The Inside Out Man Page 16

  I stopped by.

  You came by my house?

  Yes.

  Last night?

  Early evening.

  After telling you I wanted a night in?

  I thought I’d surprise you. I didn’t realise you’d made, well, plans.

  A snort, then she glared at me, her forehead creased. So what if I did?

  I found myself struggling to utter a reasonable response. One that didn’t make me sound like a mad idiot. The best I could do was: You didn’t invite me.

  No, I didn’t. And so?

  And, well, I wanna know why.

  You know why.

  Tell me.

  Strangers. That’s what I need sometimes, okay? You know that. I’ve told you.

  What about you and me?

  What about you and me?

  I thought maybe …

  You thought what?

  That we were in this, you know, together.

  In this? In what?

  You know what I mean.

  Look, maybe we were. But maybe we weren’t.

  I noted her use of the past tense.

  Bent, that doesn’t change what I want … what I need to do, for myself. For me, you understand? If I want to throw a party, I can invite or not invite anyone I like. Nothing changes that. Nothing will ever change that.

  I became aware that we were catching the attention of passing shoppers, so I clamped my lips, nodded, smiled, and kept walking. Jolene couldn’t give a shit, just huffed and turned red. Her hair seemed to come undone with her growing annoyance, and she tucked strands back behind her ears. Overhead, the white lights buzzed. The voice crackled into life, announcing a sale on potatoes and mini-pizzas.

  So, why did you lie? I asked. We turned into an aisle with a thousand different brands of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. White sugar. Brown sugar. Caramel sugar. Demarara sugar. Aspartame-based non-nutritive sweeteners.

  What? she demanded.

  Yesterday morning. At the house, I said. If you believe what you’re saying, and that you’ve got nothing to hide … well, why lie to me? Why not just come out with it and tell me?

  She gave an incredulous laugh. A laugh that said, The-goddamned-nerve-of-you! Then she stopped in her tracks and faced me. I hit my own brakes.

  Because I knew you wouldn’t handle it, she said. Because it wouldn’t just be an Oh-all-right-have-a-good-time. It’d be exactly this: this pathetic look in your eyes. And I didn’t want to explain myself. Not to you—and not to anyone. That’s why, Bent. She huffed in exasperation, God! And besides, I’m not so sure we should still see each other.

  Her words were a wooden bat to the head.

  What d’you mean? I said.

  Hands on hips, she looked to her left, her right, and then she glared at me. She’d been working herself up to this, I realised. Long before I’d even picked up the phone to call her.

  Bent, I don’t know what to say to you. Maybe it’s Edgar. Maybe it’s confusing for him.

  Confusing how?

  A sigh. Or a huff. A bit of both, maybe. That’s not it, though.

  No?

  God, Bent. Don’t make me say it.

  I said nothing. I didn’t have to.

  You … you creep me out, she said.

  What?

  You creep me out! You creep me out! I mean, look at you. She waved her hands up and down, pointing me out to myself. Who are you? The way you dress. These aren’t your clothes. These aren’t your shoes. The way you comb your hair. You’re … him. But you’re not him. You make these promises, the perfect life, and all that—the kinds of promises I wish he’d make. But when they come out of your mouth—her palm flew up to her forehead—I feel sick. I’ve tried, Bent, I’ve tried to reason with myself. To tell myself you’re good for me. That you’re sweet and you’re nice and just what I need. But you’re not, because you’re not him, and you’ll never be him. You’re not even you. You’re just—she spat the words out—this prop! A hologram. Like you don’t even have your own shadow. And I don’t mean to be cruel, but you need to take this in, so there’s no misunderstanding, so I don’t ever have to repeat this: you bore me, Bent. You understand? You’re boring. You mean well. I believe that. But it’s like every word that comes out of your mouth has gone through some kind of process, like a factory line of knock-off responses. And it creeps me out. So, no. I don’t want to go to Paris. I don’t want to move in with you. I don’t want to do any of this.

  Switching from angered to spent, she stopped to catch her breath. She seemed too exhausted to retract any of her words. Then she looked around as if for assistance, for someone to share the load of spelling her thoughts out to me in big bold letters, so that there could be no confusion. But it was okay. I didn’t need to hear another thing. Not even a consonant was needed. Nor another filthy vowel. She’d said enough. Until I decided she hadn’t.

  Who’s making you do this? I said.

  She spun round. What?

  Who’s making you say this? This isn’t you, Jolene.

  Listen, Bent. Stop it. You don’t know anything about me.

  What about Leonard? My final jab.

  What about Leonard?

  Is there something you want to tell me?

  A frown that combined puzzlement and annoyance encouraged me to push on. I know that you know.

  What? What d’you mean?

  I know that you know where he is.

  A pause. What are you talking about? You told me where he is. On some island …

  I nodded, playing along. Okay. On some island.

  That’s what you told me! She glanced around, absently shooing Edgar away. Then she said, Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to get out of me—

  And the man in the coat?

  Bent—

  I suppose you don’t know anything about him either?

  Listen, whatever this is, you have to stop. I’m going to finish my shopping. And you—you go do something else. Somewhere else.

  My hand was around her arm.

  I didn’t remember raising it, let alone taking hold of her, but there they were: my fingers clamped tight above her elbow, my thumb against the bone. Jolene squealed. Her eyes went wide. But I wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t let go. I wanted to, but there was something else—at the bottom of me, deep inside—that stopped me. My grip tightened. (Because that’s all I needed, you see. One nick. Just one imperfection. And I was free of it … isn’t that funny? I had to taint the thing to make it mine. I had to fuck it up, to assert myself over it.)

  In a minute her skin would be red. By morning it would be blue. In two days’ time it’d be black, and then yellow. The full palette of hate and regret.

  Edgar ran up to his mother, held out an orange jar of something or another. She yanked herself free, got on her haunches, and studied the label. I muttered apologies. She pretended not to hear me. Giving Edgar a nod of approval, she kissed him on the forehead and dropped the item in the trolley. He ran off, erasing me from past, present, and future existence in a single, non-reactive instant. I hung back among the tins of jam and pickle jars, watching as a wave of shoppers swelled and sucked her in, consuming her mindlessly, as if she was just another thing off the shelf.

  53.

  I hit the highway at full speed, then drove the Mustang for what felt like hours. The sun was down. No moon. No stars. All I could make out was the white line under my headlights.

  I had no idea where I was going, or whether I was trying to get away from something or head towards it. Not that it mattered. In the end—like at the very start—there was only me. No arseholes expecting this and expecting that. My time. My commitment. My compliance. Fuck all that. Now, I could do what I wanted. Go where I wanted. I wasn’t stuck in someone else’s place or plan. I wasn’t an accomplice, a sideshow, a goddamned curiosity. I was complete. I was free. The one true thing in the lies of other people’s lives.

  Over a rise in the road, a glowing dome of far-off lights appeared. To my left, b
alls of flame shot from the tops of a chemical refinery, expelling compounds into the air we breathe, setting secret timers in our bloodstreams, plotting our organ failures and cancers and mutant births.

  I entered the city. Trawling the empty streets, I noticed a queue of people outside a nightclub. The huge red-brick building might once have been a fire station, but now bright purple and blue floodlights beamed spacewards from the rooftop. A thumping deep-bass drone permeated the whole place and shook it up. I cruised past the entrance, where clubbers waiting in their half-treasured, half-begrudged positions turned to admire my Mustang. I parked, and a man-shaped rhino immediately waved me to the front of the queue. The interior was a laser-light wonderland, synchronised to computer-generated music. A second bouncer—the fat yet strong type—unhooked a red rope and waved me through to the upstairs bar.

  From the top balcony, I observed the masses roll out below, an undulating wave of sweaty flesh facing the DJ, who was up on his platform mesmerising the masses, sermonising with sonic strata. At the black backlit bar, I ordered a drink from a tall guy in a waistcoat.

  I saw a woman next to me and ordered a drink for her too. She had long brown hair and wore a gold strapless dress. Even in the low lighting I could see that her lipstick was too red, her eyeshadow too dark—a sick, deliberate attempt at looking smacked around, it seemed.

  Battered-chic.

  I held my glass up as I glanced at her. It took her no time at all to sidle up to me. Her lips were near my ear, saying something I couldn’t make out. But it wasn’t words she was offering; it was the tip of her tongue. She pulled back and pointed to a table with a trendy troupe, all waving us over, and I joined them. I ordered three bottles of Bollinger and the table took a speedy liking to me. After that, we did shots. On someone’s bid we slid away to a bathroom in pairs and did lines off the cistern lid. I was partnered with the brunette from the bar.

  She closed the latch, took the first snort, gripped my face between red-tipped fingers, and pressed me hard against the cubicle wall. Her tongue was long, rummaging in my mouth as if searching for keys in a bag. She tasted of lemon and cigarettes. She pulled out, and it was my turn. A rush of coolness, as my heartbeat synced perfectly with the techno thuds. Each mark on the stall wall sprung to miraculous life.

  She led me out of the bathroom, back to the table, where her friends weren’t so much in conversation as guffawing all over one another. Big open mouths and big white teeth. Beautiful faces. I ordered another round of shots and they toasted me; I was their new generous pal. Each joke I told, they laughed at. Whatever opinion I had on whatever new subject was met with eager agreement. The brunette kept her hand on my thigh the whole time I sat there, as if in ownership, to ward off the pack.

  She suddenly stood up, laughing as she pulled me along past the bar, through a pair of curtains and into a small private room with a turquoise glow. She pushed me down onto a pile of pillows and unzipped my pants. She lifted her skirt, straddling me, and prepped me for entry. I got hard and went in. My mind swirled as she gyrated, leant down, her lips on my neck and chest, taking my ear between her teeth and pulling it hard before she wrenched back. I closed my eyes, and somehow I could see the sounds I was hearing, circular blazes of yellow and pink, exploding and imploding like small stars.

  Then I opened my eyes.

  Above me, her face was glistening, and behind her, the walls began to bulge, stretch, and lean inwards. My breath rushed as the woman threw her head back, and when I looked again, she was no longer herself—

  It was Coby from Ten To Twelve who loomed and bucked. Her face speared with metal, the pixie hair, taut skin. I didn’t question any of it. And I didn’t fear it. I wanted this, and I went with it. I grabbed her buttocks, pulled her close. She laughed, neither mockingly nor genuinely, and then her face changed—

  Jolene—with her hair up, exactly like the first night we met. Her delicious lips, her wide, honest eyes. Jolene. Jolene. Jolene. Smiling at me. Loving me. Or so it seemed. I screwed her hard, put my hands up to her breasts, and as I squeezed, her smile faded. Her attention slipped, as if it were dry sand escaping through my fingers. Sighing, she mechanically went through the motions. Tired of our little pantomime. Her words speared my consciousness, and I thrust harder. You’re a bore. You bore me. And you creep me out. Lolling on my chest like a floppy doll, she rocked slowly, rhythmically, until—

  At first I didn’t recognise the figure, which now had short hair and wide shoulders.

  And then I saw that the protean person screwing me, was me.

  The almost-clone engaging in some kind of impossible inter-course with me was a version of myself I’d never before seen or met. Tanned and healthy, with clear whites in his eyes. Straight rows of pristine teeth that had clearly taken no punches. He’d taken every road I hadn’t, said a no to each of my yesses and a yes to each of my nos. On top of me.

  Bentley Croud.

  Screwing me.

  Or me screwing him.

  I tried to pull away, but with every thrust, at every point of contact, we fused. Our abdomens slapped together, unable to separate. Our bonded skin stretched like kneaded elastic dough. Our chests touched, merged instantly into a trunk with two backs, one sternum, and a single set of ribs. I let out a wail. The other I simply smirked. As Me-Two bent low to touch my forehead, we merged, first the skin and then the skulls. My face dipped into his, as if it were gazing at a reflection in a lake. By now, my scream was screaming into him. But nobody could hear me. I was trapped underwater. The thrusting persisted, becoming harder, more punishing—until the moment of ejaculation.

  Whether it was that me, this me, or both of us simultaneously, I couldn’t say. The release was no release at all. No euphoria. No catharsis.

  What I did know was this: this other, slicker me consumed me whole.

  Or was it the other way round?

  In the end, does it matter?

  As I tell this to you—or to me, or whoever—does it really matter who was screwing who, or which of us had started this shapeless, snarled mess of ourselves?

  V.

  … take a hint when they hand ’em,

  she’s dishing him out,

  and servin’ you first, don’t you know?

  now i ain’t sayin’ you blind,

  but you’re naught but a fool

  if you don’t know where it’s goin’ …

  54.

  The sign says BARMAN & WAITRONS NEEDED. Above the sign, I see the name of the establishment, handwritten on a plain black board: Greg’s Dregs. There’s an outside deck to the left, where tilted chairs lean their backs against wooden tables. Sun-blasted plants sit in clay pots on either side of the entrance, like lazy guards. I walk between them, push the door open, and go inside.

  The place is dark. The only lights are the dim bulbs over the bar counter; behind it, crates of beers and wine wait to take up residence—however temporary—in glass-walled refrigerators. There isn’t a soul inside the bar. It’s a little after four in the afternoon, an hour before the arrival of early dinner patrons and after-work drinkers. The chairs are stacked up on tables, waiting to be pulled down. For now, it’s a bit like an indoor cemetery, one that works in reverse: dead and desolate until unseen occupants begin to crawl from their graves, resurrecting as the night advances.

  I have no experience as a barman—or even as a waitron—but I’ve got to start somewhere. I’ll figure it out, I tell myself. I’m a quick enough learner. And I need cash; that’s the bottom line. The piano lessons mostly dried up as the regular kids moved into extracurricular activities better suited to their own interests than those of their parents. And after my mother hit the giant sofa in the sky, most of what I’d stashed away went into her cremation costs. That, or consumed by the reared-up heads of her secret debts.

  I pass between the upturned chairs, call out in a low and feeble voice. No one answers. No one comes. I explore some more, stumble upon a piano—old, black, and dusty—sitting in a corner b
eneath a Telefunken fixed to a wall bracket. Without thinking too much, I take a seat at the piano and lift the lid. I hit A-flat major, and the sound drones through the darkness. I crack my knuckles, give each of my fingers a tug, lower them to the keys (so that the tips are just about touching), take a breath, and play. Nothing spectacular. Just a time-passer.

  After about a minute or so a man appears. It’s as if the quickest draw in town has stepped through the doors of a saloon, and instantly I quit playing. The figure is large, and his greased black hair is combed back in a perfect dome. Bushy eyebrows. Olive skin. He’s holding some kind of calculator in his hand.

  “You don’t have to stop,” he says. “I was enjoying that.”

  “Sorry, I was just …”

  “You play pretty well,” he says, descending from the restaurant to the bar area. “You’re very good. But you know that already, don’t you? Yes, I think you know exactly how good you are. A good thing, that: knowing your worth.” Like a human x-ray machine, he scans me. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I push the stool back and stand up. “You had a sign out front,” I say.

  He pauses, then asks, “You ever been a waiter or barman before?”

  I shake my head.

  “But you think you can do it?”

  “I learn pretty quickly. I’m good with my hands.”

  “No kidding,” he says. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

  I shrug. “My mom taught me when I was a kid. Otherwise I taught myself.”

  “Your mom must be pretty proud of you.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I see. Your dad?”

  I shrug again. That’s all I’ve got to give, and he takes it.

  “What’s your name?” he says.

  “Bent.”

  “You a student, Bent?”

  “No.”

  “You take drugs?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A thief? A troublemaker?”

  “No.”

  “How about a liar? Do you lie?”