by Nick Hornby
Anyway, when I’d finished the sit-ups, I’d normally do about twenty-five press-ups before going to the top of the stairs and doing my chin-ups. The way the bar was positioned meant I could see people passing in the street. That was deliberate. To be honest, I’ve never been a natural exercise freak and you need something to distract you, take you away from the reality of it, otherwise you go mad. So I’d watch people without them knowing and then occasionally someone would spot me through the glass pane in the door, spot my head going up and down, and you could see them double-take, trying to work out what was going on. From out there it looked like magic. Levitation. A nice way to end a heavy-going routine.
Now, on this morning that I’m talking about, I really wanted to see the street and pull my own weight – I didn’t care about the rest. I skipped the press-ups, went straight to the bar and hooked my hands round it. I don’t know how much you know about it, but when you do a chin-up you meet your own fingers in a position you don’t usually come across. With the nails facing you, like somebody’s else’s hands are reaching out to touch your face. I remember looking at my fingers, all white, all the blood gone travelling elsewhere, and thinking that this was OK, doing this with your fingers. Do you know what I mean? It wasn’t holding a camera or writing a concerto, but it was OK. It made them tingle. It got the blood going, and that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Whatever gets the blood pumping. Whatever makes you feel high; unreal.
And then I saw Cole coming down the street, heading for our front gate. You couldn’t miss Cole because he was black, six foot nine and a half inches and fourteen years old. I had only met Cole a month earlier, after I joined this new school for my re-takes. I failed practically everything the summer before and it was one of those schools where they cram a lot of stuff into a little time to get you ready to re-take your exams in December. Cole was re-taking practically everything too. But weirdly, between the two of us, we’d managed to fail a lot of totally different subjects. I remember thinking that was hilarious, at the time. Two people being so stupid, but with no overlap. Stupid in two completely different ways. So Cole and I were only in one class together, Performing Arts, a course that had a lot less performing in it than we’d hoped. We’d both taken it because we thought it’d be an easy option. In fact, it was mostly reading about the history of the cinema and the theatre. Really dry stuff. I was bored out of my mind until Cole turned up, late and slow as usual, two weeks into the course. Six foot nine and a half. I remember when I first saw him I couldn’t believe it. I asked him all the usual questions. I said, is it weird being that tall? Do you have to buy different clothes? Are all your family like that? And Cole said, ‘No, mate, I’m the only one.’ You could tell how often he got asked the lame stuff I’d just asked him. I didn’t want to bore him, but it’s a hard thing to get used to. Harder than you’d imagine. It still hadn’t worn off when I saw him loping up the path, a magic giant, while I levitated, a genie. He spotted me, and looked surprised, and I laughed and dropped down from the bar. For some reason I always felt so happy to see Cole. So happy! And this was the first time he’d come round to my house so it was like a stamp on our new friendship. It was a green light. I didn’t want to be a big girl about it, but to be honest with you, I kind of skipped down the steps.
‘Whatsup Cole?’ I said, opening the door. I greeted him how we always greeted each other. In ways I can’t really describe; low handshakes and a kind of slouchy walk we picked up off MTV, the videos, the rap shows. We liked to be American about it. But it was still very personal to us. We added something to it, is what I’m trying to say.
Cole grinned like a madman. ‘Hey, brother, you were floating! Where’s your magic carpet?’
I pointed to the chin-up bar.
‘Oh, I see. Getting fit for the ladies,’ he said, even though I had no success with the ladies and he knew it. ‘Can I come in?’
I said, ‘Yeah, but be quiet on the stairs. My sister’s asleep. And be careful, bro. You know these ceilings are low! Good to see you, man.’
We went up to the lounge and talked about some stuff, stuff that was happening in school. Cole was one of those people who’s always trying to put the best spin on things. All you got from him was, ‘Of course she likes you’, and ‘Don’t worry about that, he won’t give you any trouble’, so by the end of a conversation with Cole you sort of felt you were the king of the world, even though he was the one with his head in the heavens. I remember he was talking, flattering me and everything, and I kept looking at him and feeling this strange pride, as if the fact that he was so tall was something to do with me. Then I got this burning urge to show him to Kelly.
‘Wait here,’ I said, ‘I want to get somebody. Just a minute. Just stay here.’
I knocked on Kelly’s door a few times but of course she didn’t answer so I pushed it open a crack. It smelt like shit in there. I don’t think the sheets had been changed since she moved back. She was asleep but she had an old black and white film that she’d been watching, The Philadelphia Story, playing on the video. Sometimes she’d watch this film three times in a day. If I walked in she’d always say something like, ‘Now, you see Jimmy Stewart? There was a man. There was a tall, handsome man.’ Or if the other guy was on screen, she’d be like, ‘That’s how a man should wear a suit. Can you see the cut of that suit?’ I didn’t give a shit about the film or anybody in it. Kelly was always telling me about stuff I didn’t give a shit about. But for some reason, I wanted her to see Cole. I didn’t know if it was me or her who would get a buzz out of it. Maybe neither of us. But I wanted it. I was persistent. I said, ‘Kelly! Kelly, I want to show you something.’
She didn’t move. But I kept on. I wanted her to see Cole so much it surprised me. She was asking me, ‘What is it? Just tell me what it is. What is it?’ But I wanted her to see Cole without warning, the way I first saw him, coming into a room like a moving statue – something great and still that had been given life. Finally, Kelly moved her great big fat butt out of that duvet, but she was only wearing a pair of knickers. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘OK, I’m up. This better be good.’ You’re fourteen. You don’t want to see your sister naked. Not under any circumstances. I told her that. I said, ‘Kel, you’ve got to put something on.’
She cut her eyes at me and moaned a bit more, but in the end she put a dressing gown on and followed me into the lounge. She kept on muttering, ‘This better be good’, and I kept on telling her to shut up and see.
I know that people say I won’t ever forget your face when such and such happened … and half the time they don’t mean it, but I mean it. I can see her face now if I close my eyes. It was fantastic! I saw this amazing curve, like a piece of fruit, right across her face. She smiled like I hadn’t seen her do since she moved back, like I’d never seen her do before. I don’t want to say I won’t see it again. That would be a jinx. There’s a line from that film she was always watching – The time to make your mind up about people is … never. Generally, I don’t enjoy films like that – nothing happening, everything slowed down – but I always thought she had a point, the thin-lipped woman who says that. And it’s not my business to say it won’t ever happen again – what do I know? – but it felt like a one-off. It wasn’t only the smile, it was her eyes as well, which were watery like she wanted to cry. A week earlier I’d read about the Lumière brothers – so was this what they looked like, the people who saw those first films, in Paris or wherever? In the dark – watching the flat people walk, watching the flat trains move and the fake steam – were they smiling? Kelly’s face. I said I’ll never forget it and I won’t. Then it changed. As if she’d remembered something she’d forgotten; leaving the lights on or the key in the door; and then this look I’m talking about was gone.
There was silence for a while and then in the gap I said, ‘Look how tall my friend Cole is!’
Cole said, ‘Hello.’ I could tell he was embarrassed, Kelly in her dressing gown and everything with these fat calves on display. He jus
t looked at the floor.
She said, ‘Fucking hell, you’re tall.’
Cole laughed.
‘How tall are you? Six seven?’
‘Six nine and a half,’ said Cole, and he shrugged as if he wished that just at this moment it wasn’t true. I wondered whether he’d felt that before.
Kelly shook her head and whistled. ‘And how old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
Kelly whistled again. ‘That’s unbelievable. Are the rest of your family like that?’
‘No, I’m the only one. My Mum’s only five seven.’
‘Well, you’re a very big fellow, Cole.’
‘Yep.’
‘Do they make you play basketball at school?’ asked Kelly, which was the stupidest question ever and kind of racist and I was worried Cole would be upset. But instead he grinned.
‘They try but I’m no good, mate. I’m terrible.’
‘Six foot nine and a half. Fucking hell.’
She reached over to touch his elbow and then moved back. It was a weird thing to do. Her eyes were full of water. ‘Fourteen years old. I didn’t think they made them like you any more. You’re a very big fellow, Cole,’ she said again like a broken record.
Cole looked at the floor, getting more and more awkward and I wished to God I’d never brought her in the room in the first place.
‘Yes, I am. I’m big. I don’t know how it happened, it just happened.’
Then out of the blue Kelly said, ‘You know, I make films.’
I see now that she had to get the conversation back over to her side of the fence, to where she knew what everything looked like, how everything felt and what everything meant. I do it a lot myself these days. But at the time, I hated her for it. She couldn’t let him just be.
Cole raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. I’m about to make my first feature film, would you believe.’
Cole said, ‘Cool, cool, I believe it,’ but he looked like he didn’t.
Then she said, ‘Well, a man your height, I’ll have to find a place for you in my next film, won’t I?’
Cole shrugged again, like it would be nice if she did, but then again it would be just fine if she didn’t. Such a big man, Cole, but fluid as water. To look at him you’d think he couldn’t fit anywhere – actually he fitted everywhere. That’s how I remember him.
‘I can think of a hundred roles,’ she said, ‘I can think of a hundred things you could be.’
She said that, and then she pulled her dressing gown round her and sort of nodded to herself and left, and in a few minutes I could hear the film starting up again, from the beginning with the opening title music.
‘She’s nice,’ said Cole, because he always tried to say the right thing. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he said, ‘spin some tunes!’
I think Cole did me a great service that day. But every time I try to pin it down, all I have is the image of his long, sleek calves in front of me as he climbed the stairs, his massive hand on the banister.
NippleJesus
NICK HORNBY
They never told me what it was, and they never told me why they might need someone like me. I probably wouldn’t have taken the fucking job if they had, to tell you the truth. And if I’d been clever, I would have asked them on the first day, because looking back on it now, I had a few clues to be going on with: we were all sat around in this staff-room type place, being given all the do’s and don’t’s, and it never occurred to me that I was just about the only male under sixty they’d hired. There were a few middle-aged women, and a lot of old gits, semi-retired, ex-Army types, but there was only one bloke of around my age, and he was tiny – little African geezer, Geoffrey, who looked like he’d run a mile if anything went off. But sometimes I forget what I look like, if you know what I mean. I was sitting there listening to what this woman was saying about flash photography and how close people were allowed to get and all that, and I was more like a head than a body, sort of thing, because if you’re listening to what someone’s saying that’s what you are, isn’t it? A head. A brain, not a body. But the point of me – the point of me here, in this place, for this job – is that I’m six foot two and fifteen stone. It’s not just that, either, but I look … well, handy, I suppose. I look like I can take care of myself, what with the tattoos and the shaved head and all that. But sometimes I forget. I don’t forget when I’m eyeballing some little shitbag outside a club, some nineteen-year-old in a two-hundred-quid jacket who’s trying to impress his bird by giving me some mouth; but when I’m watching something on TV, like a documentary or something, or when I’m putting the kids to bed, or when I’m reading, I don’t think, you know, fucking hell I’m big. Anyway, listening to this woman, I forgot, so when she told me I’d be in the Southern Fried Chicken Wing looking after number 49, I never asked her ‘Why me? Why do you need a big bloke in the Southern?’ I just trotted off, like a berk. I never thought for a moment that I was on some sort of special mission.
I took this job because I promised Lisa I’d give up the night work at the club. It wasn’t so much the hours – ten till three Monday to Thursday, ten till five Friday and Saturday, club closed on Sunday. OK, they fucked the weekends up, and I never saw the kids in the morning, but I could pick them up from school, give them their tea, and Lisa didn’t have to worry about childcare or anything. She works in a dentist’s near Harley Street, decent job, nice boss, good pay, normal hours, and with me being off all day, we could manage. I mean, it wasn’t ideal, ’cos I never really saw her – by the time the kids were down and we’d had something to eat, it was time for me to put the monkey-suit on and go out. But we both sort of knew it was just a phase, and I’d do something else eventually, although fuck knows what. Never really thought about that. She asks me sometimes what I’d do if I had the choice, and I always tell her I’d be Tiger Woods – millions of dollars a week, afternoons knocking a golf ball about in places like Spain and Florida, gorgeous blonde girlfriends (except I never mention that bit). And she says, no, seriously, and I say, I am being serious, and she says, no, you’ve got to be realistic. So I say, well what’s the point of this game, then? You’re asking me what I’d do if I had the choice, and I tell you, and then you tell me I haven’t got the fucking choice. So what am I supposed to say? And she says, but you’re too old to be a professional golfer – and she’s right, I’m thirty-eight now – and you smoke too much. (Like you can’t play fucking golf if you smoke.) Choose something else. And I say, OK, then, I’ll be fucking Richard Branson. And she says, well you can’t just start by being Richard Branson. You have to do something first. And I say, OK, I’ll be a bouncer first. And she gives up.
I know she means well, and I know she’s trying to get me to think about my life, and about getting older and all that, but the truth is, I’m thirty-eight, I’ve got no trade and no qualifications, and I’m lucky to get a job headbutting cokeheads outside a club. She’s great, Lisa, and if you think about it, even her asking the question shows that she loves me and thinks the world of me, because she really does think I’ve got choices, and someone else is going to have as much faith in me as she does. She wants me to say, oh, I’d like to run a DIY shop, or I’d like to be an accountant, and the next day she’d come back with a load of leaflets, but I don’t want to run a DIY shop, and I don’t want to be an accountant. I know what my talent is: my talent is being big, and I’m making the most of it. If anyone asks her what I do, she says I’m a security consultant, but if I’m around when she says it, I laugh and say I’m a bouncer. I don’t know what she’d say now. Probably that I’m an art expert. You watch. Give her two weeks and she’ll be on at me to write to Antiques Roadshow. I don’t know what world she lives in sometimes. I think it’s something to do with the dentist’s. She meets all these people, and they’re loaded, and as thick as me, half of them, and she gets confused about what’s possible and what’s not.
But like I said, it wasn’t the hours at the club. There were a
couple of nasty moments recently, and I told her about them because they frightened me, so of course she did her nut, and I promised her I’d pack it in. See, the trouble is now, it doesn’t matter how handy you are. I mean, half of those kids who went down Casablanca’s, I literally could pick them up by the neck with one hand, and when you can do that … Put it this way, I didn’t need to change my underpants too often. (I do anyway, though, every day, in case you’re thinking I’m an unhygienic bastard.) But now everyone’s tooled up. No one says, I’m going to have you. They all say, I’m going to cut you, or I’m going to stab you, and I’m going, yeah, yeah, and then they show you what they’ve got, and you think, fucking hell, this isn’t funny any more. Because how can you look after yourself if someone’s got a knife? You can’t. Anyway, about a month ago I threw this nasty little piece of work out of the club because he’d pushed it too far with a girl who was in there with her mates. And to be honest I probably slapped him once more than was strictly necessary, because he really got on my fucking nerves. And the next thing I know, he’s got this … this thing, this … I’ve never seen anything like it before, but it was a sort of spike, about six inches long, sharp as fuck and rusty, and he starts jabbing it at me and telling me that I was dead. I was lucky, because he was scared, and he was holding this thing all wrong so it was pointing down at the ground instead of towards me, so I kicked his hand as hard as I fucking could and he dropped it, and I jumped on him. We called the police and they nicked him, but when they’d gone I knocked off. I’d had enough. I know what people think: they think that if that’s the sort of job you choose, you’re asking for whatever you get, and you probably want it, too, because you’re a big ape who likes hurting people. Well, bollocks. I don’t like hurting people. For me, a good night at Casablanca’s is one where nothing’s happened at all. I mean, OK, I’ll probably have to stop a couple of people coming in because they’re underage, or bombed out of their brains, but I see my job as allowing people to have a good time without fear of arseholes. Really, I do. I mean, OK, I’m not Mother Teresa or anything, I’m not doing good works or saving the world, but it’s not such a shitty job if you look at it like that. But I’m a family man. I can’t have people waving rusty spikes at me at two in the morning. I don’t want to die outside some poxy club. So I told Lisa about it, and we talked, and I packed it in. I was lucky, because I was only out of work for a fortnight. They wouldn’t let me draw the dole because I’d left my previous employment voluntarily. ‘But this geezer had a rusty spike,’ I said. ‘Well, you should have taken it up with your employers,’ she said. Like they would have offered me a desk job. Or given the kid with a spike a written warning. It didn’t matter much, though, ’cos I found this one pretty much straight away, at an employment bureau. The money’s a lot less, but the hours are better. I was well chuffed. How hard can it be, I thought, standing in front of a painting?
