“No, sorry,” I answered.
“Fuck, alright, I-I will go ask someone else it’s fine.” He put it between his lips. “What you doing there? You just standing there?”
I stared at his narrowed eyes and his dismantled state. “I’m just too fucked. Getting a little air I guess.”
“Are you high?”
“No, why?”
“You look high.”
I nodded.
"You smoke, though?"
“No.”
He exhaled firmly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
"Like you gonna kill me or something. I'm sorry if I did anything dude, please don't fuck me up. I'm drunk, I don't even remember what I said to you or why we talking. I'm sorry, dude," he laughed nervously.
“You did nothing. I’m always like that. It is just how I am.” I grinned.
He nodded and felt for something in his pockets. “You have a lighter, china?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Ah sorry. I just asked you that. You look like a freakin’ deep thinker. People like you are jus’ … you know.”
“What?” I frowned.
“I don’t know man. You want a beer?”
-justified hopelessness.
“I am – “
“Fuck,” he placed his palm on his face, “I’m so fucked dude! Damn it!”
He stood there wobbling on his feet. His navy blue linen shirt unbuttoned, exposing his hairy bare chest. Under his armpits, his shirt soaked with sweat. It was a picture of gnawing desperation. The sleeves rolled haphazardly with wrinkles branching up his arm. His beard short and ginger marked with negligence. There were drops of some beverage hanging in it. He breathed audibly and somewhat inconsistently.
“I feel quite guilty, you know? Said I wouldn’t do this but here I am,” he laughed. "Feels good, though. Why the fuck would I not wanna drink. This is what college is about right?”
I nodded.
“Right?”
“Yeah.” His presence was awkward.
Am I expected to do something or say something? What do people do in these situations? Should I just leave? If I do leave what do I say? Do I tell him I gotta go? Will he even care? Would that be rude?
He drew closer. Raised his arms sideways in what would be a badass pose if it wasn’t as sloppy, trying to steady himself, “Yeah. Fuck it! Let’s get some bitches out there.”
He spat in my face.
“You gonna get bitches right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Give me a high five.”
As I did he held my hand and converted the whole thing into a handshake. Gazed into my eyes in a disciplined purposeful manner. For a moment, I felt like I was agreeing to something else. Very strange.
“Good luck,” he murmured. “Get lucky, china.”
He cunningly said right before I felt an immense pang of pain radiate from my abdomen. Instantly crippling, I fell to my knees. If it was not for his tight grip on my hand I would have downright curled on the floor but he tugged me savagely. His fist the culprit, far from sloppy and weak. A burning rod shooting through my stomach. Alcohol and supper spewed out of my mouth from my guts. Breathing had become as cumbersome as lifting weights. Sniggering, he let go of my hand and I fell on left my side, my head bumping on the floor.Then his feet receded to the door where he made his discrete exit.
Not long after, the door swung opened and different shoes stopped at the doorway. All of the bar commotion and smell seemed to coat the smell of urine and beer on the floor where I lay, it was all a mind trick, though, I don't think it made any difference. Then a shout, "There is guy curled up on the floor chundering his guts off!"
A moment later the door opened wider and a man in black pants and big boots, a bouncer, looked down at me.
"Shit! Gotta take him out," he said, speaking to one of his colleagues perhaps. And as if from further inspection he knelt, "Are you okay?"
“Some guy punched me!” I tried, but the words died in my mouth, my voice pulling a turtle. I tried once more and again. At my last try I vomited.
“Oh, fuck,” the bouncer jumped. “No, fuck it. Help me take him outside, he is freaking drunk is all. Maybe the rain will help him sober up. Can’t have him in here for sure, he’s just messing the place.”
Like that, they grabbed me by the arms and started hauling me off. I could have walked, but that was pleasurable, being carried was always pleasurable in a bad situation or not. I vomited once more, this time followed by gasps, gazes and flashes of camera phones. Kim must have stared at me, I felt the warm touch of her concern and awe, devoid of judgment and schadenfreude which all the other eyes beamed at me.
The third bouncer opened the door in anticipation, standing by with no sign of concern or shock like it was all part of a common procedure. It could rain lightning bolts or lava that stern face would not change, seeped of all emotion. They tugged me to my feet and shoved me out into the torrent. The sharp cold snapped the little breath I had and shocked my heart into hysteria. My body shrivelling to the bone, I leaned against the wall. Stupefied.
2
I scurried to the porch on the left which led to the grand entrance. I sat on the porch my back facing the wall, knees drawn to my chest and arms locked around my knees. The rain sounded the metallic railings, droplets diffusing into a soaking spray from the collision. The wind frigid and immobilising on itself had joined hands with the rain. If the sky wept for me, its tears were cold.
I maintained my indifference to what had happened, largely because it was too much of a mystery. The deep-seated fear was more decimating, the fear that I was not capable of even understanding what had happened. It was the traitor you couldn't look in the eye, where a complete denial of their existence was better. Wilfully blindfolding myself. Although it would have served me best to gouge my eyes, not only would that have been a complete commitment to ignorance but an expression grand enough to convey that facing the reality was beyond me. I looked away, unsavoury and cowardly it was. There is no saviour in apathy and inaction, no burden. Indifference is the softer form of that aspect of apathy. I was preoccupied with the pain, emotional and physical.
Suddenly the intensity of the rain lessened. Kim had placed me under the sphere of her umbrella. She was standing in front me wearing a black raincoat. I had a better look at her black stockings and heels.
She outstretched her hand to me. “Never paid me,” She spoke warily.
I gave her a stern emotionless glance. Picked a fifty rand note from my garment pocket and gave it to her. She unfolded it and inspected it against the porch light, which swung restlessly.
“You look tired,” she said. “Why does the note have blood on it? What’s this?”
“What?” I frowned.
“It looks fresh too! Are you bleeding?”
I’m not bleeding. Am I bleeding?
“No, I got punched in the stomach not gutted.”
“What?” she looked surprised.
“Yeah. Some guy just punched me in the stomach while I was taking a piss. That is why I am puking so hard.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I don’t know, maybe someone is playing a game of truth or dare in there, who the fuck knows?”
She cackled. Either I made a good joke or I was the joke, the later felt more probable. “It might just be pure animosity. That can be as fun as pulling a prank right?”
The entrance opened, Macfearson walked out and leaned on the wall next to the door. He gazed toward the porch with disinterest. The light above his head went off and he became nothing more than a mystified shade. His posture was far from human like he had become a shepherd of the darkness. He dropped his head, it was clear whatever visual information he was receiving was sifted through something more mental. Whether from an ache of remorse or some other brood inducing emotion, he was immobile. With the same downhearted spirit, he sparked a cigarette a
nd smoked. A waiting escort he seemed, so dirty the rain kept its distance from him.
“Hey look at me,” Kim said, snapping her fingers.
I looked up. “What?”
“Come with me to my car. It’s cold out here and don’t you freakin’ puke again, please.”
Reluctant, I asked, “Where is it?”
She pointed, “The red one over there.” It was just three parking spaces away from where we were. “Come on,” she offered her hand for assistance.
“No. I will come by. Go on I will be there soon just need to think a bit.”
She watched me for a moment, clearly trying to make sense of the decision. She finally shook her head and walked off.
As she did Macfearson flicked the cigarette to the pavement and started advancing. There was an animal instinct and an angel's grace in the way he did, the same swaying walk that he employed during torture. This time, it was subtle and more of an indication of the tug-of-war brewing in him. He leaned over the railing with his arms and gazed at me. Even in his composure the stifled emotions were showing in his quivering fingers and the premature frown on his face. I expected him to do something sudden and violent, cringing that it won't startle me when he does because he always had shocking timing like that.
“Let’s fuckin’ go home,” his lips stiff as his voice.
My heart began to pound. Thoughts searing in my mind, so quick I could not make sense of them. “Where is Mac?” I started shivering.
“He’s gone.”
“Kim invited me to her car.”
He pressed his lips together and slowly nodded. He sighed. “Where is she taking you?”
“I don’t think she is taking me anywhere.” Somehow he had become my master. I was getting nervous and nervous then I talked to him. Yet I had no real reason to be, what I was feeling was just a feeling. Like the feeling of distrust I have always had towards him although he had never done anything to me. His sheer presence was always something that made my spine quiver. With Macfearson you always put you back against the wall, never towards him.
Unexpectedly he beastly struck the railings with his knees multiple times. Stopped and walked a few paces back, turned and drew a deep breath. He stood tall with no sign on injury to himself, overlooking the street. Suddenly he was so composed that his prior display of rage was nothing but a fragment of my own imagination. I was dumbfounded for there was no way of telling what this whirlwind was about unless one probed. And probing had its own shortcomings in these moments, not even the subtle and well-calculated kind. That belief, however, may just have been a reflection of my own uncertainty and lack of confidence when it came to dealing with him.
Gosh, what the hell is it with Kim?
“What the fuck is going on, Fearson?” I blurted. “What is it with her?”
He gazed down at me with a dry smirk on his face, as if he was saying “You are goddamn lost”. He said nothing, only continued with his perplexing gaze. He was looking at the person I was not, the person I should be at that moment. It pleased him to have this advantage I gathered.
“You wanna fuck her?” he spoke, finally.
“I guess, you told me I should go with it,” I pointed out.
“You got fucked in the bathroom and now the magic is gone. I don’t feel it anymore. I don’t have the feeling I had about her. The presence has left her, we got sidetracked into something else. The same good old, Sands."
“What is the feeling you had?”
He looked at me for a while, then, “Doesn’t matter. Just worthless.”
How does he know that?
"You were not interested in this exercise from the beginning. In fact, you were against this. Then you got here and after a few minutes or so you drive this whole expedition like some goddamn captain, to the extent that you pulled out your sword on Mac. I think you believed she had some answers." I surprised myself with such confrontation. "Maybe you and Mac fought over this matter and he left leaving you to do this on your own because he thought what you were thinking was stupid. Now you realize it and you are too embarrassed to even say anything. That is why you are so angry!"
It was like those rare moments in dreams were you find yourself intelligible all of a sudden.
Macfearson shook his head with a dark grin on his face, turning to face me audaciously. “You fucking freak!” he raised his voice. “Don’t you get it? The only reason I’m kicking the hell of those railings instead of you is because I’m trying to be kind. You fucked up! The plan was in play now you fucked it up. Nothing was wrong or stupid, you were stupid.”
I flinched at the news, not a little convinced. “Well then where is Mac?” I snapped. “This sounds like your plan, not ours.”
Macfearson waved his hand wearily. "Does it matter? If I am right, does it matter? The truth is, you fucked up a plan that could have saved us."
“How ?”
“By getting yourself kicked out of there, freak.” He pointed to the bar, trembling with stifled rage. Apparently the kind he was displaying now was not enough. I suspected it was out of proportion, there was more to it than just a fucking plan.
“How did I do that?” I protested. “Please explain to me.”
“You expect me to believe you got punched in the guts? For no reason?” he replied.
“Yes! It did happen.” I stood on my feet so he could take a look at my face for any trace of deception that might represent itself, spread my arms in the I-have-nothing-to-hide stance.
He snorted and growled, frustrated. “You fucking wit! You are socially inept that you wouldn’t even be aware if you fucked things up. You can’t read freakin’ social cues and you hide behind something you call ‘being genuine’ when all you do is to be inappropriate and offensive. You know this about yourself, why couldn’t you just stay in the safe zone with the whore you paid? You should die and go kill yourself, dopey.”
Tears quivered in my eyes and my lips began trembling with ire, shame and anguish.
If I blink the tears will fall and if I speak…
“You monster! I will kill you!” I wailed, blindness seeping into me.
“You know it too well. All you are is pain. All you bring is death and sorrow to those around you. Frankly the world, your friends, your family will be better off without you. If you let me I will gladly tie you a noose because I will be doing a great service to this fuckin’ world. Although I despise this world I would choose it instead of you a million times over. Go fuck your whore maybe that will take things off your mind for a while, but you will awake every morning with the truth staring you in the face. You are filth,” he continued hammering those nails.
He cupped my face and had me look him in his eyes, I felt his warm breath on my face. Then he coarsely whispered, “You are insignificant. Am I wrong?”
I just gazed at him, unable to make a sound than cry even more.
“Am I wrong?” he said, his voice soothing and coaxing like the clutches of sleep when one has to wake up and they are seduced into oversleeping.
I nodded, then added with a whimper, “Yes!”
As I dropped myself so I may slump on the ground he caught me in his warm vicious embrace. I made no attempt to stand, he just held me tightly as my legs dangled beneath me. I retched my sobs into his shoulder, an avalanche’s worth. Weakness hit as a stroke …
My fragmented and demented thoughts screamed in layers upon layers of an elegant chaotic notes of discord. This discomposure coming with a headache inducing throbs pulsing through my temples alluded to what absolute weakness might feel like. At this point, my rage was turned inward, crushing the very chamber which once produced it. I was collapsing on the strain of my own weight and I needed an outlet, should have found an outlet, but this felt righteously directed. All logic and law agreed, I had no right to harm anyone anymore, I never had. Every breath I once took had caused nothing but suffering. A bomb explosion wave after wave and getting stronger with each explosion. Deceiving myself that I
am the sufferer wondering why everyone takes a shot at me or flees over the horizon. My feeling of misplacement is the calling telling me to stop the pain, end the suffering of the true and accept my place as an anomaly. This was the answer… to everything. The crop, the calling and deathlings. We are death and we should become death… and death is home, death is the crop and the calling is the instinct to death.
It was all a call to matter. I had to matter, become matter.
Chapter 14
“You are not real right?” I asked. Leaning on the wall of the bar. Not as cold and cosy as I was before. There was a sense of being transcendent to where I was. Lifted out of the confines of the universe, just a tinge. A tinge was plenty. Lucidity inducing.
A smile forged from the corner of his mouth, the kind that conceals a lot more than it conveys. The kind capable of misinforming and misdirecting.
"I told her you are not real," I said, hoping to elicit a response of any usefulness. For a person who always kept his emotions at the surface like leaves floating on the water, he was surprisingly and inconceivability calm. The person gazing at me now was of another transcendent nature, if men have seen demons taking over people's bodies and minds that are what it would look like. It looks as though the person you have come to know is completely gone, another personality has taken over peering through the eyes. It dwelt in the little facial features, gestures and postures. Even the presence he emitted was foul and eerie, almost cold. He stood there unshaken like a portrait, spreading mystery and unrest to his surroundings. He screamed ‘See me and be mystified to ultimate concern’.
I should be scared, I thought.
He answered, “Real as a character in a book, real as the meaning of the words. Real.”
My cheeks twitched. “So it does not matter you’re not a sack of meat like me or in any way material. What matter’s to you is that you make things matter?”
He elegantly shook his head. “Which is more prominent, Sandy, me as the product of your imagination or you as a product of my actuality?”
“What are you insinuating?” my heart suddenly pounded. Ramming the breath out of my lungs, and making breathing wheezy hustle.
“What are you insinuating?” He returned. “Aren’t you revealing something to yourself here?” He smiled, obviously amused in a fatherly way. As if he trusted me to understand, or knew that I did understand. I needed him to say something, something that would make what was to come acceptable.