by Jonny Glynn
‘Go for it!’ he said. ‘Yah–go crazy, Krum. Let yourself go.’
Remember? One for the road all right, wasn’t it? And into the K-hole hell you fell. Hahahahahah! Please stop…Please. I feel very other. I am not myself. I feel very unfamiliar. There’s a lump of opium up your arse and a horse tranquillizer coursing through your brain–what do you expect? Hahahahah!
Between leaving Dieter’s and getting home, I cannot recall…There are three hours I cannot account for. Where have I been? What have I done? My jacket is on the floor. There is a dark oily stain I don’t recognize…
I think I…
North and south.
Have had a bit of a disco nap, and am feeling a little more composed, but am still quite deranged. I have had another line of ketamine, I found a whole wrap of it in my sock, and I’m getting a second wind. I’m feeling fruity and thinking of going out.
Short south-west, long north-north-east.
Quiet in a corner of the Coach and Horses, stewing my tits off, a wonderful warm glow all about me–mulled and calm and sitting comfortably, contented and ready to begin. But first you must indulge my digression. I want to tell you about a man called David Cornell. David Cornell was a friend of mine–well, not so much a friend exactly, more of a ‘colleague’, we worked together many years ago, he’d be long since forgotten were it not for memory. Dave was managerial material from the moment you met him. Slacks from his hips to his ankles and never a crease where there wasn’t a pleat. Popular too. Very able. A safe pair of hands, as they say. Qualified and accomplished. Good with the rank and file…Something of a cunt, I always thought, but like everybody else I anxiously sought his approval. What a timid little villain I was. I thought he was better than me, you see. A better man than me. More than me. He had a group, you see–a clique. They were the envy of the whole department. Dave’s gang. I bitterly resented them, begrudged them their union–but pathetically sought their endorsement. Peevish little squealer that I was–needing confirmation. A scampering creep, that’s what I was, but they were sharp and brash and confident, and seemed to have a monopoly on happiness and fun. Always having it, they were–fun. Having fun and being happy. They made me sick. They would all go out together after work and drink and smoke and lech and snipe and ridicule and mock and gossip and lie and say clever things and laugh. They would meet others who in their turn would drink and smoke and lech and snipe and ridicule and mock and gossip and lie and say clever things and laugh. They would pull drunken gutter tarts in a hope to impress, high on a bottle of the dogs, and drag them home and spread them out for a lonely late-night filth-time fuck. And the next day report back to their master Dave the night before’s rotten remembered antics.
I grew bored of Dave Cornell and his miserable little world of saying clever things and laughing. His noxious personality, that he spent so long styling, and his poisonous entourage of lickspittle phonies. The smug attendants of his court. The lot of them made me sick–literally sick–bucketfuls of half-digested slop thrown up out of sheer fear every morning before entering the office. I remember I withdrew further and further into my corner and said nothing. Keep your mouth shut, I said. Be silent, I said. Give nothing away. Hope they don’t notice. Afraid to be met, seen or spoken to. The dread of being spoken to, and having to justify myself–urgh. I can feel it again now as I think about it. Explaining myself away. It’s all I’ve ever engaged in. Private consultations with myself from the moment I wake and all through my sleep–justifying, rationalizing, vindicating myself–driving myself out of my mind with it. I remember it exhausted me then too. And left me ailing. I despised them all. And feared them all. Kept myself to myself and refused to engage. They didn’t like that. They didn’t like that one bit. My fear and hatred festered and grew until I could take it no more. It was at this time that I first started scratching my ankle. Yes, that’s when the itching started. And the yearning.
They scoffed when I told them I was leaving. Openly laughed in my face. Treated me with utter contempt. ‘Off to write your opus, Crumb?’ Snickering up their sleeves at me. Eyes behind my back at me. Razzing me. Teasing me. The ridicule I endured. They wanted me dead. Ignorant dolts, parasitic whistlers, saying clever things and laughing.
I mention this now because David Cornell is standing at the bar. He’s fatter than he was and drinking Guinness. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he will. I wonder will he recognize me? You’re polished–he’s bound to. He’s getting a round in. Always very generous. Who’s he with?…Of course, the cocaine rats–Paul and Dan. Two grovelling little nose-beggars, pet snivellers and resident jesters–still after all of these years with their fingers in his wallet and their tongues down the back of his Farah trousers. Pathetic eager acolytes–weak…and old now, look at them. Paul looks bizarre. He was always oddly proportioned, gorilla’s arms on a donkey’s frame with a gudgeon’s head. And now he’s bald and wearing cowboy boots. What a cunt. Dan’s head looks like an old mangelwurzel–red and green and tuberous. And enormous–far too large for his frame, has his body shrunk? His face looks like it’s melting. What are they laughing about? What have they got to be so amused by? Look at them. Bastard grunts. Why don’t they notice me?
Dave just looked straight at me and walked right past me. I held his eye for quite a bit more than a moment but he just looked straight through me–didn’t recognize me at all. His face was bloated. He’s lost his looks all right. And so fat. An enormous gut–my God what a gut! I hate fat people. They disgust me. Look at him, sat there, with his pint of brown. Proud fat King Cornell. The mean vulgarity of the man. He’s handing a wrap of cocaine to Dan under the table. Having a night out, boys? Wankers. Paul and Dan waste no time and scuttle to the bogs to powder their noses and finger each other’s arses. This is my moment. He’s alone. I’m going to join him.
As I approached his tiny pig eyes were on me. Beadying me up and down. I stopped about two feet from him and peered at him and said, very sanely and realistically, ‘Dave? David Cornell? Is that you? Good Lord.’
His fat lips, like two over-ripe segments of orange, peeled forward into an open hole. ‘Do I know you?’ he drawled. His voice as fat and as glutinous as the rest of him, syrupy and slow with an awful nasal twang for added repugnance.
‘It’s Peter. Peter Crumb. We used to work together at–’
‘Oh I remember you…’ he sneered, interrupting, glancing twelve and six, taking in the length of me. ‘Yeah…. Didn’t you go mental?’
I looked abashed, smiling coyly and then trying to sound impressive said–‘Yes, I left to write a book.’
‘Oh, right–yeah,’ he said in the language of a slovenly informalist. He couldn’t give a toss. He wanted me to piss off. I extended my hand cordially towards him. He looked uncertain for a moment, demeaned, unsure of what to do. I held my ground, smiling at him in that imbecilic way that humans do, until he at last reluctantly took my hand, wrapping his fat fingers around mine like a half a dozen Cumberlands splitting beneath the grill.
‘Well, it’s good to see you again,’ he said with a goodbye-and-now-please-leave curtness.
‘Yes. It’s been a long time,’ I replied, sitting down next to him and spreading myself out. ‘So, what are you up to these days?’ I was imperious. As confident as a cabinet minister.
He eyed me suspiciously. ‘I’ve set up on my own now,’ he said, proudly reclaiming some status. ‘Last seven years in fact. Couldn’t be doin’ better.’
‘Still out whoring on a Tuesday though, eh?’ I said, snorting like a fool and patting his shoulder. He didn’t appreciate that.
He grunted with pretend amusement and looked around for the Toilet Two. I took a sup on my pint and paused, feeling pleased with myself. It was a mistake. In that moment of silence, in that instant of present time between past and future, all assurance and certitude left me. And a sudden spasmodic wave of derangement came over me as I remembered what condition I was in–what was up me and in me–the O and K. A hot flush of fear ran down
my spine and all my confidence drained from me. He was looking at me, at my shabby attire, my cheap old suit, the stain I can’t explain, the frayed edges and the broken time-worn failed greyness of me. I suddenly felt so ashamed and hostile. I angrily relit my rollie and looked randomly around the room, my disposition transforming into frightened obeisance. He’d seen through me in an instant. I was making a fool of myself and he knew it–which made it all the worse. I felt a crashing fear and terrible anxiety suddenly invade me. An awful cold dread and paranoid panic. I wanted to get up and leave but I couldn’t. Dan and Paul were returning from the toilet, sniffing, grinning and trying to sparkle.
‘Who’s this then?’ said Dan.
‘I remember you,’ said Paul, putting his hand on my shoulder.
‘It’s Peter,’ Dave interjected.
‘Peter Crumb–fuckin’ hell.’
‘I remember you.’
‘Long time no see.’
‘Peter fucking Crumb…’
And then there was a silence. It was excruciating. I couldn’t think of anything to say. My mind straining like a screaming stuck cog, ripping itself apart. I sat there staring at them. My face paralysed into a contorted twitching palsy, sweat leaking out of me from every pore, burning and staining me. I tried to smile, approximated a laughing sound and took a long slug on my beer, spilling it all down the front of me.
‘Didn’t you go mental or somefin?’
‘Now now, Dan, be nice,’ said Dave, as if talking to a ten-year-old. ‘Peter left to write a book. Didn’t you, Peter?’
‘Yees,’ I said, trying to sound sage and ironic.
Paul laughed. ‘Sold the movie rights yet?’
Dan started cackling, and Dave joined in. They thought I was a prat. The swines, openly laughing in my face.
‘I didn’t ever write it,’ I blurted proudly.
‘Why’s that then–couldn’t find your crayons?’
Their faces were creasing and juddering, cackling gales of scorn. I held myself perfectly still, smiling at them. You can’t hurt me, I kept saying to myself–you can’t hurt me any more, I’ve been around the block, I’ve seen the sights. What the fuck do you know? There was a fork on the table which I contemplated grabbing and stabbing into the back of Paul’s hand but I showed restraint. Rather dignified, I thought, for a man in my condition.
‘I got married,’ I said. ‘And had children…Had a child…’
‘Really?’ said Dan–looking to Dave to say something clever.
‘It didn’t work out,’ I went on. ‘You may have read something about it in the newspapers. It wasn’t on the television.’
They didn’t know what I was talking about–all three just looked at me, their faces fixed, bored with derision and amused confusion. Paul looked at Dan, Dan looked at Dave, Dave raised his eyebrows. Dan pulled the sides of his mouth down. Paul scrunched his nose. I raised my left eyebrow and lowered my right eyelid and pushed my tongue into my cheek. I don’t know why I pulled such an odd expression. My face just sort of contorted into it. A strange, winking, tongue-in-cheek, postmodern derangement that I held for some time. Dave, Dan, and Paul all looking at me as though I were mad. As well they might.
‘You feeling all right, Crumb?’
‘D’you think I’m some sort of class spastic?’ I suddenly spat, pushing my face forward into Dave’s.
‘What?’
‘Easy, mate.’
‘Don’t get out ya pram.’
‘No-one said you was a spastic.’
‘He’s just havin a laugh, en ’e?’
‘We used to work together,’ I hissed, as though that meant something.
‘Yeah?’ said Dave. ‘So what?’
‘I left that dump years ago,’ said Paul
‘Full of fuckin’ monkeys that place,’ said Dan.
And they all three stared at me, snarling, ready to bite.
‘What are you doin’ ’ere anyway, Crumb?’
‘Yeah, what do you want, Crumb?’
‘Why don’t you sling it, mate.’
‘Yeah–go on, fuckin’ hop it.’
They really couldn’t have made their position on my presence any clearer. I was about to tamely retire and shuffle off when fate stepped in and the devil closed ranks…At that moment three girls arrived and everything changed. Everything was suddenly diffused and different. The girls belonged to Dave. They made straight for him and festooned him in a wild flurry of kisses. A mad rash of lips and cheek perfumed the air. Short skirts on nimble frames with naked legs danced the awkward round of Hi and Nice to meet you. Kirsten, Kate and Kim. Hoorah, the boys shouted, the girls have arrived, hissing and scratching with kisses and smiles. Drinks were bought and coats removed, chairs found and arses parked. I was ignored throughout. So, I thought, everyone now seated–we will begin again.
‘My name’s Peter,’ I announced to the girls like some Special Needs tit. They all six of them looked at me. I just wanted one of them to smile. To be kind and show favour. But they didn’t. The girls were completely indifferent to me. They smelt me out as a wrong ’un straight away. My handsome melancholy demeanour meant nothing to this crowd. I was shut out and ignored, locked away at the awkward end of the table, stuck behind and in between, all backs opposing, everybody determined to have absolutely nothing to do with me. I sat there rejected, listening to their hateful emptiness. Their mournfully gormless opinions. Their witless regurgitations and vain observations. Their barbarous ignorance. The brash, loud-mouthed, unembarrassed, simple-minded twerpery of them. I was biting the edge of my glass listening to them. Every now and again I would throw in a little something to tease their blinkered view, but all to no avail. They’d look at me for a moment and either say nothing or go ‘Right, yeah,’ and then laugh and disparage and mutter curses.
The girls were particularly woeful. Craven leeches, auditioning for the role of tonight’s slut. Eyeing each other all over–sizing themselves up against one another, wondering who would get who? One of them, the Kirsten one, kept stealing glances my way. She was ugly but thought she was beautiful, and would be thought of by others as beautiful too, but she’s an ugly all right. Ugly in every way. Selfish, thick, deluded, greedy and vain. I heard her ask Dave who ‘that weirdo’ was. She was referring to me. Dave told her I was ‘some twat’ he used to work with. He pointedly said it loud enough for me to hear. I raised my empty pint pot and said cheers. Everybody laughed at that.
The other girl, the Kate one, was even more repugnant, oozing a sort of cheap pretend whoredom–a ‘come and kiss me if you’re hard enough’ vapidity that she thought makes her alluring, dominant and modern. A stuck-up sex tramp in slingbacks and second-hand Gucci. A sorry little princess must-have with her flaccid tits on the table, dribbling sad stories about mummy and daddy’s divorce and how neither of them wanted her…
The third, the Kim girl, was a say-nothing, sip-and-smoke type. Underwired and waxed, with a bum-fluff bleached moustache. Too feeble-minded to think or speak. Shallow, preening, vacant fuckbags–all three. They’ll be getting it good and proper tonight. Given it every which way. All of this aren’t we special–look at me–touch my tits–aren’t I clever–pinch my arse–lick my finger and spunk on my face gentility. Who do they think they are? The middle classes and their damned liberality. Have another Breezer, girls, and get that up your nose. Everything is permitted but nothing is true. It’s enough to make you want to convert to Islam. Wretched infected animals–freedom’s monkey slaves!
I shuffled to the bar and bought another pint and a couple of rum chasers. When I returned to the table they had all closed ranks and spread themselves out, making it impossible for me to rejoin them. Pathetic and petty, I thought, but I wasn’t bothered, I didn’t want to sit with them anyway. I sat at the next table, feet away from theirs, meekly by myself. Humiliated, scorned and bereft. Slighted by everybody. The never-ending unbearable humiliation of it all. I was feeling so zonked and abstract. I just sat there lost, stuck in a state of stari
ng. Feeling very odd. They ignored me, drinking and chatting, saying clever things and laughing. Occasionally one of them would glance my way and snicker and make a comment. Occasionally I would glance their way and laugh ridiculously loudly. ‘Very droll–hahahhah–yes, very clever,’ I barked at random intervals. My eyelids glowering. I was so pissed and stoned. I was making a complete fool of myself. Oh Crumb.
As the hours passed I felt more and more morbid and forlorn and floppy. Why are you doing this? I asked myself. Because the paper said so, came his predictable reply. It wasn’t much of a consolation. This is your drug shame, Peter–this is life in the fast lane, mate, twenty-first century–you’re cutting the edge of modernity here, my friend. Sharpening your wits with the in-crowd. You’re the manifestation of the times in which we live, Peter. Think about it. I couldn’t be bothered to think about it. I didn’t know what I was talking about. Drug-induced drivelling babble it sounded like to me. Reported received regurgitated and replayed. An endless series of torments, crushing humiliations and attacks of spleen. Alone, frightened, dirty and full of shame. And bursting for a piss.
Dave and Paul were scampering off to the khazi. I shuffled in after them and drained a gallon of urine into the bowl and all over the floor. I could hear Paul and Dan in the cubicle doing their business. I waited for them to re-emerge. The cubicle door opened and they both stepped out, sniffing and gurning. I stepped in front of them and asked, ‘Could I have some of that?’
‘Some of what?’ said Paul.
‘Some of that cocaine you’ve been snorting.’
‘Fuck off, Crumb, you twat.’ Dan pushed me to one side and they both walked past me laughing. I was so filled with rage and so past caring.
‘What did you call me?’ I snarled.
‘I called you a fucking twat, you fucking twat–you got a fucking problem with that, twat?’
