And once a person’s been burnt, all their skin burnt off, don’t we all pretty much look the same?
Is that the answer, then? Do we all need to burn off all the skin and all the hair so we can be these identical creatures of blood and bone and muscle? Would we then attack people for being different sizes? For being too short or too tall? Too fat or too small? For having blue eyes? Or green? Or brown? Would we have to tear our eyes out next?
Everyone should have a moment of catharsis like I did. Now that I’m Alexander I can see everything with perfect clarity. Skin color doesn’t matter. I don’t care if they’re black, brown, white, yellow, red, pink, purple, or green; there’s only them and me. There’s me on the one hand. And everyone else on the other. And I know which hand I’m going to be looking out for.
let’s go out and party
I walked around London all morning carrying my little cardboard box. I think I must have looked desperate. Even in my fine suit (do you know how much I paid for this suit? Sarah insisted I buy a designer label so she could tell her friends) people kept shying away from me. I guess my shuffling walk (my feet are killing me, I could feel the blisters forming on top of my stitches and at my heels and at the tips of my toes) and my shiny suit shoes just didn’t sync. They all knew that I was an impostor. That I no longer belonged in the world of honest, employed, and employable people.
My cardboard box must have told them I’d been sacked.
I spent the afternoon in my room, staring at the sky of daisies above my bed. They were really quite comforting. I didn’t think, I didn’t plan, I didn’t worry about the future, I just studied the daisies, petal after petal. There are 1,566 daisy petals painted on my ceiling.
At seven there was a knock at the door and Amber poked her head into the room. (My room. I’ve got a room.) The physical evidence of my sacking, the pathetically empty cardboard box, was lost among all the other boxes. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.
“Alex, you’re in.” She looked delighted to see me. How could anyone be so cheerful all the time? “We thought we were going to have to leave you a note.”
“I got home early.” I didn’t lie, but I didn’t want to spoil her good mood. I didn’t want to depress my new flatmates with my tales of woe. They already felt sorry for me over my split with Sarah, and I didn’t need them to think there was something wrong with me. (There was something wrong with me, I was too nice.) And I didn’t want them to have to worry about me paying the rent and my share of the bills. They didn’t know me yet, they didn’t like me, so they weren’t about to cut me any slack. I doubt they suffered from the too-nice bug. Except maybe Amber, but she’d be out-voted.
“Come on,” said Amber. “We’re all going to the pub.”
We. Was I part of a we again? Amber and Noreen. Clarence and Diana. And me. I was there, almost there, hovering on the edge, teetering on the border between inclusion and exclusion.
So we went to the pub in one big, happy group.
Clarence, towering over us all but so thin he looked like a strong gust of wind could blow him over, was placid and calm, and an easy grin hovered on his lips. The smell of cannabis surrounding him was so strong that as I inhaled deeply I felt just a little bit calmer. I could do it. I could get through this night. I could pretend that everything was right with the world, that I was still me, that I still had my life, that it was nice and ordered and settled, just as I liked it.
Diana, on the other hand, is very short and sturdy, not fat, just chunky, thick-limbed and solid. She’s like some sort of earth goddess from prehistoric times, only the slimmed-down modern version without the massive belly. I almost wished she was a goddess, then I could get down on my knees and pray to her to make everything all right. It would have been a whole lot easier than trying to fix it all myself. How would I get another job with no reference to show? I had been sacked, so I couldn’t claim anyone as a referee.
The evening was going along really well. I was chatty and cheerful (it wasn’t even forced after the first two hours). I had cash in my wallet and didn’t worry about the price when my first round included three expensive cocktails for the ladies. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about the future. There was an alcohol buzz in my blood, a smile on my lips, and I was beginning to relax. Maybe I should start to appreciate the single life again. I could sit here in the pub and get stinking drunk if I wanted, stay past closing time (at least until they kicked me out) and then go to a party down the road, and I didn’t have to worry about Sarah, I didn’t have to worry about anyone. I could do anything I damn well pleased. I was my own man. I was in control.
It was half an hour to closing time and I was winding my way back to the table with the first half of a fresh round of drinks when a male roar boomed above the sounds of laughter, chatting, and clinking glasses: “Oi, those’re my wife’s tits you’re staring at.”
Was this for real? Could a man like that have a wife?
The pub quieted and all eyes turned to the drama now unfolding. The crowds stopped moving and I was stuck where I was, holding two pints and a wineglass.
A thick-necked, bull-backed man of about thirty-five was glaring at a man ten years his junior and probably half his weight. Two women sat at what was obviously the older man’s table, both busty, both blonde, both wearing skintight clothing with plenty of cleavage on display.
The younger man looked at the older one, then turned and began to walk away, toward the bar, toward me.
“Don’t you bloody ignore me, mate,” said the married man.
The smaller man kept on walking and the crowds parted to let him pass.
“Oi, you.” When the younger man didn’t react, the older one grabbed an empty pint glass, smashed it down along the table edge so that the end broke off and he threw it, jagged edge forward, at the man who had offended him.
The bullish man must have been very drunk or he was just lousy at sport because the glass went sailing past the head of its intended target and hit me, smashing into my left temple and the side of my head. The force of the blow made me stagger and drop my drinks. The glasses shattered and the alcohol spattered my shoes and trousers. Blood was spurting everywhere, flowing down my face and neck, staining my shirt, dripping on to the floor. Gingerly I felt the top of my ear, fearing the worst, but it seemed to be in one piece and it was definitely still attached. The upward trajectory of the glass had saved me from deformity. Scars I could live with, but I didn’t want to lose my ear. Sarah would never think I was trendy then.
blood and stitches and more blood
I’d thought Monday was busy at A and E, but it had been nothing compared to Friday night. There was blood and gore everywhere, not to mention drunks who’d collapsed and others who were staggering around demanding to be seen. Even though my injury was worse than Monday night’s one (it had been only vomit on my bandaged feet then), I still spent six hours there.
Oh, sure, they did put me in a little bed and saw me every now and then to pick out more glass, but they couldn’t give me their undivided attention. I didn’t blame them and I didn’t care. It was much more entertaining listening to the sounds of efficient doctors and nurses dealing with crisis after crisis than it would have been counting daisies in my room. The little curtain around my bed didn’t keep out the moans and groans of the lesser wounded, like me, but I was thankful that I was up the far end and couldn’t really tell if that man with the heart attack had lived or died.
Amber and Noreen, bless them, accompanied me in the ambulance to the hospital. I’d never been in an ambulance before. (They lied and said they were my sisters so they could come with me, but I don’t know if that was necessary or not.) And Amber held my hand the whole way to the hospital, squeezing every so often, letting me know she was there, that I wasn’t alone.
The staff at the pub had been very kind, too, giving me clean towels to press against my head to try and staunch the flow of blood. They were cautious, though, not to touch me, not to get too near. As I not
iced their reactions it suddenly struck me that maybe I wasn’t as safe from AIDS and other STDs as I’d been assuming. For two years I’d slept only with Sarah, but she, of course, had been screwing my boss and who knows if he was the only one?
According to Amber and Noreen, for I was too preoccupied with the pain and the sight of all that blood—my blood—dripping to the floor, the glass thrower fled the pub, dragging both of the busty blondes from his table along with him as he ran. We don’t know whether or not he eluded the police.
After two hours I received a message from one of the junior nurses that Amber and Noreen had gone home (who could blame them?), but that I was supposed to ring them when I was finished and they would come and collect me. I was no longer in any life-threatening danger (and according to the doctor I never had been, but she wasn’t there, she didn’t see how much blood I’d lost) so it was safe for my flatmates to leave and, let’s be honest, they hardly knew me. It was good of them to stay as long as they had.
Once all the glass had been removed, the stitching began. Between the stitches on my feet and those on my head I felt like a piece of human embroidery. My head was thickly bandaged and I looked like a war victim as I was discharged. I was only missing the smeared blood and dirt on the bandages to look really authentic.
I thought about calling my flatmates and asking for a lift but decided against it. I felt like walking. And besides, it was almost dawn, the streets would be empty. There was no sense in waking up Amber and Noreen when a little bit of fresh air (okay, outside air, then, it wasn’t particularly fresh) would help clear my head. It was only a mile or two home.
So there I was, ten minutes from the hospital, my head aching, my feet aching (I’d forgotten about the blisters from my long walk home from work), when I was mugged.
“Stand and deliver,” they said.
No, they didn’t.
It was more like “Give us yer wallet.” Two male thugs backed up by knives. Knives longer than the legal limit.
By this point I’d had enough. I stood on one foot in Karate Kid praying-mantis style and let them have it. I was victorious. I was amazing.
No, I admit, that’s not quite how it went.
I tried to ignore them and keep walking, but they surrounded me. “Give us yer money and yer watch.”
Did they think I was wearing a Rolex? Did they think I was staggering around the streets of London at this insane hour of the morning with a thickly bandaged head and that I was loaded? They could have my watch. Sarah had given it to me for my birthday last month. Good riddance. I didn’t need the memories of that night, the way she’d snuggled close and told me she’d love me forever even though she’d already been screwing Jed for weeks.
“Have the watch,” I said. I unclasped it and tossed it to the ground, hoping that would distract them, but it failed. One of them picked it up and snorted in disgust, but he still pocketed it.
“That’s not enough of a toll,” he said. “Give us yer money.”
“Look, I’m unemployed,” I said. “I don’t have any money.”
“Sob, sob.” The other one brandished his knife. “Give us yer money.” And he stepped closer, pressing his knife into my throat. I could feel a sharp pain and then a trickle of blood. That answered that question then. They were serious.
I withdrew my wallet, intending to hand them the cash, but the bastards snatched my wallet and ran away, disappearing down a side street. They had stolen not only my money but my credit cards, my bank card, even my library card.
I stood there staring after them, helpless with fury. I knew I couldn’t catch them. My feet hurt too much. My head hurt.
At that moment a cab drove past, its for-hire sign lit. But I couldn’t take a cab, I didn’t have any money.
I fingered the wound on my neck. Yep, definitely bleeding.
analysis and recriminations
I decided then that I was a coward.
The pub injury had been mostly just bad luck, though if I’d been more agile, quicker, better coordinated, I’m sure I could have dodged it. But the mugging had been my own fault for not even trying to fight back. Sure, I might have lost, I might have been stabbed, severely beaten or even killed, but at least I would have known that I’d stood my ground. It was the principle of the thing.
I’d acquired another adjective to describe myself. No longer was I just nice. I was a nice coward. Not a sometimes coward as I used to be, like when I was dealing with Jed at work, but a full-time coward. I had irrefutable proof.
The others were all asleep when I arrived back at the flat. Amber had made me a get-well card (drawn by her own fair hand) and left it on the table. (Had she expected me to return by cab after all?)
I decided not to tell them about the mugging. I didn’t want them to know how pitiful I was, didn’t want them to wonder if I’d been cursed or if my misfortune would rub off on them. I didn’t want to be a pariah. I didn’t want Amber to regret holding my hand or to think I was a loser. I didn’t want her to know the truth. I was a loser.
I spent an hour on the phone, quietly reporting the theft of my credit cards and bank card. I’d neglected to report my change of address (hoping that Sarah would come to her senses) so American Express and Visa said they’d send my replacement cards only to Sarah’s. (Was it Sarah and Jed’s now?)
I didn’t know what to feel at the prospect of seeing Sarah again. I couldn’t decide if it was good or bad. She’d know about my sacking. Jed would have told her the story with glee while trying to seem sad about it. She’d feel sorry for me. If there was one thing from Sarah that I didn’t want, it was her pity.
But all wasn’t doom and gloom.
Just before bed I discovered twelve pounds and twenty pence in my pocket—change from that last round that I hadn’t bothered to put into my wallet.
(I’d forgotten or I’d probably have squandered half of it on the cab.)
I’m not totally broke.
another theft
My curse was spreading to other members of my family. My mother rang (waking me, but a good son doesn’t care about such things) early on Saturday to tell me that her rhododendron was missing. Someone had come along in the middle of the night and dug it up from her front garden, leaving a big black hole in the ground.
Aren’t people grand?
From this moment, I’ve decided to cease giving money to any people charities. You can’t designate your money for the decent folk and I bet the selfish push their way to the front of the queues and take all the medicines and other goodies before the polite and considerate have a chance to see what’s on offer, so it’s pointless. No sense letting the nasty profit even more from my sweat.
I’ll be making donations only to animal or environmental organizations. The earth and its animals deserve to be saved.
replacement card
I know librarians are traditionally portrayed as fierce dragons who wander constantly around the hallowed rows of books shushing people, but I always expect them to be kind, friendly, and understanding, as if our shared love of the written word ties us together in some deep bond of humanity.
I forget that librarians are just like the rest of us. Some are kind. Some are nice. And some are not.
As of this moment I am still without a library card. Did you know that at my library they charge five pounds for a replacement card?
I explained that I’d been mugged, I explained that it wasn’t my fault, but Ms. (you could tell she wasn’t married even without the evidence of no ring) Head Librarian would hear none of my excuses. I had a great big bandage covering most of my head—I mean I looked injured—but she didn’t care. Five pounds was the rule, so five pounds it was.
(How much is a stolen library card worth on the black market? I bet it’s not five pounds.)
I had twelve pounds in my pocket. (I could have taken my checkbook to the bank and withdrawn some cash from the counter, but after my mother’s call I went back to sleep and then it was too late, they’d closed.) Twe
lve pounds to last me until Monday. I was sad, desperate, and depressed; I needed to keep busy, I needed my twelve pounds. I might want to spend it on something else, on something fun, on entertainment.
I’m unemployed, I’ve been traumatized by a head injury, mugged, and now my library won’t give me a replacement card until I give them five pounds. You’d think they’d be kind to an unemployed person who wants to read. That’s the whole point of libraries, isn’t it? They’re supposed to be free.
And, Ms. Head Librarian, I did look after my library card. It was the men with the knives who weren’t so careful.
saturday night at the movies
I love action films. The ideal action film has no slow moments. No poignant moments. No moralizing. Just action after action after action. Constant movement and constant excitement. When I go to see an action film I don’t want an hour of characterization, I don’t want time to think about the dirty laundry waiting at home. And I certainly don’t want a lull during which the audience can grow restless and talkative.
I pay my money to escape from everyday life. I want to see what it’s like to be a suave spy or a kick-ass army man or a swashbuckling hero. I want the characters to be dashing and strong if they’re male, and sexy and alluring if they’re female. That’s all. I don’t ask for much. I’m easily entertained. If I want drama, if I want Oscar-winning acting, I’ll go to another film. I want an action film to be an action film. It’s pure escapism. Bad guys get what they deserve. Good guys win. (Or cool, likeable, antihero bad guys win against uncool other bad guys.)
If you’ve paid good money to go and sit in a cinema and see a film, you really shouldn’t be planning to use the time to phone up one of your mates to discuss the day’s football match, play by play by excruciating play.
Being Alexander Page 5
