Charlie stands in the glow that surrounds him. He is a dark silhouette bathed in the yellowish hue of an afternoon sun. He is unrecognisable and might be anybody. I hear strange voices that are drowned by the cries of seagulls. I help him down from the harbour wall and he smells of wood sage and sea salt.
Flup, flup, flup, flup. That’s the only way to describe it. Flup, flup, flup, flup. It dawned on me that the flup, flup, flup, flup had a regularity about it. Maybe every thirty minutes, never more than forty five, but the sound can be heard from early morning to late evening. When does a sound become a sign? I suppose it is when you want it to be. That flupping noise is made by Kieran, the farm boy who I’ve known since he was fourteen. That was five years ago, and now he’s grown into a handsome young man of nineteen. He works in nothing but a pair of filthy old denim jeans and a pair of wellington boots that flup along the road so that you are never in any doubt as to where he might be. I thought that farmers would be busy milking cows or ploughing fields, but Kieran spends his days flupping along. I end up waiting for flups and hide behind a wall to watch him stroll by. His bare chest will be covered in cow shit, and hay, or any other agricultural detritus, and it becomes fantastically homoerotic.
The day was hot and sunny like most days were in California. It was a good time to eat outside. A car growled along the freeway and for a moment I thought it might be you.
“Yes, it brings back memories. But old age plays tricks and I haven’t heard that sound for a very long time.”
I asked the new boy what the date was and he said it was 29 September. “That makes tomorrow the thirtieth then.” He looked at me like young people do. “I guess it does,” he said kindly and went about clearing the breakfast remains.
The new boy, who was called Trent, put a copy of The Hollywood Reporter in front of me. “I know you like reading the showbiz news, Joe.” I flicked through it but I only recognised old studio names.
“The people that we once knew have gone and so did the good movies.”
I heard Trent talking to Maria, a Mexican girl who had been here for years. “I think Joe is talking to himself,” he said. “They all talk to themselves here,” she told him. “Or they talk to somebody who isn’t there. Sit with him for a while.”
“Did you hear that? They think I’m senile. Old age isn’t nice. The truth is, there aren’t many people to chat with these days. The ones who want to talk are strangers, but even they get up and go.”
Trent sat at the table and lit a cigarette. He was in his early twenties and I suppose might have been considered handsome. He was blonde and blue-eyed like most boys around here. He hadn’t shaved and probably hadn’t slept. The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and I couldn’t help staring. “Is everything okay, Joe?”
“Look at him. Remember when you used to do that with your cigarette?”
The boy made small talk. He needed to make old people feel part of this strange world, and wanted me to act like everything was normal. But I was lost to the memories that lived inside my head.
“Are you looking at him? This boy cares nothing about how he looks but his soul shines. He is what you should have been.”
“So tomorrow is the 30th of September. Is that date important?” I’m roused from my thoughts and saw that Trent was waiting for an answer.
“I want to tell him to get in his car and find a good road to kill himself. That way he will be remembered as he is now.”
A breeze blew across the fields and made the trees around us sway and whisper.
“I knew that you couldn’t resist coming back to look.”
“Sometimes you die because living is not an option,” I told Trent. He looked confused. “I have known people who destroyed themselves to continue living.”
“What do you want me to say, Jim? What do you want me to say that I’ve not said a thousand times?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying Joe.” Trent leant across the table and took my hands in his. “What is it that you’re trying to say?” I looked at his worried face and saw myself as a young man.
“A long time ago, I knew a boy about your age. He had everything and didn’t realise it. But he died and everything stopped.”
“Who was he, and what was he like?” Trent knew that I am an ex-smoker and offered me the cigarette. I took a drag but handed it back when I started coughing.
“Are you listening, Jim? I don’t want to shatter an illusion but I’m still pissed with you, and it might do me good to tell the truth, but I know I’m going to lie again.”
“He was kind and gentle,” I said. “And very talented. He was one of the finest actors I ever saw.”
“Well that’s what the world chose to believe, isn’t it?”
I looked at Trent and realised that he was from a generation who cared nothing for the past. When he was older, he might be interested in history and remember this conversation. He was supposed to be working and looked around to see if the bosses were watching. When he squinted, I saw a boy too vain to wear glasses. “I’m going back home to see my parents,” he said. “I haven’t seen them in months.” I was struck by his accent and asked where home might be? “I’m from Branson, Missouri, Joe.”
“That street corner on Overland Avenue where we met. You rode a motorbike and made small talk. ‘I’m from Fairmount, Indiana,’ you told me, and then you asked me if I wanted a blow job. Here’s another boy, far from home, in a place that promises everything, but gives nothing.”
Maria appeared and gave me my medication. Five tablets, three times a day. If I don’t take them I will die. Except that I’m on borrowed time anyway.
“I shall see you in hell because that’s where people like us end up. You’ll still be a handsome son of a bitch and will grunt when I ask you something, and I’ll be an ugly old man. How is that fair?
“Remember when I told you I loved you? The next day you came around and sat staring at me. Not a word for an hour. Staring like a madman. And I looked back, trying to make you talk, but you wouldn’t say anything. Then you pissed in the corner of the apartment and left.”
Somebody was in trouble. There were sirens on the freeway. Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. A chopper flew overhead. Everyone was in a hurry to help someone who might be trapped in the wreckage of a car.
“Tomorrow is the 30th September, and seventy years on, I believe you deliberately crashed. Was it because of me? Did you intend to die? Did you think that they could put those fractured pieces back together again? Did you want to be immortal?
“Enough about angels,” Charlie admonished. “I am tired of hearing about angels.”
I admit that I’ve been going on too much about angels but indulge me once more.
“We are waiting for an angel that never shows up. We don’t know if he’s there, because he could just be hiding behind the doorway.” I once saw that line accompanying an artwork in a gallery but I’m certain that I played around with the words. I suppose it means that we are on the lookout for a love that never comes, but is elusive and out of sight. But in the case of Charlie, he is elusive but right in front of my eyes.
I saw the angel looking fashionably casual in shorts and tee-shirt in the late night shop. His real name is Reese with an ‘S’ and he wasn’t hiding behind the doorway but appeared from behind shelves of soup, pasta and cans of beans. I know this angel, but he’s also out of reach.
The angel hadn’t expected to see anybody he knew, and froze like a rabbit in a car’s headlights. His smile faded when he saw that I was with someone. “Hi guys, are you going out?” I felt awkward. “No, we’re just going home,” I replied. Judging by the look on his face, that was a pretty dumb thing to say because it was a lie. “What about you? What are you up to?” He looked miserable. “I’m staying in for the next week or so.”
I wanted to say more but Charlie pulled me by the arm and signalled that it was time to leave. I nodded to the angel and left him on his own.
Outside the shop Charlie scowled. “Who’s the guy with the golden penis?” He has the ability to make me feel guilty, as though I’ve been doing something seedy and underhand, even when I’m completely innocent.
Later that night, I looked at the angel’s facebook page and could see that it was full of quotes like “can y’all please start dating men that actually like you so you can shut the fuck up,” and “come fw me, you won’t get cheated on.” Nobody posted any likes and I didn’t look anymore because it was too painful.
I felt sorry for him and contemplated sending a nice message, but I thought that might seem a bit creepy, and I wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t show it to anyone.
An angel with black latex gloves. He tells me that he suffers from eczema and that it is flaring up everywhere. He shows me his hands, arms and chest, but I can’t see anything. He says he even has it on his arse cheeks but isn’t brave enough to show me something that isn’t there.
He’s from Wythenshawe which means that he has five sisters, five younger brothers and an incestuous pit bull. His grey sweatpants keep disappearing up the crack of his arse and he keeps rubbing his dick. Every few minutes he flirts with girls and that pisses me off. A cock tease. Then he starts chatting with a lowlife lad next to me and I see that there is more to this than I like.
But he returns and says that I have beautiful blue eyes, and when he smiles, I notice that he’s wearing braces on his teeth, which is kinda cute. He turns his back and the tee-shirt says ‘authorised personnel only’.
This is where I used to play football in Adidas shorts, with sexy legs and a six-pack. I was fourteen and showed off to the girls. I wasn’t great but that didn’t matter because they thought I was the best footballer in the world. When it was dark, we came here to smoke cigarettes and drink beer because this was our secret place.
A few years later I ended up in London and played for an amateur team which thought that I had a brilliant attitude and a bit of skill. And the girls still thought that I was a catch. But my attention had wandered. When I met an Italian boy called Nico, he persuaded me to move to Perugia with him.
I played for a small local team with black curly-haired boys who wore Kappa shorts, and they were the ones who had tanned legs and six-packs. I was a carthorse, and they were young stallions who flirted mischievously and called me ‘ragazzo gay’ – ‘gay boy’.
Now I have come back to see where the adventure began.
There are no younger versions of me anymore, no adoring girls, only long grass and trees. I sit alone on a bench, and a young guy walks by before heading into the undergrowth. He looks back and I know he wants me to follow so I decide that I will.
Remarkably drunk. Trying to act like I’m not. Failing badly. Anyone with a dick will do. Luke who says he’s from the Manor estate comes and talks to me and is rough as fuck but handsome and eloquent. This straight boy could beat me up in seconds. He asks me if I have a girl at home and I nod. And then he asks me if that girl is really a guy. I change my mind and admit that it’s a guy. He admonishes me and says that I should never be embarrassed for liking guys.
He goes away and I tell ChatGPT what has just happened and it replies.
“It sounds like you’re in a difficult and potentially unsafe situation. If you feel threatened or at risk, consider reaching out to a trusted friend or contacting a local crisis line for support. If you need to stay awake and alert to complete your task, drinking water, getting some fresh air, and eating something can help clear your head. Would you like me to help you with strategies to appear more sober or to stay focused?”
Long live the King. The King is gone. I was the King but I am done. I had to go because the people didn’t respect the King anymore. The King was unable to control his desires. All those handsome Dukes, Counts, Barons and Earls. Now the King has nothing. The King must eat shit.
It’s four in the morning and the world is bleary. I’ve gone past the point where I think I look good because I know that I’m wrecked. Sam is dancing with everyone. He jumps and waves his arms in front of anyone who’ll let him, and they are pleased that he does so, because he’s a good looking guy with a wonderful smile. There are snatches of conversation with girls who flirt with him and then he moves onto somebody else. Boundless energy.
I hate it that Sam is enjoying himself and I wish that he’d dance with me. But he comes nowhere near. Dan comes over and puts his arm around me. His sweat reminds me of greasy chips and vinegar on Southend Pier. I tell him to fuck off because I’d rather watch Sam dancing.
Eight pints of Madri have stirred up something inside me. I have no right to love but I ignore the warning signs. A toxic mixture that will bubble into jealousy, self pity and violent anger. Soon I will explode and do something bad, and I won’t know how to stop it.
Cocky. Never have I met anybody so cocky. Thick, as in stupid. Never have I met anybody so thick. A girl flirted with him, and he gave no response. “I had no idea,” he said afterwards. “I was completely obnoxious.” The word he was looking for was oblivious. But Reese with an ‘S’ grows on me each time I see him. The third time I’ve fallen in love. The fourth time he says that he’s never met me before. But he still gives me a smile and a kiss on the cheek. The scent is enchanting. I’m hopelessly infatuated but he probably sees me as a father figure, and not an object of desire.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 