If it is your life (7 page)

I dont mind, I dont mind if we dont.

I shrugged, not looking at her. Because of course we had to go out. Because I was going mad and could not have coped with her presence, never! Not in isolation. I required the additional anxiety of other people, the life-saving force of other people.

How’s Marianne? I said.

Oh, good, she’s doing good.

School and all that?

Yeh, thanks for asking.

But the idea of not asking after her daughter! What did she think of me? That spoke volumes, it really did. Why had she even come!

Seriously, she might have phoned first. Why not? Did she think I never left the place! Like I had nowhere to go. Work and sleep. That was not the case, not at all. Why would she think it? Was I such a a – what? a wreck? she thought I was a wreck? Probably. Probably she did.

I followed her downstairs. There was a sense of – a definite sense of – of relief, yes sir, a sense of relief coming from her. It was like a draught of air! I felt it!

People take you by surprise. It is intentional. Then that is them, they have the advantage and will retain it until you retrieve it.

Society is a jousting match

But at least she agreed to come to a bar. A coffee house would have been a nightmare. A café or one of these damn what-do-you-call-thems central damn perks. I had forgotten what you even called the bloody places, people sat in them, and there was no beer and no damn spirits. Maybe you got wine. People went to them and were served cheesecake, lattés and liqueurs. You expected it to be full of these white horrors, chins all shaking, the plumply rich and fat wealthy, all eating their Stilton cheese, imported from the French Alps.

Then we were walking, and how we walked! Our elbows, wrists and coats touched, frequently they touched. My coat touched hers on the hem, mine touched hers. Could my coat be described simply as ‘me’? ‘I touched her’ instead of ‘my coat touched her.’

There were a couple of ordinary bars in the vicinity thank God, where your ears could relax and they knew how to deep-fry a sausage. The nearest was an ugly
place and I disliked drinking there but no point walking miles when a return journey is all that lies ahead. I used to like walking but that was the problem, one had to come home. Sunday was my favourite day. The one day a body could drop money into a beggar’s cup and remain sane. What could be better than the city on a Sunday? The evil horrors have returned to their country mansions and one can walk around at one’s leisure.

At all other times I barely walked anywhere. How come? It was nothing to do with laziness, I was not a lazy man. Not in my own estimation. But I was honest. She could not have accused me of dishonesty. Never! Never never never!!!

Surely not. If so then things had changed; things had certainly changed. But people do change in this world. If one seeks certainty, if one were to seek one fixed truth, one by which we might construct a universe, then here is that one certainty, that one fixed truth: people change. Ha bloody ha.

I heard her shivering. My God. And the traffic was busy. How come it was so busy at lunchtime? She used to worry about a car losing control and crashing into the passersby. If I was late home from work! Yes! She used to worry about me. Oh hell, hell hell.

Or should one laugh; an hysterical outburst.

In the old days she would have walked closely by me. But would her arm have been in mine? Lovers entwine arms. Had she ever entwined mine? Or what about me? Had I ever done it to her, entwined? Was this a deficiency and if so who was to blame, if anyone, perhaps
no one; why do we always have to blame people, especially those closest to us, and she was, had been so, and was looking older. God almighty! She really was. And walking with her shoulders hunched, and head raised. Head raised. This would cause physical problems in later years. For the spine. Women develop spinal problems; bone conditions for heaven sake surely walking properly was a help! Surely to God! Hey Jennifer, I said.

What?

Oh nothing. Only watch the way you walk. You know.

What?

You dont want a weakened spine.

What do you mean?

How you walk. I shrugged. That spondulitis thing or whatever you call it, women get weak spines

Oh thanks, she said, thank you, thank you. She paused in walking and smiled at me, and shook her head, shook her head at me, and traffic passing everywhere, and people, all people, all sorts passing, the whole damn world, all passing, and in front of me, with her there and saying it to me. If I had been in my teens I would have blushed.

She had to move sideways to avoid a boy on a skateboard, I also stepped to the side. If I had been that age I would never have owned a skateboard. But why not? You only have to be careful, I muttered.

She looked at me and we continued on. But it was not a mean look or a chiding look, there was a sympathy
there. She thought I had been an overly protected boy, that my mother was a tyrant. My mother was not a tyrant. My plight had nothing to do with maternal so-to-speak mismanagement.

We hardly spoke another word on the walk but she did smile now and then, when she saw me watch her. And I did watch her. Okay. There were these large store-windows. It was quite embarrassing. You were both walking towards one and then looking into the reflection at the same moment. I pretended not to be doing it. I did not even care about my appearance. I had no ego. No ego! What in heaven’s name did that mean? Ego me mihi meum: everybody has an ego. Well not me, not in that sense. I was a damn weed! A nine-stone weakling, thirty-six years of age and I only bloody hell my body, an embarrassment.

Who cares. Bodies are bodies. Then again

No.

But there was a demeaning side to what was happening. I could not take all the blame. Once upon a time ours was a proper relationship.

I have to describe myself in the third person.

At least they slept together, once upon a time. Once upon a time she enjoyed his company. Yes, for its own sake. When males and females sleep together it is a very fine thing indeed when they are also friends. Maybe not with bisexual males who are noted for their one-night stands and general promiscuity. Promiscuity. The word itself, the herald of untold mystery. He knew one fellow who drank in the same local bar as himself and
acted in a coy manner. Mike was not unfriendly but distant; typically he was drunk by the end of the evening [a damnable lie!] and joked loudly with the barstaff. Two other fellows drank in this bar and might have been lovers in that non-physical masculine manner, they were forever kissing and canoodling. Bidding one another hail or farewell was an excuse to get physical.

Forget the third person: On one occasion I was in the bar for a quick beer on my way home from the office and I heard one of them saying, Dont give me a kiss.

This was in reference to a drink the one had bought for the other, so I assume the kiss would have been an expression of thanks.

Nobody can be friends with everybody, ‘not even in California’. That was the title of a movie I saw recently. ‘Not even in California’. Characters kept saying it all the time, it was one of these in-joke expressions the beautiful people have. But was it true or simply one more prejudice?

Life is full of prejudice. I didnt have many friends, bisexual or otherwise. Was that the result of prejudice? But you cannot be prejudiced against everybody. Or can you? Perhaps. There was a name for that? And was that name not ‘misanthrope’? Was I a pathetic misanthrope? Well if I was I was. No damn wonder.

I could be honest about myself, to myself. Why conceal matters from one’s inner psyche? That would have been foolish. Those of us lucky enough to have a psyche. Even an outer one. Do people have outer ones?

Jennifer knew I was better than that. If we cannot be honest with our own selves what chance has the world? I am talking survival. Less than none in my estimation. In bygone days she would have assumed that about me. Now I meant so little to her that – well, I was no longer treated as a male human being, a masculine human being, only an ordinary kind of – what? A man? Yes, an ordinary man, and an ordinary man can be anything if we are talking women. Women see a man as a man, and some more than that, as males. I was not too ambitious. This latter would have sufficed for me. But it was not to be. Not only was I an ex-boyfriend, I was an ex-male. Not only was I neutral, I was neutered. A neutered neutral, as far as she was concerned. Not only her, the entire world, or that part of society I was forced to find myself within. Within.

Within is an extraordinary concept. People would never understand how extraordinary a concept it is.

Jees, life was so horrible. It was high time I returned home. I was sick of this city. Even the geography or topography, whatever you call it, the layout. You never knew where you were; your bearings kept disappearing.
Where the hell am I?

Seriously, where were the mountains? You never knew where you were because you could not see the mountains. There werent any mountains. No horizon. The horizon did not exist. A man could not be himself in this damn city. I should have gone home years ago. Instead I remained, I remained. And then I met her, the great misfortune. People have misfortunes and maladventures.
Malodorous maladventures. Mal is a fine word, if you are Spanish. Even if you are not, even for English-speaking men of colour. Men of colour! A person said this on television recently. I was what they appeared to be calling white so did that make me invisible? I too was a man of colour. Why did people not speak correctly, speak correctly.

Jennifer had stopped talking to me in an honest and true fashion. We had walked five blocks to reach the bar and she had yet to utter one single and solitary true and honest, honestly open word. Perhaps she was thinking of her wee girl. If she had been my daughter I would have worried constantly. Jennifer was a strong parent, stronger than I would have been. She might have been thinking of her daughter but not panicking, not in that anxious way.

She was simply not talking, not talking to me. Perhaps she had made a vow.

Not literally, obviously. Because she had spoken, she had replied to occasional comments. These boring details on the layout of the area we were walking. I am one of those boring bastards who point out local landmarks to people. They were not so boring, not in my estimation. The local politicos had outdone themselves in the past few months. One entire street had been sold to a huge supermarket chain and there were rumours that the sale of an adjoining street was pending. How could the politicians sell off a street? Yet they did. A few locals kicked up a fuss. The cops came in and removed the residents, whether at gunpoint or not, who knows. Hey! How can they do that?

They just did buster.

But that street belongs to the people of this community!

Oh yeh? Up against the wall anarchist mother-fucker!

The banks owned it. The banks owned the street. Oh well, that is capitalism. Now they were selling the adjoining street and no one batted an eyelid. That is the Earth for you. But who gave us the information? The local newspaper, radio and television stations. But who gave them the information?

Dont you want a supermarket?

Sure we do. This was a huge one. The adjoining street was for its satellites, two lesser supermarkets, one a giant liquor store and the other a pharmacy that specialized in hardware – some combination!

Jennifer always walked quickly. I had to touch her elbow to slow her down. We moved out of the way to avoid a schoolbus; wee children of about five years of age disembarked and near to them a troop of guys in hardhats. Look, I said, what a comparison! If I had a camera, that juxtaposition.

She smiled. You still like kids.

Pardon?

Jennifer smiled again, and shook her head.

But what a strange thing to say. I dont feel guilty about liking kids, I said, why should I?

They dont threaten.

No they dont threaten.

She smiled.

Why are you smiling?

Because if you had a kid of your own …

I’m thirty-six years of age Jenny, know what I mean, I should be a father. My sister is two years younger than me and she has four of them; four of them.

Mm.

I miss yours never mind nonexistent ones of my own.

She looked at me but said nothing. She didnt want to talk about this. Neither did I. She knew I was fond of her daughter. And likewise she was fond of my young sister for God sake if mine and Jennifer’s relationship had depended on the existence of other relations we would have been married long since and I would indeed have been a father and not only a step-one and sure I missed all of that, but it was also to miss something I never had and therein lies madness. The child one never had. To hell with that.

And another schoolbus, we continued walking, and along a farther block before we turned off and along, and along again, to the bar, the bar.

We expect things to harmonize, I said, even in super-stores, but how the hell do they fit pharmaceuticals and hardware together? I mean it calls itself a pharmacy but the hardware is the main thing about it: I’ll take a pair of scissors, three wood chisels, a pair of pliers, and a packet of headache powder thank you very much!

Jennifer grinned.

At least you arent patronizing me.

Yes.

Now you are.

You are always so critical.

It has nothing to do with critical. Streets, buildings and supermarkets, you forgot how boring I was.

She chuckled.

You sarcastic woman.

We arrived in the back alley where the bar was located. Oh I remember this one, she said, it hasnt changed much at all.

The outside entrance to the bar had a marble appearance but other than that was completely nondescript. Yet here she was examining it like it was a something or other a painting damn thing, a sculptured object from medieval Spain, which it was not, but then inside, inside the lobby! That was what she remembered. Of course! It was me that forgot. Oh, she cried, look at that, look!

I smiled.

My God!

I knew you would remember, I said although I was lying. She was pointing at the ceiling which had singularly shaped bricks and tiles that reminded strangers of a famous religious painting. Da Vinci’s
Last Supper
! is what most of them cried. Us locals had to explain that it wasnt Da Vinci’s
Last Supper
! but that of our Lord! The odd thing is that these strangers used to allow us the benefit of the doubt, as though we were authorities on religious art because we drank in that bar – and one has to choose one’s words carefully; in other circumstances I would have said ‘drank in that damn bar’.