people were already dressed for the night out. I was waiting for the train, reading a book.
The wrong train stopped and let a black mass of autumn people out. A young man, about 25 years old, tall and good looking got off, stopped and then read the signs on the walls. He was trendy, a bit decadent with a long green scarf nonchalantly thrown around his neck over his tweed jacket. Actually he looked a bit like a modern day Michael Jackson in Thriller, Michael before he became white that is. The man approached me.

“Excusez moi! Parlez vous Française?
“Eh…non!
“Aha! Hablas español?
“Non!”

(He then switched to perfect Swedish but since most of you don’t understand Swedish I will do it in English, so just pretend it is Swedish)

“Oh, so which language do you speak then?

I looked at him with a sceptical look, trying to convey a message through my eyes which was something like “What do you want? Are you hitting on me? And if you are, then forget about it pal? And if you don’t stop, then GET LOST!”

He actually understood this silent message and quickly took three steps back, put up his hands as protection and started stumbling over his own words.

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you or bother you! I just wanted to talk to someone! I’ll back off, please forgive me!”

He was so apologetic and embarrassed that I felt bad about giving him the “GET LOST”-look so I said:

“No it’s ok. I speak Swedish and English and a bit of Polish so you can pick any of those languages.”
“Oh ok!” he sighed, then switched to a perfect London English “I am sorry but I thought you were French or maybe Spanish. Do you mind if I sit on the same bench as you?”
“You can sit anywhere you like.”
“Thank you! You seem very nice!” he mumbled shyly in flawless Swedish.
“Hey! You are switching between languages all the time, why? Where are you from really?”
“Oh my story is long and complicated. I was born in Jamaica man!”

That sentence began with a London accent and ended in a thick Jamaican accent, I was beginning to believe this guy was making fun of me.

“Why, is your story long and complicated?”

The man produced his wallet from his jacket pocket; out of it he took a photograph of himself and a small beautiful child of about three. The picture was taken in Stockholm.

“This is my son!” the man said.
"Oh nice! Cute! How old is he?”
“Oh he will be 26 this year” the man said gazing lovingly at the picture.
“What?! 26?”
“Yes?” he looked at me questionably “Ohh! You thought the little child on the photo was mine! No, no that is my grandson!” he threw me a big sincere smile.
“But?!” I was sure he was pulling my leg off and having a dance with it now.
“This is my son!” he said and pointed proudly at the man on the photo who most obviously was himself, “he is 26 years old. And this little one is my grandson!”
“BUT…? No!” I smiled carefully, “that must be you!” and pointed at the young man in the picture.
“HA HA!” the young man laughed “thank you for the compliment! But no I am 65 years old! But you are so sweet for telling me I look young!”

He was completely sincere, there wasn’t a trace of a joke in his eyes or his face, but he kept switching between Swedish, Londonian and Jamaican English. I was confused. Then he started to tell me about his 'son' again. How 'the son' worked as a market analyst at a big company in Stockholm and that he was only visiting him for a short while before returning to London where he lived.

I had let more than 3 trains go past by now, because I had to figure out what this smooth faced young guy was all about. He acted so normal, apart from switching languages and claiming to be 40 years older than he clearly was. But after about ten minutes he began to crack. Instead of using the word “he” about his ‘son’ he let out an “I” instead. But as soon as he had, he stopped in his tracks. Looked very lost, wrinkled his forehead and shook his head a little. Then he took a deep breath and went on telling me his life story of moving from Jamaica to London 50 years before and how his son had met a Swedish girl and moved to Stockholm.

“I’ve been to a company party today” he said and stopped suddenly looked confused. Then he continued slowly “I mean he, my son has been to a company party today”
“Ok” I said “How was it?”
“It was great! But I don’t usually drink and today I had 2 glasses of wine” then he looked at me with a very shocked face and said slowly “I don’t know what is happening. I mean him, my son.”
“It’s ok” I said “you will be fine”
“My head hurts. I think I should go home. I don’t usually drink but the head of the company persuaded me. I didn’t dare to say no.” the man mumbled in Swedish and put his head in his hands.
“Don’t worry! You will be fine after you’ve had some sleep. Go home and rest”
“Yes, you are right” He started to weep. A few tears ran down his cheeks “I feel strange”
“Don’t worry” I said and patted his back.

Then we sat there silently and I let a few more trains pass because I was a bit worried about leaving this lost young man alone.

Suddenly the old young man jumped up, wiped away his tears and laughed

““I want to dance! Come and dance with me!”
“No, thank you but I need to go home. Maybe another time.”
“Ok” he smiled “you have been so very nice to me, thank you thank you thank you!" whilst he shook my hand between both of his. "I feel a bit strange because I never drink but now I want to dance, I think I’ll go and dance somewhere! See you later!”

Then he ran across the platform and onto a train that stood waiting there.

Fight Club

Setting:
Around 1 a.m.
On the Underground packed with partied-over people.
My friend and I have just taken our seats.

Action!

As the train door closes with an accompanying beep, a scruffy looking man without a jacket or bag rushes in - just in time. After him and holding on to him, a well dressed guy squeezes in, forcing the closed doors to open.

Doors close.
Fight begins.

Scruffy looking man is holding a CD-walkman in his right hand and trying to keep the dressy looking man off him with his left hand.

Dressy man - jeans, chocolate brown pin-striped vest and jacket, is also holding on to the CD-walkman and trying to hit Scruffy whilst shouting “Give me my CD player! What the fuck!? You can’t just take my player from my pocket you idiot! Let go!”

Us witnesses, can also see ear plugs in the Dressy’s ears and the end of them swinging unplugged by his waist.

Enter young Punk Girl, about sixteen years old. She looks like a boy with short curly hair and Sid Viscous on her leather jacket. Punk Girl is the first to react, springing in-between the two fighting guys screaming “STOP! Calm down! Stop!” Another man rushes forward from the other end of the train and grabs Dressy from behind. After a scuffling dance for four, Scruffy finally lets go and runs off down the wagon. Dressy stands panting with his CD-player in hand.

Everybody sighs with relief.
Dressy straightens his clothes.

Then:

Suddenly Dressy roars. Rips his bag, jacket, vest and t-shirt off, throws them on the floor and still roaring, charges after Scruffy.

Repeat action without CD-player and lesser clothes.

After this colourful display late at night I started to wonder.

A cockerel pulls himself up and bushes his feathers to signal that his fight is getting serious. An elephant folds its ears out to frighten off his rival. A gorilla thumps his chest and roars to threaten others. Does a male human takes his clothes off on the upper part of his body to start the action?

I know that some of you will say “well no, not really, it is much more comfortable to fight without clothes , the swing in the punch will get better etc” and yes this is true. But really! In the middle of a fight the instinct is not to get undressed. Your instinct is to hit or avoid getting hit.
And how does one do this, with hands caught up behind ones back, struggling to get a jacket off?