Sushi Central

by Alasdair Duncan

Me: Doesn’t matter.

  My Father: Have a think about it?

  Me: I will.

  My Father: Will you?

  Me: I absolutely will.

  Silence in the car for a few minutes. The future. Whatever. Maybe I’ll write a novel or something, although thanks to all the drugs it probably won’t make any sense.

  My Father: So who are you meeting today?

  Me: Just a friend.

  I stumble over Anthony’s name and I almost don’t say it, but then I realise I can’t be bothered to lie, because whether or not I’m meeting a ‘friend’ called Anthony, Dad won’t really care. He’ll probably forget about it straightaway. It won’t matter. It won’t be important. I don’t lie.

  Me: Anthony. My friend Anthony.

  My Father: … Anthony.

  Dad coughs.

  My Father: I don’t think I’ve met this Anthony. Is he a friend from school?

  Me: Just from around.

  My Father: Oh. That’s good. It’s good you’re making friends.

  Me: Thanks.

  My Father: Calvin. Is there anything you want to …?

  Me: Anything I want to …?

  My Father: Never mind.

  Me: What was it?

  My Father: Don’t worry about it. Do you have enough money for today?

  Me: I’m good.

  My Father: Would you like me to give you twenty?

  Me: I’m good.

  My Father: Just twenty. Come on. I’m sure you can use it.

  He fumbles around in his pocket. Pulls out his wallet while he’s still driving. Fishes around in there for the money I don’t particularly want.

  Me: Dad, don’t worry about it. I don’t need it.

  My Father: Here, take it. It’s just twenty.

  Me: I’m fine Dad.

  He takes my hand. Lays the money in there and then closes my fingers around it.

  I’m thinking: Out of the equation.

  247

  Street press magazine: There are some newspapers piled up by the door of a cafe several of them promoting the underground music scene, several about the local dance culture, one or two gay magazines. I always find it easy to distract myself with the lurid, bite-size pieces of information you find in those street-press magazines. Waiting for Anthony, I need some kind of distraction. I pick up one of the gay ones, purely because the boy on the cover has something vaguely compelling about him, or maybe he looks like someone I’ve slept with. Admittedly this possibility is fairly remote, but you know, taking into account the six degrees theory, trace it back one or two steps.

  The boys who are draped all over the pages and each other are different in appearance, but they all have the same sad, faraway and drugged-up look in their eyes. One advertisement in particular: a quarter page promoting some new website. The ad itself is innocuous enough: small white print on a black background. ‘Sick Puppies,’ it says, along with the address of a website. It promises ‘All Hardcore Kids …’ — it makes sense that whoever is responsible for this would have a shitty grasp of basic grammar – ‘… and Young Stud Action.’ All of this in plain black and white, and a photograph of a boy down the bottom. Not really a boy, just a chest and a pair of shoulders, a face in three-quarter profile. Looking off to the side; that terrible kind of defeated look about him, a smile you can tell is intended to hide something, his eyes so dark they seem almost smudges of pure black.

  Just like it was with that model French Vogue. I unfocus my eyes, blur them a little, and suddenly I’m looking at Anthony.

  Sick Puppies.

  All Hardcore Kids.

  Out of the equation.

  It’s suddenly way more than I can deal with.

  How does it feel to lose yourself?

  248

  Clothes Anthony is wearing today:

  a) Grey shirt: Button-up, and expensive-looking. Makes him look really hot.

  b) Tiny silver cross: His top button is undone and you can see the cross in the hollow of his neck. Catholic boys are the coolest.

  c) Green cargos: Everyone’s wearing them.

  d) A thumb ring: It adds to his air of self-assuredness. When you see a boy with a thumb ring, he looks as though he knows what he’s doing. It gives him a sense of purpose. It’s sexy.

  He looks … studied. He’s doing whatever he can to maintain that cool/aloof poseur air. And I guess it’s working. He sees me but doesn’t approach. Waits for me to approach him. We don’t kiss cuz we’re standing right there on the street but I can totally tell he wants to. Or maybe I want him to want to and some of that is transferring across to him, or my perception of him, or …

  249

  A familiar house anthem is playing on the stereo, playing in all corners of the cafe. A man’s voice, high and androgynous, put through a computer and digitally edited; thumping, cold and beautiful beats. Anonymous. Icy. This one sample that fades in and out, the singer talking about what he’d do if he had another chance.

  We’re in one of those cafes along the Brunswick Street Mall, below ground level. We just kind of drifted down here. I don’t know. Anthony led and I followed.

  There are various interchangeable Valley types in here. A girl with too much eyeshadow and severe black bangs is sitting at the next table playing with a cigarette. She looks a lot like Jodie, the Hello Kitty girl, who looked a lot like something out of a Japanese cartoon. These two boys in black, I guess they must work here, waiting by the door. Waiting for their shift to start or something. They’re both pretty, bleached, pierced, aloof, etc, like every other boy in the Valley, and I’d fuck both of them and thanks to six degrees of fornication I probably have and Anthony probably has too and the girl with the black bangs who looks like Jodie probably has as well.

  250

  We’re waiting for our coffees. Long blacks, of course. I shouldn’t drink so much black coffee, but my system is probably thankful for the break I’m giving it. Caffeine is the least dangerous thing I’ve consumed with any kind of regularity over the last few months.

  Our table is actually an old Pac Man machine, reclaimed or whatever, with a thick sheet of plastic over the top so people don’t spill coffee on it. I am leaning back, watching Anthony, who has just fed a coin into the machine and is manoeuvring Pac Man through the maze.

  251

  Anthony: This is stuffed.

  Me: What do you mean?

  Anthony: This game. The Pac Man machine. It’s not fucking working properly.

  Me: What do you mean?

  Anthony: The joystick’s all fucked up. Half the time Pac Man’s not even moving in the right direction.

  Me: What do you mean?

  Anthony: Well, okay, look at this.

  He taps the joystick three times, pushing it to the left. He taps it quite hard, but Pac Man only moves on the third one.

  Me: I getcha.

  Anthony: Of course you do. It’s fucked.

  Me: Maybe you’re not doing it right?

  Anthony: I know how to do it.

  Me: I just mean …

  Anthony: I mean, like, I’ve been playing video games since I was four years old. I know how a joystick’s meant to work.

  Me: Whatever. Forget about it.

  Anthony: What’s up with you this morning Calvin?

  Me: Nothing.

  Anthony is distracted. His Pac Man is moving blindly upwards, and in that space of a few seconds is consumed by the red ghost. Flashing. Then the screen goes blank.

  Pac Man Machine: Game Over.

  Anthony: Fuck.

  Several beats of silence.

  Anthony: You want to play?

  Me: I’m fine.

  Anthony: You sure.

  Me: Yeah, I’m okay. I suck at Pac Man anyway.

  Silence.

  Anthony: What’s up?

  Me: What do you mean?

  Anthony: You’re acting weird this morning, and it’s fucked. Seriously, what’s up?

  Me: Nothing. I don’t know.

  Anthony
: Seems like something.

  Me: It’s really not.

  Anthony: What is it, Calvin?

  Me: Nothing. I saw this photo.

  Anthony: What?

  Me: I mean, in this street press thing. A photo, in, like, this ad. For a website, I guess it was.

  Anthony: … And?

  Me: And nothing. It sort of looked like you, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t you, I mean. It was just a photo of some boy.

  Anthony: But he looked like me?

  Me: … Kind of.

  Anthony: So … Why did you bring it up then? What makes this boy who kind of looked like me so significant?

  Me: I don’t know. Nothing. I was just thinking about him.

  Anthony: Right.

  Me: I don’t understand.

  Anthony: Don’t understand what?

  The waitress arrives with our coffees and sets them down on the Pac Man machine. I smile, thank her in a distracted sort of a way. Anthony says nothing. He’s staring at me, waiting for the waitress to go away so I can explain what the hell I’m talking about. Which might be difficult, because I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

  As soon as she leaves, Anthony asks again:

  Anthony: Don’t understand what?

  Me: The ad was for this website. This website that was called Sick Puppies, and it was like …

  The expression on Anthony’s face changes.

  Me: What, you’ve heard of it?

  Anthony: I know of its existence, yeah.

  Me: So then you can probably appreciate what this ad was like.

  Anthony: I probably can, yeah. I’m still struggling to see what you’re getting at.

  Me: Anthony, look. This is weird for me. Being with you, I mean. I really … I’m trying to understand what it was like … for you, with the photographs and everything. What it felt like … Why you did it. I mean, why you would …

  Anthony: Why I did it?

  Me: This thing, with the photos. I don’t understand. I mean, because, I really like you, and I possibly even love you, and it’s like …

  Anthony: Calvin, no you don’t.

  Me: I do.

  Anthony: You don’t, Calvin.

  Me: This is weird for me as well Anthony.

  Anthony: Calvin, you don’t love me. You … I know you better than you suspect.

  Me: I don’t think you do.

  Anthony: Calvin, you’re a mess. You don’t know what you want … You love an idea. And, like, at best, I happen to slot into that particular idea.

  Me: That’s not true.

  Anthony: Well it’s pointless Calvin. Being in love is pointless.

  Me: At, like, at our age?

  Anthony: At any age, Calvin. Where does love get you?

  Me: I don’t know, I’m just saying …

  Anthony: Fucking, at … at best you’re fucking obsessed with me. With this. It’s scary. I liked you at the start Calvin. It was fun, because we didn’t have to think about it. Because we didn’t have ‘love’ or whatever you want to call it as a complicating factor. We were just two guys having fun. I should have known. I should have realised. You’re the obsessive type, Calvin. You’re fucking scary and obsessive and I don’t need that, and this thing …

  Me: What thing?

  Anthony: This thing with the photos. With Jeremy. With all the photos. It’s just something I did Calvin. You don’t understand it. You’re trying to analyse it on every fucking level imaginable and that’s why you won’t understand it. This … This analysis thing you do. It’s fucking boring. And I don’t care. I don’t expect you to understand any of this, but …

  252

  The machine is playing by itself now. All of Anthony’s goes are up. Even though nobody’s playing with him, Pac Man refuses to die. The game lights up again, a demo game. The same every time. Pac Man races through the maze, trying to eat all the little pills. The red ghost gains on him. Eats him. Game over. Play again. This cycle repeats itself over and over. I stare at it in dumb fascination, thinking that eventually, maybe, it might be different. It’s not impossible.

  253

  Several beats of silence.

  Anthony looks right at me. ‘I know what this is really about. You want to know what it feels like.’

  Several more beats.

  ‘I do. I mean, I don’t know. I think I do.’

  He looks at me. Says nothing.

  On the screen: A tiny, darkened room. Pac Man sits, blinking and yellow, just near the centre. The music starts; chunky, electronic, hypnotic. He begins to move, and he really goes. So many little pills to munch up, so little time. The smaller ones are worth ten points, the bigger ones a hundred, and when he eats the bigger ones, the ghosts become vulnerable. Until then, he’s easy prey. And the ghosts are out to get him. As he starts out, Mocky, the red ghost is pursuing him. Micky, Mucky and Macky are still locked inside that tiny little box, eager as fuck to get out. Those three want to get Pac Man. They want him really fucking bad.

  ‘Okay, I do. I want to know what it feels like.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘Why does it make sense?’

  ‘Because you’ve never felt anything. You’ve never had to.’

  On the screen: Pac Man moves to the left, chomping up the first of the smaller pills. He turns a corner in the maze, continues chomping them down. Mocky is swerving blindly around the maze. The look in his eyes is totally blank, empty. He has one mission: Find Pac Man. And he will. He’ll get the little fucker. No matter how much mindless swerving it takes to get there. His tentacles, always moving. Pac Man swerves to the left, then the right, misses a big row of pills. He’ll have to go back. He has to eat them all. He has to. Micky, the yellow ghost, is free. Now Macky, green ghost. One of the big flashing pills is in sight.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Calvin. I like you a lot. You’re really cute. I mean that. You’re fucking gorgeous, but you don’t know anything. You’re basically just a bored teenage fag who’s all hung up about the fact that he has nothing to be hung up about. It’s all a mind game. I mean it Calvin. It’s all you. You’re good-looking and you’ve always had everything you’ve ever wanted, and those are really the most complicated things you’ve ever had to deal with … and it kills you.’

  On the screen: Micky is closing in on Pac Man. The two will almost connect, and then Micky will fall back. Mucky is free. Blue ghost. All of them begin to swarm Pac Man, gliding down to the lower left-hand corner of the maze. They swarm. Swarm. Pac Man is in danger now. The big flashing pill is in sight. Connect. Fall back. Connect. Fall back. If Pac Man can only get to it …

  Maybe he’s expecting me to say something at this point, but I don’t. I let him continue.

  ‘We’re not nihilistic and stupid because the world made us this way. We’re nihilistic and stupid because we can be. Because it’s fucking fun. It’s a distraction. That’s the only reason. The fact that we’re faggots doesn’t make us any different from anyone else. The truth is, we’re just as fucking boring as our parents and all of our parents’ friends, we have basically the same preoccupations; and we go out of our way to try and be different because we know that ultimately our lives amount to just as little. We need something to distract us. Everyone does. You need something to distract you. Fine. So you just happen to do it by sleeping with a fuckload of guys.’

  ‘Way to fucking rationalise things Anthony.’

  ‘I’m not rationalising, I’m just saying. The thing is, you don’t just want to be a slut, you want to be a victim too. You’re hoping that being knocked about by all sorts of guys will give you something to be truly upset about. That’s really all it is, Calvin. You’re a slut because you think this beautiful/damaged act it allows you to perform will make you stand out, make it seem like you’re the one with real problems. You really are special. All this gives you a feeling of legitimacy. Am I wrong?’

  On the screen: Pac Man has eaten the big flashing pill. The ghosts all change from their r
espective colours into black; begin to flee. Now Pac Man has the power. He chases them, munching up pills as he goes. He is invincible. Nothing can touch him. Mucky is eaten. He’s just a pair of eyes now; they float back to the centre, back where the game began. Back where it’s always going to begin. Pac Man continues to pursue. Chomping pills. But their effects are wearing off. The ghosts stop flashing. Mocky is the red ghost again. He has the power now. Pac Man turns a corner.

  ‘You’re just the same.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘The difference is, I don’t try to make it seem more profound than it is. I suck lots of cock because it makes me feel good. I let guys take my picture because it makes me feel good. Really fucking good. That’s all. That’s the extent of it. I don’t pretend I’m being exploited. Nobody ever fucked me in the ass as a little kid. Nobody ever interfered with me. I don’t pretend that any of it’s deep and meaningful. I let guys fuck me because I can. Because I like to. Because I want to do it before I’m old and ugly and nobody wants to fucking sleep with me any more. That’s the only reason. And I don’t pretend it’s anyone’s doing but mine.’

  On the screen: A line of little pills in front of Pac Man. He can make it. There’s a big flashing one just up and to the right. He can get to it. If he just turns this next corner. But he doesn’t turn. The corner is right there, right beside him, but he doesn’t turn it. He keeps going, chomping at nothing. Chomping at the air. Mocky is gaining on him. The red ghost. He’s angry. Pac Man could turn here. He doesn’t. He doesn’t turn, he just continues. Mocky doesn’t even have to work; there’s no fun in this any more.

  I say nothing.

  On the screen: Mocky consumes Pac Man. Game over. The whole cycle starts again.

  254

  Cold wind on the street. The sky is still grey and I don’t know quite what I’m doing. I still have that street press folded up in my hand but I’ve twisted and folded it so much that it’s probably unreadable now. Doesn’t matter anyway.

  Chinese Opera is drifting out of the restaurant behind me, delicate — a woman’s voice, high, and she could be singing about anything at all but because I don’t understand it, it seems somehow sinister. Every time someone opens the door the music becomes louder, and a blast of cold air follows it. Everyone seems to have a purpose. Everyone is walking to something, or from something.