Bus meets ipod
(A 4.1 song infatuation)
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Romance
Swearwords: None.
Description: When your imagination gets too far ahead of itself.
_____________________________________________________________________
I changed my routine on that fateful day, thinking it might be prudent to check on my bramble beds to make sure the local kids hadn't torched them during that long, dry spell of weather.
They were fine, with fruit, not quite ready for picking, but in the process of turning that lovely colour to indicate the fact that it wouldn't be too long 'til harvest time.
I couldn't cross to the promenade when I hit the shore road due to the high volume of traffic, and made it as far as the doctor's surgery before trying again. Just then, Joanie came from the doctor's in her mobility scooter and I decided to walk along with her instead of running the gauntlet.
We chatted all the way to Saltcoats, me catching up with what was going on with her family and Joanie catching up with what I had been up to. I saw her safely across the road at St. Mary's Chapel before jamming the 'phones into my ears and continuing on my way.
I really should have crossed over with Joanie but decided, while I was on that side of the road, to drop in on my sister for a coffee and a chat. Halfway along Manse street, I thought it best to phone ahead to say I was on my way, but it went straight to voice-mail to indicate she wasn't available, either driving or in the bath or some such reason. I then jammed the bud back into my right ear and set off across the road, and towards town.
Everything was quiet. I knew I wasn't in bed at home without having to open my eyes. A voice, female, the accent not too far removed from my own delicate North Ayrshire burr, was telling me it was one thirty and music time. She breathed this information into the microphone.
“You're about to hear Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and my favourite track from their first album. This is, 'Anything That's Rock 'n' Roll's Fine'.”
Now, that album has been a particular favourite of mine since the first time I ever heard it, over thirty five years ago now. I let the music wash over me.
I opened my good eye, which used to be my bad eye until my real good eye suddenly got pressure behind it, causing alarming blurred vision and a fast track visit to Ayr hospital for an injection to rectify the problem. It didn't make a whole lot of difference. I saw I was in hospital, in seclusion, perhaps my own private room. A nurse, Oriental in origin and very pretty, was fast asleep on a chair beside my bed, an open magazine on her lap. I was hooked up to machines, I had tubes up my nose and, at the time, was blissfully unaware of other tubes inserted in other orifices. I was strangely calm, grooving silently to the sounds and gently flexing muscles and such to ascertain if anything was at all missing.
“That was Tom Petty,” purred the voice, “and next up, it's J J Cale with 'Crazy Mama'.” I was liking this girl more and more.
I was trying to work out how I had ended up in hospital, but gave it up as a bad job when I couldn't get beyond waving goodbye to Joanie, it was easier and much less of a strain to concentrate on the fine sounds.
“J J Cale there from a long time ago. Was that smooth or was it smoooooth?”
I couldn't see where the music was coming from, unable to turn my head far in any direction, but I was still cucumber calm.
“Here's one you might not be familiar with, and please, don't go dancing around the wards or I won't play it ever again...he-he.”
I wanted to sit up, but couldn't. I only tried the once and gave that up as a bad job, too. I mean, who, in radioland around these parts, plays The Black Sorrows?
“The Black Sorrows there, all the way from Australia with 'Last one standing for ya'. I'm sure it's a floor filler down under. Great dance tune, eh?”
She was winning me over, both with her taste in music and with her easy manner.
“Taking you to the country, now. This is the best thing I've heard recently. Ashley Monroe, from her debut album, 'Like a Rose'. The song I've selected is called 'The Morning After'. Sort of, Dolly Parton with attitude. Enjoy.”
I know the song, know the album well. I was now falling head over heels for a faceless radio presenter who was reading my mind, possibly reading the latest playlist on my ipod. I can count, on two fingers, the number of ladies I've known with similar tastes in music to my own. There was a powerful and real sense of euphoria enveloping me at this realisation.
The little nurse slept on regardless. I had been scanning what I could see of the room and she was most of what was within view. The magazine had slipped slightly, but not enough to let it fall to the floor.
“What did I tell you?” asked the DJ in something of a whisper. “Can that girl put her message across, or what?” I had to agree.
“So, I can hear you say. How do you follow that? Here's how. Jackson Browne, from the best album ever recorded and singing the title track, 'Late for the Sky'.”
I swear I was in love with this girl, this woman, no two ways about it. I wanted to meet her, to see if she looked as good as she sounded, to ask her to marry me, and then it all came crashing down about my ears.
“This is my favourite bit,” she said, just as the vocal kicked in, sacrilege, “doesn't he have a most emotional singing voice?”
“Nurse,” I said, “NURSE!”
The little nurse leapt from her slumbers like she'd been tasered, and took a few moments to catch on to the fact that I was awake.
“You...you woke up,” she managed to say, “I've got to tell the doctor.”
“Never mind that for now,” I said, “first, will you turn off that radio please.”
“But...but, they said you like music.”
“Who did?”
“Your family, your visitors, friends,” she had moved from my view. “There, is that better?”
“Thank you. Where am I? I mean, I know I'm in hospital but how did I get here?”
“Bus.”
“I came by bus?”
“No. They say you were hit by a bus. You've been in a coma for ten, eleven days.”
“Shit! My ipod. Where's my ipod......is it damaged?”
“It's here. It looks OK. So, you do like music then?”
“I'm a music nut, me; with a finely honed abhorrence for radio presenters who talk all over the intro, or the outro, or the bits in between.”
“I'll go and get the doctor. He'll want to know you've come out of it.”
“Do me a favour first, nurse.”
“What?”
“Jam those buds into my ears and start my ipod going.”
“There, how's that? Can I do anything else for you?”
“Maybe a bed-bath”?
Swearwords: None.
Description: When your imagination gets too far ahead of itself.
_____________________________________________________________________
I changed my routine on that fateful day, thinking it might be prudent to check on my bramble beds to make sure the local kids hadn't torched them during that long, dry spell of weather.
They were fine, with fruit, not quite ready for picking, but in the process of turning that lovely colour to indicate the fact that it wouldn't be too long 'til harvest time.
I couldn't cross to the promenade when I hit the shore road due to the high volume of traffic, and made it as far as the doctor's surgery before trying again. Just then, Joanie came from the doctor's in her mobility scooter and I decided to walk along with her instead of running the gauntlet.
We chatted all the way to Saltcoats, me catching up with what was going on with her family and Joanie catching up with what I had been up to. I saw her safely across the road at St. Mary's Chapel before jamming the 'phones into my ears and continuing on my way.
I really should have crossed over with Joanie but decided, while I was on that side of the road, to drop in on my sister for a coffee and a chat. Halfway along Manse street, I thought it best to phone ahead to say I was on my way, but it went straight to voice-mail to indicate she wasn't available, either driving or in the bath or some such reason. I then jammed the bud back into my right ear and set off across the road, and towards town.
Everything was quiet. I knew I wasn't in bed at home without having to open my eyes. A voice, female, the accent not too far removed from my own delicate North Ayrshire burr, was telling me it was one thirty and music time. She breathed this information into the microphone.
“You're about to hear Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and my favourite track from their first album. This is, 'Anything That's Rock 'n' Roll's Fine'.”
Now, that album has been a particular favourite of mine since the first time I ever heard it, over thirty five years ago now. I let the music wash over me.
I opened my good eye, which used to be my bad eye until my real good eye suddenly got pressure behind it, causing alarming blurred vision and a fast track visit to Ayr hospital for an injection to rectify the problem. It didn't make a whole lot of difference. I saw I was in hospital, in seclusion, perhaps my own private room. A nurse, Oriental in origin and very pretty, was fast asleep on a chair beside my bed, an open magazine on her lap. I was hooked up to machines, I had tubes up my nose and, at the time, was blissfully unaware of other tubes inserted in other orifices. I was strangely calm, grooving silently to the sounds and gently flexing muscles and such to ascertain if anything was at all missing.
“That was Tom Petty,” purred the voice, “and next up, it's J J Cale with 'Crazy Mama'.” I was liking this girl more and more.
I was trying to work out how I had ended up in hospital, but gave it up as a bad job when I couldn't get beyond waving goodbye to Joanie, it was easier and much less of a strain to concentrate on the fine sounds.
“J J Cale there from a long time ago. Was that smooth or was it smoooooth?”
I couldn't see where the music was coming from, unable to turn my head far in any direction, but I was still cucumber calm.
“Here's one you might not be familiar with, and please, don't go dancing around the wards or I won't play it ever again...he-he.”
I wanted to sit up, but couldn't. I only tried the once and gave that up as a bad job, too. I mean, who, in radioland around these parts, plays The Black Sorrows?
“The Black Sorrows there, all the way from Australia with 'Last one standing for ya'. I'm sure it's a floor filler down under. Great dance tune, eh?”
She was winning me over, both with her taste in music and with her easy manner.
“Taking you to the country, now. This is the best thing I've heard recently. Ashley Monroe, from her debut album, 'Like a Rose'. The song I've selected is called 'The Morning After'. Sort of, Dolly Parton with attitude. Enjoy.”
I know the song, know the album well. I was now falling head over heels for a faceless radio presenter who was reading my mind, possibly reading the latest playlist on my ipod. I can count, on two fingers, the number of ladies I've known with similar tastes in music to my own. There was a powerful and real sense of euphoria enveloping me at this realisation.
The little nurse slept on regardless. I had been scanning what I could see of the room and she was most of what was within view. The magazine had slipped slightly, but not enough to let it fall to the floor.
“What did I tell you?” asked the DJ in something of a whisper. “Can that girl put her message across, or what?” I had to agree.
“So, I can hear you say. How do you follow that? Here's how. Jackson Browne, from the best album ever recorded and singing the title track, 'Late for the Sky'.”
I swear I was in love with this girl, this woman, no two ways about it. I wanted to meet her, to see if she looked as good as she sounded, to ask her to marry me, and then it all came crashing down about my ears.
“This is my favourite bit,” she said, just as the vocal kicked in, sacrilege, “doesn't he have a most emotional singing voice?”
“Nurse,” I said, “NURSE!”
The little nurse leapt from her slumbers like she'd been tasered, and took a few moments to catch on to the fact that I was awake.
“You...you woke up,” she managed to say, “I've got to tell the doctor.”
“Never mind that for now,” I said, “first, will you turn off that radio please.”
“But...but, they said you like music.”
“Who did?”
“Your family, your visitors, friends,” she had moved from my view. “There, is that better?”
“Thank you. Where am I? I mean, I know I'm in hospital but how did I get here?”
“Bus.”
“I came by bus?”
“No. They say you were hit by a bus. You've been in a coma for ten, eleven days.”
“Shit! My ipod. Where's my ipod......is it damaged?”
“It's here. It looks OK. So, you do like music then?”
“I'm a music nut, me; with a finely honed abhorrence for radio presenters who talk all over the intro, or the outro, or the bits in between.”
“I'll go and get the doctor. He'll want to know you've come out of it.”
“Do me a favour first, nurse.”
“What?”
“Jam those buds into my ears and start my ipod going.”
“There, how's that? Can I do anything else for you?”
“Maybe a bed-bath”?
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He has a number of publications to his name, including Coont Thum and Tattie Zkowen's Perfect Days, both of which have been published by McStorytellers.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.