Story: Behind Coded Doors (Beginning Extract)
So this noose was a homemade job. I considered beforehand that I could go down to the chandler's and get something stronger. I thought they might have some sort of policy, you know, like no selling to minors, that sort of thing. Like with alcohol or whatever. Anyway, I had this thing, which I had taken particular care to wind it eight times, not thirteen like so many gothic poets might attempt to show their untimely doom. This isn't art though, it's just killing yourself.
And that's when your friend...?
Toby.
Yes, Toby came in?
I heard him at the door, just as I was preparing myself. I was standing on this brittle chair. It was almost falling apart under my weight actually, so I was a little scared in more ways than one. Toby started calling my name. I tell you, it was odd hearing sounds. This procedure had taken up to an hour to do, partly because I was frightened and partly because I'm lousy with knots. He called my name again as he entered the room, and stopped. I mean, all parts of him stopped, his eyes, his mouth, all that. I stopped too, even though I could feel the chair below me shaking and wiggling. It was funny in a way. I don't think, in this world, people give enough time to silence. Everyone's dashing around everywhere, got something to do, there's no time for tension anymore. Even photographers spend hours traversing mountains and whatever, just to take one photo and go home and-
You've gone off on a bit of a tangent.
Sorry. Anyway, I broke off the silence. I lowered my gaze towards Toby, took a deep breath, and said, "You're stupid." He looked as though he didn't know what to say, as if he wanted to say "What?", but was unable to do so. I just went on, "In fact, I hate you so much, I think you should kick this chair from underneath me." I think my tone was half-playful. He stopped being a mute at last, and carefully muttered, "Okay Jon, just get off that chair," and quickly added, "Take off the rope first. We can fix this." It was like I was hysterical, all curled up on the floor again or something. Not that I didn't like it. I like being cared for. What I don't like in those sorts of situations is everyone trying to be a psychiatrist all at once, I mean, their intentions are fine but they don't know how to attack it. They just use all the things they have learnt in PSHE at school. I'll say now, I hate that. Not because it's forced upon us, but because it's insufficient doesn't include the right things. Some of its just pointless propaganda, I think.
How did Toby take your attempt at killing yourself?
Fine, eventually. He made coffee and I just sat down on the sofa. I stared at the worn down carpet and just thought about all that time I wasted. Then I reckoned that most of my life is like that anyway, so I needn't fuss over it.
Why did you spend so much time over it in the first place? Were you wondering whether or not to go through with it at all?
That didn't affect me, in all honesty. I was spending my time listening to music and reading while I made the noose. As I said, knots take me a long time. If my shoes untie themselves, it's like I'll be kneeling down for three hours looking at my shoe as if it's a game of chess. I spent a lot of time throwing stuff out too. As I listened to a Byrds album on vinyl, I gathered most of my books together, even real favourites like The Catcher in the Rye and The Collector. If I went through with it, I wouldn't people to look at what I have. That's irrelevant. Suicidal depression is homemade liquor. While other "ingredients" do their bit, it is the person themselves who carry out the finishing touch. I removed a few films too. While I did all that, I played a few scenes of Night of the Living Dead on the TV. Don't get me wrong, I don't have an obsession with dead things. I'd find it hard to do that. In fact, I'd want to die so I don't obsess over things. There's nothing there, you know.
Do you talk like this often?
Not really, unless I'm smoking, drinking or in a therapist's office.
Is there anything else you'd like to discuss today? We've made a good start; I don't want to push you today. Don't get comfortable though, I can be a bit of a "bitch" in someone else's words further on.
I'll look forward to it. Actually there is something now that I think of it. I read an article the other day, an extract from a book, by a Mr. Charles J. Sykes. I can't remember it precisely, but it argued realism versus idealism, you know, using kids like me as a basis. I agree with him a lot, about the cold, hard facts of life, but then I questioned how far does that go? I can't explain it. I like to think I do what I like, and I couldn't give a shit about most other people. Maybe not, I don't know. I'm not informed or intelligent really.
I think we'll work on that another time. For now, I have some departing words: don't think like that. You're a tall guy, so take advantage of that.
(I wanted to say, except when I'm walking through a low door or something, but I didn't want to. I kept thinking about all those people at school with Gap labels on their clothes.)
Poem: Pleasurable Nothing
You know, hypothetically, because
I'll be staying right here next year,
decked in these highly comfortable pyjamas,
and still staring at my computer screen.
The only excursion I've signed up for is the feeding of the greedy cat downstairs.
My man tells me he's heading for Ibiza in the summer.
He followed an ad describing the sun, sea, and sand, music, women and booze.
I can understand the warmness of uncontrollable wildness.
After all, a holiday away is a chance of loosing your typical dramaturgy.
My man, after all, works day shifts in a garden centre.
Where would I go if I wasn't tied here,
by responsibility, finance, or downright laziness?
I've always fancied the Midwest in the late seasons. People say it's an odd choice.
I cherish the thought of ambling down the highway, with one of those hunting caps.
I like the sound of snow being crushed under someone's shoe too.
Even with my jacket though, I'm stone cold.
Across the road is Larry's Grill 'n' Chill.
I step in, and realise it is filled with people I know,
not personally, but I can tell in their looks. They know me.
The waitress, Carla, knows I like apple pie. I'm her favourite customer.
I eat this pie and drink my coffee and watch the world go by.
A trucker stops for a pack of cigarettes and
some guy walks out of the gun shop over the street.
I only worry that my imaginary holiday does not break the barriers
that symbolise what a holiday is supposed to be.
After all, why go abroad to do nothing,
when I can do that right here?
Trust me, it's not the same. I'm a professional.
Poem: Opaque Tights
I do not think I could pull off certain kinds of flamboyant flirtation.
I'm not the Genghis Kahn of sexual conquests.
When time comes to blow people away with honest erotica
I'm usually half way out of the door.
But I do not think you need Caligulaesque ideas to be "naughty"
as some might term it. I believe the mischievous poster girls of fifty, sixty years ago
could compete with the less secretive models around today.
Think of a child on Christmas morning;
would their delight at seeing all those presents be different without all the wrapping paper?
It's a gift that comes in all shapes and sizes, for all ages.
You can be intimately animate or perhaps wildly quaint.
If these notions were ever to die,
there'd be a debate about whether to bury it under Times Square,
or a village graveyard in the heart of Oxfordshire.
***
And then I shoot it again for letting me down so badly.
