The Short Read: Goodbye Me

What’s the worst seat on an aeroplane? I reckon it’s the middle seat, right at the back, next to the toilets. If you’re on an A380 doing a longhaul flight from Australia, the award goes to seat 57E in economy class. This exclusive seat offers: the heaviest turbulence – you get close to hitting the overhead luggage storage when it’s a good bounce; a lovely, lingering waft of shit and microwaved fish, and; unless you’ve popped a pile of sleeping pills, you’re stiff and miserable and very conscious of it for an entire 24 hours.

I poked my head up from seat 57E and strained my neck to look out of the tiny window about four metres away. We’d gone over the English Channel so that meant we had to be close to Heathrow. As the A380 followed the Thames, I could make out endless terraced brick houses and motorways intersected by overpasses and more motorways. It was happening. I was about to land in London with no job, no friends, and no family. Absolute freedom. Or was it free-doom?

I chucked on Smalltown Boy, Bronski Beat and played with my printed boarding pass, flicking it up and down in time with the song’s beat. I liked reading the boarding pass:

Mr Peter Hristov

Singapore Changi Airport – London Heathrow

Seat 57E, Boarding Group E,

Economy class

Reading it made me feel like I had a plan in life, like I was a proper grown up.

I placed the boarding pass into the seat pocket in front of me – I was probably going to forget that now – and scrolled through photos on my phone. I saw one of my old beat-up Mazda. Good ol’ Parker. I’d called the car Parker so that together we could be known as Peter Parker: Spider-Man. This was something I kept to myself, for obvious reasons.

After I graduated from university in Brisbane, Australia a few weeks ago, I sold Parker and bought the cheapest one-way ticket across the world to somewhere relevant. The plan was that there was no plan. I wanted to experience extremes of emotion; to see the world for how it truly was and understand the human psyche. I sought rebirth and reintegration of my soul. I was dirty and I needed cleansing. And what else can you do when you’re messed up other than move somewhere else in an ignorant and desperate hope of forgetting every thought and experience that’s ever happened to you? If you’ve tried everything to fill the void inside of you, maybe the problem isn’t you, it’s the place you’re in. If you can’t fight, fly.

I stood up and shuffled past the passengers sitting next to me. I chose to have my arse, instead of my crotch, in line with their faces as I squeezed by. It was more polite in case the plane jolted me and my crotch went into their faces. I got past my fellow weary souls aboard this flying cattle express and went down the aisle to use the toilet.

A flight attendant’s voice came over the speaker which made me jump. ‘Good morning passengers. We’re now approaching London Heathrow. The captain has switched on the seatbelt sign. Can all passengers please return to their seats? Thank you.’

I took my chances and took the final steps to the toilet only for the flight attendant to appear from around a corner.

‘Please, sir, you need to return to your seat now,’ she said with her glowing, beautiful face and moisturised skin.

‘Oh, I’ll be really quick,’ I said with my dark, puffy eyes and sandpaper-like skin. She was a marshmallow fresh out of the packet and I was a speck of dried ash at the bottom of the campfire.

‘Sorry, sir, but the captain has switched the seatbelt sign on.’

‘Oh, of course. Sorry.’ I gave the green vacancy sign on the toilet a final, longing look. ‘I’ll go back now then.’

I returned to my seat and held my piss for another 40 minutes, stressing my bladder in ways that would no doubt have long term consequences to my health. I got into the airport terminal and logged in to the WiFi. No messages. Great. I went through UK Border Control, waiting in each queue like the obedient farm animal I apparently was, and popped out of the airport.

I lugged my suitcase onto the Piccadilly line and collapsed on a dusty blue seat. My goal was Oasis Hostel in Earl’s Court, which would take a while to get to from Heathrow so I could relax. The London Underground was – at best – dated, yet charismatic and – at worst – mice-infested and eardrum shattering. I looked at the deep-blue metal handrails of the Piccadilly line. They were clasped by hands with a mix of skin colours: the world was here. Well, the English-speaking Western world was.

What’s it like to see London for the first time? Grey. So very grey. I looked out of the Tube window at the sky; its blue covered by a fluffy grey blanket. The buildings outside were a mix of concrete, 1950s council house tower blocks. The only things that broke up the grey were fried chicken shops with neon signs and bright laboratory-style lighting inside, and food delivery drivers on mopeds loitering in a pack on a side street or darting through traffic with panache.

‘Sorry to bother you, everyone.’ A skinny man with cuts all over his arms stood in the middle of the carriage, ‘But I’m homeless and lookin’ to get some money to find somewhere to sleep tonight.’

Everyone in the carriage avoided eye contact as the homeless man stopped talking. Some people looked at their feet, others pretended to be mesmerised by the advertising posters in front of them. The homeless man, defeated and numb, walked down the carriage to try his luck elsewhere. As he tried to step around my suitcase, the train jerked and he fell onto me.

‘Oh sorry!’ I said despite it not being my fault.

The man pushed himself up and snapped at me, ‘Piss off.’

He pulled the handle on the door to get into the next carriage and I looked around in shock. My eyes darted everywhere. Everyone was looking at me. Now they’re all interested? Did I do something wrong? Should I have moved my suitcase? I wanted to be seen as a man of the people and it wasn’t a good look to be unfriendly to someone that was homeless. I tried to breathe deeply only to look out of the window and see that we were at Earl’s Court. Shit. I jumped, bearhugged my suitcase for expediency, and slalomed through the doors as they slammed shut behind me.

I breathed out in relief and looked around the empty platform.

‘Happy new year,’ I said to no one in particular.

I walked out of the station and onto the streets of London.

This is an edited extract from the book Goodbye Me  by George Tabakov (Foreshore Publishing London £9.50).