Walking
Francis is really bad at returning home from work. In the same way that some may lack skills in cooking, sports, public speaking or any other human activity, Francis is unable come home without making mistakes or doing everything in a horrible and talentless manner.
It is not a long journey: ten minutes to the bus stop, followed by a twenty minute bus ride and a further five minutes to arrive to his block of flats. Once he is up the lift, his home is the third on the right. And yet, despite its apparent simplicity, it keeps frustrating the poor man, who would often like to ask on tips to improve his home-returning technique but is too embarrassed to admit his flaw.
It starts the moment he puts the key to his office back in his pocket after locking it, and he turns to go: right there, a horrible, causeless dread starts to grip him. He is unsure of why it happens, whether it is the doubt that he forgot something behind, or if he foresees all the mistakes he'll make on his way home. It increases as he walks down the corridor, down the stairs, through the hallway: he feels as though his own mind is screaming in disapproval, trying to avoid the painful journey. Each step makes his body ache; not a sharp, focused sensation, but a general ailment he is unable to pinpoint, as if his bones were in slightly the wrong place, or his nerves had minute imperfections.
By the time he's reached the front desk, he's marshalled enough courage to control himself, but it is still with a tremulous voice with which he says goodbye to the receptionist. The man behind the counter has always thought that it is the tiredness after a day of work that makes Francis' words so strained and mumbled, and cannot suspect the immense effort that goes into not running back to the office and skip the ordeal. It is only by suppressing this urge that Francis can get out of the building.
When he arrives outside, the cold or hot air, depending on the season, fills his nose and runs through his lungs, hurting him. Though he can breathe normally on other occasions, when he is returning home it seems as though he has to push the oxygen, as if it were a reluctant entity. It seems sluggish at times and at others it flows as if he were filled with mucus, and the disquiet will accompany him until he enters the door to his flat.
The walk begins harmlessly enough, merely continuing the distress that had started outside the office, but it quickly adds new notes to the cacophony that is his voyage. Each step is placed in a thousand awkward different ways: he feels he's walking too quickly, too slowly, leaning too much to one side, putting too much weight on one of his feet, he's too loud, he breathes too much, it's as though he has pins in his soles, and a myriad of other tiny, nerve-wracking mistakes. He shifts his speed constantly, swaying side to side, attempting, vainly, to find a comfortable posture and gait. He would welcome the rest he gets at the bus stop, if not for what follows.
All the small things that bothered him on the first stretch of the journey now have an audience, which amplifies them beyond persistent nuisances. The bus stop is rarely deserted, and Francis is sure that all are keenly aware of his inability to stand in place. He feels their eyes following him as he moves from foot to foot, as he swings his arms, as he walks around the place to dissimulate the tension that is crawling up his back. He tries to tell himself that the old woman is not paying attention to him, or that the students aren’t talking amongst themselves about him, but it is of no use: his clumsiness is of such monumental proportions that it must obviously bother everyone, that it makes them feel pity for him for being unable to master such a simple task, or lead them to mock his ungraceful movements, or be enraged by his ridiculous ineptitude. It is with a sigh that he enters the bus once it arrives.
The ride is sometimes the least stressful moment of the journey, but not always. Francis usually runs immediately towards the back, or the closest he can manage. At least when he is on the vehicle, he can blame his jittering and shaking to the rough movements of the bus, though, in the back of his mind, he is conscious that there are some people who have seen him at the stop and know how he is unable to sit in a comfortable position. It never lasts for long, though, this ease: he soon thinks it is obvious he cannot behave like the others, and, as if they were discovering the source of an acrid smell, the passengers must soon realise how terrible he is at returning home by simply looking at his ungainly pose. He would like to burst into tears and ask them how they can do it so easily, but by the time he's about to fall to his knees and beg, his stop has arrived, and he forces himself out without causing a scene.
The second short walk is as the first, filled with many mistakes and imprecise steps, but it is tempered by the knowledge that it'll soon be over. Francis has now calmed himself a little, and can almost stand to look into the eyes of the passers-by without fear of being called out on his fumbling movements. He enters his building almost counting the seconds.
All of his lingering despair returns with imperious force the moment he has to take the lift. He cannot bear to take the stairs in fear of meeting one of his neighbours, and for some reason, the lift on the right is never used by anyone but him, at least to his knowledge. When he enters the box and sees the doors close, he would like to scream but he stifles the urge, which turns into a tremble that takes hold of his feet and fingers. He clumsily presses the button to his floor, always feeling shocked at the sudden coldness of the metal. The shudder of the moving car never fails to make him jolt. As it climbs, it feels as though time creeps ever more slowly, and he feels himself pushed, pushed, squashed to the ground and unable to resist: it is usually then when sweat starts to appear, when he touches with clammy hands the walls, trying to grasp a rail, another hand, anything, but can only claw pathetically and uselessly against the smooth surface. A low wail will start from his throat, unwilled and uncontrollable, a desolate hum that increases in pitch to coincide with the chirping “ding” of the lift that reaches his floor.
Unsure of how he survived another voyage, he shuffles out and gets to his door. When he enters, he can allow himself a sigh of relief, but a malevolent shadow inside his brain reminds him that tomorrow the experience will again repeat itself.
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