The Pedestrian (2023) - Short Story
The Pedestrian
Twenty years sounds like a lot of time, but for Arthur Mitcham it had breezed by at a sleepily continuous pace. Just over twenty years ago, Mitcham was one of the biggest names in British sport: five-times gold medalist at the National Pedestrolympics, godfather of the walk and master of the ‘polite circle’ technique. Mitcham would carve his way through a crowd like no one had seen before, weaving this way and that, walking at record paces, yet never interrupting the flow of people or traffic. Many remembered him fondly for his appearance at the Fifteenth Pedestrolympics, his second showing, in which he made Swiss cheese of the dreaded Tourismo Round, famously giving an Italian directions to the nearest Tube station whilst simultaneously walking around a gaggle of German teenagers walking the wrong way on their smartphone map. At the Seventeenth during the TfL Race, Mitcham was able to nearly halve his opponent’s time, not by using the well-documented station shortcuts, but by carefully utilising the slipstream of anxiously-late-for-work Londoners to walk at record speeds through the lengthier walkways. And whilst it was clear that by his sixth showing Mitcham was struggling to keep up with younger competitors, the grace with which he conducted himself left him a legacy that smiled on his later career. One of his most replayed moments came from his last Pedestrolympics when he made a split-second decision at a zebra crossing and didn’t cross, reading perfectly the driver’s imperception and taking note of the car’s license plate as it mowed down two of his opponents. For a time, Mitcham’s face could be found most everywhere. Posters of him at peak pace decorated boys’ bedrooms across the country; appearances on television found themselves in all the primetime slots; engagements with the Royal Family and desperate politicians were commonplace; the healthy eating campaign he started with Paul Walker was iconic.
People still mentioned Mitcham. He was always found in conversations where ‘the best’ in the sport were brought up. Younger fans held a cautious reverence for his legacy, though oftentimes didn’t understand the fuss. Compared to newer players, Mitcham seemed a little naive. It was in this vein that Arthur’s self-perception moved. He knew he was great, but was disappointed by his growing age, his increasing distance from the new national champions. One of the caveats of being a professional pedestrian is of course that the job never really stops – you just stop getting paid for it. For years journalists would follow Arthur around, trying to capture footage of the great paceman at work. Passers-by, if they noticed him, would try their hardest to trip him up when he went out shopping, asking for donations to this or that charity or homeless shelter. Christmas was the worst for this. Mitcham had famously bodied an elderly shopper during the Christmas Eve Oxford Street Challenge at the Nineteenth Pedestrolympics, a slip-up that briefly earned him the nickname ‘Granny Slammer’ in all the tabloid newspapers. ‘The Granny Slammer Slams Another Gran!’ was an unfortunate headline a year after his retirement. It had clearly been the old man’s fault, but both the circumstances and apparently the gender of the tumbling geriatric seemed unimportant to the press. It took him years to realise he ought to stay home most of the season, lest he be besieged by flailing pensioners risking their new hips for a front-page appearance on The Ped magazine – on top of a potential lawsuit.
It was plain to see that fame didn’t come naturally to Arthur. Despite the great confidence he displayed at the Citodrome, on a personal level he was a rather meek man. He had few friends and was scarcely seen at high-profile events. His father, a naturally gifted pedestrian, had never fostered in any of his children the desire of celebrity, and his mother advised against it. At home things were rushed through with a quiet determination, avoiding at all costs any confrontation for the sake of smoothly proceeding family engagements, which reached their destination (the departure of everyone back to their respective bedrooms) quickly and quietly. Dinners were considered a success if few words were spoken and the second-half whistle of the footie hadn’t yet been blown by the time the washing-up was finished. No one stood out and no one was regarded. In many ways, it was this learned invisibility that made Arthur Mitcham the pedestrian he was. On the stage, in the spotlight, he was capable of keeping perfectly well to himself, submerged as he was in the morass of uninterested passers-by. He had been given a reason to go somewhere and he had to be there soon. Leaving the sport was another story. The spotlight penetrated deeper than before. It looked into his soul. His brief stint as a commentator was frustrated to no end by his incapacity for expressiveness. Viewers complained about his dull meter that trodded along with the walkers on TV without excitement. It felt he was keeping something in. Not that there was any secret to be held, but he had learned from the Citodrome that it was right to keep one’s head down and speak only when spoken to. He had learned this from London, and it was something the city punished him for.
///
The cold air disappointed him. It wasn’t as warm as he’d hoped. He was dressed in his best gear: slightly arched grey and black walking trainers, loose-fitting grey nylon tracksuit bottoms (without his famous black knee patches), and the black crewneck t-shirt he wore at the Twentieth Pedestrolympics. Marching down the street towards Piccadilly, he tried to shift his thoughts to a confident determination, but the frown he forced felt unconvincing, making him look like a grumpy child. Even his wrinkled forehead and crow’s feet gave the impression of a youthful inner monologue, inexperienced in any clear expressions of emotion beyond a mildly disgruntled impatience. It was New Year’s Eve, and the roads had been closed to allow for peak footfall. Unwillingly his mind took him back to the Citodrome. An exact replica of the Southbank had been put together inside the stadium that year, just outside of Liverpool, and tourists streamed in and out of the Underground without a second thought. As always, non-competing pedestrians were supplied to the stadium by way of a tourist filter at King’s Cross underground station. When tourists would ask station staff how to get to the river, they would direct them through specially-built tunnels that, rather than travelling to Charing Cross or Embankment, would speed all the way up to wherever the Citodrome was that year, opening up into the replica, filled with shops, statues, street performers, souveneir stalls and potential terrorists. They would be none the wiser, as all the latest developments in high-speed rail travel were utilised for the Pedestrolympics. Police cordoned off the perimeter of the replica to maintain a single entrance and exit: the ‘Southbank’ Tube station. The replicas were quite convincing, even for a seasoned Londoner like Arthur. London authorities transported large swathes of the city’s homeless population up to the Citodrome. They weren’t permitted to come back.
Mitcham never knew exactly where his opponents were, and for some of the less well-known participants, he struggled to recognise their faces. He could feel the earpiece now, telling him his final destination, the pint he had to order. Most events ended at a pub of some kind. It was a boon to certain sponsors, and a demonstration of the athlete’s ability to get to the front of a bar queue. That was a hallmark of any great pedestrian. The nostalgia for all this rushed to Arthur after seeing on Facebook that some of his old colleagues were having a get-together at a pub on the river, to get a good view of the fireworks. He took it as a challenge. This would be a straightforward Motorless Crowd Crawl, the records for which he’d set had been broken five times over. He’d be sipping a poorly poured Guinness in the blink of an eye. His thinning hair recalled the anxieties of his youth and stood up a little. Walking up a dark, urine-scented side street, avoiding the black puddles with care, Arthur took a deep breath. The murmurs of the city echoed off the brick walls around him, taunting him. ‘Just a couple pints,’ he muttered to himself, ‘then back home’.
He tore round the corner and was bombarded by a wall of excited sound, of fireworks, laughter, shouting, jeering, mocking. Group meandered before him, peeved brows and foreign tongues mid-argument; he walked around distracted bodies. Three unrelated Arabs, shuffled through them. A laugh on his left didn’t distract him, he shot through a couple unlinked, not a glance at the dolled-up faces. A kiss. Six coughs. BANG! A blast of red light, prematurely let off. Unfazed, three groups of lads he circled round: a lost Cypriot stood over the road. Stop: a stream of neon light and sound brushed his nose, like a train, a rickshaw, left sheen of remnant pinks and greens over the top of the image of the wandering tourist. The Turkish melodies faded into a cacophony of beeps from angry drivers, He crossed and called out: ‘Alright mate?’ ‘Yees,’ the respondent, ‘Where is the Saint Paul Cathedral?’ ‘Take a left’, right step around the wanderer, ‘past this theatre’, underneath the restaurant shelter, ‘and keep on walking’ keep on walking ‘until you see the station. Take the first right from there’, calling louder ‘and you won’t miss the cathedral from that poin-‘ quick stumble, uneven pavement. He would have seen it had the Cypriot said thank you sooner. No matter, you can’t count on civility as a pedestrian. Keep walking. Side-step, pre-empt the next tourist’s back-step before he’s even had time to think of it, time the step in front, avoid eye contact with the black-haired Grecian woman. Smell the roasting nuts, hear the beeps, the bridge is only a couple streets away. Down the steps and off the bridge – smooth journey, couple of slow walkers in front, coughs to move them aside, down by the riverfront: nearly there. Five people were expected at the pub, make a foolish double take thinking that group was them. It wasn’t. Slowed him down. Wide steps, heavy breathing, strong wind.
///
A sharp pain hit Arthur in his right knee, stuck behind a slow group of Scots. With his face scrunched up like this it was difficult to tell whether the pedestrian was going to be sick or had just been told the funniest joke of his life. The answer was neither, his knee just really bloody hurt. He’d never had any problems with it before. He hobbled over to and carefully lent on a wall overlooking the river, thousands of people compassing him in every direction. Even the water seemed to be flowing at a faster pace, ripples each racing their way to sea for the new year, to become one with the indiscernible mass of saltwater in the Atlantic. They’d been travelling for a while. Rudely they interrupted each other, some shoved so far from the crowd that they smashed into the immovable riverbank below. Arthur chuckled through his nose at the thought. Other ripples were rather more polite and orderly, keeping pace, not making a fuss, circling round the buoys and plastic bottles floating on the surface. Everything was quiet, aside from the soft arcs of the ripples racing through the centre of the city. The ripples just kept coming, racing, together, to the sea. Where did they come from, these forms in the water? They were all part of a greater body, though at some point must have been separate. He tried to discern any distinguishing qualities of the waves, slowing his breathing, but they were flowing too fast. They became invisible once they reflected the lights of the bridge overhead, a train silently pulling into the square mile, carriage windows darkened by the hoards of people trying to get a glimpse of the evening’s fire display. His impatient knee tugged him back to reality. A girl screamed, ruffians laughed, Lithuanians made crude jokes about the English, anxious Londoners launched their cheap fireworks. The river was awfully loud.
He wasn’t going to make it to the pub in time. He’d left the house as late as he feasibly could, knowing he’ managed the crowds, but his knee… He could already hear the drunken mis-timed countdown of the Asian students behind him. He couldn’t even see the London Eye from here. He had to keep walking. He struggled along the walkway, pain deepening with every step. It was now impossible to walk at a decent pace, as the gathered masses, hearing the students’ countdown, had all stopped walking and started their own. Not a single shouted number matched the number of another. He squeezed his way past a longing, lonely glance between two strangers, as Australian lads cheered ‘Happy New Year!’ This confused the students, on whose count there were still seven seconds to go; a bickering chorus erupted, blaming one another for starting too late. SIX! Arthur was able to push past a group of Hasidic Jews. FIVE! He emerged in a grassy opening with a little space he shared with a lone Ugandan. FOUR! To his left kids dressed in all the latest pedestro-suits set up a firework with the intention of striking fear into the public’s hearts, especially the few police officers scattered among the crowd. They were counting down with underdressed Colombian women and their overdressed boyfriends. THREE! An Englishman climbed up the river wall, clinging onto a lamppost, despite his wife’s screeching appeals for him to come down. TWO! ‘Happy New Year!’ rippled through the rabble; strangers snogged, the sky set alight. ONE Nothing. The kids struggled to light their rocket, the Ugandan turned and offered a quiet, smiling ‘Happy New Year’ to him. Arthur barely noticed the countdown due to his knee. It hurt the same now as it did seven seconds ago. He squeezed out a ‘yeah’, then limped further into the grassy knoll as the ruffians finally got their firework up and the crowd gasped. Everywhere: light, sound, chatter, jeers.
Arthur had shrunk two inches, rigid and pale, crawling through celebrants completely oblivious to his presence. His childish frown had sunk into an elderly scowl, the face of a man far too old to be out at this hour. The pain was now simply a part of him, a feature of his being. It arched his back, it thrust his face to the floor, it swung his arm behind him as he shuffled onto a wider junction, away from the river. It was filled with people dappled in the orange glow of the city. The brickwork of the landscape was a crisp brown, almost camouflaged against the black sky. The local community had decorated the floor with blue ceramic tiles. And the city was dancing on thrm, pissing on the brickwork, throwing plastic cups of beer in the sky, unfazed by the disheartening hue, a colour that reminded the sober man of nothing in particular. Celebrations made people their most self-absorbed, unable to notice those around them, those trying to get places, work. The scaffolding, that covered much of the landscape, was illusory under this light. Beneath them were only the skeletons of buildings yet to be finished, indications of the final skyline.
Arthur sat down on a kerb and sulked. The people around him migrated from the pollution of his age. He was in a new space. He didn’t notice it at first. He was firmly staring at the ground, mulling over his failure, his uselessness, his impotence, his pride. It felt to him as if he had never been to the pub in his life. In a self-pitying blur, dreaming of Guinness and Stevie Wonder, Arthur looked up. The city looked back at him. Young people chuckled at the dying man. His face was so honest and melancholy that a laugh only felt appropriate. But Arthur was not laughing. He was looking at the city he called home. The buses. The cars. The people. The towers. Like some great riddle had been proven not to make any sense. It wasn’t his first time. In fact, he was now keenly aware of this feeling having occurred innumerable times throughout his life – earlier that evening, even. It didn’t feel good or bad. It didn’t really feel like anything. He bowed his head again: back in the Citodrome, back in the race. ’Come on,’ Arthur Mitcham muttered to himself, ‘let’s get a bloody pint then.’