No, Mr Sugarman wasn’t my drug dealer, starring in a stereotypical mafia movie from the part of Hollywood that pretends to know Italy. Neither was I his prostitute or stripper, desperate for rescue in a situation that might, no matter if fictive or not, create a really good story that’s worth writing about. The story of Mr Sugarman and I is just a product of a day where the level of my stupidity was particularly strong, sprinkled with some bad luck and an unstable communication process. Perhaps it would suit a new empowering Netflix series about a naïve and hopeful foreign girl, who listened to her gut and left her home country to create a new life for herself, despite the risks of being kidnapped and killed at some point. What’s quite amusing about this is that however horrible this day was, if I could relive again, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.
The greedy little shit the sun was that day, it allowed me to enjoy about two seconds of sunlight that warmed up my face while I was taking one step after another on my walk of shame. Every step involved me being less sure about where I was supposed to go, and with every car passing by, I had to fight the urge to stick out my thumb to ask a stranger for a ride. What did I have to lose other than the tiny amount of what was left of my dignity anyway? There wasn’t really anything exciting in sight. Well, just as exciting as houses and trees can get, so I was deliberating to just walk back to my good old bus shelter, which I was certain was still going to be there to comfort me while continuing to read my book. My ten-minute walk had given me enough motivation to do just that, so I turned around, looking even more lost than before with no clear direction to continue to pursue, and started walking back.
Two minutes into my walk back, I saw a car that was about to exit a driveway. With an old man behind the wheel and a lovely looking old lady next to him with flowers on her lap, the whole scene didn’t look too dangerous for me to wave them to my attention. The old woman scrolled down the passenger window, curious but also puzzled what a young girl would want from them. “Hiya, do you know when the next bus to Peterborough leaves from this stop?” I’m not even sure why I asked them about it, when I was already on my way back to the stop. “The bus driver told me there was one at 11:14, but I saw one driving past at 11:08 already, so I’m a little confused about the times.” Oh, right, now I remember. I asked because I’m a complete idiot with no understanding or sense of direction or anything else to do with geography. “I thought they always left around twenty past. I don’t think they go as early as that”, the lady said while looking at me through squeezed eyes, her forehead ploughed by wrinkles. Brilliant, now I was even more confused than before. Since no one had given me any useful information so far and I was clearly inadequate to read a map, I decided to just thank them and walk back to the shelter, right before asking them: “You’re not driving into town, are you?” I had already regretted that question the second after I shut my mouth. “Well, no, but I’m sure he can drop you off there” The lady on the passenger seat said encouragingly. The man, who sat behind the steering wheel, hadn’t contributed much to the mess of a conversation yet, other than confirming everything the lady had said, so I told them I didn’t want to be a burden to them and that it’d all be just fine. “Oh, I really wouldn’t mind. Helping out one person is the least we can do in this world", the man said in a voice as warm as the voice-overs you listen to in fairy tales. I couldn’t believe my luck and after a couple of half-hearted “Oh no…” “You don’t have to do this…” “I can just wait” - “…is this car door shut?” I found myself sitting in the backseat of the car.
Thankful, but also not entirely sure whether it was a good idea to blindly trust some strangers that just picked me off the street, I sat there silently, minding my own business so I wouldn’t make myself seem even more annoying. “He’s just going to drop me off here and then you’ll be on your way to town”, the lady said with a big smile on her face. I told Mrs I’m-So-Nice-I-Fart-Flowers it was nice to meet her and thanked her silently for making the man drive me to town as if refusing to do so hadn’t even been an option. After she left the car, I broke the silence by at least showing an interest in getting to know the stranger next to me, whom I had put all my trust in: “So… lovely wife you’ve got there, I really appreciate your help”. Punching myself mentally, I stared on the road in front of me, not even expecting a response, before he said “Oh, that wasn’t my wife. She’s just a friend, a very old friend of mine.” Curious whether there was a story behind him and his very old friend, I kept digging: “Oh, right. So have you lived here for a long time? Did you grow up here?” As if it’s completely normal to be interrogated like this by a stranger he’d never see again, he started telling me his whole life story. “No no, we’ve lived here for around 40 years but I haven’t always lived here. I used to live on a farm.” It was at that moment, that I understood his story had begun. He only needed a narrator to tell it for him, and with this thought that catalysed me smiling for the whole journey, I took a breath and started listening.
We had only been driving for around three minutes, which was enough time for him to point out the restaurant I would’ve been interviewed in and never heard from again, in addition to giving me the epilogue of his life story. “Why didn’t you stay on the farm then? The oldest son normally takes over the farm, doesn’t he?” It was somehow fascinating to me that someone who grew up on a farm chose to rebel against his determined fate set by his parents to do something else. His response, however, was not filled with heroism or him telling me his real passion was to become a drag queen. “I became a lorry driver. I loved it; nearly did it all my life.” The way he put pressure on the last bit of his sentence indicated that he had already entered the stage of retirement, but out of politeness, and perhaps to flatter him a little, I asked him: “So is that what you still do then?” He threw his head back and laughed. “No, I’m retired now. I like where I live now. It’s quiet, you know, but as long as you have people around you that you like, it doesn’t really matter where you are. It’s a good life, you see.” Nodding my head in agreement to his words of wisdom, I added: “It’s really quiet where you live, and a little bit of a strange area don’t you think? When I sat on the bus, I could see fields of sheep outside the window, and then oases of factories and brand signs.” “Yes, that’s true. They also have quite a few pubs around here; some of them are being renovated now. One of them has become an Indian restaurant, I think.” Throughout the whole car journey, he pointed out pubs to me and he was definitely not lying when he told me you could find plenty of them here. The place pretty much looked like heaven on earth for full- and part-time alcoholics. I looked out the window next to me and could see a big, green space of nothing, when suddenly the corner of a sign peaked through the trees. He saw what I had spotted, and before I could even turn my head to him, he started telling me: “It’s a sugar factory. It’s one of the biggest ones around here and people always complain about it.” “Why is that?” I was imagining no-carb, vegan, Satan-worshipping, clean-eating fanatics, complaining about the idea that a sugar factory might penetrate their kids’ brains and manipulate them subconsciously to start eating sweets and chocolates. “It’s the smell.” A wave of relief rushed through my body when I realised I was wrong. “I don’t mind the smell, if I’m honest. It reminds me of my childhood, when I was still living on the farm. There was a sugar factory nearby, so whenever I drive past this one or the smell covers the area, I think of that.” The corners of his mouth moved slightly upwards, and I can’t tell you exactly what it was, but the way his eyes suddenly looked a little hazy, I felt like there was more to the memory he was bringing back from the past. “Yeah, it’s funny how smells are linked to memories.” “Yes, indeed, they are.” He took a short breath, and I joined him by staring on the road in front of us.
The top of the cathedral, which peaked through the rows of houses and trees and shops in front of it, told me we were nearly at our destination. Well, my destination, which Mr Sugarman had so kindly decided to make his, as well. The last minutes in the car together were mainly spent on describing where I needed to go, and since my sense of direction is less understandable than a GPS system in old Mandarin, I told him he could drive to the nearest car park or just drop me off wherever was convenient for him. Getting ready to leave, I took out my wallet the second he got out of the roundabout and stopped in front of a row of cars. “Thank you so much for doing this for me.” I held up the note in my hand and as I was saying: “Can I at least give you some petrol money?” he waved his hand in front of it as if he was trying to wave off an uncomfortable smell, and joked: “It’s a diesel car, so there’s no need for petrol money.” He grinned at me and after another unsuccessful attempt, I smiled back at him, thanked him again, and we said goodbye.
I had only been away for around three hours, but the whole city was already transformed. As if it was telling me that it doesn’t wait for anybody, it showed off its colours by letting the sun brighten up the buildings, shops, and people’s faces that I was now surrounded by. Everyone’s stories continued, just as they always have done and always will do. I was thinking about how ridiculous my story had started off, but how strangely wonderful it was that a failed story could turn into an encounter with someone, who I was glad to enjoy a car journey with, but also never would see again. I had achieved approximately nothing that day, except from being a couple of pounds and dignity points poorer, but for some reason, I didn’t even mind. I was content with life playing tricks on me. It only made me excited for the stories that are yet to come. So when I came home, opened the door and was greeted with hugs, I started a new one.
