Window Shopping

He came from a small village where everyone was particularly average and lived their mundanely average lives regardless of the things around them. Nobody seemed to care or even notice that the boy had grown into a young man without ever having a girlfriend or even smiling at a female in that 'tell-tale' way.
He longed for some form of recognition. Good or Bad, it made no difference. He just wanted to step out of his seemingly invisible genre and fit in to something more comfortable.... more 'him'.

And so it was that he found himself upon a train to London. Like a pilgrimage to some form of Mecca, his eyes were focused upon the bustling city where nothing was average.
The train itself was a new experience. he had seen trains thundering past the village before, but never actualy sat upon one. There had never been a reason or destination which had demanded it, so he was unaccustomed to the seemingly ritual silence that resonated within the carriage. It was ironic, he thought, that the noise of the train seemed muffled by the silence within. As he gazed from person to person, he noted how their eyes would remain fixed upon a point which negated any posibility of eye-contact. Some focused upon newspapers, others merely stared out of the window at the countryside which hurtled by, occasionally broken by the odd building or small town. Uncertain of why people seemed unable to converse with each other, he decided to copy the unsociable attitudes and found himself, too, staring through the window.

His reflection stared back, like a ghostly apparition imprinted upon the greenery which bent with the force of the train as it hurried past. However, the apparition remained fixed, travelling at the same rate as the train, Its blue-grey eyes occasionally highlighted by the green of the vegetation.

The train thundered through a dark tunnel plunging the windows background into blackness, and suddenly the ghostly reflection was bolder.... staring back at him with a sadness he had never realised he posessed. The long black hair made his face seem paler as it framed his slightly effeminate cheekbones, wheras the tie-dyed t-shirt seemed to drain further color from his complexion. In a moment of uncertainty, he pulled his eyes from his reflection and chose to focus upon the people in the carriage once more. Almost instantly, the train emerged from the long tunnel and light filled the carriage once more, making him squint slightly.

The scenery had changed dramatically. The vast expanses of greenery had given way to a congregation of houses and a horizon of taller buildings. The train tracks were no longer single file, but instead laid said by side in threes or fours. Junction points crossed paths with the tracks in increasing number and the regularity of the multitude of stations became more frequent. People got on the train, others got off. He noted that almost every seating area was filled, as if people did not wish to sit near strangers. It was hard to comprehend why for him, as he came from a village where everbody knew everybody else, so he offered a neighbouring seat to a suited black woman who had just got on. She seemed surprised but smiled and sat.... the carriage full of strangers all looked at the countrylad who had dared to interrupt the silence, regarding him with a variety of glares before returning to their focal point of no eye-contact.
He blushed to himself, suddenly feeling like a foreigner in a new land.

When the train finally arrived at its destination, Kings Cross Station, he smiled at the black woman and watched with curiosity as she left her newspaper upon the carriage seat. She did not see the friendly smile as her mind was already on the next train or bus... or whatever her plans were for the day.
Feeling incredibly alone in the crowd, he too left the train and politely struggled to locate a path through the bustle of city life.

London was far bigger than he had anticipated. He was trying to locate a particular road that he had seen on television, a place where people like him could be themselves..... alledgedly. Nervously, he approached a stranger.
"Hello," he began, "Can you please help me? I am looking for Old Compton Street?"
The stranger gave a look of disgust so intense that the countrylads polite smile faded instantly.
"Ask someone that cares." came the blunt response followed by a few expletitives and an insult.
Resolutely, he approached another stranger. This time he selected one that looked politer. Fortunately he seemed to have picked an individual who appeared to know its location extremely well. He was informed that the road was difficult to find so he should buy a map, and obediently he complied after giving thanks to the middle-aged gentleman who curiously wore mascara.

He followed the signs to the underground, decyphering the immensely complex network of different colored lines upon the maps back cover as he went. Amazed that the underground train seemed to appear at the same instant he arrived at the platform, he jumped through the open doors and copied the standing passengers as they gripped railings and handles for support. The journey was short and fast, with a whirring scraping noise as the train rushed through the tunnels at a pace which he later discovered seemed to be echoed throughout the city by people, motorbike couriers and trains alike.... but not cars. Cars had a pace which could only be described as 'almost stationary'.

Following his map once more, the countrylad blended in with the tourists to perfection. Tha A-Z of London was almost permanantly open upon a particular page and pressed to his vision as he navigated the network of roads.
Finally, there it was. A curiously picturesque road, almost reminiscent of a street in Paris with the seats outside in the sun. He picked a seat and ordered a drink, momentarily taken aback at the price but thankful that he had finally discovered the place he had longed to be for so many years.... ever since seeing it on that show about gay life in London.

The sun seemed to shine upon this street moreso than other places he had briefly walked past on his brief visit so far. As he sat by the pedestrianised street, his cola in hand, he watched the passers-by. This place was unlike the rest of London. The people here seemed to deliberately try to make eye-contact. from some, the eye-contact was only brief, wheras others wander past and stared. Some smiled, some gave a look of indifference, and a few chuckled to their friends as they passed some form of derogatory comment.
"Do you think he wanted Carnaby Street?" he heard one lad say loudly to his male companion who had an arm draped about him. Both laughed, never stopping or slowing their pace.
The countrylad looked down at his clothes. His jeans were faded and purchased from a particularly cheap market stall in his hometown. The t-shirt had been purchased at the same stall, but he had later tie-dyed it purple. His trainers were also budget, and were of an unfamiliar brandname, dirty, faded black, old and worn. His ensemble was completed by a crisp clean A-Z of London upon the table beside him.
Ignoring them, he let his country senses take over. 

The air still had the smell of car fumes, but it was softer than other places. There was also a slight aroma of flowers from the hanging baskets, mingled with the musky smell of male hormones and deodorant. The street was busy with men wandering past like parading animals proudly displaying their physiques. The countrylad felt his jeans stirring as a particularly butch man walked past, disappointingly never even noticing him in return. He could hear many voices from different positions in the street, but could not make out what they were saying.

Suddenly and seemingly from nowhere, a guy seated himself at the countrylads table.
"Allright mate?" the stranger spoke....
The countrylad almost dropped his cola.

to be continued...