Read DIARY OF AN OXYGEN THIEF By Anonymous (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) Online
Authors: Anonymous
That's all it was.
A big bar with a big wall space at the back. The shot was of skaters on ice taken at the Vanderbilt Centre and double exposed so that one image of skaters was superimposed over another in order to give an impression of movement. To me, it was reminiscent of the kind of shot you'd see from a photographer in the 1920’s or 1930’s. A Russian Man Ray or if Kandinsky had been a photographer. Expressive in the classic sense.
I was shocked that I liked it so much and pissed off. It meant she was more talented than I'd feared. Not only had she stolen my heart, but now she'd stolen the life I would have loved to live had I had the courage not to go into advertising.
I don't think this hit me consciously at the time, but I was uncomfortable. No. I was jealous. And to top it all off when I did find her she was holding a huge fucking Iris that someone had given her (some guy, no doubt) and a dirty great pint of Guinness. A pint of Guinness. I hadn't even seen one in about four years, let alone one attached to a girl I loved. Something cracked under my feet.
I nodded politely as she introduced me to her friend. The tallest girl I had ever seen. She must have been six foot seven. I'm not joking, she was fucking huge. She had come from Maine specially to see her friend Aisling. I said that showed loyalty. She said rather infuriatingly that she did it because Aisling was going to be rich someday. I remember finding that odd.
So I got stuck talking directly to this girl’s midriff about sweet fuck-all with the two loves of my life: Guinness and Herself gliding around the bar pecking everyone on the cheek. Her boss had even turned up. Peter Freeman, it turned out, was a slightly cherubic gray-haired thing in loose jeans and woolen sweater. He looked much older than I'd imagined Early fifties. I remember being relieved and thinking, well, at least I don't have to worry about him.
I bought the tall girl a Bailey’s, and at my instigation, we sat at a little table because I felt so ridiculous looking up her nostrils while feigning interest in her life in Maine. All I wanted from her was information about her friend, my lover, the rising photographer. I got nothing, of course. We were sitting for a while when suddenly I felt a splatter of Bailey’s across my face and chest. I looked at her, incredulous. She was holding a plastic straw. She had flicked it at me. As I heard her apologize I realized there was a droplet on my bottom lip. Smiling, I carefully I wiped my chest and mouth. I was very aware of there only being the need to lick my lips and anything could have happened. As it was, I had arranged with my AA friend Adam to meet later if things got sticky. This, I decided, was sticky. It was good to have someone real I could go and meet rather than having to limp out under some invented excuse. I sat for a while longer and then after getting her another Bailey’s (ever the gentleman) I asked her to apologize to Aisling for me as I had a dinner-date.
Happy day. I got out of there. The tall girl was over-apologetic and tried to grab my arm as she bid me to sit down again. No way was I was staying just so I could be ignored more emphatically. Fuck that, I told myself and stepped into the welcoming March air. Superb.Within fifteen minutes Adam and I were walking against ferociously strong wind and rain over the Williamsburg Bridge. It was good for me. And him, too, I think. I kept replaying the Bailey’s moment in my mind. How the fuck could that have been an accident? I drank everything I could lay my hands on for over fifteen years and I never had booze splatter on me like that. Not by accident, anyway. It was too monstrous to suggest that she'd done it purposely. Too paranoid. So I forgot about it, sort of.
I didn't call Aisling the next day. I was convinced that I now had the measure of her and her crew. I'd met one or two of her friends (other than that tall thing) and felt justified in labelling them as wealthy, bored Irish. The only types for whom the humiliation of a Culchie (anyone outside of Dublin) still held any interest.
But I broke down the next day, called and left a message saying how much I'd enjoyed meeting her friends and that it would be lovely to have lunch again sometime (fucking idiot that I was). She, of course, left yet another message saying, yes, it was lovely to see me, too, and she'd love to have lunch or something, etc….
We ended up meeting for lunch at Cafe Habana on Prince and Elizabeth just around the corner from where she lived. I was there early, of course, and she turned up about three quarters of an hour late. She only lived around the fucking corner. She even drew attention to the fact. I shrugged it off, Mr. Tolerant, Mr. Understanding. The usual banter followed, nothing really said out loud, lots of bullshit about advertising. Then out of the blue she apologized for a rather sharp remark to me that night. It had the effect of a slap. What she had said was,
"If you’d had your way you'd have had the fucking mass-media down here."
This referred to my attempts to impress her with what I thought would be a good way to "launch" her opening. I wanted to have photographers from various media meccas like Vogue, Elle, and Vanity Fair at the opening. I even went so far as to suggest that she have the shot good and large on the wall so that any photos taken at the opening would have her work prominent in the background. I also remember saying that it would be great if a fight broke out in front of her shot. Because if a fight broke out and she "just happened" to have a camera set up there and she also "just happened" to get a good shot of the fight then that shot in itself could become one of the works. Also, as a media mercenary, I knew a shot like that would be difficult for any editor of any magazine to refuse. They have space on white pages to fill, too, just like the rest of us.
It was ironic that I actually gave her the idea. The thing is, of course, that it
would work best if you could involve someone well known in the fight.
But I'm jumping ahead again. You mustn't let me do that. So here she was apologizing for her remark, saying that it was because she had been nervous about
the opening.
I let it go. Of course I let it go. Then, I said something I regret.
"You can pay for this. You've been wanting to since I met you, it won't break
your heart."
Here's what she did.
She was rummaging in her wallet, probably waiting for me to tell her to put it away but on hearing the words "break" and "heart," she froze. Her eyes (oh, those eyes) lifted from the wallet as if they were about to latch onto mine but they stopped unnaturally. She seemed now to be staring at the floor. I knew she knew I was watching her. For a few beats she let them rest there and then, as if noticing something on the table, she let them rise that far blinking slowly and without moving her body or head those eyes now shifted up and sideways to look over my left shoulder until finally making the last diagonal ascent up my cheek to burrow into my sockets.
"I. Don't. Think. So."
That’s what she said. As if she knew she could kill me right there and then, but the timing wasn’t right. It was the discipline that frightened me. It meant that she was doing whatever she was doing for professional reasons.There would be no passion here. And therefore, there had been no passion before. The Shelbourne had merely been a necessary act; part of a pre-ordained tried and tested formula. Right down to the part where she tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of our lovemaking and posed like a naughty sixteen-year-old girl complete with a coquettish smile and nodding downwards at her body to ensure that I took away the intended mental snapshot. No one can say she didn't understand the nature of photography. The restraint she showed that lunchtime told me how deeply sophisticated she was, and made me want her even more.
To be honest, I had an idea I was being taken in but I wanted to be taken somewhere...anywhere. After all, if this was what she wanted and I could give it to her
then why not? I was in love with her, wasn't I? Also, I was enthralled. I'd been watching videos in St Lacroix (French films) for two years and hadn't come across anything as interesting as this. And there was always the outside possibility that I might get laid again. But in reality, I was the fish and she was the angler. It was just question of what she
wanted to me to do next.
What she wanted me to do next was accompany her to an exhibition in the New Guggenheim on Broadway. This we did. Only one thing worth mentioning here. When we arrived at one of the cross streets, I forget which one, she spun round as if to save me from walking in front of traffic and hit me really hard in the chest. I mean, really fucking hard.
For a second I couldn't breathe. I was dazed, I'd already lost about a stone from shock. I read somewhere that when someone is in emotional shock the area around the heart loses some of its protective fat and is therefore dangerously exposed. One well-aimed punch can not only be very painful but, when the person who has been in shock starts to put the weight back on, the heart stays bruised and this can lead to aortal fibrillation. It's not life threatening, but it is uncomfortable.
It hurt, but I pretended it didn't.
Next port of call on my own personal voyage of discovery was the Chess Café. Yes, they have such a thing in New York. In Soho. It was awful. We were strolling around some of the most romantic real estate on the globe, and I might just as well have been in hell. I was right beside the girl of my dreams, but also the source of some of the worst pain I have ever experienced. In the Chess Café you paid a dollar to rent a table and you could play chess for as long as you liked. They served coffee and true to chess-player neutrality, it was one of the few places left where you were not only allowed to smoke, but actively encouraged. All that frowning looked good through plumes of cigarette smoke.
She beat me easily, and I found myself squirming in my creaky chair just like I'd done in Fanelli’s. She leaned back as if mentally warming her hands again, just like she'd done in Fanelli’s. I tipped over my king in the second game. She looked up all hurt and cheated. Hurt because I was cutting short her enjoyment. Cheated because she was probably planning a long drawn-out death for me and now I had killed myself and denied her the pleasure. Also, it must have shown her how I played the life game – I'd abstain rather than prolong pain. She protested too much. Like it was significant. Like I'd hit a nerve.
"Finish the game," she cried.
I said something about not wanting to prolong the agony and complimented her on how good she was at chess.
“Why? Because I beat you?”
By now, I was almost limping. I was mentally and emotionally in tatters. One more blow, and I would have started crying. Bawling in the street. Just one more remark and the hairline cracks behind my eyes would begin firstly to squirt and then to gush and finally a deluge would canalize the thin streets of Soho.
I had my good friend and mentor Dean to meet at 6:30 and I told her so. I was never so grateful, and yet heartbroken, to get away from her that afternoon. I didn't have the courage to even kiss her cheek. I feared one last rejection would push me over the edge. I stomped away again filled with rage, confusion, fear, love and relief. We had talked about seeing a movie during the week.
I'm sick of talking about her. But I have to tell someone the whole story. Not just bits and pieces here and there, but the whole thing, partly because I don't know if I believe it myself. I'm of the opinion that if I write if down, I can at last walk away from it all. It will have been dealt with. Maybe it'll act as a warning to the others. So, the next week I was busy at work and even managed to tell Aisling that I couldn't go to the pictures with her on the Wednesday night because I was being "wooed" by another agency. This was only one-third true. A guy from another agency, a writer, wanted to meet me and have a chat and yes, they were hiring, but the place wasn't known for doing great work.
Aisling and I arranged to meet on Friday night for "a drink" at a bar. I didn't know it was to be the last time I'd ever see her. I just thought I was meeting the girl I loved, just one of the millions of times I would meet her over the course of the rest of both our lives. Love was patient, kind and undemanding. A lot of what I'll describe did not occur to me at the time, but later, when I felt calmer and more objective. At the time, I can definitely say, I lived from day to day in a mild form of shock.
No question about it.
I got there early. She’d said 8:30pm-9pm,. I was there around 8:15pm. I was the first. After a few minutes, her friend Sharon (Irish) and a guy (we'll call him "Brazilian Shirt" because he was, in fact, wearing a yellow Brazilian football shirt) came into the bar.