Notes from a Room

You’re a sycophant, X tells me, a toady, a toadstool, a stool. Who are you trying to fool? You’re the kind of man the police look for when they need a stoolpigeon. At least I’m honest, he says, at least I say what I feel. What are you hoping to achieve out there, smiling at those idiots? Why do you want everyone to like you, why do you want to be like everyone? Take a page out of my book, he says, stop being such a yes-man, at least say what you think. I used to be like you, he says, you remember, I used to need you to like me, until I realised you were my problem.

They’re looking at you, X tells me, they’re talking about you. What do you imagine they’re saying? Want me to tell you? No? You’re better off with me, he says, at least you know what you’re getting. Time to call it a day, he says, get a bottle and let’s have a quiet night in.

Shut up for a second, I tell X, can’t you see I’m busy? A house move is no joke, there are a thousand things that need doing, let me concentrate. You should be helping me focus my mind and energy. Instead, it’s like having a beggar tramping around with me everywhere I go. But at least when I’m busy you talk less. That’s what I should do, stay busy. Busy, busy, busy, then maybe you’d fade away and bother someone else. Isn’t that what people do, I say, think up some project and then another, call someone and then someone else, stay busy all day, then go to bed and wake up and do it all over again or think up different things to do, isn’t that how they get through life without topping themselves, without taking up with the likes of you in the first place? That’s what you should be helping me with if you really want to help, I tell him: staying in time. It’s when I drop out of time that I’m tempted to listen to you, watch you, as you breathe your rotten breath in my face and tug at my sleeve… Just stay with me, clean yourself up and be quiet if you really want to help, I say. Do as I do and shut up for a second, I have to assemble the bed and call the council.

Maybe I could be a kind of assistant to you? X asks me. Help me out, he says, I’m racking my brains. Maybe I could be a helper, an inspiration? You laugh, but all I need is a word from you. You’re as weak as me now, or more, and getting weaker. You need me desperately now, and you know it, help me or I’ll kill you, I’ll kill us both.

Sometimes we get along, don’t we? X asks as we walk along the seafront on a quiet morning. Sometimes we’re calm and free. Sometimes we get lucky and like the same thing at the same time. Sometimes you meet someone who seems to know me, someone with a hanger-on like me. Then we can relax, he says, sometimes.

I flopped onto your shore like some deep-sea creature, X tells me. I came into your garden like a starving dog. You didn’t know how to deal with me, did you? You didn’t know how to stop my flopping and snarling. What have you learned since, how are you coping?

It’s cavernous, this space between us, X tells me on our way to the off-licence. I feel like I’m in a dark cave and my words are echoing all around me. How do you manage to talk to people from out of all this space, with all these echoes?

Look at you, X tells me at the barbeque, laughing and smiling, pretending to be normal. See, two can play at this game, he says, if that’s how you want to play. But I don’t, not really, he says, I want to love and be happy. Talk to me, please, he says, let me in on your laughter.

Walking the streets with X. It’s like walking with someone who keeps pushing you in the wrong direction. Always X and always this third anonymous man between us, or beside us, the more anonymous the more I try to locate him.

Is it the one you’re always mumbling to, X asks, the one you write your little notes to in your little book?