‘So do you have kids,’ I asked.
The silence was a bit unnerving. Normally, children and talk of them is what breaks the ice between two men.
‘Erm, yeah, but we have not been in contact for a while now. I’ve been divorced twenty years. That life is long behind me. Thank God!’
He was driving. Flooring it down the motorway to a destination that really was not that important. After all, we were just doing someone else’s business. So what was the hurry? We will get there eventually.
Ah sod it, the guy was a prick. I can see why his wife left him, why his kids hated him. He was so full of himself, so full of bullshit. He began to recount his ex-girlfriends. How this girl he met at the supermarket, how he saw one ex-girlfriend every afternoon at 5.15pm leaving her office, how he used to go drinking at that pub with another girl. The man thought he was a film star, but had the balding looks of a man used up by life, but unwilling to admit to it. Looser.
But if he was such a looser, what was I doing in the passenger seat next to him?
As we tried to make polite conversation on the motorway I thought about the mistakes I had made in my life. Instead of ordering people to do my dirty work, I am the man picking up the pieces. The twists and turns of fate are fickle, but each and every decision I made freely to end up here. Next to this wanker. Chatting shit, pretending to be someone far more than I actually am.
The rain began to fall, and the clouds over the horizon were dark, waiting to empty their contents o the landscape that we were traversing. We still had quite a way to go to reach our destination, far from London. I looked out of the window to admire the view. And why not, it was not often that I left the city. By tonight, we would have done what we would have to do. Then it would be a quick ride up the motorway, back home.
He kept on driving, weaving in and out of traffic. How I sometimes wish for a car crash, and us to be in the middle of it all. It would end this life pretty quickly, and all the crap that I am doing would come to an end. Money, and not a lot of it is what keeps me in this car. Doing someone else’s dirty work. The fickle fingers of fate have still not finished prodding me…