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I
stood on the street, lost for the moment. The cars and the other
pedestrians streamed by, going wherever they were going. I took
in a bird resting on a window sill three stories up. The bird
looked out of place in the middle of the city, stolen from the
countryside. Having a vantage point to hang on to appealed to
me. To be able to stop and stare down at the bustle, tracking
the journeys of the eccentric and the angry, picking out the
beautiful and the hideous specimens and passing judgement without
fear of being caught in the act of sentencing the innocents.
The bird alighted the sill and left me staring at an empty window,
suddenly aware again of my place on the ground. I remembered
why I was here. I had to go, and there was a cinema at the end
of the street where I could relieve myself.
I wandered down the street, slowly, letting the shops and cafes
filter into view. How do cobblers make enough money to keep
their premises open in the centre of a city? Why are there so
few coffee shops that do not belong to a multinational chain?
And why do they discourage smoking and drinking coffee? There
was an odd mix of outlets on this street – the aforementioned
backed up by card shops and gift shops, ticket agencies and
temping agencies, bars and bookshops.
I had to settle for a brief glance in each window as I passed,
rather than sift through the wares of each establishment as
I might have done at other times. The frustration at having
to curb my natural curatorial instinct combined with my physical
need to go heightened my agitation at being out during rush
hour with no specific destination in mind. I moved more quickly
to remove my most pressing discomfort.
The cinema was open already, awaiting the select band that occupies
them for matinees. The ticket window seemed uninhabited, but
I knew from previous experience that the afternoon shift consisted
of a disinterested foreign student who lacked the stature to
fill the booth. I merely had to take one of the side doors and
I was in without having to justify my reasons for trespass.
Despite the fact the cinema had four screens, and probably dealt
with thousands of people over the course of a weekend, I knew
that there were only two conveniences in the building. One was
on the mezzanine floor which served as an entrance to two of
the screens and could usually be counted on to act as a magnet
for the ushers when not collecting tickets or scarves, bags
wallets and rubbish abandoned by the watchers. And the room
up there was battered by the hordes. The tiles were chipped
or hanging off and a vague stench always hung around the place,
whether of disinfectant or bodily fluids.
I took the carpeted stairs to the lower screens. The plush blue
carpet disguised my footsteps, keeping me hidden from the attention
of even the most officious ushers. I did not want to be caught.
Stupid. This was stupid. My shoes skiffing the edge of the steps,
my legs fluttering, trying to get me there quicker, quicker.
It felt like I was being followed. A grin broke on my face at
the idea of being caught. And I knew I would not be caught.
They might not care, but still I did not want to be caught,
and so I trotted on, deeper into the building.
The delight in staying ahead of an imagined pursuer mingled
with a tingling sensation in my bladder. I was so near to relief
that I almost forgot to hold on until the moment came. One more
corner and I could clear my mind and drain off the excess liquid
in one go and work out how I should be exhausting the day.
Voices whispered ahead. I could not believe it. After eluding
all the Odeon flunkies until now I had found their nest. So
when lost in a multiplex I should aim for the toilets for directions.
The fear that they would ask for my ticket before letting me
exercise the right to leak compounded the excitement in my innards.
I had slowed myself down by a supreme force of will to avoid
running headlong into the motley crew policing the toilet. My
footsteps made no sound, and the felt covered walls absorbed
the noise of my erratic breathing. They couldn’t hear me
coming down the corridor, but I could hear them.
- There’s so much we could do here. A chocolate
voice seeing potential in an underground convenience. Evidently
a true visionary.
- Yes, you’re so right. But we’ll have to strip
it back first. Strip what? Surely there were no valuables
stored there, and tiles, mirrors, and plastic laminated doors
were perfectly suited to communal toilets.
- But the question is, will they agree with what we think?
A third voice, betraying the excitement of underground prescience.
I struggled with the notion that these three may not actually
be discussing refurbishments, but actually a clandestine forum
for outlandish ideas and political activism.
I crept into the room as the three men made good their escape.
I saw two white men dressed in unremarkable suits and forgettable
haircuts, and one black man dressed with a casual finesse, much
taller than the other two. They made unlikely candidates for
revolutionaries or interior designers. I adopted the position
in front of the urinal and tried in vain to catch any remnants
of their talk as they left me behind. The only noise I could
hear above the gurgling of the cisterns was the wailing of a
child. A ghostly noise, as if the infant had been imprisoned
behind one of the walls. I hoped it was merely someone in the
ladies’ next door making the child’s undergarments
comfortable. I lacked the stomach for further investigation.
The sooner I was in sunlight again the better.
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