Black Liquorice

A girl is standing on the street corner. The terminal is already full – a family huddling together, an old woman taking up the bench with her shopping bags, a private school kid clutching his precious textbooks underneath his jacket. The icy wind bites at her cheeks, and she finds herself cursing and rubbing her hands together in a vain attempt to warm them. Inwardly, she is blaming every person she can think of for her standing there at the bus stop, freezing and alone, rather than sitting at home by the heater and drowning her sorrows in any edible, sugary indulgence. But all of those thoughts disappear as headlights emerge from the fog and the terminal’s crowd leaves the small warmth of their feeble shelter. There is just something about bus 129, she thinks to herself as it rolls to a stop, the rumbling of its motor comforting silent, frozen bodies. And she realizes, as she steps up those three little stairs, that she is not really alone.

The bus houses her companions, an exhausted group of people travelling in the same direction at 5:40 P.M. Although no one ever speaks at all—save for the occasional elderly couple from the mall—she feels a sort of friendship, a silent comfort. For within the power of her imagination she does know all of these people, and she speaks to them every day.

She knows Joe, a businessman who could be the very definition of exhaustion. A workaholic, he flips out his cell every two seconds, waiting for the call that is either an incompetent colleague reporting something he doesn’t want to hear or his ex-wife with another heated issue. When those calls do come through she hears his callous apathy in the tone of his voice, mirrored in his judging and calculating stares, he spreads to those on the receiving end. But the girl cannot blame him. After all, it is all he knows – that misery loves company.

Everyone knows it, especially Joan, who always has this look on her face that reads that she could have had more. She has a lost beauty—a result of years of smoking—and the girl finds herself imagining Joan in her youthful days... maybe she was popular once. She clutches a purse to her side as if it holds all the treasures in the world, despite its old, beaten leather appearance.

The girl has a feeling that this Joan isn’t ever going to save anyone when she can’t even save herself. So caught up in her thoughts, Joan pays no heed to the piping little voice beside her, a voice that all the other passengers look forward to. It belongs to her son (that fact is for certain). They share the same physical features: low cheek bones, dark skin, round noses. Mikey wears a bright blue and yellow jacket, a striking contrast to his skin but a perfect complement to his countenance. Although he is always asking questions and always moving—an energy and innocence refreshing to the girl and her fellow passengers—his mother never fails to reprimand him with a “sit down” or “be quiet” in curt, clipped tones.

The girl is convinced that Joan, herself, must have experienced horrible things to be able to treat such a sweet little boy with such aggravation. Her story must be tragic: so caught up in her popularity, her world was crushed as her boyfriend cheated on her and left her to fend for herself and their illegitimate child. Her family, proud and privileged, shunned her. And now, instead of pulling out a compact or a cell phone, only three things ever emerged from her weathered bag: a worn change pouch, a cigarette she could not smoke, and a piece of black liquorice to silence her small son.

Joan must not know that people generally do not like black liquorice. It is a simple, childhood thing so commonly understood. Mikey, however, certainly never shows dislike. He takes it without complaining, climbs up onto his seat and settles down immediately. He holds it in his hands and marvels at its flawless design, the smooth (and usually sticky) texture, and the dark colour before gingerly placing it into a bright yellow pocket. That contrast, too, is striking.

His mother never notices.

The girl finds herself wondering what it is about the liquorice that silences the little boy so effectively. It isn’t the horrible taste because she never sees him eat it, and it is not a rarity because whenever she encounters the pair, they follow the same routine. He must have some secret stash in his room—the secret stash a little boy turns to with a sense of accomplishment—because there is no way he can fit all those pieces of black liquorice in his pocket… or can he?

The girl doesn’t really understand those feelings anymore. She figures that once we pass a certain age, our actions during those crucial years no longer make sense to us. We enter a stage where rationality and monotony takes over people like Joe and subdues simple pleasures like Joan’s. With that thought, the girl suddenly visualizes Mikey outgrowing his questions. She hears him losing his high-pitched voice to the squeaking alterations of puberty and adolescence. She tastes his disgust as he spits out a piece of liquorice, and feels his bitter disappointment upon discovering that the taste truly is horrid. She sees him falling into the footsteps of his mother – into the comforts and escapes that cigarettes or alcohol provide. She smells their pungent odour of defeat.

She sees Michael. He is throwing away a tattered little blue and yellow jacket, the black liquorice of his past flowing from its pockets and onto the cold concrete of some alley. Then he joins his buddies for a beer or a smoke, escaping from every reality save for misery, who just loves company.