Three: A Phonecall or Two

I had been waiting at the luggage carousel for half an hour when my suitcase finally arrived. It seemed strange that I had managed to fit my whole life into two bags; an old rucksack that had seen better days and a brand new suitcase, a token from my mother in apology for not being able to bring me here herself. My father, in the same way, had got me a new laptop, which was safely in my rucksack. Both had planned to bring me, we were going to be a family for a day, just like old times. But, true to form, things had come crashing down. Both had become dragged under by work, partners and children, but no matter how  much they said they wanted to be here, our trip was cancelled and I was here alone.

Grabbing my suitcase and heading towards the terminal exit, I pulled my phone from the front  of my bag and dialed my mother's number. It took a while but she eventually answered.
“Hi. Josh!” She sounded, as always, flustered.. “Yes Steve, I'm coming!”
“Hi mum. I was just won-”
“Are you there yet love?”
“Just got off the plane. But what I really wanted to know was-”
“Yes, Steve, I've got the tickets! ...Sorry love, I'm in a bit of a- Yes Steve, I know the babysitter isn't here yet! Sorry Josh, like I said, in a bit of a-”
“Rush? It's okay. I just wondered if you could mail me my copy of The Catcher in the Rye? I left it on the table.”
“The table? Yes, I'll make a note and sort it tomor- I'M COMING! I'M JUST ON THE PHONE TO JOSH! ...Sorry love, I really have to go. Talk soon. Love you, have fun.”
“Bye mum.” I mumbled, but the line was already gone. Short and hectic, an average phone conversation with my mother. At least she was going to send me the book.

By now I had arrived outside, and I just about to gesture for a taxi when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, startled. There he was again, the artist.
“You dropped this.” He held out a bundle of papers, bound with a green paper clip. “Your university papers? You dropped them when you got your phone out. I recognised the logo.”
“Thank you.” I was very surprised. Most people would have just left them on the floor and carried on. Why hadn't he?
“I'm heading there now. We could share a taxi.” A statement, not a question. His accent , the marking of what I could only presume was a high-end London upbringing, was a contrast to the Bristolian twang I  was used to, but thankfully didn't have myself. I wondered what had brought him here, or to Bristol, where we had just arrived from.
“Well?” Shit. I'd zoned out and now he was staring at me quizzically.
“Um, sure.” I wasn't really sure, I just felt rude not to say yes.

The journey to the student accommodation office was, mercifully, short. He didn't say a word all the way there, continuing to draw in his book. He had clearly moved on from his portrait of me. I wanted to say something, but didn't. What could I say?After a few minutes we arrived outside the red brick building. He immediately got out.
“Bye”. And he was gone. It was only after I'd been through all my details with the receptionist, who had a fake and 'welcoming' smile on her face, and had received my room key that I realised I had never found out his name. No matter. I would probably never see him again. And, for now, I just wanted to get inside and call Katherine.

Katherine and I had met three years previously, and become a couple about sixth months after this. She was two years junior to myself, but leagues ahead of other girls her age in terms of maturity, so in all honesty she was more of an adult than I was.

We realised after becoming friends that we had been attending the same school for years, but had managed to never cross paths until one rainy day in early September of 2009, during which I, being my clumsy and awkward self, had tripped and fallen into her and she dropped her book in a muddy puddle. I proceeded to apologise profusely, offering to replace it. She said that wasn't necessary, but graciously accepted the offer of a cup of coffee, which I had surpassed my own expectations by even offering.

And there it was. I had gained a friend, a best friend, in that one moment. We gelled really well, and our friends mixed seamlessly. We took the step to boyfriend and girlfriend, as I said, sixth months later, when, on a group outing to the cinema, I slipped my hand nervously into hers during the opening titles. I don't remember what film we had seen, or who was there, but I do remember the gentle squeeze of agreement that she gave me as our fingers interlocked.

Katherine was my first serious girlfriend, my first love, my first time. She was beautiful, intelligent, funny, but most of all, she didn't change whilst we were together. Nor did I. There was no need, we already fit together.

I wedged my phone between my shoulder and listened to the tuneless rings whilst I pushed open the off-white door and threw my bags down and myself onto the bed, kicking the door closed as I went, not bothering to take in my new surroundings. "You have reached the PhoneGo answerphone for 0-7-7..." Busy. This surprised me. Katherine was always busy, but she never failed to answer her phone. She worked so hard at so much for so many people, and there were times that I resented the lack of time we spent together, but it was at these times that I couldn't help seeing her dedication as the almightily redeeming part of the situation. But not answering her phone? This was something entirely new. In the back of my mind I could feel something nagging at me, something strange about this, but I was too tired to figure out what it was. Her phone was probably on silent. Yes, that was it.

With that thought of reassurance repeating in my brain, I closed my eyes and fell asleep, exhausted from my day. I would call her tomorrow and everything would be fine.

Two: A Book

Aboard the plane I found myself in the seat by the window. Tucked away into the curved, slightly cushioned wall I opened my bag in search of the book I intended to read for the duration of the flight. But it wasn't there. Despite all the planning, all the checks, I had managed to forget my well-thumbed copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Brilliant.
I loved that book. I loved the plot line, the narrative, the writing. I had read it what felt like hundreds of times over but it never failed to capture my attention from start to end. More than anything I loved the safety that the book represented to me. I had owned that book for 6 long years, having first received it as a Christmas present at the age of twelve from a relative I rarely saw. In the time I'd owned that book I had moved house three times, seen my parents’ divorce, gained two step families, shuttled back and forth too many times to count, and spent a week in hospital having broken my leg climbing a tree for a dare that I hadn't considered the consequences of. There was more than just J.D. Salinger's word on those pages. There were dog eared corners from the only time I ever allowed it to be borrowed, the tell-tale ring of a coffee mug, a pencilled heart as drawn by Lucy, the first girl to ever kiss me. In contrast to the fast paced blur that my life had become, this book was a constant. And now I didn't have it, just when I needed it the most.
 
I had no idea my internal panic had been reflected to my external manner until a concerned voice broke me from my reverie. "Are you okay?" I looked up, and there he was. The artist. I nodded, and after a pause in which he appeared to be about to speak, he slid into a seat in the row in front, going back to his drawing once more.
By now everyone was settled, and after the standard safety video that no-one seemed to pay attention to, we took off. I reclined into my seat, watching out the window as the land below got further and further away, until everything merged into one big mess of colour and shape. My mind turned back to the book, which I knew as I cruised above the clouds, was sat on the battered mahogany of the dining table in my mother's busy home, no doubt surrounded by crayons, toys, post, newspapers and clothes; adornments which reflected the dynamic in our home; a hectic amalgamation of work and children. Thinking about it, Child A had upturned a yoghurt during breakfast this morning, a lovely addition to the mess. Knowing my mother, she wouldn't notice until late this evening, after the children were in bed, and she would make an attempt to clean and tidy the table, only for it to return to the same state the next day. It was at this table where my book gained the coffee stain, a careless act on Steve's part, although admittedly he was making a dash to prevent Child B from pushing Child C's high chair over. The incident was soon forgotten, overshadowed by another momentary crisis. The stain, however was permanent.
 
If the table was a symbol of my mother's home, the symbol of my father's was a bookshelf. In living room there is a vast shelving unit made of dark oak which spans across a whole wall. I know many people who have purchased similar bookcases on whim and never filled them, but my father's was fit to burst. Hundreds of books, the odd photo or ornament here and there, but primarily books. It was my father who sparked my interest in literature, having read me books every night of my life until I preferred to read for myself. He was the one who taught me to read, the one who gifted me with books for my birthday every year without fail. The bookshelf contained everything from Harry Potter to Proust, from Shakespeare to books explaining the history of the universe. Strangely enough, he didn't own The Catcher in the  Rye, although he was the one who encouraged me to read it, recommending it highly. After I'd finished he had a desire to read it again, so I loaned it to him. That was how it gained the dog ears. My father's only flaw. He liked to leave a mark on things and forget he'd made them. Once the item was gone, it no longer mattered, but it didn't mean the connection was lost.
 
Latest additions to the already vast library included the works of Julia Donaldson and Dr. Suess; my father having had a baby with his new wife just a year previously. Babies caused mess, I knew from living with my mother, but the bookshelf remained as it had always been; uniform, tidy and grown up. It was a bond between myself and my father that could never be destroyed, a love of literature, a love of knowledge. Sure, the baby would be read to, the baby would be taught these wonderful things, but it would never connect to the bookcase in the same way. I had been there from the start, the day my father brought it home and how we constructed it together, then the many years we spent filling it. Of course, he took it to his new house when he left, and, as I remained with my mother, the access I had was little. But the meaning never changed.
 
What I realised when I considered these representations of my two families, was that the book was not only a thing of safety, but also had become my symbol. It fitted into both worlds; placed carelessly on the table, nested safely in amongst other great works; but it never quite belonged in either. It was in the middle, engrained with marks from both sides, just like I was.

One: A Journey

Two months ago, I found myself sat in an airport. Alone. For many this is nothing out of the ordinary, but for me this was momentous. At the age of eighteen this would be the first flight I’d taken without the companionship and security of my parents. Needless to say, there was a lot going through my head; had I packed everything? Had I got my passport? Was I sure, even though I could feel it through the front of my rucksack? Would I miss my flight? Would I get on the wrong one and end up somewhere else? Despite having planned this trip meticulously, I was still panicking. Typical Joshua. ‘Always worrying about something.' Something. But not him.
 
Sitting up from yet another completion of my mental check list of bag contents, I slipped my headphones into my ears in an attempt to calm myself. I leaned against the grey speckled wall and hit play. It was then that I noticed him. A boy, I guessed about my age, scruffy brown hair, checked shirt, skinny jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet there was something intriguing about him. He was staring at me. I expected him to look away, play the classic ‘I was looking, but I’m pretending not to.’ But he didn’t. He continued to stare, a pen between his lips, a questioning look on his face, a smile poised on the corner of his mouth. A pause, and then, as if nothing had happened, he turned his attention to the worn out leather notebook on his lap, writing, scribbling. Drawing. He was drawing. Then he looked up again. And back down. Draw. Look. Draw. Look. And then it clicked- he was drawing me. I was immediately perturbed. I hated attention, hated being looked at. I lived inside my mind and inside my books, with minimal contact with the outside. Just sitting so close to the sweaty, balding man next to me was uncomfortable. I had been sat alone for as long as possible, deliberately choosing to sit on the floor for this reason. But the departure lounge was filling up, it was getting close to 10 o'clock. Go time. I was catching a flight to the place where my life was supposedly 'about to begin.' I was going to university; a prospect which both thrilled and terrified me.
 
I made two lists in my head. Reasons I was looking forward to university: independence, freedom, a chance to immerse myself in the thing I loved the most in life- books. Reasons I didn't want to go: fear of the unknown, fear of being alone. This may seem strange to you, given I am a self-proclaimed introvert, but my issue was with new people, not people in general. In fact, given the right company, I thrived on conversation and interaction. I just feared that even in the presence of other people so similar to me, that I would feel out of place.
 
I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. So, when the time came to finish my studies at sixth form, decisions had to be made. As I saw it I had three options: one, go straight into a job I neither wanted nor enjoyed, in hopes that I would eventually stumble across something I didn't hate. Two, take the overdone gap year, traveling around the world doing a mixture of charity work and getting wasted in an attempt to "find myself." Or three, university. I chose option three.
 
I mean, in theory it made sense. I liked learning. I liked knowledge. I loved books. And so there it was. Egged on by an over enthusiastic head of sixth, who was determined that I wouldn't “waste my life and mind”, I applied for a literature course, and, to my surprise, found myself with a place. I had put off thinking about it for as long as possible, hoping that the time would never come, but it had, it was here. The announcement crackled over the sound system; it was time to go.

An Introduction

My name is Joshua Jones. I could tell you more about myself, much more, but I feel that details are irrelevant to you at this moment in time. For now I am going to tell you a story. My story. I'm not going to give away anything here, I just thought you should know who is speaking to you.

I do not expect you to remember me or my words afterwards, you are likely to forget me moments after I finish. As for now, my only request is that you listen.