The man gets up very early in the morning, because of the commute. He switches off his alarm before it even goes off, to keep his wife from waking with him. She sleeps in complete surrender, her palms facing the ceiling at either side of her head. A kiss stolen from her forehead is the only interaction he permits.
He makes himself a quiet breakfast in the pre-dawn. His children are light sleepers and don’t need to wake until he’s well on the road, so he has to make do with a piece of fruit at the kitchen table.
He showers downstairs in the smaller bathroom and keeps a cache of toiletries in the cabinet here so that he can complete his morning ablutions. He maintains a working wardrobe in the hallway cupboard and selects an outfit from there once he has dried himself.
The house is silent.
Even the family dog does not know he is awake. It snoozes in its basket, through the glass of the living room door. Once he’s ready for work the man lets himself out and the morning chill nips his freshly washed skin. He doesn’t mind any of it – the early rises, the need for quiet, the poor breakfast.
His car is nice, newish. It starts first time, every time and he relishes that consistency. The man had a difficult upbringing. He was prone to being drunk or high often, right up until he met his wife. People knew him as the life and soul and for a long time that was enough, to be known as a hard drinker and wild man. His heroes had been the likes of Oliver Reed, Richard Burton. He slept in frequently, struggled to hold down jobs, his doctor mentioned that he should watch out for his liver enzymes but the man shrugged it off.
And now look at him.
Look at him rising early out of a delicious sense of commitment. Owning a car that starts with a gentle purr. He truly enjoys it. There are some men at his workplace who complain about being tied down, about the restrictions of family life. He chuckles at their desperation but inside he cannot relate.
He drives his newish motor through the countryside, towards the city. This is one of his favourite times of the day. The land is so special. Every day he sees the same mountains, the same lochs, the same dark bunches of trees, and every day they look different. When his wife came to him to explain that she’d fallen pregnant he knew exactly what to do. He found a rural estate agent and he negotiated a promotion from his employers.
He chooses to leave the stereo off, feeling it too early to enjoy even music.
His second favourite part of the day is coming in the door in the evening when his children give him their hugs and they have a meal together. He is able to wrangle their day’s stories out of them in a way that no one else can. When their mother asks them how school was they say merely, ‘Fine.’
He’s thinking of the day ahead, already planning his schedule to the minute, when he sees a person by the side of the road. The person, a young man, is dressed in a garment that looks more like a towel than any piece of apparel the man’s ever come across. The young man’s standing in the ditch, not hitching exactly, but looking lost and desperate in a way that tugs on the man’s heartstrings.
Ever since his own difficult upbringing and wild years afterwards the man has a soft spot for wayward young men. He is able to see through the stubbornness and the sarcasm to the soft boy inside. At his workplace he has taken more than one difficult apprentice under his wing.
There’s a passing place further down the road that the man pulls into. He rolls down his window and waits. He can see the young man watching the car in his rear view mirror. He’s not going to pressurise the young man, just wait and let him come if he wants to.
The young man looks back up the road and then to the man’s car. He shakes his head and approaches.
‘Needing a lift?’ the man asks, when the face moons into his window.
‘Maybe,’ says the young man, tugging at the neck of his garment. ‘Where you going?’
‘Glasgow,’ says the man. ‘But we can go a bit out the way if you need.’
The young man scowls. ‘No. Glasgow’s fine.’
‘So?’
‘Aye,’ agrees the young man. ‘Fine.’
He jogs around the back of the car and settles into the passenger seat.
Off they go.
The man won’t speak to his passenger too soon, doesn’t want to startle him or put him on the back foot. He sneaks glances at him though. The young man’s clearly been in the wars. His hair and beard have been inexpertly trimmed and there’s a rank smell coming from him. That’s not to mention the bizarre robe he’s wearing. Aye, cause that’s what it is, a robe.
When enough time’s passed and the man can feel his passenger relax he attempts some conversation.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Can I ask?’
‘What’s that?’
‘About the getup.’
‘Oh,’ says the passenger, looking down at what he’s wearing, noticing it for the first time, ‘that.’
‘It’s certainly unusual. What was it, fancy dress or something?’
‘Aye,’ says the young man. ‘Something.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying but you don’t look too well. You eating all right?’
‘I’m tired,’ admits the passenger. ‘I’ve been on the road for a while.’
‘Aye. I bet. When I was your age I was always tired. Burning the candle at both ends.’
‘Hm.’
The man thinks that this person he’s picked up is perhaps one of the most lost-seeming young men he’s ever encountered. He wishes there was something else he could do for him, something more concrete and long-lasting than a lift to town. But also he thinks of Leonard Cohen singing about fallen robins and supposes that maybe a lift to town, maybe the phone numbers and addresses for hostels and halfway houses, will suffice.
‘If you want to talk about anything,’ says the man, ‘we could do that. You don’t know me and I don’t know you.’
The young man shakes his head. ‘Nothing to talk about.’
‘All right. I understand. Will you tell me your name at least?’
‘My name?’
‘Aye. What’s the harm?’
The road comes towards them and under them. The sky is casting off the gunmetal shades of night and pinkening with morning. The young man chews his lip and faces the road.
‘My name,’ he says again.
‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘No. It’s fine. My name’s Paul.’
‘Paul?’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s a fine name. Well Paul, I’m just going to keep driving and I’ll drop you off wherever you need me to and I’m not going to say anything else but if anything does come to mind, you just say it, all right?’
He looks at the young man calling himself Paul.
Paul nods. He understands.