Gavin Broom

Gavin Broom 

Friars Street During Freshers' Week

I always keep my head down and shoulders hunched on Friars Street during Freshers' Week. This year is no different. My hands are clutched into fists in my pockets while I concentrate on my feet as they sidestep puddles of what is hopefully booze or rain. Around me, drunken students walk up the hill to more pubs or stagger defeated in the opposite direction, freewheeling back to their halls. I don't see their faces and if I don't see them, maybe they won't see me; such a tired, old man.

The approaching foot and leg enter the top edge of my vision. Instantly, I calculate that we're on a collision course. My hands spring from my pockets and, palms out, do their best to form a protective barrier and correct my swaying balance. My head snaps up. My gaze lands on a young guy, half my age—who am I kidding, a third my age—in an identical stance. We stand frozen on the street, our palms inches apart. Stirling's student population pour around us, oblivious. I'm about to speak, to offer an unnecessary apology, when he moves.

He lays his hands on the invisible barrier between us, lifting them off, laying them on again, doing so with care, as though his hands are slightly sticky and because it's so unexpected and he's not wearing white make-up and a stripy t-shirt, it takes me a few seconds to realise he's miming. A smile inches apart. Stirling's student population threatens to prise open my mouth but then he shrugs at me, confused, his eyes wide, his eyebrows far up his forehead, panicking, his hands searching out a portal in the barrier, faster this time, with less care, more desperate, until I hold up a hand that says STOP.

He follows the instruction immediately while I point at the sky like I've had a eureka moment. With my other hand, I reach out and wrap it round an imaginary handle. I turn it and take a step back. For a moment, the door feels real as it opens and the air that had been trapped on his side rushes through and ruffles my hair. Now the palm that had previously halted him is stretched out behind me, beckoning away from the barrier and the now open door.

He takes an exaggerated step through and once on my side, he offers me a brief bow, then ushers me on my way. I actually duck as I step through, sure I'm too tall for the frame. Once clear, I look back over my shoulder. He smiles, waves and then closes the door, taking an extra second to lock it, and drop the key into his pocket. Without a word, he turns away and continues up the hill.

It's not until I'm at the bottom of Friars Street that I realize I've been walking with my head up.

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