Ticket to Paradise
© 2012 Anup Roy
(Inspired by Tracy Chapman’s ‘Fast Car’)
He stares down at the ticket. The only other thing on his table is a coating of grey dust. Tears roll down his cheeks, splash in the dust. Ticket to paradise, ticket to life.
He sits down with a thud. Ah, the years gone by! He was younger then, restless, carefree. What could he have done differently? Nothing. How could he have lived better, in his twenties? There was no way. His childhood was a struggle: not financial, just emotional. Having to be responsible for everything, a firm anchor. Deep down he wanted nothing more than to drift away on a strong current. But his overriding thought was to keep things anchored, precisely to resist such a current. They might splinter in a thousand pieces on some alien shore. So he kept them in calm anchorage. Now what?
The storm has calmed since then, the anchor now winched up, dumped carelessly on deck. Its years under water have thinned it with rust. The pull of the sea has bent one fluke out of shape. But it did its job. It held.
It’s a different landscape now. He fends for himself. Can this rusty anchor be refashioned to a sleek craft? Then he can explore the wide ocean, its turbulent, desolate spaces. Through his twenties he’s floated friendless, in an uncertain world. Enough! He’s had to learn boatbuilding from scratch. To be best in the world will be good enough. He’s reached his thirties and ready to sail the seven seas.
He looks again at the ticket, colourful like the new life it promises. A life all his own, in which nobody else may stake a claim. Forged inch by inch like a chain. Strong enough to pull his sleepy existence from its backwater out to the encompassing ocean, which connects every continent. Will he be ready for the right tide when it comes? Can he wait silently till then? Mustn’t be caught unprepared. He’ll say that he did it all himself. From now on, he will control his own direction; or just cast his fate to the winds. Either his own doing or the wind’s. So be it, let the wind decide. But let him live!
He looks back to his youth. Oh yes, girls came and went. Some would have offered themselves as crew for the long haul. But they didn’t come ready to trim the sails, take their turn at the oars. Some he would have picked, but they didn’t stick around. Let him travel alone then, with only the wind for company and no pilot. His boat will take care of itself. If it crashes on the shore, there’ll be nobody to weep. He’ll go with the flow.
He lights a cigarette, sighs softly, watching a silver wreath of smoke curl up like an unfurling sail. Perfect, diaphanous, shapely.
He glances out the window. There’s the world, it never gives a damn. Cars whizz by, people walk purposefully past in the yellow darkness. Dogs chase a cat, the cat runs up a tree. The dogs wait patiently round the trunk. There’s a man with a bag of apples to take to his kids. He doesn’t want to be jostled by the proles. Drunks stagger, curse the world, vomit beside the hydrant, collapse on the filthy sidewalk.
Nobody cares. Nobody looks beyond his immediate vicinity. Children turn into youths, fall in love, fall out of it, fall again in love, marry, have kids and then die. Life is simple. Thus are they blessed, that they never had to live submerged, like a trusty anchor. They didn’t have to die each day to learn how to live. But this rusty anchor has broken free. It has chosen life.
The ticket will take him to a country he’s never been. For the first time, he’s living for himself, purely and selfishly. Pleasure has to be seized! Why couldn’t he have indulged long ago? He’ll be going to his dear friend’s place. They’ll drink English ale; talk about love, loss and life. He will learn how to live and will tell his friend about falling in love. Things will fit into place.
He’ll say hello to the world, dedicating his life to seeing, tasting, feeling and touching it. Seeing the sun rise in every corner of the world. Keeping vigil while the moon rises above his head. Waiting for the stars to appear in the darkening sky. He’ll pick out the brightest star and greet her. “Hello, you look beautiful from here. How do I look to you from there?” Checking her out through the telescope, in case she too is starting to show signs of age. She will be his! Following him constantly on his travels, joined in a faithful bond.
Now is his time to see the world, live on his own behalf, be free—as he now is.
Three months ago, he had called his mother.
“Momma, will you let me go now? Am I free now? I fulfilled my promise. Didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Are you proud of me momma?”
“I am.”
“Do you think I could have done things differently, would you have wanted me to be different?”
“No. Not at all. You have exceeded my expectation. I thank you.”
“Why was I born Momma? Why did you drag me here?”
“I am sorry. But that was your destiny.”
“What’s my destiny Momma?”
“I don’t know. Go figure it out.”
“Where do I start?”
“Inside you.”
“I am blank, Momma. I don’t have an inside.”
“No, it is sleeping. Just nudge it a bit, it will wake up.”
“What do I do with it when it wakes up?”
“Ask anything. It will answer.”
And he nudged, and it woke up, and he asked, and he got an answer.
And he called his momma again.
“Momma, I want to live.”
“Live. I am sorry to have kept you hostage. ”
“Am I free Momma?”
“You are.”
“What do I do now?”
“I can’t answer for you, my boy. You want to live. You need to know how you want to live. I can only suggest what my narrow outlook towards life tells me to. It tells me that you should settle … raise your own family. Have a wife. Have kids.”
“I don’t want to start it again Momma. I am tired.”
“What do you want then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go figure out. Give yourself time. Don’t rush.”
He gave himself time. He drank, he loitered around aimlessly, he fell in love. He got hurt. And then he figured out. It was always so apparent. He always knew it was the case. He wanted to drift away. He wanted to drift away to an unknown land. He had made his boat, built it with care. He had hung a figurehead from its bows, in the shape of a vagabond clutching a broken spear, ready for his last fight, unto the last breath. A boat for drifting away.
“Momma, I have found my answer. I want to drift away from everything. I want to live momma. Will you let me go?”
“Yes, go.”
“I won’t be coming back momma.”
“I know. I don’t want you to come back.”
“I am leaving you momma.”
“I am crying.”
“Why are you crying momma?”
“I never yet cried for you. That’s why.”
“Why didn’t you cry for me momma?”
“It would have made you weak. You were my last hope. I was selfish. I robbed your childhood.”
“What is childhood momma?”
His mother didn’t respond.
“Momma, you there?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you silent?”
“I am crying. I am crying for you.”
“Shall I leave you momma?”
“Yes, please.”
“Will you miss me momma?”
“Every moment of my life.”
“How will you live without me momma?”
“I have lived my life. Now you must live yours.”
“How is my elder sister?”
“She is doing great.”
“How is my younger sister?”
“She is doing good. She is on her own now.”
“Shall I stay back for a while more now, momma?”
“No. We don’t need you anymore.”
“I will not return momma.”
“It’ll be the saddest day of my life if you return.”
“I am leaving then momma.”
“Yes, son. Please go. Live your life. Die your own death. Breathe your own air and walk your own way.”
Here is his ticket. Now the boat can be launched. Let the wind take it. Let it find anchorage in the lee of an island, or drift away to a blue lagoon. Let it run aground on Poverty Bay, or take up a berth on Affluence Marina. Trial and Error have taught him in the boat-yard. Now let Wind teach him how to sail. Then he will become a master mariner. The world will be at his feet.
His momma has set him free to die his own death; maybe to die alone, curled up like an old tattered sail, stowed and forgotten. Till then, he will be a pilgrim. The ticket to paradise lies in front of him. He picks it up. Never mind the dust, it can stay. He’s leaving.
edited by Vincent (inspired by Joan Armatrading’s ‘Rosie’)
and we both liked her ‘Me Myself I’
29 comments:
That was beautifully written. I can certainly identify with the urge to "drift away" Reminds me of what I said in that post on Anguish about driving off into the dark, never to be seen again. We probably all have moments where that idea has a certain charm to it.
Nevertheless, Mr. Vincent, I haven't forgotten your promise of a post on sacred places. You're not off the hook yet ;D
Oh, and following your nutty precedent, I should say that the above comment was inspired by "Drift Away"; Dobie Gray. :D
(I even spelled his name right!)
Even after reading through it twice, I'm still on the fence whether the boat is an actual thing or a metaphor. Then I came to the conclusion that it didn't really matter either way.
And I also realized that I was slightly jealous of a fictional character. I want to drift away too.
Or there is ‘Drifting Away’ by Faithless, from their album Reverence.
I think you’re right on it not mattering either way, Rev. I’ve somewhat changed my mind about its being a story at all. Let’s call it an incantation: something like a song, in the way it uses imagery to express emotion, but also like a magic spell, to bring about a desired change corresponding to a change in consciousness.
At any rate, it’s nice that it was inspired by a song, and has attracted other songs in its honour.
Bryan, I have been seething with ideas for a post on sacred places. I’ve even discovered a new sacred place, less than a mile from my house. And I have a book to write about--or several--but mainly The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram, which has clarified so much about the things we’ve been arguing about these last few months that I feel e bit nervous about expressing it. But I’m convinced you won’t take against it, as you did against Straw Dogs (or as I did against Being and Nothingness).
Books can be sacred places too. One of my sacred places is a corner of my kitchen, but its influence is so odd, subtle and transitory that it won’t be easy to describe.
(My pensive nod at your conversation with the Reverend inspired by Styx's "Come Sail Away"
As for the post, I eagerly await it, and I'm feeling in a much less contentious mood lately. Besides, I don't think that David Abram guy bothered me nearly as much as John Gray. There's probably some of his ideas and tendencies that I'm a little leery about, but in the last post about him, I was much more interested in the things that resonated with me, rather than the things I disagreed with. He's seems like someone who at least has something different and fresh to say, and even more importantly, he's seems like someone who opens up new vistas to explore, things I'd never thought of before. That's far more important than agreeing or disagreeing.
I can imagine that it probably wouldn't be too hard to turn it back into a song, of sorts. Perhaps one of those long slightly sad folk songs that tell a story. Something by Pete Seeger or Woody Guthrie.
Since I don't get out much, most if not all of my sacred places are books or songs.
I liked it simply as a beautiful story. So many people put off leading their own lives for so long that by the time they realize it they have little time or energy left. I especially enjoyed the part about the star and looking to see if she was showing signs of age.
Just beautiful. So many layers, nothing dished on a spoon, though the language is so simple and clear.
Bryan, I have been seething with ideas for a post on sacred places.
What the fuck for? Isn't the place you are standing (or sitting) on this very moment sacred?
No one place is more sacred than another.
Thank you, friends! Thank you Ian :)
Billy, I'm delighted at your visit. You showed up to intervene at exactly the right moment, almost stealing the punchline. If I recall correctly, you have Native American blood and so the sacredness of the land needs no reminder. For those of us not so fortunate, we have to jump on stepping-stones to get there, from the lesser to the greater realization.
The question is, Billy, how we get to realize it. That is what I intend to address. Your prompt was angelic and timely.
Right, Gentleeye. Not dishing it on a spoon: surely this is what distinguishes literature from---some kind of other stuff that also uses words.
Susan, thanks for pointing that out about the star. What moved me about it was also his question about the reciprocal relationship. Did the star see him? ‘How do I look to you from there?’ Not just the temporal vs. the eternal; but also Martin Buber’s I and Thou.
The I-Thou is notably represented in David Abram’s The Spell of the Sensuous, a book which has entered into my bloodstream like a blessed infection, to the extent that I find it impossible to write about it directly. I cannot separate the I from the It!
Ah, another contender throws his hat into the ring ;)
BBC (not to be confused with the...ummm...channel of the same name, I trust) is at a bit of disadvantage as to the context of our conversation. Certainly every place on God's Green Earth is sacred, providing us with light and warmth and sustenance and fulfillment. However, you and I both know that you're using the term in a looser sense - not perhaps literal holiness, but rather emotional resonance, which varies from person to person and from place to place. At least, that's how I took it.
I enjoyed the story very much until it turned almost entirely to dialogue. It lost the inner voice I so enjoy in fiction.
For the sake of fairness, I'll try to re-read it.
Gina, I certainly know what you mean. It seemed like an interruption to the monologue. But when you reread the story, you may come to the conclusion, as I did, that it continues the monologue. Doubtless he has a Momma, but the conversation he recalls is quite likely to be with an internalisation of his mother: a ritual in which he gives himself permission to abandon filial duties after he sees how they have disempowered him till now.
If you take the story literally, there are two ’phone calls with his mother. But then, if you take the story literally, he built his own boat and learned all the related skills; whilst no one who knew him had any inkling of his spare-time activity.
You may come to the conclusion that the boat is metaphor. Only the ticket is real. But even this ...
It’s one of those stories which subverts the idea of a story, because different parts at different points dissolve into fantasy. There are films like this - many. The most ingeniously egregious, in this genre, that I can think of is Boxing Helena, about which I will say nothing, in case you desire to watch it, though a quick peek at Wikipedia may discourage you.
And the most successful I know is my no. 1 favourite film if.... where the clue is in the carefully-orthographed title.
Bryan, as to whether I will agree with the distinction you make there, remains to be seen. Nothing new there, you may say. But seriously, it’s a process of exploration, and I don’t know where it may end.
I didn't interpret the story literally! I was simply trying to say that I think it would read better without all the choppy dialogue. It could have been inserted into the monologue in a way that flowed better. Some authors use dialogue without resorting to those awful quotation marks one so often sees in novels for grade-schoolers.
But what do I know...
Thanks Gina, that’s helpful. The author may take note!
Ghetu, I have a musical comment for you:
Where do you think you’re going?
Dear Gina,
Thank you very much for your feedback. It is an important input in my future stories!
Vincent,
don't you find that song arrogant? just thinking out loud :)
Arrogant? Sure. And it’s a beautiful song. Where would we men be without arrogance? That’s what lifts an artist (or a lover) above self-doubt.
Arrogance in itself is admirable. If we are generous-hearted, we admire it; unless we have suppressed our own arrogance and cannot stand it in others.
The thing that everyone hates is a clumsy ignorant arrogance, without grace or sensitivity.
Oh, goodness, me! I didn't know the author of the story would be reading these comments. I'm afraid I overstepped my boundaries with my unabashed criticism.
It is a very good story; rich with meaning and symbol.
I hope you will forgive this rube's faux pas.
Dear Gina,
Yours was a very important input! I treasure it, and have made changes in my writing style. Thank you :)
Well, then...I am relieved! I've joined one of your blogs and hope to keep up with your writing.
Many regards,
Gina
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