I’d been tired, under
the weather, but the ansaphone kept screaming:
One more sick-note, mister, and you’re finished. Fired.
I thumbed a lift to where the car was parked.
A Vauxball Astra. It was bired.
I picked him up in Leeds.
He was following the sun to west from east
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed. The truth,
be said, was blowin’ in the wind,
or round the next bend.
I let him have it
on the top road out of Harrogate – once
with the head, then six times with the krooklok
in the face – and didn’t even swerve.
I dropped it into third
and leant across
to let him out, and saw him in the mirror
bouncing off the kerb, then disappearing down the verge.
We were the same age, give or take a week.
He’d said be liked the breeze
to run its fingers
through his hair. It was twelve noon.
The outlook for the day was moderate to fair.
Stitch that, I remember thinking,
you can walk from there.
Estaba cansado, alicaído,
pero el contestador seguía gritando:
Otra ausencia, colega, y vas fuera. A la calle.
Fui a dedo hasta donde estaba aparcado el coche.
Un Vauxhall Astra. De alquiler.
Recogí a aquel tipo en Leeds.
Su plan era seguir el sol de este a oeste
con solo un cepillo de dientes y la tierra por cama. La verdad,
dijo, estaba volando con el viento
o a la vuelta de la esquina.
Le di su merecido
saliendo de Harrogate hacia el páramo, una vez
con la cabeza, luego seis veces con la barra antirrobo
en la cara, y sin dar siquiera un volantazo.
Puse el coche en tercera
y me incliné sobre su asiento
para abrir la puerta, y lo vi por el retrovisor
rebotar en el arcén y salirse del asfalto.
Teníamos la misma edad, semana arrriba o abajo.
Me dijo que le gustaba
sentir los dedos de la brisa
en el pelo. Eran las doce del mediodía.
La previsión del tiempo era nubes y claros.
Chúpate esa, recuerdo haber pensado,
el resto del camino vas a pie.