Short Story / Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail (Analysis)
Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail
The world of Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail is a world of exploration and unique absurdity. Every day is a day of both new and uplifting promise and unrelenting personal chaos. Who knows how Tommy Timmons manages these highs and lows each day? No day is the last, only new, only different, only fluctuation. During all these days of untamed life and color, and nights filled with scoundrels and rapscallionistic events. There is one truth, one idea that is always the same. One feeling that leaves all other feelings smaller and less threatening. Sometimes even those that see the best in life still find sorrow and loneliness.
Perhaps now is a good time to inform all of you pretentious Wally’s that there is in fact more to the world than your Hotsi-Totsi lives and all the boring and normal occurrences that take place throughout your unprovoked grind of a day. There are fascinating things to be peeped and poked at. Sometimes dangerous, sometimes welcoming, but always, always tickling…tickling your nerves and senses in new and exploring ways. Every day could be yours to explore. Every night could be yours to thrill. There is more to be peeped at in a flash of a bulb than all you have seen. You must only ask to look.
So come…come…this way. Let me guide you on this journey through the world of Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail, a seer and purveyor of the happenings and the what goes its. Come…don’t be shy. There’s always room for one more if that one is of open peepers and a journeying walk. So pack your lunches and say good-bye to the litany of excess for where we’re going you but only need your footsies to follow, peepers to peep, and most importantly your ears to hear the voice taking you for the ride. And if you’re all good Wally’s there is the fantastic likelihood that Sergeant Pepper and his Band may play us through the day. The day where Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail finds what he’s missing.
Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail wakes up every morning unquestionably at nine and hops up from his bed and springs into the bathroom across the hall. In case you are extremely dense of a fellow and haven’t managed to figure the obvious out. Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail is in fact, from Tammany Trail a small off street in Central London. Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail grew up for the better part of his life in the same room in the same house on the same street where his jolly good parents bought there jolly good home to raise there jolly good son. So from this point out I find it imprudent and unreasonable to continue calling Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail, Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail. From this wonderful point on he is now simply Tommy. Now if there be no more interruptions from you all, we can continue.
The shower Tommy took each and every morning bubbled and blossomed when the water splashed onto his body. For Tommy oh so loved a good shower wash each morning. The idea of stillness in stagnant water made him numb. But raindrops every morning are something very so special. Every morning is a fresh cup of Joe for Tommy. During these showers to assure the freshest of mornings he would always wash quite thoroughly even behind his ears and between his toes. For dirty knucks such as those are never very pleasant for Tommy. Generally during his showers Tommy would brush his teeth. This he felt saved time and conserved the use of extra knobbies throughout his day.
As Tommy slipped into his favorite pair of jean pants and zipped his most deliciously strawberry red hooded sweater, he thought about what it is he would do on this very special day. After all it’s Wednesday and Wednesdays are always one of Tommy’s favorite days. Would he spend his day in one of the auspicious museums that the Queen’s Empire has to offer? Would he meander up and down the high streets, or find a quite corner of Hyde Park to listen to the Bumblebee’s buzz while they fly from flower bushel to flower bushel? Bushels so delightful, Mr. Kite could fly after breathing in their intoxicatingly delicious aroma.
Tommy slung his black backpack onto his back, with the decision in his mind that he wouldn’t plan his trip, as he never did anyway. The backpack is all he needs for the day. He normally carries a packed lunch that his Mumsies knocks up every morning. Along with a change of outfits just in case the need arises. A few composition books, one if his need to write some tasty poetry, another should the opportunity arise where he might want to capture the swirly-wirly colors that make up all the shades of a rainbow on this affluent summer day. His mobile is also handy along with the Ipod his parents gave him. He didn’t have much on the new device, but he did have The Beatles. To be completely honest they are all he has on his Ipod. The way Tommy understood it the only music you ever absolutely needed on a day like he has each and every day is The Beatles. For him to bop his way through the streets and alleys of this great metropolis that fills itself with both peculiar and heart-lifting smells, sights that for those that are watching are both catastrophically mesmerizing and dangerously spectacular, and tastes that softly linger on your mind for hours to follow, so most simply and positively the Beatles is all that is required. For those of you who disagree…please mind the sinkhole beneath you.
The creaks and cracks of the chocolately brown steps of his parent’s quant brownstone sounded his arrival into the cozy kitchen his mother and father are so smitten over. His father Tom Timmons senior sits with his own fresh cup of Joe while he peruses his London Mirror. The crinkles the paper makes as his father turns each page gave Tommy the warmest of delights. The sound teases the peach fuzz on his earlobes so they stood at attention in anticipation for more tickling crinkles.
His mother Tina Timmons stood at the burners cooking what Tommy’s nose so eloquently deciphered as Bangers and mash. The brownness of the gravy wafted under his nose and signaled for him to sit. Tommy’s belly grumbled in approval of today’s breakfast.
“Well good morning my little sugarplum,” Tina replies to her son with the brightest of twinkle in her thirsty blue eyes. Her blonde bouquet of hair shining like it should on every Wednesday. She wears her usual cooking uniform. A blue housedress with always the same apron tied tightly around her waist. The apron brought Tommy to a smile as it does every morning. It was a white apron with strawberries dancing across, up and down, and all around.
“Good morning to you too Mumsy. Bangers and Mash this morning is it?” He asks as he strode over and kissed his Mumsie-Wumsie on both cheeks, “Mum, as always spot on. For a second there in the shower I had the sneaking suspicion that Bangers and Mash would be on the menu for this frizzy git of a son you have here,” Tommy slid quite smoothly if he had any say about it, into his seat across from his balding Carradine of a father. “Da, where exactly do you stand on all this Bangers and Mash business?”
Tom Senior peaked over his crinkly paper gave his son a shrug of the shoulders and is back buried head first into the news correspondents of the day.
Tommy nods in agreement and follows his mothers delicious Bangers and Mash from the kitchen burners across the squeaky linoleum landscape. His hairs prickles on the back of his neck and stands on end, talking amongst each other in hope of more squeaks and squawks to be heard. Soon though the squeaks and squawks, stop squeaking and squawking. No matter how closely Tommy’s little hairs on the back of his neck listen, no more noises can be heard. Tommy’s mother has reached Tommy and the sound of her arrival was evident with the bowl of Bangers and Mash landing spectacularly right in the exact spot Tommy had hoped for. The hairs on the back of Tommy’s neck put there heads down in disappointment, while Tommy’s belly, mouth, and nose were all showing there approval.
Tommy bites into the juicy piece of sausage that has been subsequently dipped into a mixture of brown gravy and in fact mash. He chews and chews and chewed. Oh the heaven! Oh the wondrous! Tommy’s face says it all. With every chew of his teeth he brings himself closer to god. Where he will go from here he knew not. But he did know that his life is all the better for him having a Mumsy who loves to cook Bangers and Mash.
Tommy mashes and mushes his way through the mash and chomps through the tender delight of the sausage. It was a hearty breakfast. Perfect for a day such as today. And what could make this already rainbow of a breakfast better? A nice cup of Joe. Surely, you must be saying to yourself, “Isn’t Tommy British? Don’t the Brit’s drink the Queens tea?” The answer to that is his Mumsy loves coffee…and the fact that his father is a beaten down sort of bloke and doesn’t bode well in confrontation with the misses, so therefore coffee it is and always will be in this jolly sort of home. Matter of fact, in all of Tommy’s life he has only heard his father speak three times. His mother has always proclaimed that Tom Senior is merely a stoic gent. But any old Wally could see he was a sad fellow with his jammies wrapped around the twist. Now if you will all please try to keep the interruptions to a minimum we can continue.
The freshly brewed mug of Colombia smokes under Tommy’s nose teasing him with a flick of its smoky finger. Tommy can’t resist the temptations of this intoxicating temptress. He picks up the mug in his left hand raises it to his mother who has made him the wonderful send off this morning and to his father who purchased the ingredients that tickles his taste buds each and every day. “Cheer’s Mum, Da,” Tommy took a sip of the still smoking coffee.
The world is as glowy as it could be this most Wednesday of mornings. Tommy prances and prods down Tammany Trail and over Bethany Bridge where he meets Mister and Misses Otter. Osmond and Onya Otter fish off Bethany’s North side. “Always North,” Osmond would often nod with his large whiskery face. The two of them reminded Tommy ironically of an Otter couple who used this Bridge for their daily Haddock chasing.
“How goes the fishes Onya? Hope the old Hobwoggin’s isn’t scaring them off again,” Tommy replies as he makes his way across Bethany’s Bridge.
“Oh, don’t worry dear. I won’t hear a word of it. And where is the young master off to on this Petunia of a morning?” Mrs. Otter asks with a smile as innocent as the clouds.
“If one could only tell me. You know how this ol’prat is—and Osmond old fellow, what say you? Making the Haddock your lunch today?” Tommy asks the old bruiser as he fiddles with his line.
Old man Otter gave his only and most ordinary old codger growl and shuffle. Tommy of course takes no offense to the gesture. After all, like all good boys to the Queen, he respect’s and cherishes those that fought in one of the Great War’s. “Don’t listen to him dear. The bugger of a fish is at it again. Your man here hasn’t had a nights sleep in several days. Beginning to give me the jim jam’s—and I don’t mind tellin’ ya neither!” Mrs. Otter so eloquently replies.
“Well maybe if you to are around later I’ll give it a go. But…” Tommy looks closely at his watch and realizes he needs to catch the next tube, “Is that really the time? Perhaps a rain-check. Must be off…lot’s to do…lot’s to see, and all that.”
Tommy makes his way down the steps of the High Street Underground. There are suits in all sorts of colors and sizes. Briefcases slung over left shoulders and right shoulders and then there are those set in there ways and require the type of briefcase that swings in the users hand. There are women with long slender legs maneuvering through the crowds of suits and briefcases. For some reason Tommy always sees these people at this particular station. He walked through the ticket gates and down an escalator while he watches those move around him. All of them…hundreds of them slave to a system he couldn’t possibly fall into, a system to him that is without color and life. A system of grays and muted tones, of muted fathers and growling old men, overly chipper Mumsy’s and twisty bridge women, of fish that don’t swim upstream and escalators that carry the suits away from freedom, and all those other sorts of ordinaries.
So Tommy continues down the musical corridors were the bustle of feet on the cement floor itch his ears and chatter up his brain. The footsteps try there hardest to pull Tommy into stride with the suits around him. He is in his mind a lone mustang amongst the herd struggling to run free. This tubular corridor that throws the sounds of Londoners off its walls is leading Tommy to his terrific Tube ride. Being surrounded by those that he isn’t, is a particularly peachy enjoyment for him. To find the little originalities that the system hasn’t been able to erase from those that look at first glance like replicas of the originals is a fascinating experience. To find these things that make even the blind their own is something to seek after. Tommy being Tommy this sort of business came naturally to him.
The doors seal themselves behind Tommy as he reaches up for one of the yellow handrails. The smell of London and all its people wined up and blast Tommy’s senses. All the old feelings and what these smells meant to him fill his mind. The London city air came circulating through the car whisking by Tommy’s face with a cool hello. It brings the smells of the city to life.
A woman who apparently uses the tube when grocery shopping; sat not ten paces from Tommy. Her hands full of baguettes, she smells up the car with fresh hope and satisfying taste.
A delivery boy stands across the car from Tommy dressed in a flowery shirt full of romantic reds and optimistic blues. In his delivery sack sprouts dozens and dozens of flowers that are obviously his to deliver. Tommy stares into the colorful scene. His eyes twirl from the brightness of the colors. The hypnotic scent that tugs his interest away from the baguettes and all those pesky calories, are smells built on deliciousness. The flowers are the center of the color inside the car. Tommy is drawn to them like sunlight to a summer’s day. The pastel colors held in the hands of the droopy delivery boy, make Tommy flutter with fantastic fantasies of fairies and formidable foes. In those beautiful pinks, and yellows, and blues, and purples, and reds, there are all the feelings of all the days. There are celebratory flowers in the bushel, consoling flowers for those that have lost…ones for every occasion. There just simply is a vast rainbow of color and smell. From the delivery boys bushel Tommy sees all the moods of the world. The ideas of the future, the reminiscence of the past, everything…his mind races at the sight of these spectacular clippings of nature. Nature’s beauty caught in the extraordinary trappings of the London Underground is a sight that even these Wally’s in suits that pack and jam there way into the tube every morning can respect and smile at. A boy…just a boy…delivering importance all over this grand metropolis. A smile here, a frown there, a sympathetic gesture to those in need …Tommy sees the importance in this boy not much different in age from himself. It gives Tommy hope; it gives Tommy an optimistic idea of the future to come. Is it possible for those who live in gray to come into the light and color of their lives?
As the tube continues to careen down the whizzing and winding track Tommy has the Magical Mystery Tour on his mind. The music set his ears on fire as he and those standing in the car bounced against one another as they make there twists and turns to the next stop, Tommy’s stop.
Hyde Park has always been Tommy’s happiest of parks. It is suitable for all forms of enjoyment. He can lounge in the Lilies or sprawl out underneath a nice Oak. He can sit by the lake as the mother ducks float by with their babies following close behind. He can lie out in the open fields and watch Londoners play pickup games of football and cricket. Or maybe walk the paths and feast his eyes on the beauty of the strategically located sculptures and fountains obviously made by those that never lost their sight. Maybe he will make a wish on a few pence while he was there. The day is his. No one to tell him were to go or what to do just as it always has been on these summer days.
Tommy makes his way down the main path through the giant park. There are women and men running in unison. Some ride tandem bicycles while the men give directives. Some sit on the lining benches sipping their gourmet Frappacino’s or double Grande espressos with extra cream…always extra cream. They read the paper or listen to there own brand of escape on their Ipods. There are those deep into their laptops oblivious to anything other than the sun on their necks and the words on their screens. Some women push strollers while they chat with their mates into there cordless earpieces, unconscious to there children playing with there introductory mobiles from the safety of there stroller. Then there are those like Tommy who flop under trees and onto blankets. Simply there to enjoy what they have.
Tommy strolled through the tantalizingly titillating Tulip patches with caution thrown into the wind. The purpleness of the Tulip patches floating like peculiar clouds over a green field below reminded Tommy of his Mumsies garden she so richly spoils on his front porch. As he makes his way around an old Oak tree he rams with the force of several subway cars flush into a sea…and I do mean a sea, of the most beautiful and bountiful and botanical of gardens. There are sexy and sultry ones that peak out of the shady spots, daring Tommy to look closer. There are giant white and yellow sunflowers swaying in unison like all good sunflowers do. They’re the most frequent and at first glance (by any lesser of young men) seem to dominate this garden. Then you will every so often meet eyes with the most sublime of colors. There are purples so purple you could smell plum pie. There are blues that are so fantastic they plop and bubble up to say hello in the most dramatic of terms. There are pinks that crept into Tommy’s sight that he feels sad for. They are present, but you have to want to see them. For most, one can look at such a garden and see order and discipline. Tommy may see all the colors of the rainbows in this garden, he may smell aromas and fragences that blast his senses with the most joyous of smells, but he always felt closeness to the pinks. They resided in the nooks and crannies of our lives. The once in a whiles…the one in a millions.
With pencil in hand he sits across from the garden of sunflower dominance and scanned the fenced in delight. There is a pink flower that stands proud and unwavering around a sea as yellow and white as the bus we travel in. Sunflowers surround it with contempt for the pink smudge on a perfectly yellow and white bushel. The bees buzz around the small but strong pink (which looks to be a Tulip) encouraging it to hide back into the sea of sunflowers. That is what Tommy wishes to draw. He sketches this flower detailing each and every petal as if it is his own. People pass, some with dogs, some with little babies in tow. Tommy remains. Some watch him for a few seconds others pretend Tommy is invisible. Tommy remains. Old, young, smart, dumb, fat, skinny, tall, short…the world passes between Tommy and his pink Tulip. All the while Tommy like the flower stands his ground and concentrates on what he is doing. Nothing can break his concentration. With each stroke of the pencil to paper the Tulip becomes pinker and prouder in his mind. It becomes all consuming and larger than life…large enough to block out the tiny sunflowers that sit at its feet.
“Oi! What ya scribblin’ there?” a fierce voice Tommy seems to recognize came from down the path to his left.
Tommy brakes from his concentration only to his most strong displeasure. The person, who has made this infiltration into Tommy’s concentration during the situation, is none other than the spectacularly pestering and dazzlingly redundant Prudence Poppintree. The tall bully of a classmate stalks towards him. Tommy saw the pink Tulip that has shown him so much courage earlier, retreat back into a sea of gargantuan sunflowers. He slides his book and pencil back into his pack and begins his walk in the opposite direction of Prudence and her perennial pestering.
Tommy looks behind him and Prudence is no were to be seen. Could Tommy’s eyes be deceiving him? Tommy turns back to the direction he is heading only to run directly into the giantess Prudence and all her questions. “Beautiful day innit?”
“Yes lovely…Didn’t even see you there Prudence—gave me a bit of a fright…well must be off,” Tommy does his best to bob his way around her but he is thwarted before he can even move his feet.
“Can I see your scribbles, then? I promise what I see will stay with only me. Cross my heart and hope you die.”
Tommy contemplates her promise…wait a moment…did she say what I think she said? Everyone hold on. This could get dangerous. I’m going to ask you to keep all hands inside. Prudence is well known for her interrogation and deception.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t Prudence. Not this time. You pester me here you pester me there. This time you don’t get to see,” Tommy has put his foot down.
Prudence ignores his stance. She continues forward trying to reach around him for his backpack. “Now Tommy…no need to fuss. I just want to take a peak. Give it here.”
Tommy’s mind races. He takes a glance over at the flower he has identified with. It is huddled under the sunflowers. Tommy looks back at Prudence, he has to convince her it is in her best interest to leave him be, “Now listen hear dear…dear Prudence. It isn’t finished yet. You can see when I’m finished. But I must ask you to respect my space. We go over this every time. And every time you try, I stop you. So give us a brake, will ya? I promise you will be the first to see when it’s finished.”
“Swear on the empire?” Prudence asks sticking out a pinky finger.
“Swear on the empire,” Tommy replies as they shake pink pinkies.
After agreeing to the stipulations of the deal, Prudence half-heartedly trounces off down the path, her tall and dominant frame commanding the people on the path to move from her way. Tommy stands for another second still not sure if Prudence will come back once more. She turns but Tommy voices his disapproval and she continues down around the old Oak tree and out of sight. The pink Tulip doesn’t come out again
Suddenly like a bolt of lightning from the gods themselves, Tommy has an idea. To Speakers Corner he will go, away from color, away from light, into the belly of radical delight. Where those who need to rant and pant go to stand on their soapbox stand.
The crowds are filling up…Tommy is obviously not the only listener today. Flags are waved and trumpets sound. It’s a playground for fundamentalists to gain a fellowship. The Black militants, the Islamic Jihads’, the born-again’s, and the non-believers, all with speeches prepared and literature for the masses.
They stand on soapboxes and crates, or stepladders and stools. With fervent vocabulary and a touch of the dramatics, they attempt to shame the Londoners and tourists who snap their pictures and their mouths at these courageous loonies spitting hellfire and brimstone. Tearing down the Queens Empire with their harsh answers to questions no one has the answer to. To Tommy it was all poetic grumbles and eloquent gestures. They are not of Tommy’s type, but what he loves is the atmosphere, both tantalizing and terrifying.
Tommy creeps through the crowd of hefty Americans with there camera’s and fanny packs, the Asian tourists with there twenty family members all traveling as one, and the Londoners that like Tommy just came to see the circus. He is surrounded by all walks of hate and discourse. It is the closest he has been to true extremist revolution.
It is suddenly hot and tepid at the center of this croc-pot of prejudice. The crowd begins to become more and more vocal to those that are preaching. The Americans yell at the Muslims, the Asians take pictures of the protruding flag wearing patriots as they fight a loosing battle against those with fire in there words, the Brits watched London sensibility as the degrees are turned up on the burner cooking us all to a fever pitch. Tommy’s heart races as he witnesses this spectacle of British Tradition. He knows he is safe, but nonetheless his heart beats in rhythm with the fluctuation of the debates being waged around him.
Tommy stands around waiting for the crowd to finally disperse. He knows it is only a matter of time before they all disband and continue on with there time spent in London. Never realizing that everything they said never made a bit of difference.
With all the simmering heat from the debate war cooked up in Speakers Corner Tommy feels the need for refreshment’s. He strides ever farther down the Hyde Park path every so often stopping to peep at the posies, or listen to the jingle jangle the change makes in the homeless’ pockets as they shuffle through the bushes just off the beaten path just out of our sight.
Tommy sees Harold Hackett of the Hackett’s of Bristol. The Hackett’s have been working the grounds of the Royal families Park dating all the way back to good old George himself. You might go as far as to say that they are the royal family’s gardeners. You might go even farther to say they’re often welcomed over to Charlie’s house for Sunday Brunch.
At least that’s what they say anyway. Harold himself isn’t much for speaking freely…if you can understand that you’re a better man than I.
“Well, if it isn’t the Queen’s mightiest of grounds men. How goes your Wednesday?” Tommy shouts to Harold who looks at him with boredom through his mechanical eyes.
Tommy kept on towards Harold who continues to rake a pile of the Queens leaves, then filling the Queens official Royal Empire trash bags with the leaves. It is a joyous process that Harold always seems fit and up to the challenge for. Tommy for some odd reason though seems to find this type of mundane and hollow work tiresome and less than extraordinary. But never the less who is Tommy to judge others decisions. If Harold didn’t love what Harold does than Harold wouldn’t have done it.
Tommy gets within feet of Harold’s hunched and beaten back, then decides Harold is far to busy to be chatting about the day with a troublesome lad such as Tommy. Last time Tommy tried to tame old Harold, old Harold hooked him with his rake across the face like Tommy had stolen the Queens leaves. This weighs heavily on his decision to depart the trappings and intricacies of her majesties park.
So what better terrain for Tommy to tamper with? You guessed it, don’t worry I figured you would. That’s right ladies and gentlemen of all sorts and suches, Tommy my dear and distinguished seeker and sighter is taking us on a wonderful lunch at non other than the Sheik’s sanctuary, his sultry seductress, his silly, surreal, sublime, and all at the same time, fun house. Harrods, the gem of our great machine: where the rich go to purchase happiness, and the poor go to beg for pence. I advise you all to keep keen inside this contraption, and check your bank statements regularly.
Tommy spins through the golden spindly archway, spinning in unsuspecting circles to the tune of a revolution, ramping up for a big arrival to the wonderful world of Wally’s and their wealth.
Paradise gleams inside the contemporary palace. Tommy scans the surface of the tenacious grounds. Staircases glinting and gleaming with dreams of pearls and a passionate love affair filled with bags of money and beakers of diamonds. Tommy’s eyes mesmerized at the sight that glows in front of him, slowly waltzing into sequence with the other spenders while the soothing sound of circulation takes him up the stairs and into paradise.
Into the insanity of it all, overpriced garments, slave labor designers, false smiles, and security dressed in pressed uniforms waiting to pounce on those that fall out of line.
Up the stairs and into the great food hall, where Tommy is embellished with the richest of sweets and tastiest of treats. The Sheik makes it top priority to fill his visitors with happiness and life, all the while running our credit through the roof of this salacious palace of expenditure.
Thankfully Tommy has still the sense to keep his wallet secured tightly to his person. All the while filling his mouth with scrumptious snacks and all sorts of sensuous delights. There are cakes as big as buildings towering over those being shuffled through, Carrot, Strawberry delight, Chocolate addiction, Berry unity, Plum purple, and all other sorts of giant cake extravagances. There are Cannoli’s and pastries baked by Bernardo the Baker. There are truffles and tarts, lollies and liquerish, bundles of beans, boxes of bellies, and all shapes and sizes of jellies. Filling the tummies of those around with everything south of the rainbow, and north of the stars.
Full of sweets and treats with soda in hand, he does his damnedest to jitterbug loose from the noose of this great and extraordinary palace. The marble walls laced with vengeful gold anger at the sounds of his feet moving out of sequence with those around him. Security co-ordinates a capture with the men in charge, they flank out lurking behind Godiva, and waiting to pounce on Tommy from behind the Cannoli display case. He jitters and jives as best he can, dodging and ducking the barrage of angry consumers who protest his dissent. Those in their pressed uniforms close in armed with cakes and bills. Tommy scared for his life and his non-existent credit; runs around a display of Jelly Belly’s, several very angry and very large security guards circle him with hate for his dissent from the workings of Harrods.
With cunning and wit that only a young and prestigious boy like Tommy could have conjured, he strikes the display of Jelly Belly’s with all his might. The castle of colorful pills came a tumbling down like the yoke of tyranny. The belly’s roll and shoot out around him. The security on hand, shake and fall like so many Oaks.
Those who waltz to the sounds echoing around the halls, lost sight and reason for waltzing, the explosion of color and taste jarred them free of the soft melodies that hypnotize them. Chaos ensues. People juke and jive, prance and dance, mosh and posh, all over and about the security and the food hall for that matter. This mini revolt couldn’t have come at a better time. It gives Tommy just the cover he needs to bolt from the fascinating scene.
Tommy steps onto one of the few double-decker buses still left in London and decides to take it till he sees what it is he is looking for. No matter who gets on the bus…no matter how loud he let Lennon serenade his senses, it couldn’t block out the sad truth to all this exploration. Tommy won’t have time for adventure and excitement any more. Eventually his love for vibrance and life will fall off, and he will only have the suit of his fathers to wear to the University of his Parents choosing.
The Bus passes through the West end of London, by the Chelsea boys as they walk hand in hand down the streets of Soho, along New Oxford where fashion rules the day, past High Holborn with all it’s suits filing into the Underground, to Trafalgar Square were Anti-War demonstrations work at making zero effort, making a right at the gates of Chinatown where people of all walks and all lingers stand around snapping photo’s and peering into windows of smiling Chinese waiting to greet them…landing Tommy and his bus of fellow commuters safely onto Tottenham Court Road. The lights of the Playhouses are just starting be lit up under the still blue sky with its white cotton ball shaped clouds rolling swiftly across the London ozone. The pubs begin to see their first patrons of the afternoon. The streets are alive with the bustle and hustle that fits London so well. Men in suits on there mobile are looking left before crossing the streets. Women walking in there heals power their way through the crowds pouring out the various knockoff shops. Every so often they stop to spot a sale…then off again.
Tommy can feel every bump the bus takes. Soon bumps will only be bumps. What once was heaven to Tommy will soon be cast aside for grander and nobler things. He continues to stare through the bumps, out the window looking at what he soon will be dissolved into. No time to stop and enjoy the architecture of the buildings around you, or time to linger in the moment of the day with all those around him. These sudden bouts of sobering realization can topple Tommy at times.
The idea of toppling might’ve become more than words for Tommy if it wasn’t for the sudden brisk wind coming from the slightest of cracks in the slightest of windows. It awakens him to the burping of a tugboat tugging through the Thames with resilience and wind in her face. The smell of the river passing through the city corrodes Tommy’s nose with grimy gratification. Not a bad smell. No this was something interesting. No this was something free. Something that he can breathe in, something he can taste. There is a dash of sorrow and wealth, a hint of happiness and poverty, a smidgen of corruption and anarchy, and all the other ingredients of this delightful and exciting metropolis to tickle Tommy’s tongue in new ways.
Suddenly warmth and pleasantness flowed through his veins pumping his heart with new resilience and excitement. Just as the bus begins to come to a stop as if great Aphrodite herself has a hand in his well being…there she is. The most beautiful girl this young Tommy has ever had the exquisite pleasure of casting his glimpse on. She doesn’t walk like those business beauties, Tommy normally sees. This young lass in all her vigor and arrogance doesn’t walk North up Tottenham like all those very important and responsible women do. She heads south…it doesn’t seem possible. To even find a bus that heads that way, or a cabbie that will be willing to rough the journey into the unknown, is a feat in and of itself. But to walk…Tommy is most intrigued.
Tommy springs to his feet ditching and dodging the dandy travelers that distance him from the door. Even with all their efforts to keep him heading North, Tommy is too cunning. He climbs over the rows to get to the door. Men in suits, women in heels, men with mobiles, women with handbags, men carrying hard hats, women carrying groceries…Hasidics, Muslims, Catholics, Hindus, Atheists, Agnostics, and even Prodestants…all of them trying as best they can to thwart Tommy’s departure. There is shouting and yelling and cursing and grabbing. Tommy continues to climb the rows of Londoners who are doing their level best at keeping Tommy for themselves.
The doors shut to the bus behind Tommy. Those trapped inside with a false sense of freedom, shake there fists and damn the heavens. The Wally’s of the world once again are out for blood. But Tommy is about his own business. He runs through the throngs of important people in search of what made him leave the cocoon of commuter safety and take on this bold chase. He searches high and low, on the east and the west of Tottenham Court road. Tommy has all but given up on his search when there she is. Trolly-lolling out of Eve’s sandwich shop eating what Tommy’s nose immediately recognized as a croissant. Her short blonde hair done in the latest Indy fashion with the outfit to match stands out amongst those around her. She begins making her way heroically south towards the Thames. She’s an anomaly to Tommy…she’s a vision…a unique surprise…a quiet hope…a chance at salvation…a daring attempt…a beautiful blonde Bethany bouncing buoyantly back beyond the beckon call of bewildered bullies bounding north.
Tommy follows as best he could. Her feet are obviously in close harmony with the sidewalk beneath. Either it genuinely welcomes her…or she is simply taking her chances, an idea that fit Tommy like his favorite pair of trousers. She makes it past the Spamalot billboard where a vagrant manages to cobble a few quid from her. Tommy tries getting closer, but his feet seem to be failing him. She maneuvers her petite frame through the throngs of men and women with the greatest of ease. At one moment Tommy felt as if he might finally capture this elusive blow in the wind, then she is far ahead once more. If Tommy didn’t know any better he would have to assume she purposefully teased him with the whiff of her mouth-watering perfume that lingers in her path. The scent is of the most delicious of flavor, in all likelihood orange blossom, or possibly tangerine blossom. No matter, it pulls him along through the crowd making a point to tease him with closeness every so often. Her deep red top that makes Tommy think of anything but stopping, acts as a marker to spot her in a crowd of grays, dark blues, blacks, and other mute and sad tones. She is a strawberry looking for her field…a beacon of hope for Tommy traveling through the streets of London with a walk that gives off a particular air of disregard. He doesn’t know her name…he doesn’t know where she is from, or even her favorite color, but he is enticed to follow still.
So follow Tommy did. He follows her past the colorful handbags being thrown at them with a fever sales pitch. “Twenty Quid!” the Moroccans shout. Then the Asians and Pakistani’s have their say, and the roll and shake down Tottenham court road becomes a test of wits and wager. For Tommy this chase has taken him scurrying like a Rabbit into a mindfield of grandiose gooks and googies gathering all around him. If it isn’t for the fox he is chasing one might find Tommy deep into one of his gawking faces. But never the less, Tommy Timmons will soldier on.
And soldier on Tommy did. Soldiering through a herd of Segway’s that found Tommy as he travels deeper and deeper into the jungle of superior economic stature. The theatre district of foggy London town may be where the arts of England thrive, but Tommy’s eyes, ears, nose, and feet have other ideas. This lone foxy beauty that dazzles Tommy with her abilities distances her self a little further…a little further still…and yes even further. And so on and so on until the only sight of her is her short blonde Indie bob, bobbing in and out and all about through the suits that consume her. Tommy’s heart cries nearly as loud as his mouth. He yells for her to stop, but his tongue seems to be at a loss for words. The only thing that seems to come from Tommy’s mouth is indiscriminate shouts and hollers. But of course people looked…a young man having a bought of uncontrolled randomness, would get anyone’s attention. But most unfortunately the blonde beauty that breathed life into Tommy’s dismal bus ride is gone.
With the arrival of black, the blonde fox that he has chased soon is out of sight. If there had only been a scribe with Tommy, he would dictate a voluptuous variety of venomous vehement fervor that would have captivated even the most broken of hearts.
He could topple the beautiful billboards bordering him with his bombardment of balanced love and hate for his blonde beauty. Where to go…where to go? Tommy wanders off Tottenham Court road feeling the night creep in around him. Lonesome and chilled is all the feelings Tommy have tiptoeing through his mind. With his hands inside his jean pockets helping brace for the chill that is around him, he once again is alone with the thoughts from the bus.
With all this excitement that Tommy is often prone to seeing, the beautiful anomalies of his city escape him once more in his own pursuit for free will. These thoughts, these thoughts they can fester in the worst of times. His trek will get no easier with thoughts of impending doom constantly corroding his innards and the beautiful chase through democracy pitter pattering in and out of his mind.
Then there was a growl…then a growl again. Tommy has wandered into the splendid graffiti jungle of Camden Town. Where the cities most colorful come to congregate. There’s peepers and floppers, creepers and hoppers, manics that panic, and degenerates that delegate. All types of sod’s that are always up for a go. I think now is an appropriate time to ask all of you to please keep your hands and feet inside and out of grasp of the cities forgotten few. Because low and behold we see the table slant in favor of tyranny. By George she has come back for her sketch book.
Tommy saw her at once, her impenetrable physique and scoundrel etched in her bully features. Prudence has come to collect. She brings with her a fantastic group of follies. They all dress in blue and could be found walking two by two. They are the might of mediocrity, the villainy of abnormality, the most mischievously accepted of characters. Perhaps the most fascinating of them all is Henry Hornworth…Sir Henry Hornworth to be exact, a youth many years older than his age. A true testament to royal Rapscallionism everywhere.
“Evening, Tommy old boy. Might us trouble you for a chat? Very quick and we’ll be through,” Sir Henry is the slipperiest blokes you’ll find, one of those very chattery Wally’s.
“Now see here Henry—”
“Sir Henry: respect the title old boy.”
“Now see here Sir Henry, I’ll have none of this Tom-foolery. The bidding for my book has got to end. You will not now, nor ever have it. So do your worst and we’ll have a go,” Tommy raises his fist-a-cuffs in preparation.
“Well old boy it seems that you have lost your place, perhaps Prudence could put you right. Or maybe my minions in blue could do?” Henry smiles the wickedest of smiles, teeth rotten and moldy from having a poisonous tongue.
His minions of boys and men march forward two by two showing the might and strength that comes with fellowship. They brandish their muscles with militant uniformity.
“So now shall we dance this tango of many against so few, or shall we get our bounty like we ought to? —What say you boys?” The silence from his minions is everything that Tommy needs to hear.
“I fear your escape is futile old boy. There is no place that you shall hide, so don’t be a cheeky bloke about it. The book if you please…old boy.”
Suddenly Tommy makes his dash. Down through the cold night of colorful and grim Camden Town, with the minions chasing all in blue down the street two by two. Tommy dashes in and out of the vagabonds traipsing about this night. They move with ninja stealth, spiriting in and out and all throughout in pursuit of Tommy and his sketches. Insanity over some sketches I know, but they were wonderful…were they not?
Up a fire escape Tommy goes, scaling its steps with great ease and eagerness to be free. They follow close behind, with vigor and persistence that Tommy is all to use to from them. They hunt him this night in a perfect pack of unsavory character. Full of hate for what they know not, and fear of what they don’t understand.
From building to building they go under a glimmering gazer of a night, stars shooting above them, trailing Tommy as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop. The minions of Sir Henry and Prudence are soon gone. However his dear, dear Prudence is back once more with and idea that has festered. She stands blocking the next gap with smoke billowing from her nostrils and the bulliest of looks.
“Oi! Have enough jumpin’ for one day? Let’s see those scribblin’s now. Before I punch that innocent face till your Mumsy no longer recognizes ya,” Prudence’s knuckles crack in approval of such an event.
“I would dearest Prudence, but your blue boy’s won’t be far behind and I really must dash. But perhaps another time you shall have your way, but not today, the fire escape will do,” Tommy use the one farthest from Prudence and closest to him. Even with her feral cunning she can’t catch Tommy. He is down in a dash and out in a flash, ready to bare those below and all their woe.
Tommy kept his head on a swivel gobbling up terrifying and fantastic images that now befell him. Old boozers with there pints and purple eyes, skunk peddlers with shadows for faces, little ladies of Loretta’s lounge, big blokes with a bruiser’s bounce, and there is Tommy Timmons and all his senses shivering and shammering for safety. Those deep dwellers of night creep around him smelling the air for fear. There anger at the world feels like a sack of potatoes on Tommy’s back. Their fear of the street, were they reside chills Tommy’s bones in the way no cold can. Then like the blonde bob that has made his heart fill with the future, so does the lit up sign of Sir Reginald Roberts Pub. He scurries across Camden street as the black cabs beep and brake, the buses with there loads of Londoners on a night out barrel down the way missing Tommy by only the hairs on his elbows. The vigilantes of the night have missed their opportunity.
As Tommy opens the oaken door to Sir Reginald’s he hopes that Sir Reginald is a man of noble and honorable blood. Walking in the Pub, Tommy feels a little warmer, a little safer, a little happier. It is well lit and there is the most captivating woman behind the bar. Not beautiful. No, no, no, but captivating none the less. She pours her pints with absolute conviction, serving warmth with a smile and a glass. Tommy approaches the bar with welcome in his heart and the need of a good pint on his mind.
“What’ll it be then mate? Nip of the dog that brought ya? Or maybe a dance with a pint or two will do?” She asks with a ginger voice.
“I think a dance with a pint is what’s needed,” Tommy replies.
“The names Rita…new to the jungle are we?” Rita asks as she pours him a pint of her choosing.
“First time at night, during the daytime I’ve been known to do a dance or two up these fine roads. During the daytime though…at night the feet don’t seem too into dancing. More fleeing,” he answers as he lays a fiver on the bar.
Rita laughs from the bottom of her toes, “Yep that sounds about right. Poor souls, out and about on them streets, all they need are a hug…and maybe the occasional pint.”
Tommy sits at a small table surrounded by all types of people having all types of refreshments. Some chat with one another; others sit thinking about everything but the drink in front of them. There minds wander with Tommy’s. His mind seems to be content with were he is. Sir Reginald’s seems like the place for Tommy. Inside this pub the idea of his lost chance seems to smooth and soften.
With every pint the idea of losing the girl of his dreams is replaced by hope and confidence. Confidence in the idea of whatever will be will be. So Tommy let it be.
Then there is that intoxicating aroma again. Tommy’s nose knew his perfumes.
“Pardon me…If I could just squeeze by,” his chase has come full circle. It’s his lovely who pardoned herself.
Tommy simply stares, taking in every feature, every scent, every mannerism. She glows like his future glows with the possibilities he finds settled in her big blue eyes. She is worth worshipping, worth facing the heavy truths of the world with. She is worth every bit of his pint.
After several long and unforgettable seconds, Tommy realizes he must look like a bit of a nutter.
“I’m Bethany, Bethany Bennett. And you are?” She asks Tommy as she sits down across from him.
“I’m—um, ah Tommy…Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail.”
“Well Tommy Timmons of Tammany Trail, first time in Reggie’s?”
“Yes…lovely place though must come back more often.”
“Most who come here, stumble upon it. So let me officially welcome you to Sir Reginald’s Pub, where everyday is a pint, a smile,” Bethany replies while spreading her arms wide. Tommy could have fallen into them.
They drink their pints together chatting like kindred spirits whom had much to catch each other up on. They spoke of music and movies, poetry and prose, architecture and art, their favorite place to eat a plum, and yes even their favorite color (Bethany’s is Blue).
She is so passionate, so witty, so damned adorable. Tommy couldn’t help the giddy feeling that bubbles up in his belly. She leveled Tommy in a way no girl has, she kept his complete attention, unlike even the most pink of Tulips. Oh Tommy could have stayed in Reggie’s for days if the Knight permitted.
She made him laugh so often he thought he might burst. This to Tommy is truly a first. This strong of a connection never occurred when walking about with the Wally’s. She is that little extra that one always looks for in their lives. That one who has answers to questions, and questions for those who think they have the answers.
“Have you ever felt like the way you live your life now, will not always be what it is?” Tommy asks rather abruptly and without warning.
Bethany laughs with resilience, “Of course. But in the end who cares? We have to change in some way. Just make it for the right reasons. You get a little older each day, you get a little wiser each day, and you get a little blinder each day. The goal is to not completely go blind from this world of outrageous possibilities and new adventures, to keep some of that sight for your children to use and grow with. After all if we can’t pass it on to those after us, what good is it to have it? To be alone with that feeling, and knowing that your children one day will never be able to experience all the wonderful intricacies of the world, would be most unbearable.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. This whole idea that we have to become our fathers and our mother and do what they do and live as they live. I don’t want a quant house on a quant street, where all is safe and calm and there is no out of the ordinaries, or mishaps that befall those around you. Everything is quant and perfect and quant.”
“Sometimes, quant is what’s needed after a long day of exploration in this great city. You need that calmness, that idea of safety, and yes my gentlemanly stalker, that feeling of mundane normality.”
“I don’t know if I agree with mundanity. At least not of the kind you speak of, sitting in a house like my father, smoking a pipe, while reading his crinkly newspaper. I’d prefer my news to come from the streets of this city, the good with the bad, the sorrow with the happiness, and the truth with the rumor. Give me all of the news, I will enjoy it, and I will appreciate it. Words on paper are rarely as powerful as actual involvement. I prefer my involvement in the news, to reading it from the safety of my home. If we sit and wait for that paper to come and tell us what is what in the world, then we are nothing more than what they want us to be. But if we are to experience it, to be apart of it, then we can keep our sight and not fall into a routine. Isn’t that the dream of all young people who find a need to search out there adventures? Smoking in the foyer will hardly due.”
“You are surely a different type of bloke? Not unlike myself though. I understand your theory, and I agree with it as a whole, but look around, you can’t believe that you will never get into the swing of things. We all do in some way. So I think the best thing is to enjoy your freedom, and do a dance every now and again. Because we all lose it sooner or later, and from the looks of it for us it will be sooner than later.”
They depart the pub both going there separate ways, her to Finch-Fletchley, and Tommy to Tammany Trail. They exchange numbers and promise one another they’ll call.
No longer did Tommy fear the lovely town of Camden Town. He owes it all to them, those glorious grouches of the night.
The walk to the tube station is a little bit warmer. The ride through the underground is a blur. Over the bridge, he never thought about the fishes below or if Mr. Otter ever caught his lunch. Down Tammany Trail were all is quite and quant. Up to his house were not a light is on, and into his bed where he will dream of Bethany and all her beauty.
With the morning came a different day, a different feeling, and different objectives. The shower is clouded by pleasant thoughts of Bethany; there is no thought of soap bubbles or the feeling of the shower beating on his body.
After a quick dress up and a nice brush of the teeth, Tommy came down for breakfast. The dreaminess in his eyes was something new. Where once his eyes searched and prodded for exquisiteness, now they basked in Bethany. He looked to the future…a future hopefully that included her.
Old man Timmons peers over his paper. He’s sees that all too recognizable feeling in his son. Tommy’s father soon put down the paper he is normally inclined to read and cleared his throat.
“Tommy my son…have you met a lady my son?” before Tommy can answer his father continues on, “Ah, looks like you’re finally beginning to get it. Be gentle with it, love isn’t something that will always be there regardless. It is something that must be earned, something that must be comforted. You need to grab a hold like you have, and fight to stay there. It’s tough and it takes a bit of courage…not to mention a strong chin. But if you’re worthy of it, you’ll have that love as long as it’s your’s to behold.”
Tommy’s father unfolds his paper and continues with his morning news. The classifieds stare Tommy right in the face.
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As I read, I see the style changing from the playful, child’s perspective in the beginning to a more reflective voice (sitting in the park and watching life, the flower, etc.). I think you have several stories here that would all be better separately.
The section with Prudence and Tommy is better than the rest because it is believable interaction between your characters. I also see that as the day progresses, Tommy is perhaps metaphorically becoming older or realising that he will someday be like his father. I hope this is your intention. If so, this is quite good; it could, however be much tighter.
In general, I think you could make this walk through London a bit more compact. A children’s picture book with two lines on each page could do what this story does in 32 pages of loosely written prose.
Please take this as constructively as I mean it: The weaknesses of this piece are 1) tense inconsistency, 2) confusion of plurals and possessives, 3) a meandering style that needs more focus. I believe you could use The Beatles’ songs more effectively to provide this structure.
Proofreading notes:
The fragment that begins “During all these days . . .” should be connected to the sentence that follows it.
there jolly good home = their
thought about what it is = was
a quite corner = quiet
Bumblebee’s buzz while they fly (Since you’ve made this plural with they, this should be bumblebees’ buzz.)
“affluent” means wealthy or prosperous, abundent or copious. Do you mean this?
his parent’s quant brownstone = parents’ quaint . . .(unless Tommy has only one parent)
cozy kitchen = cosy (If you are using British English.)
His father Tom Timmons . . . (You change to present tense here and in the following couple of sentences. You seem to be changing tenses quite randomly. As Here: “He chews and chews and chewed.”)
his Mumsies or Mumsy?
mothers delicious Bangers = mother’s
the Queens tea?” = Queen’s
he respect’s = respects
Great War’s. = Wars (But there was only one Great War: WWI.)
a nights sleep = night’s
the users hand. = user’s (To save credits, I won’t comment any more on the incorrect use and omission of apostrophes for possessive and contractions. It would be a good idea to go through the entire document and proofread for this mistake.)
shopping; sat not (no punctuation here)
strollers = pram (British term)
there children = their
recognize = recognise (BrEng)
So give us a brake, = break
a bought of uncontrolled randomness = bout ??
the one farthest from Prudence = furthest (BrEng)
where everyday is a pint = every day (everyday is an adjective like everyday occurrences.)
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A few notes…
Inconsistencies in tense. You jump back and forth from present to past.
“He is in his mind a lone mustang amongst the herd struggling to run free.” This line does not fit in this story at all. It’s too serious for sucha whimsical story.
“In his delivery sack sprouts dozens and dozens of flowers that are obviously his to deliver.” Why is it obvious?
Check for spelling and grammatical errors (know the difference between ‘there’ and ‘their’, ‘where’ and ‘were’).
“and yes my gentlemanly stalker” Upon hearing this from Bethany, I would think that Tommy would have said something about it, but that was the only mention. Had she seen him following her?
The only reason I gave you an 8 on “Publishable” rather than a 9 or 10 was because there is so much editing to be done. I’m not sure it’s ready for the eyes of an agent just yet. You definitely have talent. I have to say it is unlike any writing I’ve seen, with all the alliteration and rhyming. It was like a fantastically long poem. It took awhile to get to the point, but once it did, it kept me interested. I hope to see more from you in the future.
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