Chapter Sixteen
Last Meetings
“Trust him for all that is to come” and “Praise him for all that has passed.” That’s what the two hanging banners say on the wall. My mind once again wanders to the fictional girl and her rape baby and I hope for the child to have its mother’s eyes. I’m here for a meeting, my last meeting; the one where I tell this sorry bunch that I’m the sorriest of the lot. But no one’s here. I have the right day and the right time but I sit alone; there are no trestle tables laid out with cakes and drinks; and there are no sticky white labels for me to write made-up names on. The contentment I had acquired from my epiphany, that my mood was nothing more than my fear of aging, has passed. I had hoped the knowing of it being something so simple would have vanquished the sullen mood from my mind. Is it simply thoughts of age, maybe thoughts of my mortality or am I just sad, sad that my life hasn’t been what I wanted? I’ve neither lived the hedonistic life nor the life of ticking boxes: job, wife, house, and kids. I am not a narcissist nor am I anything close to a Samaritan. I am a fence-sitter, a wall flower, a watcher, I am not a participator. I have learnt to do nothing; how to avoid taking any action or making any decisions. Is it too late to change? You can’t suddenly start doing things. People spend the first part of their lives honing that skill, learning what they like to do, so that by the time they hit thirty they’re already in full swing. Take people who like kayaking for instance, they wake up and just go kayaking. All the stages are in place; they’ve already bought the necessary tools and they’ve scouted the locations. If I want to go kayaking I’ve got to research: find out where one would go to hire a kayak; find out where one should take said kayak once it is hired; work out how to get the stupid boat to that location; and learn how to fucking use a kayak in the first place. Come to think of it I’m not the best of swimmers, so why don’t we just call the whole thing off?
“Noel?”
“Ted, thank God. Where is every one?”
“Erm, we’ve disbanded.”
“Why? You guys were a team, holding each other up and all that stuff.”
“Barry told us, Noel.”
“Told you what?”
“That you’re not one of us.”
“Ted, I…”
“Don’t worry, Noel, I’m not mad nor are the others, well most of them.”
“How’d he know?”
“He said you spoke like the victim, not the drinker.”
Outted by Barry before I had the chance to come clean. Barry, you bastard, a self-confession would have lessened the betrayal; they would have seen the remorse and that would have led to forgiveness. Now I’m just a leech feeding off the misery of others. Oh Barry, it was you who I wanted to confess to, I hate the thought of us parting ways with you thinking me disingenuous. He trusted me, he showed me his sorrows and I just spat venom in his face.
“I didn’t do it on purpose, Ted.”
“I know. You were in the wrong room. But you came back.”
“I wanted help. It seemed as good a place as any.”
“Is it your father that’s the drinker?”
“Aye, but I swear I didn’t come here to take it out on the group. To be honest I didn’t connect the two until the other night. I am a bit dense, you see.”
“Pain’s a funny thing, well, not really, it’s a painful thing. It builds up, little tiny paper cuts mounting up all the time until one day you wake up and don’t even remember when or where it started, you just know it hurts.”
“What does that mean?”
“All pain is the same, no matter how you got it. You ask someone who’s just stubbed their toe and ask someone who’s just had their heart broken how they feel and they’ll both say it hurts. You did nothing wrong in my eyes, you were hurt and you came to a group that hurt.”
“So, why has the group disbanded?”
“Because, how could this group come here and cry for their self-inflicted pain with you here? You’re the child of a broken home, broken by a drinker, so how can they feel their pain when all they see is yours?”
And with that it was done. My last meeting; Ted’s last, too.
I feel dreadful for breaking up this fine group of hard working failures with their sturdy wall; indestructible because if one falls the others hold them up. Every one of them that drinks tonight drinks because I am not another brick in the wall; I am a wrecking ball and now the wall is down and it’s my fault.
I help Ted take some boxes from the store cupboard to his car - his reason for being here - mainly stationery: the white sticky labels and magic markers and such. There are also some arts and crafts stuff, paintings and pencil drawings. The group had done no such activities whilst I was attending but it seems that in the days before me, Ted had tried other things than talking. In amongst the pencil drawings is a sketch of an empty armchair, which is quite good, maybe not gallery worthy but better than anything I could have done. I’m no good at shading and that’s what makes the details come alive. I recognise the armchair as the one in Barry’s front room, not that it was ever Barry’s front room - that place will always be his folks’ house. Barry’s just home from college, just passing through. The drawing has a steaming cup on a table next to the chair; it’s a self-portrait - Barry has drawn himself - an empty chair. That’s how he sees himself, as an empty chair.
“Can I have this one or are you going to return them to their makers?”
“No, you can take it. I think Barry would have liked you to have it, kind of a thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“Yeah, I think by now he’ll be in Dundee or at least pretty close.”
He’s gone, it wasn’t venom, it was advice and he took it. He’s gone to his boys before it’s too late, because boys grow up and men are less forgiving.
Ted and I part company; he offers me a lift and I turn it down. A lonely walk sounds like a good idea to me: the cold air; the quiet streets; and the music in my ears.
I phone a friend as I turn onto my street. I make that annoying street phone call even though I am a mere few minutes away from my abode, because that is when I need to make the call, that’s what these modern devices are for, so you can act out on a whim. A girl can call her boyfriend at one in the morning to tell him that he doesn’t love her enough. A drunken man can take a photo of his genitals in a pub toilet and meaning to send it to the girl he just met, he can accidentally send it to everyone in his address book. With these gadgets so close at hand it leaves so little time for contemplation. I get voice mail.
“Hey, Deb, I didn’t do it.”
I dial again and with my second call, I also get voicemail.
“Hi, Toby, sorry to call so late.”
“Hey, I’m in.”
“Oh great, you fancy a drink?”
“Isn’t The George closed?”
“Yeah, I mean at my place and by drink I mean tea, coffee, hot chocolate.”
“Ovaltine?”
“I do have a jar in fact.”
“Well, an offer of an Ovaltine in the fortress of solitude, how could I pass that up?”
“You know I call it my fortress of solitude?”
“Everyone does and we also know you are a big fucking dork.”
I have enough time to feed John, give the little ones a little affection and pop the kettle on before Toby arrives. It’s been a while since the two of us have just hung out, just the two of us with no group to dilute our time. We were so close as kids and as young adults. And I am using that term correctly, as in a person in the early years of being an adult - eighteen to nineteen.
“I’ve been a good friend, haven’t I?”
“Oh, it’s going to be one of those nights.”
“Doesn’t need to be. Hey, did you catch the fight or the footie and some other kind of thing we could have a generic conversation about?”
“The man on the telly said we may get snow before the year’s out.”
“Did he now?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, you’ve been the model friend.”
“Not lately, we’ve barely spoken or hung out.”
“Well, that’s life. I’m busy with work, you’re busy with...”
“Pulling pints.”
“I don’t get it. Do you love your job or hate it? Because you moan and bitch about it and then get all defensive if anyone else agrees with you. And you’re always there, even when you’re not working.”
Toby is right. I moan about work with the best of them but if anyone else tries to, in any way, claim the life of a barman is anything but worthwhile then I beat them down for their condescending tones. Doesn’t everyone do this? Whine about how shit their job is with one breath and with another, as a way of keeping their dignity, talk about the nobility of their chosen profession.
“I hate it. I hate it because it’s a job, an obligation. But I like the place and the people, even Kev. I know where I am in The George. I don’t feel so out of place.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“Yes, yes, I do. Everywhere I go I see people chatting and smiling, they know how life is and how to play their parts and I don’t get it and I want to… I really want to know how to… just get on with it.”
I’d love to idly chat about some footballer and his army of wags, but when I hear those kinds of conversations I recoil in despair, horrified that people fill their lives with the exploits of such vapid people. My mother and sister will talk for hours about the latest dramas of these pointless hoards and all I can think is ‘Mum, your life is so much more interesting than these fucking morons’. I remember the days when I’d mock boy bands and their soulless ballads of love with all the real emotion removed. Now I shout, ‘Bring on the boy bands!’ Let them butcher classic soul songs, because at least it’s something. This new breed of pseudo celebrity offers nothing - they just shag and then tell all. Newspapers and magazines filled with nobodies who all look the same and all spew out the same story as though the fact they like to drink and fuck is in some way novel. We all like to get drunk and fuck. The media is just celebrating their triviality, their lack of uniqueness.
“Noel? Hello, are you still with us?”
“Sorry, but I have to disagree. I’m a rubbish friend; I think of calling and then don’t, I say I’m busy when in fact I have so little to do that cutting my toenails is an event worthy of remembrance.”
“And you helped me with those PCs, which in turn got me into a promising relationship and you’re the kid who took all the flack when we got caught fagging it behind the sports hall.”
“God, how many years ago?”
“It all counts.”
“Well, I take back all that traitor stuff.”
“Good.”
We did have some good stuff in the bank, Toby and me. Our meeting may have been out of my control but sticking together all this time was my choice. My first musical love was the Beatles which is fairly commendable but they’re a given, a boy can go down many questionable roads from there. He could think all sixties music is ‘fab’; get himself into the Hollies or Herman’s Hermits; he could search for the pop music of his time and head down the slippery slope that is Brit Pop and end up with a couple of Menswear albums and a Kenickie single. Toby didn’t make these mistakes and so neither did I. I think helping a man keep a clean record when it comes to his record collection is something worthy of a medal and that medal goes to Toby.
As the mood is there and it is the kind of thing old friends do, we sacrifice the evening to tales of our past glories and, in hindsight, amusing stories of romantic failures. Oh, how mankind loves to relay stories that everyone present knows well. We enjoy the comfort of telling a tale with no surprises, karaoke storytelling that you can jump in at any point to add your recollection of the events.
“It was a guy.”
“It wasn’t.”
“There was a bulge.”
“I got her down to her knickers, it was a girl.”
When I hear people talk of ‘friends for life’ I’m curious to its true meaning; is it a platonic version of soul mates? Taking it in a literal sense, I would think very few people are friends for life, as that would entail someone knowing you since birth and then them out-living you. I did read a story in the local paper of a girl who had died of a brain tumour and the paper quoted her mother saying: “She was my life-long friend.” Very true for the daughter; of course I’m being facetious, it is not meant in a literal sense. A friend for life is someone who can walk through the door, months or even years could pass since you last saw each other, and they can step into the role, without even a second passing. You’re both there; old friends aging the storm of time, not noticing the new wrinkles, chatting as if you have never parted. Ok, some of that is bullshit. If Toby got a new wrinkle I’d call him on it and he’d do the same. Friendship is not about pulling punches, it’s about knowing each other and Toby knows me and I know him, ‘friends for life’.
“Do you think you could be gay and not know?” As the words left Toby’s mouth the tea I had just swallowed returned to my mouth. I could feel a little of it running down the inside of my nose.
“I would think so, how much cock have you sucked?”
“None.”
“Well, case closed, I reckon.”
“That’s not what being gay is.”
“Do you mean gay in the 1950s’ sense?”
“No.”
“Then you obviously never watched Queer as Folk because believe me it is part of it.”
“Yeah, I know that’s what happens but being gay is in here.” Toby points to his head. Please don’t take ‘head’ as slang for penis.
“Ok, do you think of sucking cock?”
“No, but I don’t think of cunnilingus either so what does that mean?”
“Huh?”
I was somewhat stumped by that, mainly because I couldn’t recall myself thinking about cunnilingus that much either. I wouldn’t think many guys do. When a man has thoughts of a sexual nature it’s all about self-gratification. I doubt girls do much thinking about giving a blowjob. When I explain this to Toby he throws up another question mark.
“I had anal with this girl once and...”
“Whoa there, Dirk Diggler. We might be crossing a line here.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” Then I think, ‘friends for life’.
“That doesn’t make you gay. Loads of guys like anal with girls. You’d know, Toby, if you were gay, you’d know.”
“How could you know that unless you were gay?”
“Because I believe the urges that you have if you’re gay are the same urges that you get if you’re straight - it’s just different targets. And I know I’m heterosexual, thus, if you were gay you’d know.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“I think it is. The confusion of someone’s sexuality is external; worries of what others would think. I think, biologically, a person knows.”
“Noel, that all sounds good, but...”
“Toby, do you think of men during sex?”
“Yes.”
“Toby do you... wait, what?” I’d like to clear up any confusion of the term ‘fagging’ used earlier by Toby. We were smoking behind the sports centre; fagging means smoking.
“I do.”
“Then that’s the answer.”
“Really, cheers bud, thanks for your bluntness.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Toby storms out of the room and into the kitchen and starts to root through my cupboards. I leave him to his rampage of ripping open cupboard doors and then slamming them shut, cursing aloud as he does so. I find all of this extremely bewildering. In no way has Toby shown any signs of being homosexual, not that I would know what kind of signs to look for. What I don’t get is that I don’t know anyone in Toby’s social group both friends and family that would have a problem with him being gay, so what would keep Toby so repressed. Wait, what am I thinking? Toby’s family are all
Jewish, nicest folk you’re likely to meet but still very religious and thus have a tendency to frown down on man-on-man action. I walk into the kitchen.
“Where are you keeping your alcohol?”
“I dumped it, I quit.”
“Are you telling me the strongest thing you’ve got in, are these out of date Cappuccino sachets?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Fuck.”
Wait a minute, I do have a bag of stolen pot brownies and I can think of no better use for the illegal substances I’ve illegally obtained, than the noble cause of getting a recently outted homo high.
“I have pot.”
“That’ll work.”
We chomp down the bag’s contents and wash it down with out-of-date Cappuccino. Oh, how I love the feeling of a hot beverage whilst under the influence of weed. Not a regular user of pot, to call me a pothead would be the same as calling a mother of two a baby factory. I’d been clean for years until Miss Weir reintroduced the herb back into my life. I do like the high though; it’s a happier and more peaceful high than alcohol.
“I don’t feel gay, Noel.” Oh, I’d forgotten about the task at hand.
“What happened with the teacher?”
“She’s the girl I fucked in the arse.”
“You fucked a teacher in the arse - Doris?”
“Yes, I fucked Doris Sidebottom in the...”
“The bottom. Ha, ha, ha!”
The two of us become hysterical with laughter commonly known in the marijuana circle as bulk. Bulk differs from your run-of-the-mill laughing fits in that it can be set off by the smallest thing, and by the end of this uncontrollable bout of the giggles you are normally just laughing at the fact you are laughing.
“Can’t believe you got a teacher to give up the holiest of holes.”
“It was her idea.”
“You know, I never meet those kinds of girls. If I get a blow job I feel like I’ve bagged a kinky one.”
“Really? Isn’t oral just a part of the whole thing?”
“Not in my experience. So, are you and she still dating?
“Yes, but if I’m gay…”
“How often do you think of sex with men?”
“Never.”
The plot thickens. Well, maybe not thickens, more zigs and zags to… oh I don’t know what I’m talking about. I just ate half a bag of chocolate pot pies and I have no idea what the thickening of a plot really implies. They say it when more stuff is added, as in: ‘What, you and he were lovers? And so the plot thickens.’ Is it a gravy comparison? In that the more granules you add the thicker it gets? So, the plot’s the gravy and the new information is the granules. Oh gravy sounds good, gravy and chips, chips, pudding and gravy… and mushy peas.
“What? You just said…”
“I said during sex I’ve had thoughts of men.”
“In what way do you think of them?”
“You know when you are having sex, and these images of hot girls flash through your mind?”
“Yeah, it’s guys for you?”
“No, it’s girls, but then every now and then a guy will pop in.”
“So, let me get this straight, no pun intended, you have fears of being gay?”
“They are not fears.”
“Ok, your thoughts of being gay stem from you not thinking about cunnilingus when you’re not performing it, you have enjoyed anal sex with a girl and from time to time the images of a guy have popped into your head during the act of sex. You’re not gay.”
“What?”
“I’m pretty sure the cunnilingus thing is totally normal hetro stuff, the butt love feels good because it’s naughty. Men like naughty, we’re quite disgusting creatures. And as for guys popping into your head, that’s just a personal head fuck.”
“A personal head fuck?”
“Yeah, you’ve got your conscious and you’ve got your subconscious and they’re like two people fighting it out in your brain. Your conscious is you, the guy who wakes up and goes to work and does all those everyday things. Your subconscious is your evil twin and the little fucker picks up all your fears and weaknesses, collects ‘em like a trading card and every now and then throws one in your face.”
“I don’t follow?”
“You were having doubts about your sexuality. So what’s the last thing you’d want to see while you are banging some girl?”
“Images of blokes.”
“Indeed, it’s a head fuck. Try to not think of something and it’s the first thing you think of.”
“Like Ray Stance and Mr Staypuff?”
“Exactly.”
Toby’s stoned little face shines a look of blissful relief. This is an involuntary act of homophobia, a straight man finding so much peace from ridding himself of any thoughts of him having gay tendencies.
It’s such a built-in horror, even for those of us who claim to be pro gay, those of us who argue with any bigot we may encounter. We tell them how there’s nothing wrong with it, all the while secretly thanking our lucky stars that we are not cursed by it. Would I myself rejoice at knowing a genetic ‘flip of a coin’ had landed in my favour, that I was one of the norms, a human being who was able to kiss the one you loved in the street, without any looks or taunts? It’s not homophobia; it’s a fear of not being strong enough to deal with homophobia. And it’s not bigotry on Toby’s face; it’s just a look of relief, relief of being sure of himself, of knowing himself.
I see Toby out. He falls down the last few steps of the fire escape and I call down to him. I hear him laughing so I guess he’s ok or too stoned to feel pain. I return to the lounge and to the comfort of my sofa. I light a cigarette and let the day wash over me - shit, I let the whole season wash over me. The phone begins to ring and I let it go to answer phone as always. It’s Deb.
“Hello, Noel, I got your message. Like I give a fuck, nob, nobhead. Noel, I don’t give a fuck who you fuck and how much. You can fuck until it falls off!”
She’s very drunk and very angry. There’s no such thing as a good break-up, so you shouldn’t try to cool it down or control the damage. Let it be raw, let it be awful, let it be a raging inferno and let it burn itself out.
British Winters Page 16
