Something stopped me in my tracks.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
I had to think before answering.
“The role that concealment plays in the eroticism of underwear calls attention to the body beneath. But at this moment, there is so much writing on the waistband of your Calvin Kleins that I need to make sure that there isn’t a warning attached.”
“It’s been a tough day,” Tom said. “Let’s take a walk and we’ll sit outside a coffee shop.” And in that cold winter sunshine things started to look up.
He sat back, put his long legs on the table, and drank his latte. I noticed that he had extraordinarily big feet.
“I’ve just realised that I didn’t put on clean underwear,” he remarked, and then he took one of ten thousand puffs on a blackberry, blueberry and raspberry vape. Tom was the coolest guy in the world.
I tried to say something clever, but it sounded like “mwah,” and he gave me a funny look.
And so, I made discreet notes on my phone before realising that the guy standing behind me was reading everything, and I hoped that he wouldn’t say anything that might embarrass me.
I once read André Aciman’s Homo Irrealis: Essays, and to be honest, it was a difficult read, partly because I didn’t understand what the hell he was talking about. Aciman’s approach to fiction is different, and I bought The Gentleman from Peru for Charlie, the French boy who once met the author, and wanted it because it was a signed copy. He keeps reminding me that I once had an original copy of Call Me By Your Name that I inexplicably threw away. I read The Gentleman from Peru because Charlie never will. His attention wanders after a few chapters, and that is why we are left with shelves of half-read books with slips of paper showing how far he got. But after finishing this book, I realise that this is more of a novella, and if Charlie is ever going to finish a book, this might be the one.
I go for a piss at my favourite urinal. It is always the only urinal with piss all over the floor around it. And yet, I must still piss at that urinal.
Joe was once off his head on something, and stuck his head through a plate glass window. I then spent the next hour saving his life. I remember being covered in blood and being incredibly angry. He had major surgery, but escaped with a huge gash on the bridge of his nose that was a bit too close to his eyes. In all fairness, he thanked me afterwards, and offered me his arse with a discount of twenty quid which I politely refused. Last night, I wasted another hour of my life staring at Joe’s crotch.
I woke up in the middle of the night and the light boy was dancing around my bed. He comes often. No name. No face. A swirl of sparkly lights that moves from one side to the other. The electric boy blue who wants to be loved.
Starbucks. A woman has a meltdown because she’s asked for a Pistachio Velvet Latte and finds out that they have stopped selling them. She screams at the staff as if they have conspired to do this on purpose. A delivery driver arrives with a cage full of new stock and she turns on him. “Are there any pistachios on there?” He is Polish and doesn’t understand what she’s asking.
An old woman walks in with friends, they have been to see a matinee of Murder on the Orient Express, and says loudly, “I can smell coffee.” And follows it up with, “they must sell coffee here.” One of her friends says, “You should have been Hercule Poirot, Margo.”
There is a woman with a rucksack on her back, who is standing in the middle of the room looking at me. I smile, but her grimace never shifts, and she glares as if I might be a former lover who scorned her. I look at my raspberry and coconut brownie hoping that she will go away.
But she walks over and demands to know if I’m Blotter from Hebden Bridge?” I assure her that I’m not, and that Hebden Bridge is hundreds of miles away, but she storms off muttering under her breath. “You always were a liar, Blotter!”
A young guy with tattoos on his face leans across from the next table and says, “Dude, the chances of somebody being called Blotter AND coming from Hebden Bridge is really cool.”
Pow, pow, pow! These are meant to be fireworks and they once were. Bang, bang, bang! A spectacular entrance for the drugged and inebriated. A beautiful girl on each arm. A kiss on both cheeks. Forceful hands down my boxers. A handsome young guy who is the shit of the whole world. Suck my dick because you want to. A showman, a gigolo, a fucking dickhead. I am desirable. I do no fucking wrong. I ask the two girls if they have a brother that I can shag. Say yes and make me happy. Everything I ever wanted… high… so bloody high… soaring… looking down… eagle of the dance floor… hawk of wonder and disappointment. Pow, pow, pow!.. shattered dreams… shattered lives. Thirty years bye bye. Lonely, penniless, fucking old, a closed roller shutter and a damp empty building. Is this the right place? A shit full of memories. Cry for me and I’ll join you.
Bleak January. A place that is appropriately called a Winter Garden. Full of absent people. I come and sit here everyday while I drink my takeaway coffee. I always take the lid off because drinking it through that tiny slot takes forever and makes coffee dribble down my chin.
‘Red socks’, sits on the bench opposite and looks handsome from a distance. But why is he wearing red socks? He’s deep in conversation with a Chinese girl who looks bored and takes sips from a bottle of Pepsi Max Lime that will be warm by the time she finishes it. I wonder what he’s saying to make her look so listless. Occasionally she looks over as if to say, “please swap places with me.”
Between us, a mouse keeps running between flower beds. Backwards and forwards it goes and nobody takes any notice. This is a brave mouse that likes living under exotic leaves but can’t decide which is the best. I hope that the Chinese girl might notice the mouse and scream loud enough to stop ‘‘Red Socks’ talking for a moment. But she fails to see it because she is on the verge of falling asleep.
A well-dressed black boy comes over and asks if he can sit beside me. I tell him that I don’t own the bench and make room. He introduces himself and I immediately forget his name because he is from Nigeria and it sounds strange. “This is a cool place,” he says, and I suspect that he might be trying to pick me up.
I ask him what he is doing in this country and he says he came to study. I wait for him to say that he is a wealthy Nigerian prince and that he wants to give me ten thousand pounds if I give him my bank details. Instead, he says that he is doing a thesis on his country. “What do I know about Nigeria?” I disappoint him and say that I’m the wrong person to ask because I’m half-witted. He gets up and leaves and I realise that I could have said that I thought that everyone in Nigeria was a prince who wanted to give money away to people who provided their bank details.
A young guy walks by with someone who I presume to be his girlfriend. He’s devilishly attractive and I instantly dislike her. I consider getting rid of her by being the first person to commit a murder inside this winter garden with an impatient mouse, a guy who wears red socks, the bored Chinese girl, and a Nigerian who could have been a prince but wasn’t.
When they pass, two scruffy fellows follow. One of them is explaining about a giant palm tree that almost touches the glass roof. About how the leaves die and form protection around the trunk. I find myself looking at the tree and speculate what will happen if it grows any higher because there isn’t much room left. The other guy looks uninterested like the Chinese girl did, and then I realise that she has disappeared with ‘Red Socks’ because their bench is empty.
A lad with blue tints in his hair comes and sits beside me. I look at all the empty benches and wonder why he’s chosen to sit on the same one as me. Once again, I think that someone might be trying to pick me up. He has a bad cough, as bad as the blue streaks in his hair. He notices me looking, says “Hi,” and I think that he will be good looking once he’s got rid of the blue streaks. The mouse runs across the floor again.
The lad makes conversation and sounds like a nutter because he says that he likes to choose a person walking in the street, any person, a random person, and follow them to see what they do and where they go. He’s not a stalker, he says, and I make my excuses and say that I must be going back to work.
I will not look at you in case you think I’m being inappropriate. I will not make eye contact because that might be construed as threatening behaviour. I cannot talk to you in case I say something that might upset you. But that is what you want me to do. You’re hoping that I will offend you. And then you can say bad things about me on social media and get thousands of likes.
