Rating PG for coarse language.
Word Count: 730 words.
Fandom: Life on Mars.
Notes: Gene, before our Sam drops in on him (assuming he’s not just a figment of our Sam’s deranged mind). My first Life on Mars fic. No spoilers whatsoever.
I’m not one to say I’m lonely like, it’s just that the wife is out of town visiting her harpy sister, and ever since I became the bigshot, my mates are all off on their own larks. So here I am, late at night, working. I’m usually happy with work. I work to keep the scum off the streets, and if I can’t keep them all off the streets, I make ‘em clean up their acts. There’s such a thing called necessary evil, you see. It’s evil, but necessary. Get the point? Sometimes I think about how it used to be, and how it is now, and I can see distinct improvement. Then there are those other times, like tonight, where it’s all shot to buggery.
When things aren’t going, as the lardy-dahs like to say, ‘according to plan’, you find yourself in need of a good pint and a slap on the back. But when there ain’t nowt to drink, and no-one’s in arm’s reach, it’s not going to happen now, is it? So I guess, when it comes down to it, that word ‘lonely’ isn’t such a stupid one to use. I’m lone and I’m ly. I could leave the work, trundle off down pub, but somehow the thought isn’t that appealing right now. Ray and that youngun’ Chris would be getting cut, and I suppose that’d be alright for a while but later on it’d just be same old, same old.
If I were going to be profound, and sometimes I am, so shut your trap, I suppose I could say there’s something missing in my life. It’s nothing big. In terms of scale, you wouldn’t find it menacing the smaller jungle animals, acting high and mighty in the world. It’s not some roaring lion, King of the pack. It’s just… an absence. Like when you stare someone from yesteryear in the face but you can’t remember their bloody name. You try, but all you can recall is you had the misfortune once of seeing their wrinkled arse as they stripped on Grand National.
You live your life best you can, and even if you don’t, there’s no point whinging about it, because it’s your fault. Let us say for a second that living your life best you can isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, nine times out of ten, you can still pull something out your jacksy and make it bearable. It could be the smallest little bastard, but it’s there, it’s yours. It might be the knowledge that you do something really well. Or it could be a connection to something greater those preacher-types are always going on about. It might be a really good screw, who knows. It’s something.
It might be that missing something, the string that binds it all together. Not a tie, not some polka-dot creation, beige and blue, with last-night’s baked bean concoction spilled down it, but a string. Like a rope, only thinner, made up of all these different parts intertwined. It weaves from person to object to thought, turning them into a whole. Perhaps the string is a way of looking at what’s around you, or a new way of doing things, or a new person. It makes things better than they previously were.
Now, let’s make this clear, just because I’ve been thinking about such issues, does not make me some kind of namby-pamby lily-white pansy who ‘discusses’ their feelings as a form of academic wank. Just means I’m open to suggestion. Maybe you need to be here and then. It’s not like there’s a gadget which automatically updates you to keep up with the times. It all progresses without you, and if you aren’t paying attention, before you know it, there are skirts in CID, and films about poofters at the local cinema. Warren’d be right pleased.
Well now. Can’t stay here all night, much as I’d like to burn the candle to the wick as it were. I should be off in bed, so I can be up again bright and early. Start a new day like a breath of sunshine and all that. Tomorrow will be another day to catch snot-nosed villains at their game, instead of filling in reports for them above. And who can say? When it comes down to it, maybe I’m one of those, a string that binds, myself.