the butt mutt

Once upon a time, not long ago, I was sitting in the office of our little theatre trying to come up with a good idea for a story about food. I had chosen the theatre because in those days, the days between Christmas and New Year, it was quiet and secluded. That, and very, very messy, as I found when I went into the kitchen to prepare myself a nice cup of tea. Used coffee mugs, dirty dishes, a pot with residues of mulled wine and quite a number of ashtrays bristling with cigarette stubs and burnt matches. Exasperated, I threw up my hands: Did nobody ever clean in here? I sighed and said to myself: “I wish there was any other way to get rid of this mess than me tidying up yet again.” Then I shook my head, put the kettle on and left everything as it was.

The next day and the day after and the day after that, everything was fairly much the same. I sat and smoked and thought, occasionally getting up to fetch a cup of tea. The mess I ignored. But every evening when I closed the kitchen door, I muttered to myself: “It would be really nice if at least these bloody ashtrays weren’t always so full.”

As I passed the kitchen on my way to the office the next morning, there was a faint rumble in the closet in which we keep the paint. But you see, this is an old building and strange noises are fairly common. I ignored it and sat down to work. It was only when I lit my first cigarette that I noticed that the ashtray on the desk next to my screen did not contain any stubs. I was startled. Had I emptied it the previous evening? I couldn’t remember, and so I decided to ignore this as well.

After an hour or two of smoking and thinking about a suitable plot for my story, I went to the kitchen to make some tea. I searched the sideboard for my Earl Grey, and noticed that all the other ashtrays were decidedly less full than the last time I gave them a closer look. Waiting for the water to boil, I looked around. Everything was just as I had left it.

Then the rumble returned. A queasy feeling welled up in me, but for once I was brave and went over to the paint closet and opened the door. Nothing unusual. The paint pots were neatly stacked on the shelves, and the paint rollers lay peacefully in their bucket. The only disarray was a grey piece of fabric lying on the floor under one of the shelves. I bent down to pick it up and throw it away. As I stretched out my hand, the shelf said, “Don’t you dare.” Dumbstruck, I withdrew my hand and tried to stand straight, but bumped my head against the shelf. I squealed.

“There you go.” The voice said in a complacent tone. “That’s what happens when you try tugging other people’s tail. Hah!”

Again, the rumble was heard; the tail disappeared, and instead a head the size of a football appeared and looked at me reproachfully. It had two floppy ears, tiny yellow eyes, and a wrinkled snout protruding from under grey, tangled fur which seemed to cover the whole … thing. The creature was about half a meter in height and just as long. It had four legs and also a tail, with which I had first made acquaintance. Now, it wiggled and waggled its way from under the shelf, out of the closet and into the kitchen.

“What are you?” I asked.

“I am the Butt Mutt.” It said and vigorously started wagging its tail and drooling a little. “Sorry, I can‘t control this; it seems to be an inbuilt feature.” The Butt Mutt looked mortified.

“What is a Butt Mutt?”

“Not A Butt Mutt. The Butt Mutt.”

“Ok, The Butt Mutt. So what are you – some kind of dog or something?”

The Butt Mutt sighed. “Well, it seems I resemble a dog. However, I am not. I am the Butt Mutt, although my physical appearance…”

“Ok, fine, you’re a dog.” I cut him short. “What are you doing here?”

“Always full of questions, eh?” The Butt Mutt sneered disdainfully. “I am here because apparently someone wanted me to… And I can already very well imagine who that might have been.” He gave me a nasty look.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t even know that you existed, how could I want you to come here then? We’re not in some modern fairy tale or something.”

“Oh, the enlightenment has struck again. Wonderful.” The Butt Mutt coughed. He spat up a blotch of grey goo and coughed even harder. Disgusted, I made a step backwards and earned a reproaching look. “A little squeamish, aren’t we? By the way, this is all your fault.”

“What?”

“Yes, yes. All your fault. Did you even bother to think about my name? Eh? I am the Butt Mutt. I am here because you complained about the full ashtrays. Thrice. In a row. I have to eat your stubs. But,” he coughed, “I can’t stand the ashes.” The creature worked himself into a rage. “Have you got the faintest idea what it is like to eat from an ashtray? The dust, and the stink? And then the aftertaste it leaves – disgusting.”

I didn’t know what to do with the Butt Mutt. He was irate, shaking with rage, but somehow this looked very funny. I smiled, sat down on one of the chairs and lit a cigarette, while listening to his rants. However, once I had taken the first drag, the Butt Mutt’s tail started to wag uncontrollably. I could see he was trying to keep his composure, but then his snout began to twitch. By the time I had finished my fag, he had drivelled and drooled all over the kitchen floor. He was yipping and yapping and whimpering and whining. I stubbed out my cigarette, looked at him questioningly and raised my right eyebrow. He started to scrape at the chair. I took the fag-end and flicked it away into a corner. The Butt Mutt chased after it and swallowed it whole. Then, he instantaneously calmed down. He turned around and gave me an indignant look.

“Did you have to do that? This was mean.” And the Butt Mutt started ranting and raving again. I listened to him and mused what a funny little creature he was. His character, though, I found utterly disagreeable. He shouted and railed at me and my smoking, spluttering his grey mucus all over the kitchen. Then he interrupted himself.

“Excuse me, would you mind turning around for a second?” I looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Now, will you turn around already?” It was obvious he was going to throw another fit, so I did as he commanded. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of water trickling on the floor. The Butt Mutt had pissed in our kitchen! I had enough.

“Butt Mutt,” I said. “Would you mind leaving now?”

“I can’t,” he whined. “You ordered me here.”

“Ok, so now I order you to leave.”

“No, no, no! It doesn’t work like that. You wished for me, three times you did. I exist because you wanted me to. I was willed into existence to eat your filthy, disgusting cigarettes. You can’t just kick me out!” He shook his head and looked at me. “I will have to stay here.”

This didn’t sound promising at all. I asked, “So, I willed you here? By saying something thrice?”

“Yes. It’s the days between Christmas and New Year belong on either side, that’s why it worked…”

“Butt Mutt?” I said. “Fuck off.”

“What?” He gasped.

“Fuck off. Fuck off now, will you.” I grinned and waited. Nothing happened. The Butt Mutt smiled.

“It doesn’t work like this. No, no, no. It’s important that you say it unwittingly.”

“Hm. So what do we do now? I can’t write here with you coughing and spitting your phlegm everywhere. We’d need someone to clean this up.” He looked at me. “I don’t know. Just someone, I guess. To clean up this mess.” He grinned at me.

“Have you anyone particular in mind?”

I thought for a second, then looked at him. “A cat, maybe?”

“A cat? What for?” He was taken aback.

“A cat. To lick up the …” The Butt Mutt gasped and shook his head, frantically. His left ear slapped against one of the chairs. But it was too late. Before I could raise my hand to my mouth, we heard a loud rumble in the closet and then a long, drawn-out wail. The Butt Mutt sighed.

“Great. Just great. The Mucus Puss.”

things to do with food

1. Buy your vegetables at the supermarket, special offer. Fuck the local farmers, fuck the food miles. Walk.

2. Stash it away in the fridge and forget about it.

3. Finally, remember it. Carry it over to your room, keep it near your bed until it goes off, keep it some more. Ignore the smell.

4. Offer some to your friends, preferably if it has lots of calories, preferably if they’re on a diet, smile.

5. Take your time to cook until you’ve none left to eat. Leave everything to rot on the stove.

6. Throw it at road signs and see if it sticks.

7. Give it away to poor-looking people on the bus.

8. Build little men out of matches and vegetables and decorate your neighbour's garden. Find out if he’s going to sue you.

9. Cut a hole in a pumpkin, then use it with your body parts.

10. Try the other way round with a cucumber.

11. Don't eat it.

the meadows

The morning after the storm I left my pad without locking the door. The wind had been raging all night and the rain beat hard against the window panes. Now, everything was quiet. The wail of the sirens had long died down. The downpour had turned into a slight drizzle, and the trees, relieved of the weight of their leaves, were slowly swaying in the breeze. I had a headache.

I stepped into the corridor, grey and smelling of piss. Shards of broken glass were lying around. I live in The Meadows, one of those dreary blocks of flats hovering over the city like the dreaded towers of sorcery in the fairy tales of old. Dingy, drab, dreary, the three magical d’s describing the reality of the tenants and their surroundings.

I walked down the corridor to the stairway. The lift was out of service. Someone had smashed the call buttons some time ago, but nobody bothered to call the proprietor.

I climbed down the stairs, all fifteen floors. Some of the windows had been smashed by the debris that was now lying peacefully at the bottom of the stairs. The air was fresh and chilly. I got the first good glance at the havoc that the storm had wreaked when I reached the entrance hall. The ground was full of leaves and torn-off branches, plastic bags and broken glass. The wrapping of a Yorkie bar sailed through the air and slowly settled on the lower step of the entrance to Mr. Nehru’s corner shop. Much to my surprise, Mr. Nehru was nowhere to be seen. I had expected him to be the first to show up here to inspect the damage, but the shop was closed. What really astonished me, however, was that no one had taken the opportunity to go on a little plunder and pillage spree, looting the shop and marauding the neighbourhood. It was very, very quiet.

I walked down to the ring road, but the usual noise of the traffic was missing. No cars, no traffic, nothing. At first it didn’t really get through, but after I had passed the subway and emerged in a Mediaeval Spon Street which was devoid of any sign of human activity, I began to feel queasy. The leftovers of the weekend had spread all over the street, and the drizzle was slowly soaking the burger wraps and leaves. Here, too, windows were smashed, cars parked in the middle of the road, a streetlight was perpetually flickering, on and off. I headed towards Corporation Street and the Belgrade. Nothing. On through the Burges to the Cathedral Lanes Shopping Centre, where all the youth gather and drink by the statue: nothing. No one. Just debris, broken flowerpots. Not one fucking human being in this town.

I turned left into Priory Row, passed through Cuckoo Lane and walked to the Cathedral. No sparrows, no pigeons, no tourists, even the grey squirrels were markedly absent. The floor was slippery with the grey drizzly rain that wetted the altar and slowly seeped through my old parka.

After two hours of aimlessly mooching around the city centre, I was feeling nauseous and tired. Debris was lying around everywhere. A street sign had been snapped off. Somewhere further away an alarm was wailing. Brown’s was closed, but I sat down on the doorstep and watched the empty street, the bus stop, the gift shop. It all looked slightly twisted, with no one about. Empty, lifeless. I thought of what had happened. What if there was… an accident? What if everyone had died, suddenly? What if the apocalypse had come and I missed it because I decided to get pissed last night? My mood grew decidedly worse now that I came to think of the fact that maybe people were queuing up for Judgement Day while my brain was soaked with cheap whisky and my legs unable to move. The thoughts kept coming. Visions of doom unravelled before my eyes. Words like karma and kismet suddenly acquired a whole new meaning. Although I was staring blankly into space, an agitated feeling was spreading from my chest to my arms and legs. I got up.

As I stepped into the road and turned downhill, I saw a lonely figure walking up Gosford Street. Relief mixed with the irrational fear that… the situation somehow reminded me of those horror flicks I used to watch when I was younger. It turned out it was no Zombie, but a suit in his late forties, which basically doesn’t make that much of a difference. At least the nausea disappeared. I stood in the middle of the road and watched the man approach. I mused that if my life were a movie, this would be one of the long, wide-angle shots.

The suit got nearer. He was breathing heavily from walking uphill, his glasses were steamed up, and he, too, was soaking wet. I nodded. He offered:

>> Terrible weather, this is, isn’t it?
>> You name it. I wouldn’t ask, but have you seen anyone of late?
>> I’m afraid no. Have you?
>> No. Don’t you think this is a little weird, the way everyone disappeared?
>> Now that you mention it – yes.

He nodded and gave a wry smile.

>> I just thought it was because I had slept in. My wife leaves the house quite early, so at first I didn’t take notice. But in the office there was no one about…

His voice trailed off. We watched the wind turning the pages of a newspaper. Amid the stillness of the scenery, the continuous motion seemed strangely out of place. The sound of flapping paper unnerved me. I suggested:

>> Have you already tried calling anyone?
>> No. I’m on my way to my mother’s, but I guess it won’t be worth the effort.
>> No, I don’t think it will…

Silence. The paper had disappeared down the road. The murmuring of the wind was faint; it felt as my head was stuffed with cotton wool.

>> Well, I guess then I might as well go home…

His voice came from far away. The queasy feeling returned.

>> I guess so.

I was at a loss for something to say. I still had a splitting headache, and the conversation was beginning to feel like a job interview. I ventured:

>> Er, say, do you by any chance happen to have a mobile?
>> Sure. Would you like to make a call?
>> No thanks, not really, no. It… I guess it won’t be worth the effort.

He was standing there, in the middle of the road, and didn’t stir or move. He was as inert as the parking cars. I didn’t dare hope that it would make a difference, but I decided that I should still try.

>> Would you mind… making a call for me?

He gave me a puzzled look, but got out his mobile.

>> What would be the number, then?
>> 0796 06 07 750. A friend.

He dialled. Raised the phone to his ear. Listened. I was waiting, patiently. He looked strained, somehow on edge. Then he shook his head and lowered the phone.

>> He doesn’t answer.
>> Oh, ok…

He was searching for something to say. In the end, he just gave up.

>> Ok.
>> Thanks.
>> You’re welcome.
>> Ok.
>> …

This was going nowhere. I said:

>> What will you be doing now?
>> I don’t know. Do you have any plans?
>> I don’t know.
>> Maybe I’d better go home; my wife might be home by now. I’ll have to repair the roof. Some of the tiles came down.

I was speechless. For a moment I felt the urge to slap him right across the face. Or maybe laugh out loud. Then again, what was the use? We’d missed the apocalypse, and that was all there was to it.

>> Oh, I see. Well…
>> Well…
>> Thanks then. See you.
>> See you…

The man looked around. On the backside of his head there was a barely visible bald spot. The wind had gathered force again, tousling the man’s thinning hair and whirling about wet leaves. It looked as if it was going to be another dark and uncomfortable night. I turned and went up the road. The man didn’t move, he just stared at the clouds. I left him there, grey suit on grey tarmac and made my way back through the city and the rain, back to Spon End.

When I reached The Meadows, the Yorkie bar wrapping had made its way down from Mr Nehru’s steps across the open space over to the stolen shopping cart on the concrete paving. A tiny blue dot amid the brown leaves and the white Tesco bags. I unlocked the entrance and walked up the stairs, all fifteen floors. The hallway smelled of piss and wet leaves. The door to my room stood open; I stepped inside, closed the door and turned on the heating. As I opened a tin of soup, it occurred to me that I probably wouldn’t see the suit again. I had asked for neither name nor address. The storm was raging; the rain was falling; black clouds piled up in the west. Twigs and branches were flying against the green-tiled façade of my own private tower of sorcery. I am a magician ruling over a kingdom of wind and nothingness. Somewhere in this town there is a man waiting for his wife to come home… I shake off the eerie feeling, sit down in the armchair beside the window, light a cigarette, and eat my soup.

recently noticed

Being a square does not seem unappealing at times.
My prose is almost as bad as David G. Roberts'.
One only has time when there is nothing to do.

spilt milk, or the use of crying

What? So, you are a girl, a woman by now. What if that does not satisfy you? You're nowhere near. You know it.
It is a little sad, don't you think, to see yourself wasting away, unfulfilled and wallowing in self-pity. You don't want that, and yet you do, yes you do. Because it is the closest you can ever get.
When you are alone, in your own mind and the outside's out and the inside is inside of you, then the woman disappears. Do you feel good about yourself? Do you really get along with what and who you are? Sorry, I hope you don't mind my asking, who are you, anyway?
Can you face what you just wrote, or is this simply another few letters spilt on paper like milk and there's really no use, none whatsoever, crying over them?
Cut off. Cut if out. Doll. Cherie. Baby. Come on, love, don't cry. This milk has been spilt twenty-three years ago.

so long, jimmy : 2

[...] Amazed and at a loss for words, I smiled back and gestured towards my half-empty glass.
“I’m good, thanks.” I said, but he wouldn’t have any of that.
“Wha’d’you want?” He didn’t wait for an answer and ordered another pint of FourX. Alright, it would be horse-piss then tonight, fine with me. I grabbed a stool and sat down next to him.
“Th’Crooners are fucking brilliant,” he stated. Obviously, he was not expecting this statement to be debatable. The bar staff handed over the lager and he thanked him with a broad smile. Shoving it in my direction, he continued, “It’s their riffs, you know. The guitarist really got it down, though I have to say their performance today is a little hampered by that frigging moron at the tables who can’t handle his equipment. Fuckers. Did you notice how they switch from B flat minor to A major in the refrain? That’s ace, man. Wha’d’you think?” He eyed me quizzically and went straight on, “You reckon they gonna play ‘Dead Chicken Run On’? They’re very Velvet Underground with a tad of Iggy Pop, don’t you think?”
Suspiciously, I looked him in the face, but couldn’t tell whether he was taking the piss. I opted for an indecisive shrug and explained, “You know, I think they’re just the Crooners and utterly pissed, but yeah, it definitely has that Velvet Underground feeling. Though of course their music’s different. You seen Pink Grease play over the Collie last week?”
“Fuck man, I wouldn’t miss that in a thousand years. Very classy. I liked the way he got the girls going. You know.” Not knowing what exactly I was supposed to know, I just nodded. Jimmy sat on his stool and granted the room a pleased smile. Afraid that he might be looking for someone else to talk to, I said, “By the way, I’m Mark.” I tried to sound casual, but I think I failed miserably. Jimmy was very smooth, though. He signalled the barman to fill up his drink and replied, “Nice to meet you, Mark. It’s a pleasure.” He gave me an indefinable smile. “My parents call me James… but to you I’m Jimmy.” I felt bewildered, but smiled back. His grin broadened, and again I noticed how stunning he was. I furtively examined his clothes while he paid for his pint. Tight blue jeans, worn-out black Converse All Stars, a wine-red t-shirt – ‘He Doesn’t Like Chocolate’ – and a brown corduroy jacket with three badges on the lapel. The Faint, The Arcade Fire, Interpol. He was completely relaxed, perfectly unaware of his perplexingly beautiful face. His hair looked dishevelled, but that may have been on purpose. I noticed he was quietly observing me, so I made a point of studying his badges. Jimmy, however, did not seem to mind and continued his chatter. He somehow managed to put me at ease, although I tend to be rather shy when in public. We ended up going through our record collections and discussing music – “Did you know he only topped himself after…?” “Have you noticed how they…?” – the whole evening. Shortly before curfew, we went to an off-license to grab a pack of lager and strolled to the canal basin where we’d spend the rest of the night. It was warm and the air smelled of wild reeds, grass and the stale water down by our feet. I cannot remember ever feeling this alive as I have that night.
After the gig, I didn’t see him for a while. It was not until the beginning of term that I ran into him at the coffee shop. Skipping class to escape from the numbing sterility of the campus, I had come there to hang out a little. The place is usually frequented by a lot of drop-outs and madmen hoping to strike up a conversation and to grab a free coffee. I come to read a book and enjoy the meaningless chatter without getting involved. That day, the shop was empty but for Anne, who is completely nuts and tries to hook up with absolutely anyone who faintly resembles a male exemplar of the human species. She is only thirty, but looks a lot older. She hit on me once, making rather discomforting allusions as to me ‘having a member of the working class’. Her puns are terrible.
When I came in, she was disclosing the intricacies of her medication to the barman. I sat down at the other end of the counter, but knew that ultimately even this would be to no avail. Anne finished her coffee, then packed her stuff and remarked that she was ‘gonna split now.’ She shuffled over and hoisted herself onto the stool next to mine. I flinched. Then ordered a coffee and a gun. The barman smiled wryly.
“I’m afraid we’ve run out of the latter.” He had been enduring her for hours already. She’s usually first in and last out.
“A rope would be just as well. In fact, anything will do.”
Anne ignored our conversation and made a show of rummaging her pockets for small change. Occasionally, she gave me an impatient side-glance. I pretended not to notice and quietly began sipping my coffee. Some minutes later, the door opened. He must have seen me from outside – I was sitting by the window – and come in to say hello. A questioning look in my direction, then he raised his eyebrows and gave Anne a condescending smile.

epilogue

Just recently, I came across the play After the Rain (Després de la Pluja) by Sergi Belbel. It was lying on the desk in the office of our little theatre. Bored and having run out of something to do, I grabbed the three essential Cs – a chair, a cigarette, a coffee – and started reading.
Employees meet on the roof of their company’s tall building to enjoy their at-work cigarette. The sky is leaden, it has not rained in years. Smoking is prohibited – almost everywhere – and so it has become a vice to be given in to secretly. Every so often, the staff’s clandestine pleasure is disrupted by others stepping outside, others who have come to relish in the blue smoke as well – a fact unknown to those now hurriedly hiding the evidence of their trespass. In time, however, the word spreads and the secret order of smokers gets to know, hate, love, fancy, fuck each other. Everything – the leaden skies, their antipathies, their affections, their secrecy, their fear of being given away – is a further strain on their already frayed nerves. Everyone is on edge. Ready to blow his top. Anytime. No release, but the cigarettes. No release, but the smoke. No release.
Forceful. Cruel. Enticing. Nothing stays as it is, and in the end nothing is in its right place. Fighting, bitching, fucking, meditating, mourning, their lives go the dogs. The is no up, down, left, right, wrong, or centre. And then comes the rain.
And after the rain, I was left with a strange feeling in my guts and a page titled Epilogue. Otherwise empty. Simply

Epilogue

I turned. Another otherwise blank page but for

(The Sun.)

Two words. But two words. And yet... Once I can put it into writing, I will.

not agree

I do not agree with the linguists who say that it is the complexity of our language that distinguishes us from the animal. It is our ability to surround ourselves with things we despise and that we are uncomfortable with, happily denying our unease and anxieties just to… to do what?

on cannery row

The word is a symbol and a delight which sucks up men and scenes, trees, plants, factories, and Pekinese. Then the Thing becomes the Word and back to Thing again, but warped and woven into a fantastic pattern. The Word sucks up Cannery Row, digests it, and spews it out, and the Row has taken the shimmer of the green world and the sky-reflecting seas. (from: Cannery Row by John Steinbeck)

It speaks to me. It is as if a sea-side town had been written down, as if blue twilight had been captured between the pages of a book, my memories altered to fit into an older version of a scene so serene and absorbing that it just blows my mind.
That morning in Shoreham I could not sleep. I walked down to the small port and tried to make out the French coast across the sea, but I was too far in the west. The sky was a stale stainless blue; the mist was the only reminder that it was only four o’clock in the night. A cool breeze was blowing from across the continent, and it carried the shrieks of the seagulls that where hovering over something far out on the Channel – a smack, probably. The restless circle of birds was the only hint that others got up before I did.
When the first sunbeams slowly sneaked across the streets and the sea, noises swept waveringly into the scene and turned into the motor of a car and the footsteps of an old lady picking up pebbles on the beach. The world seemed so perfect I did not dare dropping my cigarette butt on the concrete of the pier. The circling birds slowly moved with the ship that was somewhere out there, beyond the horizon. I stood and watched them for half an hour, then followed the now forthcoming, then withdrawing line of the water. The algae and the seaweed stuck to my shoes, the salt from the sea settled on my face, and I walked until, after four miles, I saw the Palace Pier that was still asleep and quiet. Standing under the West Pier I watched the sun rising behind the helter-skelter above the sea. The tiredness that had clasped my thoughts since I woke up was gone and I felt every little fibre of my body, of my clothes. I felt the sand between my toes and the salt in my hair, the sleep in my eyes and the remains of last nights mascara on my face. The urge for a coffee got stronger, so I left the beach and paced slowly past the Odeon on my way to the North Lanes, in search of a café. A bakery had just opened, and the woman behind the counter sold me a tea; I drank it quietly. Through Royal Pavilion Park I strolled to the bus stop, got on the one back to Shoreham. As I arrived at our house, Bob had already left for work. Kathy was still and bed, so I tiptoed back upstairs, into our room and found Anna lying there, fast asleep, a bunch of red hair under a bright-white blanket. It was summer in England.
To see the sun rise over a sleeping town makes the world a different place for a split second. It is like stepping into a parallel universe where everything that can go right goes right.

so long, jimmy : 1

It was some lonely Friday at the end of the first term of my second year. My Fridays were invariably spent in solitude, peering into my books on economics and wishing that whole fucked-up system to hell. I remember that it was Friday exactly because it was lonely and quiet, a state not often to be encountered in our house. At the time, I was living with four other second-year students in Hillfields, in an all-male shack provided by our university. On Fridays, the lads would go out, have a drink at the Anchor and Arms and then mooch to the Colli to get either laid or shitfaced. Sometimes both. I could have joined them, but found that looking for enlightenment in my books while others were looking for their legs on the floor of some shitty bog gave me a certain advantage over my fellow students. As I was burning with ambition and hell-bent on outdoing the preppy fuckers at Warwick, staying in on a Friday night seemed not an extortionate price to pay. There was still Saturday, and the good gigs were all during the week, anyways.
This night, too, I stayed in and tried to come to terms with inequity funds. The atmosphere in the house was quiet and tranquil; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was not until I heard a knock on our front door and went downstairs only to find Jimmy standing there, smug smile, bloodstained t-shirt, bag in hand that I became acutely aware of the volatility of my situation. Jimmy nodded, strode ride past me and through the corridor, and sat down on our kitchen sofa without further ado.
I had met Jimmy the summer before, at a gig of the Dead Crooners – a band that I mostly remember for their loud, if not particularly refined guitar play. I’d already had a few and pretended that I was having a good time when I saw Jimmy standing at the counter, waiting for his pint. Smiling, suave, standing out by a mile. He exuded a certain coolness, like a thin layer of ice surrounding him. He was the master of cool. I stood and watched, imagined that if the girl next to him got any closer, I might be able to see her breath waft off in little, hazy, white clouds. As I stood there gaping, Jimmy turned around and looked in my direction. Trying to follow his gaze, I turned, too. A group of girls talking animatedly; nothing special about them, they weren’t even looking our way. Next thing, there was a hand slapping me on my back, and someone said, “Hey, mate, want a drink?” Not in that usual pub-manner, short and dropping the utmost possible number of syllables. It was more a flow of words, you know, where cannot make out were the one begins and the other ends. It was Jimmy’s voice, I realised as I slowly turned my head. His hand rested comfortably on my shoulder. To describe Jimmy, all you needed were s-words: suave, smiling, self-confident, a little smug, too. In short: stupefying. Amazed and at a loss for words, I smiled back and gestured towards my half-empty glass.

would

Would it be of any help if I mentioned that I was voted on the board of our little theatre?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned that I do yet another director's assistance and that instead of getting shitfaced in front of a screen I'm getting wasted during rehearsals?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned sort of in an aside that I'm drinking too much and sleeping too much and reading too much?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned that I'm trying to come to terms with the Book of Job and Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained and that such people cannot be taken into account?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned the fact that I have to go to my courses and don't feel like it at all and wonder am I the only living person around or is there some fifth dimension to things that I simply cannot grasp?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned the fact that it is bloody winter and that I simply cannot be arsed to deal with anyone really?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned the fact that this piece of writing is shit anyways?
Would that be a case of constructive criticism?
Would it be of any help if I recommended everybody else should just go and fuck themselves?
Would that be good advice?
And would I be making a point in saying that I cannot bring myself to taking anything seriously except for the ultimate experience, whatever that is supposed to mean.

a new year. inert

A new year, a new chance to fail. I see the flame of the night-light die and watch my tea getting cold. Inert. Aim higher, think bigger, and where are you now? Inert. Sooner or later you will write it out, bleed it out. One way or the other. Words drizzle slowly from my hands; the keyboard is sticky with the residue of tea and wine. The letters saccharine molecules forming an impenetrable, gluey amassment. Like caramel. The thought makes me cringe, makes my bad tooth hurt. A new year, a new appointment with the dentist.