The Footpath

Written by Saul Latham

I rise at eleven. Outside it’s snowing. Another day and night on the bike, killing it on the roads, getting hungry children their chicken. Meanwhile, mum’s in pain all day and night back home in Manila. What can I do? Go faster, make more deliveries; it’s hard work, especially after a fortnight’s work with no day off. But every corner, every intersection, every climb of stairs, is a chance to help mum; every udon box, pizza, and piece of trash-talk from my coworkers is a chance to free myself from it all. Besides, I love this work: the speed, the road, the breeze, and the fleeting meetings with characters of all sorts. Every minute of every day and night is an opportunity.

Life’s a journey, they say; I say life’s a delivery.

Before work starts, I hit the cafe across the road at noon. For weeks, I’ve been nervously visiting this cafe, not for the coffee but to see the girl who works here. Last week, I asked for her name. She reacted with surprise, “Kim Jong-un.”

Today, she’s working and again makes my regular. Milk spins as she turns the throttle of the steam wand. She’s beautiful. She has long hair and a strong nose. She’s diligent, gracious, and like a good barista, gets that I want the espresso out quickly; it’s not even a ppalli-ppalli thing – it’s just an understanding of the coffee addict. Easy, isn’t it, to become impatient with impatient people without knowing the pressing nature of their nerves, the stress in their memory, and the time they’ve wasted blaming others? Patience is too often worn with conceit. Jong-un is patient. But she understands the jive of the impatient; she’s no Sunday driver on life’s highway.

Above me, Jong-un’s namesake is on the KBS news stream taking a tour on the Hudson River, posing in front of the Statue of Liberty with his sister Yo-jong, President Trump, and Dennis Rodman. Rodman has his arm over Yo-jong’s shoulder, and Trump looks like he’s had too many cups of coffee. For the whole four minutes, I’m thinking about asking Jong-un for her number. But I’m too shy, and after a chat rushed by coffee and nerves, I overthink my steps out the door.

At work, the boys are straight into the banter, throwing loaded commentary my way and laughing at their own jokes. I do my best impression of an amused person and throw a leg over my scooter, like the outlaw I am. The ignition turns and the motor kicks; earphones go in – “Take on Me,” one of mum’s favorites. An oldie but a goodie. My pink pussycat helmet goes on. I kink my wrist and am off.

First, I take pizzas to noisy middle schoolers. Then, I pick up a laptop from a grateful grandpa. I get four fried chicken jobs in a row before I take food and drinks to a motel in the business district. I knock over and over on the door, waiting for two minutes, which on my clock seems like two hours. Eventually a young, woozy, half-dressed businessman opens the door. I’m angry and in a hurry and I love it. I get back on the scooter and pull the throttle all the way. Now it’s evening – dark and cold with winter rain.

The speedy breeze distorts in my ears and blows hair behind me. I weave in and out of the traffic, trucks, buses, and pedestrians. I’m a master of this art. I’m a master of my own fate. I’m a go-getter. I’m an ass-kicker, a punk. I fang through an intersection bloodied by red lights and weave around a muddy building site. The bike roars like a dragon down through a pedestrian underpass. My mind’s riding in the future, calculating every obstacle and every turn. The present doesn’t exist. I think about the past, about home, about mum, and about Kim Jong-un by her steam wand.

I come out onto the road near the hospital and accelerate onto the footpath. Then, my life is changed forever. A woman takes two steps out from the side door of the hospital. All of a sudden, the present is everything. But I have no control over it. The breaks can’t stop my bike from sliding, and I know I’m going to hit her. I hit her. I ride the bump and fall off the scooter, tumbling along for meters before smacking my head against the glass of a busy Starbucks cafe. Inside, people stand up, gasp, and point. Outside, people are filming the scene. A bad smelling man comes to my aid. I ask to see the lady I’ve run over, but I’m not allowed. People are standing around her with pale faces and looking at me with disgust. It seems like everyone’s wearing black. There’s yelling, beeping, chatter, and rain.

I’m sent home in a police car from the station. Tomorrow they’ll be back. I want a smoke but I don’t smoke, and I’m too afraid to go into the shop. The usually sour security guard at my apartment waves with a wide smile, like he’s had the best day of his life. I avoid him and the lift, and take the stairs.

Three hours later, I’m awake at five. I get cigarettes and go to the park across the road. Then I walk laps around the pond. I can’t stop moving. I can’t stop thinking about three things – one dominates my mind. It’s not the accident from last night. It’s not mum. I can’t stop thinking about Kim Jong-un.

Ten-thirty arrives and I go to see her at the cafe, but it’s closed. Inside I can see the furniture thrown in a corner and that the ceiling has been dismantled. Outside, the signage is being broken into pieces and thrown into a dusty skip bin. The place has shut down. I buy a mix dispenser coffee, take a sip, and then throw it against a chemist window. Then I run home.

I’m lying in bed, lying in my head – trying to stop it all. In damp clothes and shoes, I’m wrapped in my blanket. It’s too cold and too silent. I hear three solid knocks on my door.

The Author
Saul, or 둘리 (Dooly), as he likes to be known, is a writer from Tasmania, Australia. After finishing this short story on his phone, he ate a New York-style cheesecake with a delicious caramel cream flavored tea.