The Eyes of Prostitution and Being Inappropriate with Your Carrot

Sporadica

Yesterday, on the advice of many of my close friends, I began to start watching episodes of QI on Youtube. Having noticed that there were several clips of most humourous moments from the series and also having a penchant for watching clips featuring guests or comedians I have found to be brilliant in other shows, I stumbled across this edition of Sporadica's video. It features Rob Brydon, onomatopoeia and wit, and that's really all you need to know. So enjoy this scene from QI as I return to watching full episodes online - further highlights may be posted later, although I must say the first episode was wildly enjoyable. What's not to love about Hugh Laurie and John Sessions?

Video:



And now for Chapter 3 of my story. Hooray for being able to complete Chapter 3 before uni started. Thanks for the comments that have been posted. I hope you will continue to follow the story as it progresses.

Story:

3

“You heard me. Why do people drive?”
“Uh…I still don’t think I quite understand your question.”
The boy surveyed me inquisitively, his expression tinged more with disbelief than condescension. “Well, it’s really quite simple when you think about it. In that sort of way where it really isn’t that simple at all. I mean, do you think it’s the sense of power that comes with driving that people are attracted to?”
I still did not quite know what to make of all this. “Power?” was all I could stammer.
“You know, big, sturdy, metal machines, imposing frame and all. All that power at your fingertips. Or maybe it’s the thrill of aspiring to break new ground in speed, always trying to go faster and faster. I suppose that’s why so many people end up in ditches or impaled on blood-coated branches with their skulls cracked and their figures twisted from impact. It’s all about the possibility of that happening, without never really wanting it to, of course. We always try to find that fine line between living and mortality and when we do, we always tiptoe on both feet like a tightrope walker. All it takes is for the wind to change…”

He stopped talking. I don’t know why I listened to that entire monologue but I was strangely moved by what he was saying, as if it was relevant to me, as if it held true for me. I noticed a faint buzzing in my right pocket throughout but I ignored it. Whoever it was could leave me a message. I was working, after all. The silence was reaching the stage where it was lingering on awkward. Another example of what he was talking about, I suppose. It was as if my mind found that proposition more and more tempting, my consciousness yearning to find that threshold and glimpse across it. With a moment of sudden clarity, his voice broke through my trance.
“Tell me, Mr. Hadrian, you drive a lot, don’t you?”
What was this, therapy? The first thought that came to my mind was ‘You’re paying for this, pal’.
“Sure. I’m a driving instructor.”
“A driving instructor. You don’t seem to be doing that much instructing.”
Who was this kid?
“I did tell you to start the engine.”
He paused, and then turned the keys wistfully in the ignition. The engine sprang to life - the familiar sounds of Adele started to play and faint drafts started to flow from the vents. Without pausing he turned back to me.
“Do you tend to drive a lot at night, Mr. Hadrian?”
“Look, call me Iza.” For some reason I felt comfortable with a first name basis. It wasn’t until the words had escaped my mouth before I realized I still didn’t know his name.
He seemed to notice this. “I’m Bally”, he responded curtly.
“Nice to meet you. To answer your question Bally, yes I do drive at night rather frequently. As you can see I don’t finish work until it gets dark and then I still have to get home.”
“Like today?”
“Yes, like today. Although I’m going to visit my girlfriend and have dinner with her first.” It felt liberating to say that word to someone, even if that someone was a 19 year-old stranger and the most bizarre student I had ever had.
“It’s nice, driving at night, isn’t it? The darkness in front of you, a veil for everything beyond your range of sight, the street lamps almost sparkling, don’t you think?”
“I guess. Look, driving is just a means for most people. Getting from one place to another conveniently. Sometimes it’s a necessity, other times not. But that can be all there is to it.”
“But that can’t be all it is, Mr. Hadr-, sorry, Iza. All that time cooped up in this tiny space, your feet on buttons, switching positions and gears, all that monotony. No, surely driving is all about you. It’s time for you to think about what really matters. Do you think when you drive, Iza?”
“One of the most important things about driving is focus and concentration. You can’t let your mind wander – vigilance is paramount.” And there I was regurgitating excerpts from the manual they forced us to memorize.
“You didn’t say no. And I’m willing to wager that you do think when you drive. More than you probably should. I know I do. About all the important things, and all the unimportant things. Sometimes when it’s late, there’s a nice straight patch of road in front of me with no cars in sight, I like to just close my eyes, only for a second at first – it’s not even that much more than blinking. But then as I open them, and everything’s still the same, I try again. But longer this time. And on and on. The longest I’ve ever done it for was four whole seconds. I know what you’re thinking. I’m a terrible person, irresponsible and putting myself and others in danger. But you have to believe me, I make sure there’s no one around. That and I know nothing will happen, of course. Nothing ever does. It always just stays the same.”
I had no idea how to respond to all this. “Wait, hang on a second, you know how to drive? Then what are you doing here?”
“Of course I know how to drive, I’m 19. It’d be ridiculous if I didn’t. I came to talk to you, Iza. And it was a good talk. We should do it again, but now I have to run. I’m late.”
He handed me a 50 dollar note and got out of the car. I sat in my seat for 5 long minutes. Another Adele song came and went, and then I felt something buzzing in my right pocket again. Oh no, I’m late.

*

I was an hour late when my car glided into Katherine’s driveway. I had to stop by the local shops to pick up some vinegar, miso paste and her favourite crème caramel dessert. Well, it was more that I had driven two-thirds of the way to her house before I decided, at a red light, to check the numerous voicemails she had left in case I had missed anything urgent. Turns out that I had, and so went the detour. I quickly got out of the car, grabbed the plastic bags containing the purchased goods and walked to the door. I had to ring the doorbell three times before I hear detect faint footsteps. When the door opened, Katherine did not look happy. She invited me in with an annoyed gesture and followed me with a look that simply demanded explanation as I proceeded to the kitchen. The table was strangely clear of any cutlery or food. I assumed she had gotten tired of waiting and eaten without me. I couldn’t exactly blame her.

Regardless, I did not appear to have started to explain myself quickly enough, as she finally said, “So where were you all this time? You’re over an hour late! I called you more times than I can remember.”
“I know. I’m very very sorry, Katherine. I was going to call you but I was driving and I just wanted to get here as soon as possible. I have had the strangest day at work.”
“Well you can tell me about it later. I started without you, so if you’re hungry, I can reheat it in the microwave for you.” I chose to ignore the standard dismissive subject change, now was not the right time to get annoyed over such matters.
“No, I can do it. You’re not mad, are you?”
“I won’t be if you won’t be.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
The voice that answered my question came from behind me. It was a deep, powerful, masculine voice. “What she means is that she didn’t know if you were still coming so she invited me to have dinner with her instead.”
I turned around. The man standing in front of me was of Asian descent – Chinese or Japanese probably. He was well built, his white T-shirt accentuating his physical features and his grey shorts showcasing his muscular legs. His hair was wet and still dripping onto the towel he was drying it with. It wasn’t another friend of Katherine’s I knew. Looking back at her, I asked, “Who is this?”
“Oh Iza, that’s Adam. He's my boyfriend.” And there it was.

Till next we sporadic,
Cynic