What Becomes (16 page)

People like it when you listen.

They have stories, too.

But he doesn't give me anything to hear.

And so I talk about my roots –
that
story – a little bit angry, because he should have been better than he is, should have been a comfort. My roots are 23 millimetres long, which is not unimpressive, is almost an inch. I tell him about my root canals. I summarise the activities involved in an apesectomy – the gum slicing, tissue peeling, the jaw drilling, the noise.

This is not romantic, because I no longer wish to be, not any more. I am watching a space just above his head and to the right where another part of my future is closing, folding into nowhere, tasting coppery and hot.

Could be worse, though: could be forty-five, when everything tilts and greys and comes to point behind your eyes and you have not run away, you have waited for the world to come towards you, given it chance after chance. And, besides this, you find it difficult to name what else you have done, or who is yours. After so many years you are aware of certain alterations, additions, the ones that would make you like everyone else, that would join you, tie you gently, allow you to fit.

But they don't make a story – they're only a list.

More dental adventure, that'll keep us right – another practice, another extraction, another tale to tell and that remaining wisdom tooth: it's shy, it lacks direction, the time has come to cut it out.

Cheery dentist, in this instance, talkative, ‘This is an extremely straightforward operation. It is, of course,
oral surgery
but you'll be fully anaesthetised.' Which is frankly the least I would hope – and dialogue, that's always a boon – a voice beyond my own, someone in whom I can believe.

He puts his needle in, ‘There we are . . .' and the numbness goes up to my eye. Again. Faulty wiring. So my mouth is now more painful than it was and I'm also half blind. ‘Well, I'll just deal with that, then – there you go.'

Oh, that's better, that is good. Thass gread.

And this is my speaking voice, my out-loud voice, the one for everyone but you.
So it's in italics –
that way you'll know.

Thass bedder. Thass suffithiently aneasssetithed. You may protheed.

When we're in private – like now – and I say this to no one but you, then italics are unnecessary.

We can be normal and alone.

‘No, I think you need more than that.'

And this is where the dentist gives me more anaesthetic and I notice his hands smell a little like cornflakes – his gloves, they have this cornflaky scent – which is a detail that makes him seem credible and not simply a nightmare.

‘Perhaps a touch more there.'

Whad? No, no thass a bid mush.

‘And some more.'

Shurly nod?

‘And more than that. Splendid.'

I can'd feed by arms.

‘Of course, the effects of the anaesthetic will usually pass after three or four hours. But working so close to a nerve, as we will, in very unusual patients the numbness will pass in three or four . . .'

It would be tiresome to pause here.

So we won't.

‘. . . months and in some extraordinary cases, you will be like that . . .

‘. . . for the rest of your life.'

Unf?

‘Here we go then.'

It's not that I don't appreciate the chance to feel nothing at all – but this isn't that – this is horror combined with paralysis – only very minutely exaggerated paralysis. I can't see to hit him, I can't fight him off and he's digging and drilling, drilling and digging and the extraction takes forty-five minutes.

Honestly.

That's how long it takes – no exaggeration.

There's blood in his hair.

It's mine.

Finally, I'm released, it's over, the stitches have been stitched, and I run out of the surgery.

Well, I pay the bill and I run out of the surgery.

Well, I pay the bill and ask them to call me a cab and I run out of the surgery.

Well, I can't really run, but I leave the surgery as best I can and I wait for the cab in what happens to be a colourful urban area, one where relaxed gentlemen stroll the boulevards of an afternoon and possibly sing. Perhaps there may be vomit on a lapel here and there. Perhaps there may be vomit and no lapel. And I'm standing – just about – and I can hear a relaxed gentleman coming along behind me.

He says something approaching, ‘Hhaaaaa.' Which is not much of a story, but is true and I know what he means because I can speak alcoholic. I have learned.

He reaches me and he says what might be expected – ‘Scuse me cunyou spare twenny pence furra cuppa tea?' And I turn to him with my bleeding mouth and my lazy eye and my dodgy arm and my swollen tongue and I say, ‘I don no. Havin a biddofa bad day mysel.'

So he gave me twenty pence.

And a slightly used sweet.

And a kiss.

It's best, if you can, to close up every story with a kiss.

If you can.

Story of my life – maybe – going to the dentist.

The story that kept you here with me and that was true. In its essentials it was never anything other than true.

True as going to sleep tonight with the idea of blood beneath my tongue and meeting the old dreams of robbery and tunnels, the ones where I run straight through and beyond myself and on. And sometimes I wake up sore and wanting to set out nice fingers of bread and runny egg and avoiding the issue is always attractive, but I am tired of speaking languages that no one understands and I have only these words and no others and this makes my stories weak, impossible – impossible as the Christmas cards –
with love from all of us –
the night hugs and pyjamas, the tantrums and the lost shoes and the hoarding of eccentric objects: figurines, sea glass, washers: which are the kind of details that should not be discussed
.
They are impossible as hiding the so many ways that my insides leak out, show in my hands, my face.

Impossible as telling you a story of a new arrival – a small person, turning expansive – someone growing and beautiful, but not perfect, the story of their first trip to the dentist, their first real fear I'd want to drive away. My duty would be to ensure that we would conquer, because every pain is survivable, although it may leave us different, more densely ourselves. The child and I, we would be unafraid and we'd have stories and every one of them would start with

In this story, you are not like me.

All of my life I'll take care we are never the same.

SYMPATHY

‘Is this wise?'

‘Sorry?'

‘I said –
is this wise?
Which is . . . I just didn't want a silence – not right now. I think. Nervous.'

‘So you're making conversation.'

‘Maybe. Clearly not managing that well . . . I should ask, though – is this wise?

‘Do you want it to be?'

‘Come here a minute. If you're just going to stand over there I'll get lonely. Need a cuddle.'

‘Need more than that, I hope. I wanted to draw the curtains. So you can turn on the light.'

‘So we can see.'

‘So we can see. And so here I am.'

‘God, you smell nice. And feel nice. And the lady doesn't want the curtains open, but a strange man . . . in her hotel room . . . that's fine.'

‘Are you a strange man?'

‘You don't know me.'

‘But I don't think you're strange.'

‘You're not scared?'

‘Do I look scared.'

‘No.'

‘Do you want me to look scared.'

‘No. Not really. But you can keep doing that. Bit higher. Bit lower. Perfect.'

‘Like Goldilocks and the beds. Or the porridge. Which would you rather be – porridge or bed?'

‘Guess.'

‘Wouldn't really be a guess, though, would it. More like stating the obvious.'

‘That I'm clearly a man for porridge?'

‘Exactly . . . And meanwhile there's being strange and then there's being a stranger. You being a stranger – that's kind of the point, isn't it?'

‘Is it?'

‘And you look all right.'

‘Thanks a lot.'

‘I mean safe.'

‘Thanks a hell of a lot.'

‘Okay, you look like I'm going to fuck you. And you're going to fuck me. How's that.'

‘That's . . . true. And so I should . . .'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Put my coat over the chair – if it's on the floor I'll think about it being on the floor . . . I'm tidy.'

‘And nervous.'

‘Yeah. Why not . . . Your beauty renders me nervous . . . and you don't look like a strange woman. In case you were about to ask.'

‘How can you tell – Rose West didn't look like a strange woman.'

‘Yes, she did. And she looked fat.
Was
fat.'

‘You have a problem with fat women?

‘Are you likely to get fat between now and tomorrow morning?'

‘I'll try not.'

‘Then I don't have a problem. That's a nice arse. Neat little skirt, neat little arse . . . but you've trashed your room. Messy. Now why's that? Are you messy? Messy and a neat arse. Going to want to get to know that arse.'

‘I wasn't expecting you.'

‘Well, no. I wouldn't think you were.'

‘I wasn't expecting anyone. So I didn't tidy. Nice suit.'

‘Yeah, I scrub up well. Or else I'm like this all the time, let's say I'm like this all the time. That's sad. Not my suit – my suit isn't sad. It's sad that you weren't expecting anyone . . . And how are you finding me so far? How am I doing?'

‘What, you want marks for technique?'

‘Sure. Why not. Maybe I have a notebook and I keep score.'

‘In that case . . . it feels as if you've kissed people before.'

‘In a good way?'

‘Like you've practised. Done a module. Or you have a notebook and keep score.'

‘I don't have a notebook. You do have very beautiful lips, though. I thought that – first thing I thought.'

‘What do you smell of?'

‘Ahm, I don't know . . . Soap, mainly. Posh soap they give you here . . . Maybe my dinner – I had lamb. I don't think I spilled any on my shirt . . . Gravy? I probably smell of gravy and the inside of a hired Nissan Micra . . . and manliness . . .'

‘Manliness . . . Well, I like it, anyway, whatever it is – how your skin smells . . . What about Crippen?'

‘Hm?'

‘Dr Crippen – he looked normal.'

‘Scary glasses.'

‘Dr Shipman.'

‘Scary beard. I had a beard once. Would you have preferred that?'

‘No. John Wayne Gacy?'

‘He dressed as a clown.'

‘He
was
a clown.'

‘That's no excuse. Were you thinking of dressing as a clown?'

‘I never travel with the costume – shoes are too big for my bag. D'you want to do that again.'

‘What, this?'

‘Yeah. That.'

‘Or how about this?'

‘That too.'

‘This isn't something I normally do, though. In fact. In case you were wondering.'

‘You don't normally put your hands up women's skirts?'

‘Not women I haven't . . . met before. What about you?'

‘I don't fancy women.'

‘Seriously, though, I don't ever. Until this.'

‘Haven't ever fucked a stranger.'

‘You do like the stranger thing, don't you? Gets you going. Gets you. It gets you that you don't know my name, won't know it – how's that? Oh, you like that. And you don't know where my hands have been – if I've washed them – and where's that finger going to go. Like that too, don't you? Don't even know my name and I'll never know yours . . . We're lucky – paths crossing – I'm not in hotels that much. Hardly ever. I had to . . . hold on, I think I should . . . we don't really need my jacket any more, do we?'

‘I think we should get on with this, yes.'

‘Okay, okay . . . But I'll hang it up then, if that's . . . here we go – Jeez, they don't give you many coat hangers, do they? The price you're paying for the room, you'd think there'd be more. Can I put it over this blouse?'

‘Why would I worry what you put your jacket over?'

‘I was being polite. Polite stranger.'

‘Sorry. Come back and be polite with me.'

‘Having sex doesn't mean I needn't be polite. Even when I'm being rude I can be polite. That's why, as you will notice, I'm removing both my shoes and my socks. A gentleman always removes his socks . . . Folds his trousers . . . Thus . . . Thuswise . . . Anyway . . . Hotels . . . Yeah, I had to get condoms out of the vending machine in the Gents. Indicating I don't travel with them.'

‘Or indicating you've run out. Might have been a busy week.'

‘I'm not like that. I'm just right now saying that I'm not like that.'

‘Well, neither am I.'

‘I know, I know . . . I can tell. It's just a nice . . . idea. And we can be like this tonight.'

‘Eventually.'

‘All good things to those who are patient and have a nice arse. Fruit flavour's all they had left – in the condoms. Sorry. And here's me, back again. Barefoot and no more jacket, no more suit. Hi.'

‘Hello.'

‘D'you like my boxers. Sorry about the rather obvious hard-on.'

‘No, you're not.'

‘No, I'm not. D'you want to take anything off?'

‘Pick.'

‘Take off my tie.'

‘What?'

‘I'd like you to take off my tie – maybe I like the taking off the tie thing, the way you like the stranger thing. And if I have to choose your sweater or your skirt, I'd probably go for the skirt. So you can take that off, too. Please. And undo my buttons. Do you like being told what to do?'