The Lesser Bohemians (2 page)

Her first into the salient wind, fists of grasping hair. Me blinking the grit over the bridge and after her. Brick and towers. Lour and paint. Here's nowhere like any life I've learned. Even going under, it goes on up. She saying how it's ugly and I think not. I think it is Metropolis.

Still and so we're here for Art. She has the tickets while I have a heart that I hope art will burn. But her shrug au fait keeps my mouth shut and I map my gait on how she walks. Blasé with the sculptures. Stooping to the glass. Paintings mostly lingered at the same amount of time. So this is how I do it too and when the crowd gets hard for art to squeeze out through I chase after. Encourage it myself. Seek to feel but think instead and wonder if that's wrong –
I'm a God's fair innocent after all when it comes to galleries too.
Toe heel to her toe heel down the rows.
It's not til she's gone round the corner though that art inclines to quicken itself. First particles only – split seams in its side – making gateways into bodies that are not mine. Then gyring off to anarchic sublime. Then congealing to form some other eye I can't focus into use. Sharpen sharpen sharpen, it hisses I'll teach you how to look, then always be there to make your cupboards bare and breed you with loneliness. DON'T. Back my back to the picture. Too soon and far to see. It's only from lying alone in this body too long, I should get someone to lie in it with me. I will. My will. Something will be done. When?
Oh for God's sake one thing at a time
. She psssts me back, nudging That one's just like his dick. I inward groan and outward snicker. Come on come on, let's get a coffee, I'm dying for a cigarette.

So rosed we flee back to Camden, laughing on the air and pass again into where London roasts. Earthlier than its solemn-eyed Goths, livelier than its New Age Travellers too. Not cataclysmically friends but enough for now and plenty for the World's End.

Here's miles from other Saturdays I've had. Traipses to Kwik Save and Help the Aged. The market if I'm flush – McDonald's if I'm bad. Speed line-learning running into smoking fags or dog-earing Solzhenitsyn on my bed. Landlady's lodger cabbage tea at half past five. Making free with her telly til she's back at nine. It's this or upstairs manhandling the time into stretching over itself – only so many times before you get depressed. That's the ledge too and dangerous. Gloam into staring at the net slide of lights. When the batteries go and my Walkman dies. Waiting, behind the distractible time, a little bit of pain. Just to tipple. Hardly a thing. Almost pretty pink petals cigarette burns on my skin. Bouquets exist, rosiest at the shin, contemplating though up my thigh. It's a pull rope,
for the wade of hours on my own, and matches slice for slice all diversions I know. Tonight I'll not be at that garden though because Look at me, I'm out with a friend.

Five inch hours after and drink-ate bones, she's collecting men who woo. Eclipsed by the gilt of her toss-hither mane I smoke myself a pool, drawing only out to dip in their flames. Yes thanks, or It's lit! College together, she explains with a kind of liquid negligence I'd like to dab on the backs of my knees. Wheel they for her languor. Wheel I for it too and, if I were them, would easily choose her funny ha ha over my funny peculiar
no real eye-opener there
. Besides, my drunk eye's once again seeing itself but swooped back from art to more clayish complaints: unflat stomach v vociferous wants. Cheer up love, might never happen, one taunts. And what if it already has? God you! she says, so I do up a smile. Hidden depths, she repairs while I cross my mind to engage more aptly with the room. Success hits on Look. Where? Some lads from our school. Oh? Oh! and – well caulked – she signals them to. Nod they, up glasses and make their way through. Ladies. Gents. Jesus, above my ears though, every thought heads to sex. If I had to choose one which one would it be? Don't know but some galled-virgin loop in my body's going Pick so something might get done. Pick and begin to be a person who always gets to pick. Alright then, studious, choose your best. Him. From my audition. Wrong choice. Right away. But recognising why makes it okay, even interesting, to divine for from opposite ends of the table I see she and he at a cautious elide. Oblique referring, offhand offered cigarettes. She intent with his friend but he stares at her neck. Palpable in this smoke-clod air a weft that neither can eschew. So it's he was last night and her mouth gone tight makes all earlier piss-taking undo. She likes him and
he? I don't know. Sits in my blind spot, along with all men, I suppose. What did he take of her body? What's he like without clothes? In on their secret but out in the cold, me and my bodiless eye.

Hop out a swear. Fuck my leg's gone to sleep, and I start up going foot to foot. Have you to piss? No my leg is sore. Well stop it you're making me want to go. Sorry. Fuck's sake get off my toe. Fuck's sake yourself. Hey leave her alone. Never mind anyway, I'm going home. No don't go yet. No I'm wrecked. Then I will too. No you stay put. Ah look, a few of us were about to walk up so why don't we all make tracks?

Enslithered by pints I follow her lead. Sweet Ta ra! to the courtiers who do not leave. Then out in the mangling crowds on the street we make our clump move through. Four or six. I take their steer. Completed evening for me but not for her. More modest in her drunkness too with him here. Is that true? I wonder why? Seems with drink even pulling off panels of self, I can't escape the audience of one I make, so resign to my private view of their fun. Them still playing it friend-like. Still not touching. For why? If I had. If someone. Shut up, you're just much more drunk and can't carry it off like they do. At her gate I surrender. Night and kiss. What a nice day, did you enjoy it? Yes. He's just coming up so I can lend. Of course. Then they're off upstairs to her fully fledged bower while I and the remaining other turn ourselves to Kentish Town.

Shall I walk you home? No thanks I'm grand. You've had a few. So have you. And? And? Don't get jippy come on let's walk. First of the autumn. What are you on about? Really the chill, don't you think? I think you are really drunk. Well aren't you such a gent to say. I think you are really drunk, m'lady. That's more like it. True. Stocious so, but friendly, turn we up Anglers
Lane. Shop glass by my face making farce of my brain. Some boozed Alice going in through panes while he's at theatre chat chat chat. Oh! What a lovely not to be, just between ourselves like a birthday party. Crutch-kneed, stick-kneed. This way and yon. My eyes curbing upstream to well beyond the balance of body. Far as stars I see and let the world go sway. Whoa there now, don't bash your head. Wisha the night and wish this way of floundering could be every day. Is this your road? Yes. Hand on my waist. Gate grate. Handbag. Keys in my door. Somewhere gauging he's no worse than any other and all my nets go Twitch. Dividing the space. Dividing again. Do you want to come in? Thanks but not this time. I turn my eye back to sky. It stands me in good stead. Some other time maybe? he. No, I say Sure my landlady would kill me anyway I'm just too drunk to be thinking straight thanks for walking me home. No problem. Night. Intacta. He's off down the street. Were and am intacta yet. No problem. Don't panic. Intacta to bed. It'll be fine. It's not like men can see.

It's not like Sunday yet either and. Sunday is not worth the price.

Monday. Is every eye knowing? Hers, even in fun? Everyone now appraised of the edges I cannot make to round? Worst he says Are you alright? and How fucking drunk were you Saturday night? Lying by the sin of my teeth I'm fine, and Sorry, I'd forgotten to eat. No worries, you were hilarious, totally out of it, he says. And so I wish that he was dead. And I wish that I was dead but neither of these deep wishes come to be, or are true.

Pick a scene for two. Twentieth century's best. Two scenes per class so fifteen minutes max. Put a list on the board. We'll start
in two weeks so you've no excuse for showing up unprepared.

She nods. I do. Any ideas? No. Will I ask my Him about it? Your who? You know – scutter us then down to the toilets for such squeals as required by a lovebit neck. God he's lovely and a Third Year too so he knows what's what and he didn't go home until this morning, imagine, I can hardly stand up! Lipstick on the tile and the wall above and Hussy! I know but oh I'm in love and I think he might be The One. Purple bang of left right in my chest. Good for the gossip but bad for the friendship. Now weekends'll be for giddy-up on her bed while I. Ah fuck. Ah so.

In the week though.

I smell the coffee, the gravy granule, always is to me. See it in its thick white cup, stub and quick to disappoint, a pleasure surely for only grown-ups?
Ah. Concentrate everyone please.
Make its hot spread in my hand – tolerates thumb, intolerant palm – disdaining to demonstrate like others around who prick fingers and tssst tongue to teeth. Instead I bear – as I would in life, and maybe private too.
Good you're not faking but feel its weight.
Don't fake weigh so. No. See myself sat on her floor, cup in my hand, hoping my Drop of milk? didn't offend. Feeling it sag in its burn while I wait – careful now – mind her carpet. Her back from the kitchen saying Sorry it's finished, and the whole roasting load to down. Its smell in my face. Crick in my neck. What would I not do to please my new friend so.
Raise it to your mouth.
I suffer it up and.
Don't pretend to choke, that's the worst hamming up.
True too, for I swallowed it really
. Alright folks, let's call it a day.

And for some weeks.

I play a game of walk, up Lady Margaret Road. Still inside,
when the eyes reach focus. Here garden walls. Here starker trees. Adhering to my footfall but inured to the leaves and the rattle-tattle skip-up they suggest. It is forward and only. Nothing else. Thigh to ankle making tread in the light night, or the early day, no more in my body beyond its moving me. To have slipped it, purely. To go up so high. Witness all these windows from which I hide in my red coat. In my black boots. These are worth the going through of sirens and of rain. They torture me with comfort in these weekends on my own; spewing sheen on the matt of this longed-for life that's becoming lived alone. Why am I. Why am I not. Where's even the way to could? I'm not lost. Or not lost much. Lonely. It is that and         
I don't know what to do
.

So I move. Cars move. And it's almost life. City operating on my mind. Here's to be, even if not quite right. But not long before the fun begins.

Ninety I it, the afternoon we're set to rehearse. Necessity prising her Saturday to, for we've lines to learn but. He's moving flat too so. Come in and on to the neat peace of her room that soon dwindles to laze on her floor. Scripts and buns. Coffee. Tea. Lullish the sun through a scant cherry tree threading meek in and out of the blow. Her though, finickity. Is something wrong? We had a fight, he stormed off. What happened? Who knows? Some fucking man stuff. All I said was Should I expect you back this evening? Sounds reasonable. Well, so you'd think, but the next minute he's shouting You don't own me and slamming the door and. Fuck him, I say
shit
. Pause she, then Sally Bowles Yeah I already did! And I spit laugh. Cross-eyed, she adds, cross-eyed herself. Oh Jesus you're terrible. Well that's not what he said! Then I'm into the kink and she falls in too.
What a fuck-up. Which? Him or you? Both! Ah don't worry, he'll be back in the end. Probably something mournful between his legs, it's just, you know, don't be a dick. Or at least not until dick's appropriate. That's it! And laughing to the guts, floor, we stretch endly out. Cherry shadowing the ceiling, bowstrung then upright. I wish I could be more like you, she says You're so independent, especially about men. I let the nice lie slip settle against and wonder how I might make it fit? Or is it possible to say I don't work properly, without giving away anything else? Instead I sigh I don't know, I wouldn't mind more sex. She crack claps Well then, so you should! Let's get Piss Off by Chekhov done and dusted, then I'll do your make-up and we'll go for a dance down the Palace, what d'you think? That maybe your frilly valance put him off? Oh shut up, that's my mother, are you up for it? Alright, but these Beats first though? Yes. Hurray!

Drink time. She makes me. Curls my hair. Mascaras and sticks me but does say Nice dress while I smoke and feign how much I don't care that she thinks I could do with the help. It is us though, and exciting, setting off for Camden Town, clipping quick into the buzz around. We being young here and so we can. And fuck him for not calling. And who knows I. I might. But won't. But still. It's a tad early for the Palace now, let's stop here for a drink.

Old boy I'd say and awful Irish. Royal College Street. Space though and I'm not mad for the heave. She goes to the bar. I get us a seat. Marlboro Lights and lagers and we with some gossip. Not much of it kind. And after only one she's fidgeting over maybe she should call because, you know, perhaps he has and. Don't you dare, just wait him out. I'll get us another then we'll set off down. Weeeelllll, she reluctants Okay.

Squeeze at the bar thinking Don't let her call, give me the night out. Drum my fingers. And stop, so the barmaid won't think it's at her. Hurry up but. Then she does and I order and see, any moment, that cigarette will spill. On my hand too – if its smoker isn't careful – and that blink minute, very second, it does. Ow! I Ow! though really not hurt and its owner goes Shit! Are you alright? long fingers flick dusting ash into my coat while I – circumstantially too close – blush Fine. I didn't burn you? No. Good sorry about that – and book indicating – Bit too engrossed. Ah you really shouldn't do that, you know. What, read? Fold it back, it'll break the spine. It was broke when I bought it, but he straightens it out and I go The Devils? That's right, just at the end. The confession? You know it? ‘I killed God'. Impressive. Why? No reason, you just don't look the kind. Oh? Boobs too big? Hair too blonde? Jesus! his eyes wide and laughing Not at all, I only meant that you look kind of young. What does that mean?
muttering a fuck at the puce I've gone.
Nothing, I just thought all the kids were into lightness and being, I apologise, I didn't mean to offend. Well I've read that too and. Want a cigarette? No I should get this back to my friend and. I'm going to finish off these last few pages, he says But after that, as reparation, can I buy you a drink? I doubt we'll still be here. But if you are? Well we'll see. Then we'll see, he smiles into his Penguin Dostoyevsky and I mortify my way back to her.