The Bucket Story

It was 7 o’clock in the morning, and I was standing in a long line of people waiting for the opening of a new store. Both the sunbreak and the formal ceremony were still more than an hour away and I couldn’t help yawning. I had woken up far too early.

The silent, orderly line in front of me reached behind the corner and I knew some tens of people were standing there They had looked like pensioners, clothed in sensible, if old trekking clothes or thick coats to shield them from the cold, grey dampness that people here call November. The sky was covered in thick clouds that seemed to suck the city lights away. Even the bright pink of my faux leather jacket seemed to bleed its colors and turn into grey. Still, I obediently stood in line for a free plastic bucket and a chance to win a prize in the store’s lottery. I was feeling miserable.

They say the most reliable way to get Finnish people to line up is to announce a give-out for plastic buckets. No one knows why it is like this, or why people are willing to queue for hours to get that cheap bucket with a commercial slogan printed on the side. Still, the bucket queues appear almost every time a new store opens. Afterward, you can spot those buckets supporting umbrellas in homes’ hallways, storing kids’ toys, carrying berries and mushrooms in the forest storing fishing equipment, or just lying forgotten inside the cleaning cabinet. Owning a bucket with a slogan is almost considered a badge of honor and it’s a source of envy for those who didn’t make it into the line.

My mother had read about the opening of this store on Facebook, and she had decided that a free bucket would be hers. Mom’s problem was that despite all her efforts she had been unable to get rid of her morning shift. My problem was that last year I had messed up a similar occasion. I had promised to go and pick her some discount coupons on my way to work but when I had reached the place at 9:30 all the coupons had already been given out. Mom had been furious, and she had nagged me about the occasion until I had promised to wake up early today to stand in the line to secure the bucket she desired.

So, there I was together with all the city’s old people or so it seemed. I had not prepared for the morning cold and November crept through my thin boot soles. People around me were silent; there was no music, laughter, or loud discussions. Morning traffic was light, only one car passed our queue, its driver looking for a parking place. Two ladies a little further were talking in hushed voices about someone’s grandchildren. Only a few mobile phones were visible as the cold killed charge fast and bite fingers faster.

I felt absurd, like an alien among these people. Time seemed to slow down, and I dreamed of going to a café afterward to thaw my freezing fingers. I realized that going to any nice café while carrying a brightly colored bucket seemed like an awkward idea. My pretty gloves with their pink plastic diamonds were too thin and I seriously considered buying a bucket and printing out approximately right-looking stickers at my workplace Mom would surely notice my fraud.

A person in front of the discussing women caught my attention. He was a medium-sized man, wearing a greenish jacket, probably of some waterproof material. His long sand-colored hair was messy from the wind, flowing to his back from under the woolly hat. The beanie looked like it was home-knitted. It was dark green and its pattern was a bit off. Recognizing the knitting mistake this early in the morning made me smile.

I knew the pattern for I had used it in my knitting. I was part of a group where people shared their knitted works and my version of that cap had gotten some appraisal. My thoughts about social media suddenly halted when I noticed that the man had turned around, and oh my gosh I had been dreamily staring at him.

“Is everything okay?” he said smiling. The angular face had large grey eyes, luxurious eyelashes, and stubble of beard like he hadn’t shaved it in a few days. The black jeans disappeared to black hiking shoes or maybe they were those military boots.

“Sorry, I was looking at your beanie,” I said praying that I could disappear at wish.

“Oh, my uncle made it to me. He has been trying his skills in knitting.”

The women between us looked up from their discussion and the man left the queue walking toward me. His coat was open revealing a black shirt, and he didn’t seem to feel the cold. He was not polished but didn’t seem like a weirdo.

“Really? Lucky you! I am Suvi. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Ismo. Is it okay for me to step here?” He proceeded to stand behind me in the queue.

“Oh, it is fine. How did your uncle find knitting?”

“He is…recuperating from an accident. He says that it helps to keep him focused.”

“Knitting is a great concentration exercise. The pattern in that hat is not an easy one.”

Ismo shrugged and we stood a moment in silence. It was the easy, comforting silence, but I wanted an excuse to study Ismo’s face in detail. His words were on the shy side, but he had an aura, a warm glow around him. Besides, he was the only person around who was not forty years my senior.

“So, what are you going to do with your bucket?” I asked smiling a little. I was unaware of the social code of the bucket queue, but this seemed like a safe starting point.

“It will be a potent focus for my magical studies,” Ismo said nonchalantly. He was wearing no gloves.

“And what kind of magic are you studying?”

“Just some basic stuff, you know. Infusing herbs with magical qualities.”

“Indeed,” I laughed: “And what do these herbs do?” I was expecting some cheesy pickup line about love potions.

“It is about spiritual healing, a bit hard to explain…hey, I am sorry. This went weird very fast. Forget what I said, ok?”

Ismo had seemed dead serious with his remark about magic, which I found weird. We kept talking about more ordinary subjects and time drifted by as slowly as the never-ending grey clouds above us. He seemed like a nice guy, and I wondered if I should ask for his number. But then on the other hand he was an obviously outdoorsy type and, in that way, my opposite. Also, his talk about magic had been odd; I could put it off as nerdy nonsense, but it was also a little creepy.

Music started to play from the speakers and the queue moved nervously. The store was about to open. There was no rushing, although people were eager to get indoors to escape the cold. Someone mentioned that there was going to be free coffee inside. Ismo followed me as the line proceeded towards the shop doors.

Two girls with practiced smiles and wearing the store’s shirts were distributing the buckets at the doors. I got mine and turned to see the happy smile and obvious confusion on Ismo’s face when he got the bright red plastic in his hands. “What are we supposed to do now?” he whispered.

“We take a complimentary cup of coffee, walk around a little, see if they have some opening sales, and leave,” I said, feeling superior equipped with my Mum’s instructions.

“Oh, of course. What do you think, do they sell oils here?”

“Like cooking oil?”

“No, the herbal ones. Lavender and stuff.”

“The sauna department might have something,” I said feeling curious. “What are you looking for?”

“Something to go to the bucket. With the magical herbs.”

“Okay mister shaman, let’s see what they have.” I grabbed my complimentary coffee and led him inwards.

“I am no shaman,” he complained.

We found some scents intended for candles and some more for the sauna. Ismo picked the one scented with tar. We headed towards the cashier.

“It was nice to talk with you. I hope your magic bucket works,” I said when we were back on the street.

“Thanks. Um, don’t take the bus, it is not safe today,” he said looking at me seriously.

“I’ll be fine.” The unexpected warning made Ismo seem creepy again, and I was happy that my normal day was waiting for me in the office.

I walked to the bus stop on the other side of the road. Ismo didn’t follow me, instead, he walked around the corner where people were still queuing for the rapidly diminishing pile of buckets.

The bus was on time as usual. I was scrolling through my morning media when it arrived. But the bus didn’t stop. It slowly glided on the thin black ice in the slightly inclined street and its front corner hit the bus stop. I yelped and fell as something hit my leg.

“Suvi? Can you stand?” Ismo was there.

“Uh, I bruised my leg.” It was hurting, but the pain was not unbearable. I took the bucket handle Ismo was offering and rose, pulled up by the man with a red plastic bucket. A fallen advertisement screen had dropped to my toes.

“I told you not to take the bus.” Ismo sounded serious.

“Did your bucket come with some future insight?”

Ismo looked at the empty bucket and caressed its handle. “No, I got that one at birth.”

I had to take a short, but careful check in the ambulance and the police wanted to have a word with me. After that, I was late for work and my feet had swollen so badly it hardly fit into my shoe. Ismo had quietly stood waiting for me, taking care of my bucket.

“May I escort you back to your home?” he asked.

“Do you see more dangers lurking in my future?”

“No. But I see that you have difficulties with walking.”

“Yes, you may. And on the way you might tell me more of these future insights you have.”

“They just appear in my mind. It doesn’t happen very often.”

“Have you prophesied anything else before this one happened?”

“A few things. Trivial items.”

“So, you can see into the future. Were you serious about the herbs too?” I was not sure what to believe with this blonde man.

“Yeah.”

“And the bucket?”

“I already told you. It is a focus.”

“What are you, Ismo?”

“I just tinker with magic.”

“Why? Are you a kind of wicca?”

“Not a wicca. I am trying to help my uncle.”

“The knitting uncle?”

“The same man. A shard of his soul is trapped, and I am trying to get it back.”