by Bobby May
It was a brief catch up between friends after we finished doing whatever we were doing that day. A few of us hadn’t hung out in what seemed like ages, though actually were only, at most, a fortnight. It was unusual nonetheless, so the occasion called for us to go to what used to be our “regular” place, The Clare Hotel.
A night of ten dollar jugs of beer and talking shit was exactly what was needed.
Agreeing to get the last train home, we start walking back through the tunnel leading into Central station. There weren’t many people around. Those walking back the other way looked as if their nights were only beginning.
It all started with a bottle that we came across in the tunnel. One of us would kick the bottle across the tunnel, and then the next person nearest to the bottle would kick it back.
At that point we found an empty milk crate. We started kicking around the milk crate as hard as we could, watching it skid as it made interesting noises. We began testing how high we could kick it. We were making A LOT of noise, but, we cared not for the people walking the other direction snaring— we were busy with these objects, man.
Kicking these particular objects slowly turned into kicking ANY object you could see. We were kicking literally anything in sight.
The crate made its way across the tunnel to my friend who made it his intention to break the sound barrier as his leg swung and connected with the crate.
The crate flew and smacked a girl wearing high-heels, right in her chest. Taken aback by this, she dropped her phone. It landed beside her and, because of her high-heels, required her to slowly bend down and pick the phone up.
However, at this point I wasn’t apart of the crate kicking competition— I was metres behind the others, still stuck in my own kick-everything-in-sight competition. It was then that I saw a metallic object at the feet of a girl in high-heels.
It was just on the ground.. laying stationary. It was asking for me to kick it.
…and I did.
And as this object slid across the ground I slowly realised that it was a mobile phone. This was confirmed by the girl shrieking in an unacceptable tone. The girl ran after it and picked it up.
My friend who kicked the crate, now suddenly sober, watched as she held her phone.
"…It’s broken." she said to him.
He didn’t exactly know how to respond, looking to me for a reaction. My friend turned his head to where he thought I was standing. But I was no longer standing there.
I was in the distance nearing the end of the tunnel itself. Running away.
He had to look for an immediate reaction within himself, as this girl stood there looking blank, holding her now broken phone not knowing what to do.
In mere moments there was a rumble behind me and I was met with familiar faces, now running beside me, boarding the last train out of breath. We didn’t speak of the night’s events again. Until a couple days later.
Sometimes I think about the girl and her broken phone and what she could be doing right now. Most times I don’t think about her at all.
Have you ever broke somebody else’s personal property, and subsequently run away like a scumbag? Shoot me a response.