I. Am. Bum.

Based on a True Story.

Hello people. Here’s another short story for you. It starts now…

I’m a bum. It’s a strange old turnout. I don’t mean I’m a bum, as in a tramp or ne’er-do-well. I’m that part of the human body used for sitting. And shitting. I don’t have legs, arms, head, feet, hands, or a torso - nothing else. I’m just an arse.

My eyes are in my anus, both of them. They continually jostle for dominance, squashed together as they are in the limited space between my internal and external anal sphincters. Most of the time they are both getting a bit of light, meaning I’m always looking in two directions - and although the result is generously known as double vision - it’s more like half vision. Rough; ‘half-vision’ sounds like some kak from a tale of fantasy and wizardry: “Prōktós, my child, though you are blessed with the Half-Vision, some truths inhabit the shadows of men’s hearts for a reason”.

It wasn’t always like this. I know I was once like the humans that surround me on this London underground train. But when the lady sitting opposite stood up and left, I saw myself reflected in the dusty glass window, (as well as some fleeting glimpses of the floor as my other eye was being arse-squeeze focused there,) and that was that. I don’t know how it happened; when, where, or why. But, I know this is me now. ‘But’, lol, Butt.

I’m disappointed at the total lack of interest in me. You’d think a bum with roving anal eyes would attract attention. But I know, somewhere in the translucent traces of my memories, that people on the London Underground pay little attention to their environment. They are either glued to their phones, or… no, that’s it. Probably the best place for such a transformation to happen, really - unless they can’t see me? Maybe I’m invisible? I’ve no doubt I’ll soon find out.

As I get used to my half-sight, I make a decision to leave the train. Getting off the seat is going to be difficult. I engage my gluteus maximus, the largest of the three bum muscles. Wow. How the fuck do I know that? Maybe I was once a doctor, a physiotherapist, or perhaps a personal trainer. I have no idea. My memories are dreamlike, and to say the least, patchy, when recalled. Anyway. Sounds like some kind of Gladiator, Gluteus Maximus. What’s that movie? Spartacus. That’s it. “I’m Spartacus!,” “I’m Spartacus.” Great movie. I can’t see old Lawrence Olivier rocking up now though, and it’s pretty obvious who’s Gluteus Maximus. Or Fartacus. Hmm. I guess I should be taking things a bit more seriously. Of all the memories to have intact, that movie. Maybe a sign? Fartacus, though!

I clench my glutes then relax them; clench, and relax, clench, and relax, and soon I’m rocking back and forth, building up quite the momentum, my vision a nauseating blur of adverts for indigestion, the Bridget Riley inspired seat cover designs, and the occasional glimpse of my own arse-crack, should enough light make its way in. And thud! The space between the seat, and the damp, dirty floor flies by, and upon said floor, I, somewhat disoriented, land, finally stop rocking, and consider how, now, I’m going to get off the train.

It’s pleasantly relieving to find propelling myself forward (I’d usually say walking,) comes to me quite naturally. A clenching and relaxing of the glutes on one side - and in the right order: medius, maximus, and minimus - followed by the same clench and relax on the other side, and I’m moving down the aisle with quite the swagger. Like a bum version of Liam Gallagher, himself a bit of an arse. How do I remember Liam Gallagher so clearly, “Like a Champagne supernova in the sky…” but not my name, my wife, my life? Anyway, to switch correctly from one side of my various glutes to the other side without interrupting the rhythm and thus maintain forward momentum, I need to quickly squeeze together my gluteal cleft (arse-crack), making my vision go pitch black for a split-second, causing any forward propulsion to be accompanied by a stroboscopic effect, which is the last thing I want in the current situation. Although, I’m sure there will be laster things to come. But at least I’m moving.

I’ve got to time this right. Getting stuck in the closing doors will definitely attract attention to me. Even I, a bum, would be somewhat shocked to see a bum stuck in the tube doors. I rock - I’m getting quite good at this - ready for a rolling attempt to mind the gap. The doors open, a few people step out of the train and onto the platform. I need to get behind them, and use them as cover so the people stepping onto the train don’t see me. Here we go, a final squeeze of the required glutes and I start to roll. Stroboscopic, psychedelic, hypnotic, and utterly unsettling. And……..Oh fuck! The doors hit me. And again. And again. Every time their sensors, or whatever assume whatever was blocking the doors has gone, they close again. On me. On my bum, I. AM. BUM.

“Please ensure you are completely away from the doors. The train cannot move until the doors are closed”. Doors crash in in me. Again. “We cannot move until all doors are free of obstructions. Please move into the carriage and away from the doors”. Doors crash into me. Again. Again. Again. Again.

To maintain my already exceptionally low levels of faith in humanity, I assume the person in the train who decided to kick me out of the doors - to put an end to the bum/door loop that was delaying his, and everyone else’s journey - thought I was some kind of discarded sex-toy. And in a way I guess I am. I guess we all are. Guesser!

Flying through the stale air of the underground, I prey I will grow wings, and that being a bum was just stage one in what will be a transformation that culminates in me being a superior being. That wings will break through the skin on either side and I’ll have flight to work with. Then once I have the freedom of the skies, I’ll develop a head, arms, legs. Perhaps a hero, possibly inserted into the simulation to save humanity.

Wishful thinking. I land in a dirty, low-lit, piss-ridden kind of affair. Somewhere away from the flow of people, bouncing heavily and painfully several times before coming to a stop next to some discarded, mouldy clothes. Then I see a man in a suit who looks frighteningly like Mr Punch, the wife beating, gavver-evading husband of Judy. This is real nightmare fuel; within a nightmare that’s already more than amply fulled. He’s not alone, I don’t see the other man’s face though, through the dark, through finding my bearings, through being kicked some sixty meters up the arse from a train door and bouncing to a stop fuck knows where.

I first felt a fist, and then a kick. I could now smell their breath. They smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs, and too many left-wing meetings. Why would you decide to attack a bum? What happened to the curious Englishman? Shouldn’t I be on a telly newsflash, interrupting some thrice times predigested culture: “We interrupt tonight’s broadcast to report a bum found by two men on the London Underground, that seems to be sentient and has eyes in its anus. TFL worker Eddie Yates said, ‘We didn’t know what to do with it. Stan said it could be from another planet (fair point, I could be,) so we wrapped it in Stan’s coat and took it to the police.’ Government scientists say they are unaware of anything like this before, and are seeking to communicate with the organism, try to establish its origin, and reason for being here.” Alas no. Two drunk and exceptionally ugly men are playing wall-ball with me down some architectural accident. Giggling themselves shitless as I bounce off the wall with each kick. It was inevitable really. What happened next. You can probably see it coming. I certainly did. When your eyes are in your anus and two blokes are taking turns shoving their cock into it - you see it. You see it coming. Twice.

As they pulled up their trousers, stumbling around, tripping over their underwear and making jokes (‘A fucking bum,’ ‘Yeah, like literally, a fucking bum’,) I thought about what the future had in store for me. It hadn’t been great so far. It hadn’t boded well, so to speak.

Maybe there’s a land of bums, with their own language, relationships, elders, teachings, rituals, religions, and stories. A place where we all live together in some paradise of bums, in relative peace, and where life is worth living. I just have to find it.

But let’s be honest, it’s quite the long shot, The Land of Happy Bums. So maybe I’ll just sit here, wait for the spunk to drip out of my anus and give me back some kind of vision, and watch as the world goes by. And die.

The end

Chris Dangerfield

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