by James Kelman
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’.
Jennifer stood with her head craned, enjoying it. In fact I had fo
rgotten the name of the painting, had actually forgotten its name, this most famous work of the Christian epoch.
Oh well, it was not my fault, how can we be blamed for our memory. For our lack of a memory. We do not blame a child for being born with one leg shorter than the other. Although this was slightly different; ageing bodily parts. I said, I’m thirty-six; the big three zero is history for me. The four zero next.
I held the door open for her, waiting; when she finished looking up and walked through I whispered to her: Jenny can I ask you something? What am I to you nowadays? What do I mean to you? Am I a sexless object? In all sincerity, is that how you see me?
She didnt reply. Yet I had spoken honestly. My only motivation was to discover the truth. That was it. Truth is what it was about. My only goal. What was its nature! A man might ask these things. It is an aid to self-discovery. Maybe we have been making mistakes. If so and someone informs us – e.g. erstwhile partners – then we can change, we can change and become better people, better citizens, better lovers, better patriots. People want to be better, I said, even me, I want to be better, not only a better patriot but a better human being.
Ssh.
Ssh?
She shook her head and was quiet.
What is it? I said.
Just be careful Mike.
Am I talking out of turn?
Yes.
Was I being sarcastic?
When? she said, and shook her head again; this time she closed her eyes! Dont let us talk about it now, she said but smiled. Get yourself a beer.
Yeh, I shall get myself a beer, and I shall drink myself a beer.
And I ordered an orange juice for her. The bartender was big. He was one of those guys with seventeen chins and seventeen bellies, each of which took it in turn to quiver. He was wary of me and didnt like my accent. So what? He poured the pint and I waited. He ducked below the counter for the orange juice. I wanted to ask if I could choose the oranges but he would have tossed me out the bar for insubordination. Instead I whistled a wee tune to myself.
I had been drinking in this bar for seven years! He made me feel like it was five minutes.
Never mind and relax, relax.
Whh whh whh, whh whh whh
[me whistling under my breath]
Jennifer had gone to a table at the side of the bar where I usually went. She didnt like standing at bars with me. I got the equivalent of road-rage.
At last I received the booze. She had taken off her coat when I arrived with the glasses. I noticed the yellow cardigan she was wearing. It was good quality. I nearly said classy. Or ‘classic’. Jennifer was both classy and classic, a classy lassie. Some dame altogether. At one time she wore only grey and dark colours, navy blues and blacks. I like your cardigan, I said, it is nice.
Cardigan? She shook her head.
Is that not what it is? a cardigan?
She said nothing to that but for some reason appeared suspicious. Of me? How come! Now she looked away.
What the heck was wrong with ‘cardigan’? My mum’s description. And I think my sister used it too. Or was that the same thing!
I lifted my beer but didnt sip it, too predictable. She appeared not to be watching me but everything I did she noticed, I knew she noticed. Life was so damn complicated.
She was away looking at something else. I followed her gaze and who should it be but Mr and Mrs Duponzer, an older couple who lived farther down my street and, like myself, preferred to walk the miles to here rather than find somewhere more local.
Occasionally they trapped me into conversation. I got the feeling they were ‘saving me from myself’. No doubt they mulled over my situation within the safety of their own fireside, whatever that might mean. People had long since stopped having firesides. City ordinances decreed otherwise.
City ordinances decreed. What kind of mumbo jumbo is that? My brains were sozzled. Not as an effect of alcohol but my years. In this culture thirty-six was Methuselah’s nephew.
I could remember when I was nineteen. In those far-off days it was summer fifty-two weeks of the year. People did not speak of boyfriends and girlfriends, not back then, it was fiancés and marriage partners. People spent their life together. It was taken for granted. Working-class people, blue-collar communities. None of these invisible bourgeois bloodsuckers. Real people. That was Mr and Mrs Duponzer. They could not be separated. Even to imagine them separate, I could not do it. This was the kind of couple they were, this was their relationship.
So they still come in? she said.
I beg your pardon?
She smiled and shook her head like this was the real reason I had brought her here: to see an old married couple who still loved one another. My life amused her. I was glad. Yes well there they are, I said, there they are.
Bar meal?
That is correct, I said, what is wrong with a bar meal? I thought you would have approved. They do it a lot, the Duponzers. Other couples do it too. They come out together and do enjoyable togetherly things.
Oh Mike you are so defensive.
Am I?
Really.
Sorry about that.
Jennifer stared at me a moment, then smiled. You are.
Okay.
But you are. She chuckled. So defensive!
I’m not saying a word. I’m only glad I make you smile.
You do make me smile.
Yeh well I am pleased about that. I’m pleased.
I see that.
Look what does it matter whether I’m defensive or not? What does it matter? Mr and Mrs Duponzer enjoy their bar meals together. They do not do it everyday. Not as far as I know. Maybe if they’ve been out shopping together or taking in an early movie.
Do you mean an early morning screening?
Pardon? Do you want me to ask them?
If you like … Jennifer was smiling again. Sarcasm is contagious
They go out together, I said, and they do things together. Then they come in here on their way home. Together. It is a natural thing.
Is it?
Sure. They do it a lot.
Excuse me? Jennifer was looking at me in that curious way, but it was me that was curious, a sort of ‘curiosity’. That was how she saw me: a curiosity.
And where was the dignity in that? But probably I was a curiosity. Curiosity. The word wasnt even in my vocabulary. I would never have described a person as ‘curious’. Especially not an ex-partner with whom one had been intimate. Only strangers are curious. Unless a behaviour had become so.
So that was it. My behaviour had become curious.
The behaviour of long-time intimates might change, might become ‘curious’. I was an eccentric as far as she was concerned. Why not call a spade a spade, you think I’m an eccentric?
She smiled again. Her hand was to her mouth. There was a word for this. What the goddam hell was the word!
She reminded me of a salesman who thinks he has you cornered. What will he have you buy! You will buy something. But what? It is his choice. You have no escape. Not until he has finished enjoying himself at your expense.
This is the mistake salesmen make. They dangle you on their fishing rod and wont reel you in, like a cat with a mouse and to hell with metaphors. Once he toys with you your chance arrives.
They always become arrogant. Salesmen amuse me. They really do. I had been dealing with them for years. Their major psychological error is the search for applause, whether from you as customer-victim or one of their colleague-perpetrators. You see them grinning; cats at the cream jug.
We have all been salesmen at one time but generally we are not, generally we are the fish trapped in the net, preparing to be served on a plate. Now here was Jennifer. My God but it surprised me that she too, she too …
What is it? she said.
I didnt think you would remember the old Duponzers.
Are you serious! I’m not likely to forget them. She shook her head. She blinked at me. Why did she blink at me? Now she frowned. Frowned!
They provided half our conversation, she said.
Oh well that’s not fair, I said, that really is not fair.
She shrugged.
It isnt. I stared at her. I found her incredible. Each gesture she made, no matter how minuscule, was a question. Excluding words her language contained the widest vocabulary of anyone I ever met, including my father who was a scholar if not a gentleman. He was too, mean old bastard. But he never tired of learning; even on his deathbed. Bring me my Thesaurus! His favourite book. He had three of them. That was my legacy. Two were different editions of the same thing but the third was a wee old edition of Roget’s Everyman, volume 1, 2 or 3.
Jennifer had a wider vocabulary than my father and it all stemmed from the body. Words had nothing to do with it. Every last move was a comment, each part of her body, everything, from fingers to toes, every indice a sentence, a statement. If she wiggled an ear I was obliged to answer: What am I to do? What do you ask of me? What is it you want!
Which is what I had never discovered.
But what did I want of her? She said I was the most suspicious man she ever had known. She meant ‘slept with’. She always slept with her boyfriends. From girl-hood upwards. She experimented. She told me herself. I hated it. I wish she hadnt but she had. Oral sex too. I hated it, hated it. Not the act but just, my God, why did she tell me? I did not want to hear about it, none of that stuff, I didnt want to know about those guys. I imagined them laughing. Macho shits, drooling over their beer.
Jennifer went her own way. She always did. That was that. That was indeed that. If she had been male she would have been into science; something I was never into myself.
I pointed at the Duponzers and then to the big sign at the corner of the bar. See that, I said, they go shopping together and they eat bar meals together. They do meal-deals if you havent noticed, they give you membership cards, you buy three beers and they give you a bowl of chips and a slice of pizza; another beer and you get these onion things in batter. There is nothing wrong in that. I dont think so anyway. Maybe other people do. If other people think so, well then, they are entitled to their opinion, whatever it is. Even sex, why do we think things about older people?
