By CALEB FOX
November fourth of last year was one of the most unique days of my life.
I use this first sentence because it breaks every writing rule I learned last year. My boss, Marg Jackson, reminded me to never start an article with a date; it’s not engaging enough. My professor for my New Testament class, who will only be referred to as Boris, highlighted that the first sentence of an essay should be very specific and, in his words, “very sexy.”
However, right now, I ignore both rules because November fourth of last year was one of the most unique days of my life, and there is no better way to say that.
I didn’t have class on the morning of the fourth, so I jumped onto a train to London. By myself. I’m still not sure why I took this trip, but there was an artistic itch I needed to scratch, and the only way to do so was to feel small in such a big city.
To start the day, I did what any tourist does, I got lost. The Tube’s confusing, interconnected nature worked strangely and mysteriously that day and dropped me off several blocks away from London Bridge. On my way to the bridge, I stumbled across Idol Lane, which played the tune of Penny Lane throughout my head most of the day. Idol Lane was the street outside of a ruined church. This church was wedged between rows of industrial buildings that resurrected from the bombings during the Second World War. The church, however, did not resurrect quite the same, and yet I am so glad it didn’t.
The church walls seemed frozen in time; they were mid-collapse. Ivy and vines climbed up the walls, trying their hardest to keep the heavy stone in place. Trees propagated what used to be the inside of the church and transformed it from its dreary desolation into a newfound sense of life.
I spent several minutes sitting on a park bench watching the ivy, trying to anticipate if they’d give way and let another stone crash into the cracked, unpaved ground. After a period of absorption, I left and made my way towards London Bridge.
While walking there, I crossed a man facing the river in a fold-up chair. He had a small table with a typewriter on top of it with a sign that read “Poet for Hire.” I walked past nearly three times before I decided to talk to the English Poet.
At first, he asked me to look after his stuff while he ran to the bathroom. He told me that if I did, he’d give me a free poem. What choice did I really have?
There were moments when I thought that man had left. Eventually, though, he came back.
When he wrote the poem, he talked to me without ever looking up from the antique keys of the typewriter. Each click and clack of the relic slammed matte ink into the off-white paper. I wish I still had the poem and remembered the prophecy the English Poet had for me. Unfortunately, I don’t. Just like the ruined church, it didn’t come back, at least not quite the same.
The rest of the day was consciously a blur. I bought two books I remember. Suffering Unto Death and 1984. One of the books was for me. 1984 was supposed to be a gift; it was a friend’s favorite. I always told them Brave New World was the better dystopian, but they never believed me.
On my way back with the two books, I don’t think I realized the type of day I had and even today, I don’t think I can truly explain why it was unique. It just was. Still, there is only one way for me to describe that day, and it doesn’t matter if it is the first or last sentence because November fourth of last year will always be one of the most unique days of my life.
Caleb ‘Jebb’ Fox spent this past summer working as a staff reporter for The Oakdale Leader, The Riverbank News and The Escalon Times. He returned to college in September and continues to contribute occasional columns.
