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2002-05-20 - 3:29 a.m. We saw how Alex received the bus-ticket from the boy who had suddenly vanished, as if he had surrendered an underpaid-fare ticket to a bus conductor and was making a hasty retreat. On the back of the bus-ticket was the boy's number, and we all wanted to know if Alex was going to give him a call. 'I don't think so,' Alex replied, and left the bus ticket on the table, beside the ice-filled jug and empty glasses. Later on, after leaving the pub, I asked Alex somewhat forgetfully if he had kept the ticket. Alex said no, and I playfully chided him, telling him that he should have disposed of it at least with more care. 'You should get rid of it with some kind of ceremony. You should have folded it up into a tiny boat and let it drift down a stream. It's the right thing to do.' What I didn't tell him: that the paper boat is reminiscent of childhood, that when I examine anyone's handwriting, especially that of a stranger, I always imagine a child first learning to write. And I see him struggling with the alphabet, and his mother scolding him for confusing his b's and his d's, he is biting his tongue with the effort, the pencil still clumsy in his hands. And I see that as his mother has given him the gift of literacy, there are other things he will only learn later: how a banner of hope can be emblazoned across the spelling of his own name, how wishfulness can be manifested in eight magic numerals, like the numbers of a lottery ticket. My point: if the boy didn't know how to write, he would have advanced straight to conversation, and perhaps received an answer that was immediate and hopefully, candid. But no, he had instead relied on his written message, and for a reply he would have to wait, and dream of a paper boat, tumbling down a stream, meandering across gullies, toppling down waterfalls, a journey that runs the risk of being, for want of a better word, eternal.
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