Kleinzeit

Over the Side

Morning, very early. Redbeard, bowler-hatted, bedrolled, carrier-bagged, slanting through the corridors of the Underground on the breath of the chill, on the silence of the speaking walls and posters. Very few people about as yet. The lights looking plucky but doomed, the trains looking puffy-eyed, sleep-ridden. With a howling in his head he went from station to station sowing his yellow paper, came back harvesting it, feeling faint and dizzy.

Write it, said the yellow paper.

No, said Redbeard. Nothing. Not a single word.

Write it, said the yellow paper. You think I’m playing games?

I don’t care what you’re doing, said Redbeard.

Write it or I’ll kill you, said the yellow paper. And the story of you will come to an end this morning.

I don’t care, said Redbeard.

I’ll kill you, said the yellow paper. I mean it.

Go ahead, said Redbeard. I don’t care.

All right, said the yellow paper. To the river.

Redbeard took a train to the river.

Out, said the yellow paper. Up to the embankment.

Redbeard got out, went up to the embankment, looked over the parapet. Low tide. Mud. The river withdrawn to its middle channel.

Over the side, said the yellow paper.

Low tide, said Redbeard.

Over the side anyhow, said the yellow paper.

Redbeard took all the yellow paper out of the carrier-bag, flung it out scattering wide, fluttering down to the low-tide mud.

You, not me, yelled the paper. Gulls wheeled over it, rejected it.

Redbeard shook his head, took a bottle of wine out of the other carrier-bag, retired to a bench, assumed a bearded-tramp-with-bottle pose.

This was your last chance, said the paper lying on the mud. No more yellow paper for you.

Redbeard nodded.

What we might have done together! said the paper, its voice growing fainter.

Redbeard shook his head, sighed, leaned back, drank wine.