104: Spumes

As we’re driving into the city, from my coach window on the right I can see a Burgundy 1960s Beetle convertible, driven by an unkempt looking man in his forties in a mustard corduroy blazer. The car slows but the rest of the traffic doesn’t and I see it’s getting dangerously close to the jaws of a front-loading dustcart. It falls back slightly out of my vision but I hear a sudden chunky clattering and, glancing over my shoulder, see that it’s been gobbled up into the vehicle’s mouth and as the coach’s lane slows, the dustcart morbidly overtakes us again and everyone on the driver’s side can see the car and its occupant, wedged in the cart’s hydraulic pincers, the man slumping back in resigned exasperation as he removes his seatbelt and folds his arms. Moments later the truck breaks suddenly, sending the car back on the road but the driver does nothing to rectify the situation – he just lets the vehicle come to a slow halt and, barely opening the door, clambers out with a few items — a 4-cup cardboard coffee carrier holding 3 cold and seeping Americanos; a slim box-file overflowing with seemingly empty A4 plastic binder sleeves; and a small plush headpiece that looks like a squashed pink bagel… — all of which he drops clumsily about himself as he curls up into a foetal ball, with his head under the front bumper, resting on the bagel, and starts sucking his thumb. It’s at this point I think I’d better do something so I pull the coach in as close to the curb as possible, put on the hazards, announce over the tannoy that I’m going to help the burped out Beetle man and hop out the cab onto the road. When I get to the man I ask if I can help. Can I help with anything I say. Would you like to get back in your car? He makes a sort of fizzing noise from somewhere between the backs of his nostrils and the edges of his mouth and then, doing a little pointy tap dance with the sides of his shoes, he drums upon the rim of a large manhole cover just within foot-reach. “Open it” he spumes scratchily. There is something compelling about this seething, gurning, corduroy coil of a man, so I hook my fingers into a couple of drainage slots in the heavy iron covering and yank it up from the road. Then, in a hissing conglobation, he rolls like an armadillo towards the manhole and drops softly down into its darkness. I wait for a plop, a slash, or a thud but none comes. Then I look back at his car. The engine’s still running. And across by the curb, the coach’s hazard lights are still flashing and all along the side, an array of passengers’ faces is pressed against the tinted glass, gawping incredulously at the scene. The Beetle’s engine grinds to a halt and the headlights go out. Then, from the depths of the manhole, I hear: “Coffee!” It’s strange how the sunless anonymity of a subterranean sewerage system can clarify a man. “Coffee?” I question back. “It’s cold, and mostly spilled.” “Doesn’t matter”, he replies, “It’s dark. And already very humid. You’ll have to use the plastic sleeves. There’s some crabbing twine and a hook on the booster seat in the back of the car.” It’s at times like this that I usually consult Colmud, the giant inverted shire-horse that’s been floating in the daytime skies since all the satellites crashed into the sea. Colmud’s body is, as always, cloaked in a towering spiral of clouds, with only his apricot-coloured head and neck protruding, his mane flowing effervescently among the starlings. “Colmud, what shall I do?”, I ask. “You know what to do”, he brain-whispers into me. “Get the crabbing twine, hook the binder sleeve, pour in the coffee and lower it down to the sewer man.” That all seems clear enough now. “Thanks, Colmud”, I thank Colmud. “Neeeeiiiiiggghhhhhwwpwwpwprrrrrrffffffffff”, says Colmud, as he shakes the atmosphere all about. After I’ve finished my task, and lowered the sleeve of coffee down to the man, I start to notice that all about me, in front and behind, and in all the other lanes, dustcarts are slow-bumping men out of their vintage cars into manholes. And coach drivers, just like me, are tending to these men, lowering down folders of streaky bacon, padded envelopes of scrambled egg and rolodexes of toast, while their coaches idle and flash at the curb-side. I summon Colmud again. “What’s going on?”, I yawp. “Shhhhhhhh”, he shushes, teeth glinting between his quivering orange lips, “You’d better get that coach back on the road. You’ve got a ward to fill.”