THE REMOVAL MAN

 

Some people, maybe most people, you can’t see their younger selves when old, or older. 

Not the removal man.  Everything about him, the way he rocked as he moved as if listening to some long forgotten (to most people) song; the constant jokes and stories; the whispered confidences; you were his mate as soon as he met you.

You could imagine him being the centre of a teenage group, not gang, the restless one, the one that drove the others on, kept them on their toes, filled their space with energy.

I could see him as a Mod.  Not the sixties variety but the seventies and eighties. 

‘You’re a fan of the Jam.’ He asks.

I nodded and thought removal men must get so many glimpses into other people’s lives.  The sadness, or maybe the joy, of leaving one home, the joy, or maybe the sadness, of moving to another.  The books you read, the furniture you’ve sat in, the bed you’ve slept in. 

Also the music you like and love.

‘The Jam.’

Paul Weller guitar and vocals; Bruce Foxton bass and vocals; and Rick Buckler Drums. 

Temporary connections are made over the packing of lives into a box to be transported elsewhere.

He holds up ‘In the City.’

‘Can never box this and put in the attic mate.’

I hadn’t mentioned putting anything in the attic. Maybe his mind transported on the magic music carpet to another place and time.

Here comes the proof with the Mod dance in our living room, and even though no music is being played, the record player already packed, it’s loud and clear, the jerky rhythm in his movement, the joy and energy in his face.

Where is he?

‘Taking over the dance floor mate.’

I hadn’t asked out loud but he’d tapped into the unspoken question.

‘You can shove that Disco crap. This was music.’

I imagine the gang all in a circle, arms tight, dancing with their elbows, feet stamping to the rhythm.  This was a boys only circle, lost in the moment, not even aware of any admiring female glances.  The pick-up lines would come later.

He sings ‘Sounds from the Street.’

‘Sounds from the street, sounds so sweet

What’s my name?

It hurts my brain to think.’

When I say sing I mean shout!  And suddenly I’m in his group dancing and sing/shouting like on the middle of the dance floor, lyrics bellowed forming word clouds above our heads, there for all to see amongst the packed dance floor.

When was the last time I had listened, never mind danced, to The Jam?

On my own magic music carpet now.

Where you taking me music?

 

A cottage just outside Galashiels when I was at the college.  A place I rented with another couple of students, far enough away from civilization to blast the music to the hills, and dance like there was only that moment.

Back before grey hair and jerky non rhythmic movement of age and too little exercise.  The present drags me back.

` Mate you a bit out of puff there! `

I was.

He laughs, not in a harsh way, on his way back out to the van.

I wait for the next half forgotten boxed memory.