Open the fucking door! This is Frankie’s opening to expression and frustration. Ricky
replied, “I’m fucking my wife for Christ sakes. Haven’t you got any decency, you fucked up
waste of space?” It’s London. It was a very cold night too. We were in the depth of Epping
Forest. Trees stand erect, waiting to flourish, open land spreads further afield, the air smells
nicely, with the touch of peaceful days. Ricky and Frankie have been friends for about seven
years now, travelling around the country living as campers. Frankie has no interest in pets but
Ricky has got a bulldog. The dog is named Billy.
“Fuck the dog.”
“Fuck you too.”
London is our hub, hiding under its warm atmospheric feel, and its cold days. There’s no
joy when jealousy and anger reaches the peak of a man’s life. The nights are calm. Stars
smile too. Lights went as the moon came out. Ricky parked his caravan opposite Frankie’s
derelict caravan. Frankie was busy doing stuff inside his caravan. Ricky came out of his,
looked around for a while, then went back inside. Music started playing from Ricky’s
caravan, “I fought the law” the silence of the night sharpened with suspense and thrill. It was
a strange beautiful night. The moon kisses the earth. The clouds dancing as they travel.
Dogs howled in the distant. Frankie woke up. It’s quiet. He sat for a while, then started to
dream – Remy was sewing a black cloth. The sound of her machine rose. “How do I get me a
life that differs from the one I have now? I’ll like to stay, watch you sew. In London life is
mental. It’s turned me into a clown, like I’m a waste of space. I’m bare to my skeleton.”
Twenty years ago I dreamed I’ll be rich. But now I’m stuck in an old caravan, pretending
life is full of beauty. “Keep your fucking dog under control, you shameless twat.” Most
mornings the dog pitches outside my caravan, his saliva drooling. So I’ll deliberately walk
into the woods, hoping he’ll have gone before I return. But no, the fucking dog is there
seated, waiting for my arrival. He then walks away, gets seated outside Ricky’s caravan.
“That’s your home, you four legged beast. Don’t come round my way. I’ve got nothing to
offer.”
“Why wag your tail?”
“Woof”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Woof”
He’ll come seated again staring at me. We’re the least strand of the human chain. So, I’ll
bang on his door. “Open the fucking door! Ricky. It’s me, Frankie! I’ll keep banging until
you open the door.” He replies, “Get the fuck away from my caravan, Frankie. I need no one
disrupting my ride.” So they decided, Ricky and his wife, to travel, find a new life, stay away
from the fucked up loser, Frankie. London is a cool city. We bought our caravans intending
to run away from our past lives and start afresh. Frankie remembered life in London. The
morning newspapers, the dark, sonorous sound of trains. The smell of fragrance and stale
booze. He remembered vividly picking up a copy of the Sun Newspaper, looking through it,
and then chucking it in the bin. Ricky’s usual exclamations came back to him. Politics! The
entire world is fucked by politics and politicians. The silent breeze of the marches slammed
coolly against his face, his skin. Ricky says it all the time. The world is crazy. We’re the
clowns! Everything of our previous lives is gone. We are the insatiable clowns struggling to
get a life. We are human. In short, we’re damn hustlers. We run after lives. We beg for a life.
Our lips are wet, our eyes glow, full of pain. We’re the voices of humanity. You got your
dog, I’ve got my caravan, you’ve got your caravan too. I’ll move on then. The Lee Valley
Camping and Caravan Park. I’ll buy me a new home, make me some new friends. “Open the
fucking door, or else I’ll smash it in.” Ricky said, “You can fuck off, I’m having a good time,
you fucking twat. Find yourself a fucking life” It was a Sunday morning, so I drove my
caravan to the buyers. I got paid. Then I disappeared. I’ve forgotten about Ricky, and his sex
maniac wife. Maybe our paths will cross somehow, someday soon. We are floaters. We have
no anchors to hold us. We were determined to survive, we’re dying for life, we were hopeful.
We were determined to survive.
Maybe we’ll know who we are later in life. We’re holding onto the little lives we’ve got,
running after another life, the ones we dreamed. There’s nothing wrong in the lives we
choose. There’s nothing wrong in whom we are. Messing around with life is a dangerous
game. So we’re loud speakers. We’re the images of our future. The clowns of our world!
We’ll move away from what life has thrown at us. We’ll find another life. The routes to
success are pride, resilience, patience, hope – and a future. Life is full of love, if one tries to
find it. If one runs madly after it. Life is full of adventures if one rides along with it.
Wells Street Journal 