He wasn’t there.
I stopped. He couldn’t have gone into a house, because there was a good fifty yards of wall before the nearest doorway. Across the street and up a bit was another corner store, but there was no way he could have reached that in the time he’d been out of my sight. I knew this, but I hurried across the street anyway, and peered into the window. The only people inside were the proprietor and his son. I turned back away from the window and looked up the street, listening for the sound of footsteps.
I couldn’t hear any.
I wandered the area for a little while, getting progressively colder. Then I walked slowly back down Leverton Street and headed back to my flat.
I felt let down, and a little betrayed.
I also felt like concentrating on worrying some sheep for a while.
By the next morning I felt differently, or I’d reached my boredom threshold again. Either way, I found myself, mid-morning, standing outside the shop again. I had the watch in my pocket and it was still blinking. I’d tried changing the batteries, but that hadn’t made any difference. Parts of the numerals were still flashing meaninglessly on and off. Feeling slightly breathless, I pushed the door and walked in.
This time the man was behind the counter as I entered, and it was me who felt nervous. I ground to a halt a couple of steps in. He stared back at me. He was wearing the same suit, and still looked rather wary.
‘Hello,’ I said, eventually. He nodded. Struggling for something to add, I held the watch up. ‘I bought this yesterday.’
He nodded again.
‘It doesn’t seem to work,’ I said, knowing that was hardly the point.
The man shrugged apologetically. ‘It wasn’t sold as working,’ he said, quietly. ‘All I have is what you see.’
‘Oh, I know,’ I said. ‘It’s just, it started doing something when I left the shop, and I wondered…’
I didn’t really know what I was wondering, and neither did the man. He just stared at me.
‘I’m, er,’ I said, holding out my hands, ‘I’m not here to cause trouble or anything.’
‘I know,’ the man said.
‘You look a little nervous,’ I blurted, immediately regretting it.
The man stared down at the counter for a while, and then looked up. ‘This isn’t right,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s right, and I don’t understand it.’ He said these words quietly, and with great sadness. ‘This isn’t the way things are supposed to be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.’
This wasn’t making a great deal of sense to me, but I felt that it was something that had to be discussed. Part of my mind was sitting back with its arms folded, wondering what the hell I thought I was doing. The rest felt quite strongly that whatever it was, it was right.
‘Where are you supposed to be?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But this doesn’t feel right. Something else should have happened by now.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘I don’t know that either,’ he shrugged. ‘That’s what makes it so difficult.’
There was a pause then, neither of us apparently sure of how to proceed.
‘It was simpler, before,’ he said suddenly, looking down at the counter. ‘People knew what they were, what they wanted. This time, no-one seems to know. And if you don’t know, you can’t believe. Even those who think they believe are just cheerleading for something that was never meant.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Exactly,’ he said, smiling faintly. ‘Once, you would have understood. When I was younger, people knew what they were. Now they are less sure. A man can’t be a man, because he thinks that’s a bad thing to be. He has forgotten what it’s like. Women too. People have forgotten magic. Things are better now for them, but also worse. Everything is surface, nothing is inside. The insides are empty. Do you not think this is so?’
I thought for a moment. I didn’t really know what he was saying, unless it was this: that for years everyone had been hiding, unsure of themselves, dancing to someone else’s tune. That women have become more free to have jobs, and less free to have lives. That men run scared from their maleness until it twists and curdles into bitterness and resentment and rape. That everything is a constant battle not to think, not to feel, not to believe in anything that can’t be said at a dinner party without offending someone. Men fall over backwards to prove they’re not rampaging beasts, until the animal which still lives in them dies from lack of exercise, leaving only a shallow stick figure. Women run after the respect of people who don’t care about them, forced to sideline the newborn into nurseries and day schools, because it’s companies which are supposed to be important now, not families. Men should behave themselves, I thought, and women should be allowed to have careers; but this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be achieved. The human has been lost, and all we have become is code in someone else’s machine. We believe in flavourings, and correctness, in feelgood factors and learning curves and earning supermarket loyalty points—and trust in Sunday supplement articles refuting things that were too boring to say in the first place. Everything else is too difficult.
‘Yeah,’ I said, eventually. ‘That’s pretty much the way it is.’
The man nodded, as if coming to a decision. ‘I thought so. Do you want a refund?’
It took me a moment to realise he was talking about the watch.
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s alright. I’ll keep it anyway.’
‘Good,’ he said, turning away. ‘I’m sure that somewhere inside it still keeps time.’
I’m looking for work at the moment. I’m not sure what kind. I stopped writing corporate videos a few months ago, halfway through another one about Customer Care: thirty different ways to make your clients think that you give a fuck about them, when both you and they know you don’t. I only got to number fourteen. I decided that I’d helped write enough code, and that I wasn’t going to do it any more. The sheep can worry themselves.
I still eat in the Shuang Dou a couple of nights a week, but I haven’t seen the red-faced man again. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think he could tell me anything I don’t already suspect. I’ve still got the watch too, and sometimes it seems almost as if the flashing figures are going to settle, become strong enough to read again. It hasn’t happened yet, but I believe that, some day, it will.
I went back to the shop the day after the conversation, but the window was vacant. By pressing my face up against the glass I could see that everything had gone from inside the shop. It was completely empty, dust already settling.
On the inside of the door was a sign, roughly hand-lettered but securely sellotaped, as if to withstand a long wait.
‘Back later,’ it said.
The Man Who
Drew Cats
Tom was a very tall man, so tall he didn’t even have a nickname for it. Ned Black, who was at least a head shorter, had been ‘Tower Block’ since the sixth grade, and Jack had a sign up over the door saying ‘Mind Your Head, Ned’. But Tom was just Tom. It was like he was so tall it didn’t bear mentioning even for a joke: be a bit like ragging someone for breathing.
Course there were other reasons too for not ragging Tom about his height or anything else. The guys you’ll find perched on stools round Jack’s bar watching the game and buying beers, they’ve know each other forever. Gone to Miss Stadler’s school together, gotten under each other’s Mom’s feet, double-dated right up to giving each other’s best man’s speech. Kingstown is a small place, you understand, and the old boys who come regular to Jack’s mostly spent their childhoods in the same tree-house. Course they’d since gone their separate ways, up to a point: Pete was an accountant now, had a small office down Union Street just off the square and did pretty good, whereas Ned was still pumping gas and changing oil and after forty years he did that pretty good too. Comes a time when men have known each other so long they forget what th
ey do for a living most the time, because it just don’t matter. When you talk there’s a little bit of skimming stones down the quarry in second grade, a whisper of dolling up to go to that first dance, a tad of going to the housewarming when they moved ten years back. There’s all that, so much more than you can say, and none of it’s important except for having happened.
So we’ll stop by and have a couple of beers and talk about the town and rag each other, and the pleasure’s just in shooting the breeze and it don’t really matter what’s said, just the fact that we’re all still there to say it.
But Tom, he was different. We all remember the first time we saw him. It was a long hot summer like we haven’t seen in the ten years since, and we were lolling under the fans at Jack’s and complaining about the tourists. Kingstown does get its share in the summer, even though it’s not near the sea and we don’t have a McDonalds and I’ll be damned if I can figure out why folk’ll go out of their way to see what’s just a quiet little town near some mountains. It was as hot as Hell that afternoon and as much as a man could do to sit in his shirtsleeves and drink the coolest beer he could find, and Jack’s is the coolest for us, and always will be, I guess.
Then Tom walked in. His hair was already pretty white back then, and long, and his face was brown and tough with grey eyes like diamonds set in leather. He was dressed mainly in black with a long coat that made you hot just to look at it, but he looked comfortable like he carried his very own weather around with him and he was just fine.
He got a beer, and sat down at a table and read the town Bugle, and that was that.
It was special because there wasn’t anything special about it. Jack’s Bar isn’t exactly exclusive and we don’t all turn round and stare at anyone new if they come in, but that place is like a monument to shared times. If a tourist couple comes in out of the heat and sits down, nobody says anything—and maybe nobody even notices at the front of their mind—but it’s like there’s a little island of the alien in the water and the currents just don’t ebb and flow the way they usually do, if you get what I mean. Tom just walked in and sat down and it was all right because it was like he was there just like we were, and could’ve been for thirty years. He sat and read his paper like part of the same river, and everyone just carried on downstream the way they were.
Pretty soon he goes up for another beer and a few of us got talking to him. We got his name and what he did—painting, he said—and after that it was just shooting the breeze. That quick. He came in that summer afternoon and just fell into the conversation like he’d been there all his life, and sometimes it was hard to imagine he hadn’t been. Nobody knew where he came from, or where he’d been, and there was something real quiet about him. A stillness, a man in a slightly different world. But he showed enough to get along real well with us, and a bunch of old friends don’t often let someone in like that.
Anyway, he stayed that whole summer. Rented himself a place just round the corner from the square, or so he said: I never saw it. I guess no-one did. He was a private man, private like a steel door with four bars and a couple of six-inch padlocks, and when he left the square at the end of the day he could have vanished as soon as he turned the corner for all we knew. But he always came from that direction in the morning, with his easel on his back and paint box under his arm, and he always wore that black coat like it was a part of him. But he always looked cool, and the funny thing was when you stood near him you could swear you felt cooler yourself. I remember Pete saying over a beer that it wouldn’t surprise him none if, assuming it ever rained again, Tom would walk round in his own column of dryness. He was just joking, of course, but Tom made you think things like that.
Jack’s bar looks right out onto the square, the kind of square towns don’t have much anymore: big and dusty with old roads out each corner, tall shops and houses on all the sides and some stone paving in the middle round a fountain that ain’t worked in living memory. Well in the summer that old square is just full of out-of-towners in pink towelling jumpsuits and nasty jackets standing round saying ‘Wow’ and taking pictures of our quaint old hall and our quaint old stores and even our quaint old selves if we stand still too long. Tom would sit out near the fountain and paint and those people would stand and watch for hours—but he didn’t paint the houses or the square or the old Picture House. He painted animals, and painted them like you’ve never seen. Birds with huge blue speckled wings and cats with cutting green eyes; and whatever he painted it looked like it was just coiled up on the canvas ready to fly away. He didn’t do them in their normal colours, they were all reds and purples and deep blues and greens—and yet they fair sparkled with life. It was a wonder to watch: he’d put up a fresh paper, sit looking at nothing in particular, then dip his brush into his paint and draw a line, maybe red, maybe blue. Then he’d add another, maybe the same colour, maybe not. Stroke by stroke you could see the animal build up in front of your eyes and yet when it was finished you couldn’t believe it hadn’t always been there. When he’d finished he’d spray it with some stuff to fix the paints and put a price on it and you can believe me those paintings were sold before they hit the ground. Spreading businessmen from New Jersey or somesuch and their bored wives would come alive for maybe the first time in years, and walk away with one of those paintings and their arms round each other, looking like they’d found a bit of something they’d forgotten they’d lost.
Come about six o’clock Tom would finish up and walk across to Jack’s, looking like a sailing ship amongst rowing boats and saying yes he’d be back again tomorrow and yes, he’d be happy to do a painting for them. He’d get a beer and sit with us and watch the game and there’d be no paint on his fingers or his clothes, not a spot. I figured he’d got so much control over that paint it went where it was told and nowhere else.
I asked him once how he could bear to let those paintings go. I know if I’d been able to make anything that good in my whole life I couldn’t let it out of my sight, I’d want to keep it to look at sometimes. He thought for a moment and then he said he believed it depends how much of yourself you’ve put into it. If you’ve gone deep down and pulled up what’s inside and put it down, then you don’t want to let it go: you want to keep it, so’s you can check sometimes that it’s still safely tied down. Comes a time when a painting’s so right and so good that it’s private, and no-one’ll understand it except the man who put it down. Only he is going to know what he’s talking about. But the everyday paintings, well they were mainly just because he liked to paint animals, and liked for people to have them. He could only put a piece of himself into something he was going to sell, but they paid for the beers and I guess it’s like us fellows in Jack’s Bar: if you like talking, you don’t always have to be saying something important.
Why animals? Well if you’d seen him with them I guess you wouldn’t have to ask. He loved them, is all, and they loved him right back. The cats were always his favourites. My old Pa used to say that cats weren’t nothing but sleeping machines put on the earth to do some of the human’s sleeping for them, and whenever Tom worked in the square there’d always be a couple curled up near his feet. And whenever he did a chalk drawing, he’d always do a cat.
Once in a while, you see, Tom seemed to get tired of painting on paper, and he’d get out some chalks and sit down on the baking flagstones and just do a drawing right there on the dusty rock. Now I’ve told you about his paintings, but these drawings were something else again. It was like because they couldn’t be bought but would be washed away, he was putting more of himself into it, doing more than just shooting the breeze. They were just chalk on dusty stone and they were still in these weird colours, but I tell you children wouldn’t walk near them because they looked so real, and they weren’t the only ones, either. People would stand a few feet back and stare and you could see the wonder in their eyes. If they could’ve been bought there were people who would have sold their houses. I’m telling you. And it’s a funny thing but a couple of times w
hen I walked over to open the store up in the mornings I saw a dead bird or two on top of those drawings, almost like they had landed on it and been so terrified to find themselves right on top of a cat they’d dropped dead of fright. But they must have been dumped there by some real cat, of course, because some of those birds looked like they’d been mauled a bit. I used to throw them in the bushes to tidy up and some of them were pretty broken up.
Old Tom was a godsend to a lot of mothers that summer, who found they could leave their little ones by him, do their shopping in peace and have a soda with their friends and come back to find the kids still sitting quietly watching Tom paint. He didn’t mind them at all and would talk to them and make them laugh, and kids of that age laughing is one of the best sounds there is. It’s the kind of sound that makes the trees grow. They’re young and curious and the world spins round them and when they laugh the world seems a brighter place because it takes you back to the time when you knew no evil and everything was good, or if it wasn’t, it would be over by tomorrow.
And here I guess I’ve finally come down to it, because there was one little boy who didn’t laugh much, but just sat quiet and watchful, and I guess he probably understands more of what happened that summer than any of us, though maybe not in words he could tell.
His name was Billy McNeill, and he was Jim Valentine’s kid. Jim used to be a mechanic, worked with Ned up at the gas station and raced beat-up cars after hours. Which is why his kid is called McNeill now: one Sunday Jim took a corner a mite too fast and the car rolled and the gas tank caught and they never did find all the wheels. A year later his Mary married again. God alone knows why, her folks warned her, her friends warned her, but I guess love must just have been blind. Sam McNeill’s work schedule was at best pretty empty, and mostly he just drank and hung out with friends who maybe weren’t always this side of the law. I guess Mary had her own sad little miracle and got her sight back pretty soon, because it wasn’t long before Sam got free with his fists when the evenings got too long and he’d had a lot too many. You didn’t see Mary around much anymore. In these parts people tend to stare at black eyes on a woman, and a deaf man could hear the whisperings of ‘We Told Her So’.
More Tomorrow: And Other Stories Page 20
