Tuzla // With Your Ghost Right Next to Me

© John Bills

“Do you mind if we take another passenger? He is a friend of mine, he is going in the same direction as the airport.”

Is that even a question? No, it isn’t. What am I going to say? “No, sorry, leave the fucker on the side of the road at 4am, he can make his own way to Živinice.” I’m many things, but callous is not one of them. Especially not here. This is the best version of me. 

Jesus, what a thought.

We picked up the straggler and continued on our way to Tuzla International Airport, although the snob in me would like to call it Živinice International. Still, I can’t be bothered to hold down Z to get Ž, so Tuzla will suffice. The taxi was late, no great issue, although I was a little worried when he said he couldn’t take me to the airport. One frantic phone call later, the driver rearranged his pick-ups and was able to take me to my desired destination. We stopped at a petrol station so he could buy some cigarettes, at which point the question posed at the beginning of this tale was, erm, posed. 

The rest of the drive? Uneventful, although fairly typical in a ‘Bosnia at 4am’ sort of way. Herzegovina is miles away, I’m giving my fingers the day off. The driver veered between English and Bosnian like a savant, talking about everything without talking about anything at all. He spoke about Italy, girls, Gazza, war. The man from Živinice sat in the back, a constant volley of mumbling escaping his larynx with no intended target. Every now and then, he asked a question about me. I answered, disappointed that the driver wasn’t impressed with my Bosnian. If you call yourself disappointing enough times, the world will take your side. This is the best version of me.

© John Bills

Tuzla International Airport isn’t big. It isn’t even small. It is minuscule, a one-building job that doesn’t really need to be any bigger. One flight at a time. One security machine. There isn’t much to say about it. I could dig into my vast vat of piffle, but I would only confuse myself. I had time to spare before boarding the plane, and we all know that ‘time to spare’ is another word for ‘think about everything’. Is this really the best version of me?

“I am convinced now, that memories are made when you are alone and searching. No longer will I question the reasons why I love something.” That has little bearing on anything here, and I only mention it because whenever I say “I am convinced…”, it immediately follows. Much like whenever someone says “24/7”, my brain follows with “never beggin’ for a raincheck.” We are creatures of habit, and repetition is the purest of the drugs. 

I am convinced that we are all capable of everything. Nurture and experience dull our abilities (it accentuates some of them, obviously), but the blank slate we are at birth represents an incredible opportunity. My problem is that no matter how many brain cells I destroy in an attempt to escape my own futility, I am still convinced that one day I will be able to flick a switch and embark on a journey to perfection. It must be possible, to one day decide to do everything right. I know, I told you differently, but maybe we can unlock the brain's full potential. But here I am, slouching at the bar in Tuzla International Airport. Bethan never slouched when sitting on buses.

But Bethan doesn’t care about my lack of perfection. She wants a bag of French Fries opened, and don’t you dare think about opening them upside down. She wants Dipsy. She wants to sit outside your bedroom door and bend photographs. Perfection isn’t an ambition. God couldn’t even get her life right, what can be done with yours? Don’t complain. This is the best version of me. 

Espresso ordered, I slouched at the small cafe bar and contemplated my fellow passengers. Not a literary device, again, although you should always question the travel writer. Liars, one and all. For the record, the waiter was a friendly guy from Živinice who seemed very happy that I had enjoyed the ćevapi at Bulevar. Small world, but it is all we have got. The conversation was easy from the get-go, his cheery demeanour merging well with my own. Maybe this really is the best version of me?

Directly opposite me was a male, a vague descriptor that will have to do. He wasn’t a man, despite his age being late ‘20s. Tattoos. Glazed expression. He ordered a Jack Daniels. Downed it. Ordered another. Gave off an air of angry arrogance. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but sometimes you should judge a book by its cover. This was Dan Brown. Void of depth, but would fall into the right hands nonetheless. I resented him with every fibre of my being. Is this really the best version of me?

A young couple sat next to him, but they didn’t inspire any feelings of anguish or anger in me. Directly next to them was some sort of Bosnian Santana, a white suit-wearing mofo with a moustache for days and character pouring out of him. This guy should have been slamming the JD. He put his sunglasses on every time he ordered a coffee. He took them off to drink it. He looked effortlessly cool.

But was he cool? I figured he must be, but I am a child of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. I’m sure that the JD-drinking chode didn’t consider Bosnian Santana cool. Had I become Strongbad? Was this man in a Colonel Sanders suit my very own Señor Cardgage? I was closer in age to the gork, but closer in ideology to the slumbering man with a beer gut and a plastic bag, offering you a leg up on the pile, Belinda. Wait, no, the man with a moustache in a white suit who put his sunglasses on to order and took them off to drink. What was in my coffee? Seriously, the best version of me?

How could I become perfect if I cannot even consider these men with respect? 

Yet still, I am convinced. All it takes is a clear morning, energy, support and love. And maybe a time machine. Yes, definitely a time machine. “I play to remember, with your ghost right next to me, I sing along but only because you’re still singing to me.” The only way to fix this is to go back in time and wake you up. To go back in time and read about sepsis. To go back in time and strike up some sort of deal with God. I can only do this with your ghost right next to me, but that reality is what paralyses me. I am digging my own grave with my own teeth.

How could I become perfect if I cannot even get past that?

The queue to board the plane had begun to grow. The JD-drinker had disappeared, as had Bosnian Santana Cardgage. No probalo. Only the waiter and I remained. With a Zen-like acceptance of oblivion, I paid for my coffee and joined the queue. I am convinced now, that memories are made when you are alone and searching. No longer will I question the reasons why I love something. 

This is the best version of me.