The banana car still somehow smells of banana

The cars in the adjacent lane start moving slowly towards the island. Hill looks at the vehicles in front of him, static, the queue stretching beyond the bridge and towards Bangor.

‘Bangor University graduate Danny Boyle’, Hill thinks.

Danny Boyle, my mother, Roger, Trudy, the list goes on, Hill thinks.

Hill puts the Volvo in neutral, lifts the handbrake, and turns the engine off. Uncle Robert shut the engine down at every red light and sometimes when travelling downhill. Uncle Robert ate banana after banana on car journeys to and from Hill and his cousins’ swimming lessons, tossing the skins either in the small storage space in front of the gearstick or sometimes on the passenger seat. The car always smelt of banana. Uncle Robert sold the banana car to Roger. Twenty years later, Uncle Robert is dead and the banana car still somehow smells of banana.

Important banana legacy, Hill thinks.

Hill looks in the rear-view mirror. The man in the car behind him, a brown vintage Volkswagen, is nodding his head and moving his lips. Hill looks across to the right hand lane, now also gridlocked. Teenage boys with bouffant hair and tightly-shaped eyebrows run in single file on the pedestrian walkway, grimacing, weighed down by camouflage backpacks and black boots.

Call of Duty: Modern Poppy Aesthetic, Hill thinks.

Hill looks towards the water. It’s late afternoon but still light, a motorboat tows a wakeboarder, riding and bouncing over the waves, at first with two hands and then with one. The wakeboarder wipes out and the boat slows down, turns side-on to the wakeboarder, and stops. Hill looks straight ahead and then leans forward and peers up towards the top of the bridge’s central arch where two large gulls stand next to each other, looking in opposite directions, squawking.

Unsure if this is what bottleneck is, Hill thinks.

Hill feels a dull ache from somewhere inside his head and looks at the six pack of Coors Light on the passenger seat. He presses his hand on the side of the box. He can feel the chill of the cans through the thin cardboard packaging.

He looks ahead at the cars in front of him, stationary.

Hill opens the box and takes a can. He holds the can in front of his face and leans in towards it, the cold sensation numbing his forehead. He thinks about Uncle Robert, his cousins, bananas, swimming lessons with Hans, Hans’ large red pectoral birthmark, front crawl, butterfly, breathing techniques, being dunked by Hans, the seven-and-a-half metre diving board, the ten-metre diving board, the feeling of hitting the water hands first, the feeling of hitting the water belly first, the feeling of Hans saying gooood, the feeling of Hans saying nat gooood, the loud changing room, the tired walk from the pool to the car park at the edge of the complex, the car journey home, Uncle Robert, his cousins, bananas—

Hill becomes conscious of car horns and looks ahead, the nearest car in front of him now on the other side of the central arch. Hill drops the Coors Light in his lap, turns the engine on, and puts the car into second.

***

Trudy’s building is set back from the road. There is nothing on this road apart from trees and large houses behind high walls. Most of the houses have been converted into HMOs or student accommodation. The student accommodation is of an objectively high standard; the HMOs are of an objectively poor standard. There is something for everyone.

Hill parks the car and picks up the Coors Light from between his legs and puts it back in the box. A Ford, a Mazda, a Peugeot, and a Daewoo fill up the gravelled area to the side of Trudy’s house.

Seems arbitrary how people choose, Hill thinks.

The building is a large four-storey Edwardian house, converted into flats some time in the 1980s. Hill looks up towards the third floor. The windows are single glazed and tired looking, only specks of white paint remaining on the wooden frames. He sees Trudy walk up to the window and awkwardly attempts to slide down his seat and out of view.

Ridiculous, Hill thinks.

Hill waits a moment and looks back up towards the window. Trudy is standing, staring out trance-like towards the strait, carefully mapping out a collection of small shapes with her index finger. She pauses momentarily, turns her back to the window, and walks out of view.

Hill checks his watch and opens the car door.