SFAT: The Journey Home

The final part or the stories  based on the sketches of life first outlined in Scenes from a Tram Stop (Sorry no audio due to travel, will added when I get home.)
The old guy turned his attention to the kids on the bench, 16, 17, also on their way home from school. Laughing, joking, just a little too loud perhaps. They were smoking in the least rebellious way possible. Not a shared ciggie bummed off some passer-by, but an electronic cigarette. He thought of the trouble he got into when he’d first smoked, the hiding he’d taken from his dad who’d smelt it on him as soon as he’d walked through the door . Now there was no smell, and nothing to hide. These kids were taking up a habit designed to help others lose theirs. The world's gone mad he thought to himself as he got on his tram and headed back to his cat. 

A young lad was gentlemanly enough to offer his seat, you didn’t get that all that often anymore, times had changed. Stan used to be too proud to accept the offers but these days his aching body ruled the roost; another sign of changing times. He noticed the kids with the electronic cigarette had followed him on the tram, he didn’t like the look of them. Did he and his friends scared old folk when he was their age? 

He closed the window on the tram, there was a slight breeze and he didn’t want to go and get an ear infection, the last one had lingered for two or three weeks.  He knew he was old, knew he couldn’t take any chances with his health.

He got off the tram and started the slow walk home, when he was younger he tried to race himself home, trying to beat the time he’d done it in the day before, now he was almost the opposite, whereas he used to be able to shave seconds off now he was adding them.  He could hear chatter behind him, young people talk with lots of swearing and lazy pronunciation. He daren’t look back, he read so many things these days about gangs of youths mugging pensioners for drug money, the streets were no longer safe.

‘Hey mister.’ He heard the voices but hoped they were not addressing him. All he could do was to try to quicken his pace a little, easier said than done.

‘Mister, mister.’  He had to look around now, he saw the same gang of kids and he’d seen before, were they following him?. He hadn’t liked the look of them at the tram stop with their spitting and posturing, now he liked them even less. He gripped his stick tighter and continued walking, trying to ignore them, hoping they’d get bored and go away.

‘Mister.’ They’d just about caught up with him now, he felt surrounded, vulnerable, weak. All he could do was hope that if he was attacked someone would come to his aid.  But people didn’t did they, people minded their own business, turned blind eyes, saved their own skins.

The ringleader was right in his face now, one of five kids, 3 boys 2 girls, god the shame of being attacked but these youngsters. When he was young Stan would have had them on toast.

He confronted them.

‘What do you want?’ His voice was strong but his hand was shaking.

‘Mister, you dropped this.’ the lad held out his hand, Stan flinched expecting pain but none came. He looked at the young man’s hand, he had a photo, Stan’s photo, of Stan and his wife on their 20^th anniversary. Stan carried it everywhere to keep Vlasta close to him.

Stan took the photo and mumbled his thanks. He would have been lost without that photo, even more lost than he was now.

‘Can we ask a question?’ It was one of the girl’s turn to talk, being egged on by one of the others. ‘We’re doing a project in school on life under communism we wondered if we could ask you a few questions of what it was like, but only if you have time.’

Time was the only thing Stan had these days.

He invited them into his flat and answered their questions, when they left he couldn’t believe he’d been scared of these nice, polite young people.