Man Hating Psycho

by Iphgenia Baal

  — Who says I want articles written about me in the fucking Guardian? she said. — What? ʻBiracial millennial redefines rape for the social media eraʼ? Rofl. No thanks.

  He lolled. — ʻPrison dude says prison sucks.ʼ

  — Exactly, she said.

  She watched him tear the enjera with his grubby fingers and mop up lentils.

  — But it’s bullshit, he said. — ʻCulture.ʼ I’m just sick of it.

  — I know you are, she said. — That’s why you hang around with me.

  He smiled.

  — I just wish there was something we could do, he said. — You know, to change it up. It’s like there’s nothing real anymore.

  He launched into a monologue bemoaning London’s arid creative landscape and the lowly cultural statuses of themselves and people they rated.

  — I mean look at Mattais, he’s an amazing writer and he’s what? Working on a psych ward? he said.

  — At least he’s working on it and not committed to it, she said.

  — And your weird mate, what’s she called? he said. — The music girl.

  — Flora, she said.

  — Yeah, he said, — I mean, she’s cool, but what the fuck does she do?

  — She’s a freak, she said. — It’s a full time job.

  But he had a bee in his bonnet and wouldn’t let it drop. Example followed example. The graff kid who’d had his tag stolen by Supreme for a line of t-shirts, the producer whose beat had been ripped off by Skepta, the sex blogger who’d had her account shut down by Insta. She finished eating and wiped her mouth.

  — If you are so desperate to do something, she said, — why don’t you just do it? We could do something. Me and you.

  His face lit up. Shovelling the last of the dinner into his mouth he came up with idea after idea about what the thing they should do would be. A book? A zine! A website? A podcast! Open up a squat and run a space? All his ideas sounded fun but she couldn’t help pointing out their obvious flaws: time, effort, money. In the end they settled on the most straightforward plan of action. They would put on an event. They’d both read. She could work Adobe so she’d do the flyers. He had a lot of followers and was a member of multiple WhatsApp groups so would pump it out on socials. He came up with the name: ‘Reading‘, pronounced like ‘reading a book‘, but using the logo for the Reading Festival from the Nineties. She suggested a couple more performers: Flora for music and Reggie Stepper, a Ghanaian she’d met peddling his self-published book, It's On Top in a vegan Jamaican cafe in Whitechapel. He called a friend who lived in an ex-squat, now being run as a co-op, in Bermondsey and asked if they could set up in the kitchen. A date ten days in the future was decided and by the time they paid for the food and left, the thing was on.

  The event was a massive success. Way more people than she’d expected, the readings met with laughter at all the right places, and the music so ephemeral that the audience didn’t notice it and (to Flora’s absolute delight) talked all the way through the set.

  It was over by nine but there was such a good vibe, nobody wanted to leave and so the entire unruly party strolled into the night brandishing beer cans and spray cans and spliffs, buzzing at having been at what felt like the start of something new, something genuine, something un-PR’ed. Really exciting.

  The two of them felt closer than ever. This wasn’t just hanging out anymore, it was business! They walked arm in arm in the middle of the crowd beaming and congratulating one another on what they’d created… Except they kept being interrupted by Reggie Stepper, who was on her case. Kept trying to hold her hand, calling her wifey and saying how he was gonna cook her dinner. While she was cornered by Reggie, he took out his spray can and wrote her name in massive letters on the back of a bus waiting at traffic lights.

  Realising she’s a dab hand at PhotoShop, the ideas came thick and fast. He suggested a poster to sell at events and through his website, a set of stickers of his graffiti, and a flyer for an activist group he was trying to ingratiate himself with. She agreed to all of the above and soon enough the two of them were churning out what he referred to as ‘product’ fast.

  — I love working with you, he said, after she’d emailed him a few different designs for the cover of a feminist pamphlet his friend wanted doing. — Everyone else needs like three meetings and wants to email every fucking tiny change but you, you just smash it out. It’s wicked.

  She appreciated the compliment and liked seeing her work go out and getting likes on other people’s Instagrams. On the whole, her work was put out anonymously, either under his graffiti name or one activist group or another. Until a promo postcard he asked her to design for Cape Campaign, which hashtagged his name but not hers. But then she didn’t give too much of a shit. It was only Instagram. And she wasn’t doing it for the credit. But she wasn’t doing it for money either. So, why was she doing it? Because she believed in what they were campaigning for? Which was what? Prison abolition. That sounded alright, she supposed. Still, it’d clearly annoyed her because she looked at the post several times over the next few days and each time she looked felt a kick of something unpleasant.

  — Oooo, that’s nice, her mum, an avid Instagrammer, said, catching sight of the post on her phone. — What is it?

  She locked her phone.

  — It’s a flyer I made, she said. — They posted it without crediting me, that’s all.

  — Is this for that boy you’ve been hanging around with? her mum said.

  — Maybe, she said. — Why?

  — I’ll tell you straight, darling, her mum said — But you’re not gonna like it. That boy has got you exactly where he wants you. He’s got you running around after him, making work for him, making content in promotion of issues he cares about, but what is he doing for you?

  — He’s my friend, she said.

  — Well the way I see it, her mum said, — And I know you aren’t going to agree with me, is that transgressions made against private property, which is what graffiti is, which is what squatting is… he is a squatter, yes? That’s one thing. People might not like it, they might not agree with it, but at the end of the day it’s a wall, it’s a house, it doesn’t matter. But transgressions made against a person, well, that’s something else entirely.

  Her mother was right about her not agreeing with the opinions espoused on graffiti or squatting. Her attitude was, with the system as corrupt as it was, any form of opposition to it was valid. So she was able to dismiss her mother’s opinion on the friendship and forgo any consideration of what her friend’s hidden (possibly even to himself) intentions towards her might be.

  The next time they speak he has a new proposition.

  — I was thinking, he said, — you’re not really a designer, you’re a writer and you remember how I went to Mexico?

  — Yes, she said.

  — Well, I’ve written something about it but it’s a mess and I’ve kinda run out of steam. I thought maybe you could have a look at it and let me know what you think. Whether it’s worth doing or not.

  He emailed a Word doc which she downloads to her phone. He was right, it was a mess. Text justified right, left and centre, whole paragraphs in italics for no reason, spelling mistakes highlighted eight to a line. She emailed him back.

  Do you want me to go through and edit? xx

  His reply arrived in her inbox in seconds.

  That’d be AMAZING. I’d reaaaaally appreciate. I’m a bit worried that I come across like one of those wankers who goes in for extreme holidaying hahaha. What we saying for next event?

  She replied with an attachment of a rough design for the next flyer.

  Flyer already done. Just waiting for details of people/venue/date. More soon xx

  That evening she sat down to read the text properly, on her computer. It began with him arriving in Los Angeles, visiting a prison then he’s in Mexico with his graffiti friend, Pear. She made light corrections as she progressed, moving commas, adding capital letters and hyphens, closing up d
ouble spaces. Then the whole thing went a bit weird and there was a massive chunk of statistics about the history of brown people in the Americas. Unsure where the information was from but not wanting to make major changes without his approval, she started to leave notes in the margins.

  Clichéd. Also there are a lot of black and latino ppl who r paler than u r AND a lot of black and latino ppl who vote Republican. Best to avoid magical negro trope as a rule.

  Comes across as preachy + if u extend this argument to its conclusion what ur saying is that the leftest you can get is Jeremy Corbyn. Which is not true. Also Jews got to south america b4 slavery.

  WTF. You can’t just cut and past from Wiki.

  Also, tenses r all over the place. It's cool to switch from past to present in the same text but if u do u gotta do it u gotta go it well.

  The text is just over forty thousand words so she doesn’t make it to the end on first read. She works until it got dark then calls him as she makes supper. His phone goes to voicemail.

  — Hi there, I rarely check my messages so if you want to get hold of me quickly send me a text.

  The next morning she picks up where she left off over coffee, following his escapades from desert to barrios, italicising the Spanish, correcting tenses, querying repetitions. Occasionally she will take a picture of a sentence she likes and text it to him and when she reaches the end of the story, which is less of an ending and more of a stop, she calls.

  — Hi there, I rarely check my….

  She emails him the edit.

  It’s really good. Really funny. Really informative. Have tried to keep ur conversational tone but make it readable. Some suggestions re: structure also. Anyway, AWOL? Lost ur phone? Call me bitch xxx

  But he doesn't call or reply to her email. She checks the messages she’d sent earlier. Delivered but not read. She assumes he is holed up with one of his women and while she has no problem with that, per se, finds herself, for the first time ever, irritated by him. She drafts a text saying how’d she’d done a helluva lotta work that she’d been happy to do but it was rude to… She remembers the Instagram post that had tagged his name and not hers. So not for the first time ever. For the second.

  She doesn’t hear from him for the rest of the week. Every afternoon she calls and every afternoon it’s the same.

  — Hi there, I rarely check my…

  — Hi there…

  — Hi…

  And then, — This mailbox is full.

  She begins to worry that her initial annoyance had been rash and maybe she should’ve been concerned for his safety instead. If he’d lost his phone he’d check his email. Maybe, she thinks, he’s got arrested? But if he’s been arrested that would mean he didn’t get bail and you didn’t not get bail for graffiti…

  He resurfaces early Saturday morning. Calls, sounding hyper.

  — Yoooo, he yells when she answers.

  — Where’ve you been? she says.

  — Went on a mad one didn’t I? he says. — What you saying? I’m right near your house. Come meet me.

  Without time for coffee she walks to where he says he is, the north side of Blackfriars Bridge, half-asleep. They set off in the direction of his but he doesn’t get off his bike. He rides in wobbly circles around her, making conversation difficult.

  — I was thinking, he says, — for the next event, we could get Ian Bone. He’s so into me.

  — Did you read my edit? she says.

  — He emailed me, he says. — He called me comrade.

  He puffed out his chest.

  — Does he know you're middle class? she says.

  — And then there’s this graff kid. ‘Ve you seen that goofy face with fangs? He’s killing it. And we could get Wolfboy down from Nottingham, or wherever the fuck he lives. But we need a venue. Somewhere big this time. I was thinking you could ask your mate, what’s her name, to let us use the Tin Tabernacle?

  — Flora, she says. — Her name’s Flora. But I don’t know. I’m not sure a bunch of rowdy graffiti twats is what that place needs. If anything, it needs protecting from those kind of people. Plus Tin Tab usually rents out for £200 a night. That’s how they keep the roof from falling in…

  But he won't take no for an answer.

  — Just text her, he says. — See what she says.

  They stop while she takes out her phone and texts Flora, who responds with unusual promptness. To her surprise, Flora's answer is 'yes'.

  — Sweet! he says. — That's sorted then…

  — Is it? she says.

  When they reach Vauxhall Bridge he gets off his bike and on his phone.

  — What you doing now? he says absentmindedly.

  — Nothing, she says. — Hanging out with you. Have you read the edit I sent?

  He takes out his phone and writes a text.

  — I think I’m gonna head, he says.

  — Oh, she says. — Ok.

  He puts his phone back in his pocket.

  — I’ll shout you tomorrow, he says. — Let’s hang.

  — So you get me out of bed to walk you home? she says. — What the fuck?

  — Shit, I’m sorry, he says, noticing she is miffed. — I didn’t think. It’s just this girl that I’m kinda seeing, she’s turned up at mine… But what you doing tomorrow?

  — Nothing I don’t think, she says.

  — Well I’ll come to you, he says.

  — We could look at Mexichaos, she says.

  — What? he says.

  — Your writing, she says.

  — Oh yeah, he says, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. — That’s a good title actually.

  He gets back on his bike.

  — Did you look at the version I sent you? she says

  — Haven’t really been checking my email, he says, pushing down on his left pedal. — Too much bollocks!

  — Have a look! she shouts, jogging after him. — I mean, feel free to disregard anything, they’re only suggestions…

  He slows down and looks back.

  — Sweet, he says, throwing a black power salute. — You’re the best. I owe you one.

  He drops off the pavement and into the road. She turns and walks back along the river, buying a coffee on the way home.

  The next day he wants to go to the ICA where a guy he used to be friends with but now hates is hosting a zine fair. They meet out front but don’t end up going in and instead sit in St. James’s Park slagging off the exhibitors.

  — That girl Luisa thinks she’s so fit, he says. — When I was fucking her do you know what she said? She told me she thought her face was world-changing. World-changing. I mean, lol!

  — The face that sunk a thousand chips, she says.

  — Lol, he says, again.

  — Anyway, did you look at what I sent you yet?

  He looks blank.

  — Mexico? she says.

  — Ah, shit, he says. — I’m a fucking dickhead. I’ll look at it tonight. Promise.

  They meet the following evening at a Nigerian place in Tooting he wants to go to because he’s never tried fufu. Sitting side by side under neon lights on a black faux leather sofa, they order everything on the menu.

  — So, did you look at the edit or what? she says.

  — Ugh, he makes a face. — Yeah I had a look but I’m not sure I can be bothered with it anymore.

  — Are you serious? she says.

  — What? he says, turning to face her. — What’s the point? Who’s even gonna publish it?

  She grins.

  — It’s funny, she says.

  — What is? he says.

  — Listening to someone else get depressed about what I spend my entire life depressed about. I’m telling you, nobody else thinks like this.

  — Come again, he says.

  The food arrives suspciously fast.

  — I’m saying, she says, toying with the mound of fufu, — that only writers get like this. Normal people just do their jobs and do their relationships and do their leis
ure time. I mean, d’you think normal people get depressed about grammar? Cos I’m telling you, they don’t.

  — It’s not the grammar I’m depressed about, he says, pulling the shared plate towards him.

  — Yes it is, she says. — You just don’t know it yet.

  He lifts a heaped spoonful of fufu to his mouth.

  — You’re being cryptic, he says, with his mouthful.

  — Am I? she says. — Maybe. Either way, all you gotta do is write the thing. When it’s done, something will happen. It always does. And if it doesn’t, publish it yourself.

  He perks up.

  — Maybe we could start an imprint, he says. — You and me.

  — You and Me Books, she says. — I like that.

  — Hey, he says, shuffling around on the sofa, which squeaks, — why don’t we go and have a look at it after this?

  — I don’t know, she says. — I should really get home. You know I haven’t done any work for ages and it’s starting to stress me out.

  — This is work, he says.

  — Yeah. Your work, she says. — So I don't think I should do too much more to it. It’s your thing.

  — I just need someone to get me going, he says. — Through the sludge. He nudges her with his elbow. — Go on. Come back to mine. Please. I’ll get dinner.

  He persuades her into accepting a backie to Clapham. She sits on the bicycle seat, balancing dangling legs away from the wheel while he stands and pedals. She puts her hands on his shoulders.

  — Put your arms round my waist, he says. — It’s easier.

  She wraps her arms around his torso. She holds him loosely at first but then her leg muscles start to ache and she holds on tighter, leaning into him, ear pressed against his back. It’s strange holding his body in her arms because although they are close and hug and kiss and touch all the time, their physical interactions are brief (’tis the English way). She’s never held onto him tight for fifteen minutes with his bum rising and falling and rising and falling against her chest.