Worried About Metaphor

You’re on the bus heading home, sitting in the row in front of the back of the bus when the unthinkable happens. Three teenagers get on and make a bee-line for the seats at the very back of the bus. Right behind you. Two girls and one boy. With the make up he’s wearing and his general demeanour it’s pretty clear he’s playing the part of the gay friend. Either that or his future wife is going to be in for a shock when she looks back at his school photos.

You are, of course, immediately paranoid as their cessation of giggling coincides with them landing on the seat. They are clearly up to something but you can’t turn around. No, that would mean that if they aren’t up to something they will have an excuse to single you out. It’s tricky but you manage to turn your head enough to – yes! – catch a glimpse of their reflections in the window.

You try to look then draw yourself away, your eyes darting back to the copy of the Times that remains unopened on your lap. And then it starts. They are playing something on one of their mobile phones. A song on the ridiculously bloody tinny little speaker. You stare down at the Times as it hisses in your ears and frown, wanting to turn around but knowing that you won’t. Yet. You take out your mobile and pretend you have just received a text.

“It’s called ‘Worried About Ray’,” says the boy.

“Hoosiers?” says girl one.

“It’s about his friend.” Girl Two.

You shake your heard and try to filter their inanity. You like the song. At least you did before they started ruining it for you.

“Who’s?” Girl One.

“The singer. He’s friend or summat.” G2

“Mmm?” G1

You remember The Lemonheads when they sang ‘It’s A Shame About Ray’.

“I heard some monster or sumink on MySpace,” B. “Like Godzilla, you know, some unfunny.”

You inhale to speak, turn your head slightly but huff and puff out the breath before you really commit to telling them. They won’t care about the pop star’s obsession with Ray will they?

You could try to introduce it subtly, ask them who’s singing the song, ingratiate yourself. Just turn around, give them a smile, they aren’t irredeemable idiots yet. You could step in, set the record straight, tell them that it’s just a metaphor for erectile dysfunction. That Ray is just a pet name for certain men’s wangers. And sometimes they worry about Ray and other times it’s just a shame about him. For some men Ray is unreliable.

No, if you start screaming about penises to teenagers they’ll lock you up with some extremely unsavoury characters. And anyway, that’s not how it is. You aren’t obsessed with winkles, the kids are just making a mistake. You tuck the Times into the gap between the side of the bus and the seat, stand up and shoot them you best withering gaze.

They don’t even notice and you get off the bus realising too late that this is not your stop.