12.
Kevin – It’s not you; it’s me. Guest edited by Sam Ball
a.
Okay. Fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. It’s the closing party for the project I made with Colin – for BBC Scotland – The B bloody B bloody C Scotland Project I made with Colin; and where is Colin?
Not.
Going.
To come.
Which is fine. Fine that he should abandon me, this project – I mean the whole thing was “A Residency Romance”… Literally, titularly: “I’m 26 and I’ve got nothing: A Residency Romance 2011.” That’s got to be some sort of message? I’m fine, I’m going; but what will others think when half the residency romance has – I don’t know – something, someone better to do? I haven’t spoken to him for about a week. I mean he messaged me a few days ago, and I didn’t reply, didn’t think it would be – great! That bloody ‘ping’! – Oh nono, I’m not mad at you Facebook, but you can be soo needy and I’m already late because of you. Well, I suppose I’ll be quick…
A message.
Colin…
I’m not going to reply because I’d just write something rash. I mean, I find myself writing a reply – you know, measured; forgiving; a couple of pages long – but I don’t send it: on second read it might be considered vicious so I close the lap-top, put on my coat, check to see how calm I am in the mirror (glacial, in case you wondered), and leave the flat.
b.
We’re in sight of the titanium woodlouse now, though apparently I’m oblivious to it. Katie and Side and Mimi all say I should stop acting crazy. Which is fine. I mean I’m not acting crazy – they asked about Colin and so I… or someone mentioned and I just had to explain… at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t just vent all the way here. But they’re right – I did do the right thing by doing nothing about Facebook and we’re here now at our party, Colin’s and mine and the BBC’s, and we’re about to go in so I’ll just leave this bundle of nerves and grievances and disappointments by the door. It is BBC Scotland; they probably have a recycling bin for it.
c.
I’m a bit drunk. A bit drunk but mostly just bored. It’s tiring doing the rounds and somehow, nobody, not even me knows quite what to say. Colin’s shy; if he was here it wouldn’t make a difference. So that is fine after all. I don’t even miss my project partner and instead I’m looking forward to seeing a different face, a younger model. I wonder if I knew Kevin was on the list of guests? Possibly, probably, but he’s not here yet. I have a whole lot of looking forward to do, and craning round shoulders and drinking and breaking into conversations and drinking to do because he is on the guest list but not among the guests til the very end.
We share my glass of red; I mean possibly all the red, all the drinks are mine, or mine and Colin’s or mine and Colin’s and BBC Scotlands’, but I share my personal glass of red with Kevin even though he’s looking a bit dirty. We talk a bit, but only a bit. I’m tired and drunk and bored. He just seems bored, fiddles with some coins as if he should pay for my wine. Maybe I should make him pay for my wine?
13
Then we talk about Max.
Who?
His friend.
Who?
That was in the same group interview as me.
What?
For the residency for New Work Scotland.
And?
And how do I think he did?
Deep breath… Well…
I’m not all guns blazing. It’s not like I go for the jugular. I do anything but tear him a new one. However, I am a bit drunk and a bit bored and Kevin was late enough to nearly miss the party and then we have to talk about Max, not my show or me or Kevin but “Max”; so maybe I am a little teeny tiny bit tooo honest? Maybe I forget that they are friends (or maybe I am reminded that they are friends); whatever the case, I tell him that this “Max” was underprepared and right now he probably knows it and that will teach him to be better in future. Kevin asks when we all find out – I tell him “we have” and “I’ve got it”. I get my wine and escape to the guys from Pidgin Perfect.
It’s like I’m hosting a party for friends, only my husband hasn’t shown up, and when my bit of rough finally appears I’m too jaded to find him attractive. Does everybody know? Does everybody feel this vibe? A divorce is in the air and no-one breathes a word of it. Whatever muted infidelity might be possible doesn’t even give the faintest frisson and the party goes on and on and people talk about a dozen “Max”s and titanium woodlouse I-Maxes and Facebook updates and not one person talks about the elephants in and out of the room – Colin, Kevin and me – but me.
Right at the end I do feel bad for snubbing Kevin, as I always feel bad, so I say goodbye to him. He’s talking with some girl (posh - probably a lesbian) and I tell him I’ll defo be at his house later, because they’ve got an exhibition and because it’s his house and because it’s him. I say these things and then we leave him.
When it comes to it, when I could be in his house, I’m actually in a park drinking bottles of wine stolen from Colin and BBC Scotland’s share, and eating really bad take-away food and dancing to a selection of 1990’s R’n’B music with my friends. It’s beautiful.
Don’t you think it’s weird how you can build something up so much that when it happens, it’s not even a disappointment? It’s not nearly close to what you expected (so isn’t anticlimactic) it’s just weird; a different sort of nothing. That’s how I feel about Kevin. I had every hope we’d be friends by this stage but I see him and he’s not the Kevin I’ve got in my head. I don’t know that I can be bothered with the real one. It’s sad, really.
Written by Sam Ball
9.
KEVIN Guest edited by Stephen O'Toole
Oliver? Mimi sounded uncertain. She breathed in and before he could answer said, Where are you? You're not outside?
He'd been lying on the couch, with his forearm pressed against his eyes, listening to the sound of his armhair bristle on his forehead. He took too long to consider what to say.
It sounds so quiet there, she said. So.
Oh you know. Just the flat. Just. He eased himself up into a sitting position. Cleared the inactivity out his throat.
So the reason why I'm calling is, I don't think we're making these pancakes any more. I called Kevin.
Oh that's a shame.
Well Robbie's come back from—England, you know.
Oh England. Yeah.
And his, well, his stepdad's came with him with pheasant. And lamb.
He imagined something pink and plucked, some long headless neck, hanging limply from an unzipped sports bag. When Arron had stood, with his trousers round his ankles, he'd stood over there by the armchair. Oliver realised that Mimi was waiting for him to say something. He cooed a little too hoarsely, Oooh pheasant.
But we'd still love it if you came. I called and told Kevin this too. Robbie's said that's absolutely fine .
Oh of course. Of course. Are you sure though ?
Absolutely . And Kevin will be there too. Around eight.
Hanging up, alone again, he wondered why she'd pushed the mutual friend line so hard. Was there something that he should fear here? Some reason why tonight he'd need Kevin to cling to? Not that that would be so awful. The best times with Kevin were always the ones when there were other people there too. Otherwise it felt too much like praying in some cathedral made of ice: initially so impressive; this beautiful, studied, carefully elaborate object; but it was also so cool in there that soon it made you conscious of every laboured breath that you took. And then you left, feeling awkward and bored.
He tried to picture which of Mimi's friends and flatmates Robbie was. There was always so many of them, coming and going in that awful, cramped little flat, with its almost unmentionably foul kitchen. A mouse he saw once, bested by its own curiosity, skittering and sliding in the centre of an old dirty wok. Then the living room. Like a scene inside a snowglobe filled with ash. Piles of unclean clothes on the floor, but freshly printed pamphlets pegged on clotheslines. They were moneyed Marxists most of them, supported by their rich, conservative parents. But Robbie—which was he? This stepson of a hunter.
He saw a scene in a sunny mahogany room. The tick of a grandfather clock. Rubber boots brown with mud, dumped on top of the dining table; sitting, say, on some spread out sheets of newspaper—the Telegraph, probably—and then, beside them, the shotgun, split open for reloading or cleaning, its hollows on show. A little plate tinkling with the shot picked from the insides of the animals. He saw a red planet of a man, ferociously tweeded and richly jowled, with a pocketwatch stuffed into his waistcoat pocket, rotating some masonic ring around his finger.
Oliver bought some wine from the petrol station, handed it to Mimi in her hallway.
I'll take that from you, Oliver. She strode into the living room, thudded the bottle down onto the table. Drink?
I'd love one, thank you. Need a hand?
She shook her head, smiling. It won't be long now. She filled a large glass with the wine that he'd brought. He took a shameful mouthful.
Oliver. This is Steve. Robbie's stepdad.
Yep, said Stepdad Steve, not looking up from his rollie. He had a thin, jaundiced face, like a sheet of paper yellowed in tea. Clarkson denims, dress shoes, and a striped creased untucked shirt. The kind that come in packets of three in Asda. That's me, he said. Thick grey steel wool hair and yes, as he nods hello, a little dancing crucifix dangling from his right ear.
I'll just check on the food, said Mimi. Kevin is late as usual.
So bloody young, thought Oliver. Is anyone over thirty ever late for anything? He remembered he and his mum sitting in the car outside his grandad's eightieth, waiting for Aunt Jacqueline to go inside ahead of them.
Oh just because, Oliver, his mum had said, fiddling with the dials on the dashboard. We can't go in together .
All over the world, wherever people are gathered together, early folk in their late forties are idling in dark cars out of politeness. Everyone has the right to their entrance. Small talk is best left for the dinner table, and should not be wasted on the way in.
Steve didn't a waste a word. As he smoked, he ran a hand through his hair, from the neck up and over, slowly curling and scratching.
There was something about those hand rolled cigarettes—the shoddiness of them, or the economy, maybe, the smell, certainly—that suggested Stepdad Steve had a bohemian existence. And then there was earring. Impossible to square away with any interpretation. Was he religious? Or sacrilegious? A fan of George Michael circa Faith ? Perhaps, Oliver thought, he came into money by accident, inheritance. Perhaps he's just a poacher.
Steve stopped scratching, and stared at him.
He heard me, thought Oliver. He heard me thinking.
Robbie!, Steve screamed. Robbie!
Two hairy underfed men walked in. Aged anywhere from twelve to fifty. The shorter had two streaks of ink warpainted down one cheekbone. The other had to hold his own trousers up, switching hands frequently, and sniffing.
11.
Hello, said Warpaint, sitting down on the couch across from Steve.
Waistband wiped his nose with the palm of his hand. Nice to meet you, he said and he settled down close beside his friend.
Stepdad Steve clenched himself in frustration, as if his whole body was a fist inside a tan leather glove.
Robbie?, he demanded. Where's Robbie?
Warpaint stared at him blankly and Waistband worried a hole through the fabric of the couch. He reached inside and picked out a small piece of foam. He smiled and brushed it idly over his lips and, then, as though were nothing, popped it into his mouth and swallowed.
The door flew open. A big blond bear cub came bounding into the room.
Robbie, said Steve, rising to his feet. Who are all these extra people?
Various introductions all round.
Still Steve didn't looked convinced. That one there just ate some of the couch, he said.
Plates were passed round. Robbie, in his ursine eagerness, had fucked up the ratios of food to people. But it's all right, he assured them. We're all honest aren't we?
They all queued solemnly, with downcast eyes and dirty cutlery. Oliver took an ostentatious place at the end of the queue. Pheasant and lamb mixed indiscriminately in a scorched black tray. Pink meat. Brown meat. Quite a bit of bone and gristle. Oliver resigned himself to plate full of raw tasting broccoli and a few scraps of meat as a garnish. As he ate, he thought sadly of the mouse trapped inside the wok.
Kevin said he'll be here soon, hissed Mimi into his ear.
He arrived when the dinner was over. The room sitting with half empty plates on their knees, not talking. He stood and shovelled cold carrots into his mouth.
So you're an artist, Steve said to the room. It took some time before the words settled on Oliver.
Shamefacedly, he said Yes.
And what about that little shit over there?
As they all turned their heads to look him, Kevin evaporated. An icy mist descended over the room.
Mimi stood. We'll make some pancakes, after all, I think. Oliver.
Robbie roared. A great idea!
Warpaint looked up from the pamphlet he was flicking through. Just because I support the Occupy movement, doesn't mean that I think they'll be effective .
Mmmm, said Waistband. He had a snapped guitar string wound around his finger. The tip of it had turned purple.
Robbie said someone was raped there, leered Steve, licking the edge of a rollie.
I'd love to, said Oliver.
Kevin crept after them like a curious ghost. In the kitchen, he bobbed about soundlessly, and they were forced reached through him, through his drifting misty body, to find themselves clean spoons and bowls.
What is he like ?, asked Oliver.
I know I know, said Mimi. There's never a dull moment, is there!
Kevin settled down onto the worktop. The dust of him gathered on the glass of an old jar of biscuits.
Written by Stephen O'Toole
10.
He saw a scene in a sunny mahogany room. The tick of a grandfather clock. Rubber boots brown with mud, dumped on top of the dining table; sitting, say, on some spread out sheets of newspaper—the Telegraph, probably—and then, beside them, the shotgun, split open for reloading or cleaning, its hollows on show. A little plate tinkling with the shot picked from the insides of the animals. He saw a red planet of a man, ferociously tweeded and richly jowled, with a pocketwatch stuffed into his waistcoat pocket, rotating some masonic ring around his finger.
Oliver bought some wine from the petrol station, handed it to Mimi in her hallway.
I'll take that from you, Oliver. She strode into the living room, thudded the bottle down onto the table. Drink?
I'd love one, thank you. Need a hand?
She shook her head, smiling. It won't be long now. She filled a large glass with the wine that he'd brought. He took a shameful mouthful.
Oliver. This is Steve. Robbie's stepdad.
Yep, said Stepdad Steve, not looking up from his rollie. He had a thin, jaundiced face, like a sheet of paper yellowed in tea. Clarkson denims, dress shoes, and a striped creased untucked shirt. The kind that come in packets of three in Asda. That's me, he said. Thick grey steel wool hair and yes, as he nods hello, a little dancing crucifix dangling from his right ear.
I'll just check on the food, said Mimi. Kevin is late as usual.
So bloody young, thought Oliver. Is anyone over thirty ever late for anything? He remembered he and his mum sitting in the car outside his grandad's eightieth, waiting for Aunt Jacqueline to go inside ahead of them.
Oh just because, Oliver, his mum had said, fiddling with the dials on the dashboard. We can't go in together .
All over the world, wherever people are gathered together, early folk in their late forties are idling in dark cars out of politeness. Everyone has the right to their entrance. Small talk is best left for the dinner table, and should not be wasted on the way in.
Steve didn't a waste a word. As he smoked, he ran a hand through his hair, from the neck up and over, slowly curling and scratching.
There was something about those hand rolled cigarettes—the shoddiness of them, or the economy, maybe, the smell, certainly—that suggested Stepdad Steve had a bohemian existence. And then there was earring. Impossible to square away with any interpretation. Was he religious? Or sacrilegious? A fan of George Michael circa Faith ? Perhaps, Oliver thought, he came into money by accident, inheritance. Perhaps he's just a poacher.
Steve stopped scratching, and stared at him.
He heard me, thought Oliver. He heard me thinking.
Robbie!, Steve screamed. Robbie!
Two hairy underfed men walked in. Aged anywhere from twelve to fifty. The shorter had two streaks of ink warpainted down one cheekbone. The other had to hold his own trousers up, switching hands frequently, and sniffing.
8.
In The State it’s cheap and cosy. It’s dead downstairs expect for the usual old men playing dominos and taking advantage of the outrageously cheap prices. I’m drinking pints of lager with shots of whisky dropped into them. A pint with three shots only comes to £4.70. We have a few glasses of wine first. Katie says she feels like a real cougar as the room fills up with undergraduates.
It’s something to do with worrying about rejection. I think it is because I have a real fear of people saying no to me. When I was a child my parents didn’t often say no to me, so I think I didn’t really learn to deal with it. Or perhaps I’ve fabricated that and they actually said no to me a lot. I think they definitely told me that they didn’t say no to me. When they did say no I was made to feel it was because I was always asking too much.
I’m lying down in the booth, across a whole seat with just my legs dangling off the side. I can’t see behind me but Katie tells me not to look round. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a flash of yellow raincoat, which signifies that Nick is here. Conveniently it’s my round and we’re out of drinks so I have to get up anyway. I want to see him and bring up the fact he lied about not going out. It takes me a while to prepare myself, but when I turn round he’s already left. The potential for something regrettable and dramatic has gone. I’ve already had to delete his number from my phone and change his Skype name to ‘z’ so he is always at the bottom of my list and I’m not tempted to harass him.
When I was growing up my Dad used to buy me lots of toys. When I was a teenager he’d buy me lots of clothes and aftershave. I always did have a lot of things. But perversely he would only really buy me things if I didn’t ask for them first. If I asked for things he would be annoyed and not buy them. But then he’d come home with something else instead that I hadn’t really wanted. Once, I asked for a CD of Indian music which he wouldn’t buy. Instead a few days later he came home with a tape of some Thai music. In middle school I really wanted a specific pair of Reeboks. But instead of buying these he bought me an ugly pair of huge, white hi-tops before they were back in style. At school I had to tell everyone they were limited edition.
All of this is in my mind as I approach the bar. I’m ordering more lager whisky cocktails. Kevin says hello from behind me. Lovely friendly, normal Kevin, who is polite and who talks to me as if I am just a person and not an embarrassment or an amusement. Only I find I can’t really be bothered to think of anything to say to him.
My doctor this week told me that it’s okay to feel A-sexual. It’s okay for her to say when her desk is full of photographs of her husband and family. She sends me for another blood test and it’s done really roughly, by what I suspect is a student, so I end up bleeding a lot.
He’s wearing a gold chain, a gold ring and has his usual biro writing all up his arm. I’ve never got used to the latter and find it very affected. He says to me that we should spend some time together again soon. He’s a good person, but because of that I’m not even trying to give him a chance.
I find Kevin a lot less interesting than I think I might if I were healthier.
7.
BEGFRIEND / OPINIONS
Pay day today. I want to spend money on drinking, but absolutely everyone I know is busy. I’ve spent most of the day trying to find someone to go out with me. I’ve been thinking about Nick all week and had this plan to ask him to come out with me, but he’s already said no.
Kevin always impresses me with the way he is so dedicated to achieving things. He’s from London originally. I always think people from London are more direct at getting things done. I’ve been talking about this opinion to different people. The general consensus seems to be that if you are raised in London you are exposed to so much that you develop a more pronounced sense of taste and preference early on. You feel a lot surer of yourself and what you like.
Kevin run’s this project at the art school that does weekly screenings of famous ‘art’ films. I’ve spent my day online trying to persuade Nick to come to the screening with me. I know this is fucked up, because when he does make an advance on me it makes me very panicky, but I still want to see him.
Being raised in the country I spend most of my existence feeling conflicted about everything. I never feel that anything is the ‘right way’. Generally I tend to sit on the fence about things. When I do make a definite decision I still feel embarrassed about publically stating my preference.
I also want to see Kevin and tell him well done for being such a well-adjusted and driven human being. I think Nick turned me down because he only likes relationships on his own terms. Maybe that’s why I’m less interested in Kevin currently; he’s too normal, too regular and friendly. In his Facebook pictures it always looks like he’s having the best times. His skin is beautiful, dirty but soft, a bit like an apple. A pale, yellowy apple. And beautiful lips, a tiny splash of facial hair. Messy hair without style, but totally styled.
As an artist I often feel guilty about exhibiting my work because I mostly end up thinking that the space could have gone to someone else.
I really have to work on my friend Katie to get her out of the house. I have this really sick feeling we should go to the CCA. I can’t really afford it, but I have this obsessive feeling that we might see Nick there. I want to drink and see what happens, but I also want to guide my fate. Katie won’t go there and since I’m already begging her out I have to let her intervene.
I was discussing it with my therapist this morning, the issue of confliction is a recurrent assessment of my lifestyle, it’s been raised by a variety of therapists. The problem here is that even in the therapeutic environment I feel guilty about expressing an opinion. This results in my backtracking of ideas, which results in my therapists seeing me as conflicted.
6.
I feel like I learnt something from him. It’s not related to his girlfriend or his successful approach to relationships. I just ask what he wants for Christmas. He tells me a Kigu. He sends me the link to the Kigu website. I recognize it instantly as something so hip, so like a Nathan Barley ‘idiots’ type of thing. It is still so beautiful and sweet I feel like I want to cry. I don’t really want to cry, but it feels appropriate to say it makes me want to cry. A full body animal suit, oversized; in a fleecy material. The kangaroo – my instant favourite – comes with a detachable baby ‘joey’. I want one and I spend the next few days showing it to everyone. Nancy offers to buy me one for Christmas. It’s £39.99 which doesn’t seem at all expensive. But I would feel guilty. She wouldn’t expect me to buy her something back to an equivalent value. I hope, unreasonably – ridiculously – that my mother might buy it. I send her an email and she never replies. I don’t hear from her again until the end of November. I feel envious of Kevin who has parents presumably willing to buy him a Kigu. Because he wants it and Christmas is about giving people what they want despite your own views on that want.
I always try to give people presents they might want, but perhaps I am still trying to nudge them towards interests and tastes that I would approve of. This Christmas I’m going to try not to do that. I think the best gift is when you get something you don’t at all expect, but you instantly recognize as something you really needed. It has happened to me one time. Usually every Christmas I have to specify to my mother what I want and then she buys it. It’s a bit like me saying, I want this and her saying I can have it, but I just have to wait until a specific date. But once my step-dad bought me – unexpectedly and unasked – a cordless drill and drill bit set. It was such an amazing gift. Something I needed for work, but wouldn’t ever think of asking for. I feel attracted to it, like I want to hold it and I can’t wait to use it. It turns out that I am impatient with the drill and expect a lot more from it than is possible. It symbolizes the platitude of ‘it’s the thought that counts’.
Kevin said that he would most like the cow or the lion Kigu. I said he should get the lion, but then I went on and on about the kangaroo. I want the Kangaroo and I was thinking how uncomfortable and yet charming it would be if we both got the Kangaroo. Walking around the streets in our Kangaroos, thinking how ‘individual’ we were, and then faced with each other. Two Kangaroo Kigus, just like wearing the same shirt from Topman. Negating but also unifying. Once when I was a waiter there was a table having a Christmas party and one of the
guests was wearing the same top as our restaurant manager. They laughed about it, but it must have felt strange for the party guest to understand that a top she felt was special was actually only a work top. Maybe she didn’t think anything. I did, but I didn’t feel sad like I might normally do about something so awkwardly reminding me of the discrepancies in value judgments. I registered it but it didn’t affect me, possibly because I hated working there and all my emotional capacity at the time was taken up by feeling hard done by and tragic, like Cinderella pre-party.
It’s less subtle than the difference between a top. Or it is a different situation, one which shows how different people contextualize their clothing choices. The Kigu dilemma is more amusing but also embarrassing. It’s the sort of outfit you buy because you think it’s cool but you are also conscious that you’ll more than likely – especially if you don’t live in a major city – be the only person wearing it. It’s a ‘cock- of-the-walk’ arrogance. Then you see someone else in it. Other people recognize this at the same time. Do you both shrivel? Does one feel indignant and one less worthy? Do you acknowledge each other? If you have different Kigus you might say Hi, but you might also feel secretly annoyed. It depends on your reasons for wearing a Kigu in the first place. If you’re wearing the same Kigu do you laugh? Do you laugh and still feel annoyed? Do you assume this is a person you will get on with? I wonder what Kevin’s reaction would be, if I found out what kind of Kigu he had and then turned up wearing the same one? I’d like the kangaroo. I’m worried that he might get it too now because I enthused so much about it. Two kangaroo’s with ‘removable joeys’, opposite each other in the street. Would I experience the answer to my questions? Like a practical test. Are these the kind of wonderings that make Ellie suggest that she is scared of living with me because she thinks I might be a sociopath? That isn’t helpful, it’s depressing and I should ignore it.
I know I’m sometimes doing naughty things, but I still want to do them. I think this might be sociopathic or maybe it’s psychopathic? I can never remember the difference. My therapist wouldn’t explain the difference. I guess these naughty games are what make me difficult to relate to. When I worked at a golf club I would be as slow and bad at my job as possible to see how long it would take before someone really lost their temper with me. When they did I would see how I could react in different and unexpected ways. These are all experiments; but with no reason, need, or any way to distinguish or analyse results. They are little social experiments about understanding peoples’ reactions to things - understanding peoples’ reactions to things that I do. Perhaps like validating my own presence in the world?
I don’t want to get too pop psychological. But it’s potentially connected to the idea that one therapist suggested; that my parents never ‘saw me’. The therapist suggested that my parents never saw me as if I was a person, but more an object. This kind of stuff is embarrassing. If there is one thing I want to really try in 2011 it is to just give it a rest on all the therapy. Apart from hypnotherapy, this is what I’ve asked my mother for as my Christmas present.
5.
KEVIN II
It’s hard to talk to Kevin. He’s so far away. Living in Berlin, chic squat lifestyle, perfect for his cool. There isn’t a shower. They bathe in a paddling pool. Even knowing that this might translate well in retrospect, I can’t believe that anyone could live like that. People might say the same about the fact that I didn’t sleep in a bed for three years. That changed when I woke up with a mouse crawling around my crotch.
Today I was on Facebook wasting time and stalking someone. I read this article that said people spending time watching television are unhappier, compared to other leisure activities which make people happier. The same is true for Facebook. I don’t think it makes me happy. I should limit myself to once a week. It eats away at my life. I thought it was a romantic void but it’s just a void, is that the same thing?
Kevin was online and started up a conversation. I felt a bit anxious because when I go on Facebook it is time for being a voyeur and not an active participant. It’s supposed to enhance social productivity, but it does nothing for me. It makes me do nothing. Either I’m there to stalk or to live vicariously through other people’s photographs. Considering how much time I spend on Facebook I have never played a game on the site. This is because I’m not a game player in that respect. I always felt that computer games are a waste of time. They have no real tangible consequence.
If you are playing with other people it might develop your friendship but on Facebook it just takes you further away from life. Like that woman who got addicted to Farmville and let her two real life dogs starve to death. Just glued to the computer; when the police broke into her house the two dogs were just in the lounge rotting away. Her two children had been eating cans of cold baked beans. She was too busy being a fake farmer.
I’m not sure if the cold baked beans are completely accurate. I think I might be adding baked beans because Ellie was telling me about how she was so busy all day that she didn’t even have time to cook and she just had two cans of cold baked beans. This is dedication and I’m jealous, but also find it slightly depressing. I don’t know if depressing is right. I find it kind of nothing-y because I know Ellie and know she just needs to get on with work. I could say I found it admirable. But I don’t think I am actually jealous. It’s so separate to me. I know that secretly she is pleased with herself for acting in that way. When she is busy she feels in control. When I’m busy I’m certainly a lot happier. When I’m not busy I feel stressed out like I just wasted my time.
I still, no matter what, like to eat properly. I always try to work cooking dinner into my schedule. That’s boring to say.
I spend more and more time trying to determine happiness in my own life. I feel pressured when I am silently in the shadows of Facebook and someone messages me. I feel intruded on. It’s the form of Facebook chat. The box is small and ugly and the alert sound is like a knock or a pop which I find chafing. It’s a disruption. It usually makes me feel like it’s the last person in the world I want to talk to. Even if it’s someone I love, I still feel annoyed with them. The annoyance makes it hard to have patience with thinking about them. The only way for me to get rid of them is to say I’m just about to leave, which then cuts my Facebook time down. I just think, “Jesus another example of how no-one respects the fact that I might be working”.
It’s much worse when the messenger is one of my mother’s friends. I think they are friends with me on FB to examine my life; a wicked homosexual son who disappointed his mother. My time is not only impinged upon, but any questions asked during the exchange are designed to trick me out or become new evidence in the on-going dispute about the ways I use my life.
I allow myself to continue chatting to Kevin for a while. It’s a bit stilted. We don’t know what to say to one another. I just fire questions and he answers. I’m not in the mood for engagement so my questions are limited. I look through his photos at the same time to try and encourage me. I sometimes say things that he doesn’t like. He says he has to come back to Glasgow in December to try and patch things up with his girlfriend. I say why bother. He doesn’t reply.
4.
I didn’t know she even existed, but I don’t know why I’m surprised, Kevin is pretty beautiful, even in a kind of dirty way. His breath did smell a bit when I first opened the door to him; it reminded me of how Michael Anderson’s breath used to smell when we were in Year 7. Michael Anderson was the first boy I was ever obsessed with. Kevin really looks quite a lot like Michael, the same kind of skin and lips.
Is it something with being half American? Michael was half American and Kevin is half American too, I think, or his dad was from Bermuda which I think makes you half American - or half Bermudese? I’m not sure what the term is. His surname is from Poland, his mum teaches fashion and his dad was involved with product design. When he said ‘was involved’ I wondered if maybe his dad was dead. I always think those kinds of things.
We talked about Kevin’s work. I think I don’t talk very well to people. I’m too busy obsessing over what would be the right thing to say next or worrying that my mind is wandering, which leads to my mind wandering.
We talked about making things, just all art related stuff. He brought his girlfriend up again. She does graphics and is in Rhode Island for three months, he’s going to Berlin next week for an exchange. I really wish I’d done an exchange, but I think at the time I didn’t want to leave my friends in case something exciting happened.
The pizzas arrived and as predicted Kevin didn’t bring anything else to drink. He said he did buy two big bottles of cider but he thought they looked bad so he didn’t bring them – although I wondered where they went? He didn’t seem like he’d already drunk them, he seemed pretty sober.
My actual dinner with Kevin was a bit empty compared to the lead up. He’s a nice person I think, although
other people have given mixed reviews. I guess they don’t like him because he’s pushy and he gets stuff done. I really embrace that because he’s just going for it I think that’s a lot better than feeling cowed or like you should be ashamed.
It’s maybe because I’m quite boring and maybe he is too, under all the coolness, so a meeting of two boring people is just boring.
Ellie came back home. I haven’t seen her for weeks. She was with Urara and they both stayed in the lounge with me and Kevin. I just wanted to catch up with Ellie. I’d like to see Kevin again, but not right now. Ellie said she really wanted to go to sleep and she’s sleeping in the lounge so it meant we had to move out, which was Kevin’s cue to go home again. We’d moved on to drinking coke anyway. I walked him to the door and gave him a hug, but it was pretty un-inspirational.
I went to bed and this came back to me. Recently A.J. was saying he saw Nick kissing some guy at a party. Nick had mentioned it too but he’d also said he didn’t really like Kevin. Tonight Kevin told me that at the same party when Nick was kissing this guy, he was also trying to persuade his girlfriend to kiss Kevin. But Kevin wasn’t into it, or his girlfriend wasn’t into it, or something.
Is this what happens when you grow up watching Skins?
2.
I picked up peppers and mushrooms, but they didn’t have any courgettes. I really needed courgettes for my pizza. I was just like that angry peaches man, except defeated rather than angry. I was picking up some onions when Nancy called.
I wasn’t even going to answer because I couldn’t bear to speak to anyone when I was so tired out. I really hate talking to anyone when I’m in the supermarket or even in public. I get annoyed when people call me on trains because all the passengers in my locality have to hear my weird voice. And they can hear that desperate minute when I realise I’ve lost signal - or the person at the other end can’t hear me - and I have to make excuses or pretend I’m saying goodbye.
I answered, despite my reservations, and was speaking to Nancy, looking at the cheese and then looking at the lager. They didn’t have any Carlsberg in Lidl, which is what I needed to replace, and it was like the final straw so I left. I wouldn’t usually leave if I wasn’t on the phone. I’d have just bought something, too embarrassed to leave with nothing.
With Nancy on the phone I went to Tesco, except they didn’t have any courgettes either.
Courgettes aren’t normally a deal breaker. I was trying to find a way of not having to make dinner. Nancy said I should cancel it if I didn’t want to bother. I considered it, but she proposed an alternative;
‘I could just order you a dinner on JustEat.co.uk and have it sent to your address?’
I really don’t want to owe people like that anymore. I heard myself saying something my mum would say,
‘At 26 I don’t think someone else should have to do this for me.’
I offered various explanations why I couldn’t accept, even though it was such a saviour of an idea. I ran through reasons while Nancy went online and looked at Just Eat deals.
On the internet, in Devon, Nancy found the pizza deals in Glasgow; two pizzas, chips and a bottle of coke. In retrospect, it seems so inappropriate to serve take away food, but maybe Kevin would appreciate the story. At nine o’clock Nancy would order the meal, it would arrive just after he had got here.
All I had to do was buy Ellie’s larger and a bottle of wine for me and Kevin. I took Nancy back out with me on the phone to go and find this lager as cheap as I could.
I could get fifteen Carlsberg at Tesco for ten pounds which seemed like the best option. I walked from my flat up to Byres Road again, which is about a fifteen minute walk.
I talked to Nancy the whole way and was getting so close to Tesco when I began to experience a really bad stomach cramp, like crazy. I thought I might actually be ill in the street and talking was making it worse. I had to lie to Nancy that I was going into a shop and I’d speak to her later. I just ran home again.
I should have been getting ready, cleaning the flat, putting clothes away, doing the washing up; everything in preparation for Kevin’s arrival that I hadn’t bothered to do already. By the time I got back to the flat the stomach pain had disappeared completely.
3.
I’d been walking all over Glasgow, my feet were killing and I’d nearly had a run in with shitting myself in public again. I still had to sort this beer out for Ellie and buy wine for tonight. I decided to go to the Co-op, despite the price increase, because it’s close by. The little Co-op didn’t have Carlsberg, and neither did the big Co-op. I was left with no choice but to go back to Byres Road to Tesco again. It’s packed with Freshers. Seeing first year undergraduates makes me feel excited because it’s like I’m a Fresher again too. It fills me with the feeling of potential, the feeling I might meet someone to fall in love with.
When I was a first-year I had a wild time. It was the first time with a student loan and I still didn’t have an overdraft. I did exactly and bought exactly what I wanted. Buying spirits all the time and clothes and trainers, hanging out with my friends and feeling like financially we could do anything
Even before university I just wanted to spend money as much as I could.
After watching ‘Status Anxiety’ Alain de Botton might say that I buy things all the time to make me feel like I matter or to demonstrate to other people that I matter. When I used to go to Sainsbury’s every day for my lunch I must have spent about ten pounds a day. I always thought the cashiers would think I must have a glamorous job, but they probably thought ‘oh there’s another student who is really bad organising and saving money’ .
I can’t do anything about all that money that I might as well have just eaten. I can’t do anything about all the places I lived and never found a person to fall in love with. Like my Mum said the other day, I’m 26 and I’ve got nothing.
In Tesco they didn’t have Carlsberg. I picked up some discounted wine, a bottle of fake Red Bull and a crate of Tennents. I carried the crate of lager back home like a baby, cradling it because it was so heavy and I was so tired.
I walked past Ben Goodwin in a bar. We both met the day before at the Hunterian and were complaining about having no money. He’s sitting in a bar and I’m walking through the streets with all this alcohol.
I’d got everything. I had to just get everything clean. I didn’t feel clean. I’d done so much walking that I
couldn’t take my trainers off. But I couldn’t keep them on either, whenever I moved you could still smell really bad feet and trainer smell. When I cross my legs sometimes I see people’s nostrils twitch. I had a quick shower; but just concentrated on my feet.
It was half eight, maybe quarter to nine. Enough time to dry off, put things away and finish the washing up. I had a neurotic panic about what to do with my feet. I felt so fresh I could go barefoot, but there is something creepy about bare feet. It would be really rude to put Kevin in a position where he had to see my feet. I put on my shoes. The lounge was clean. My room was clean-ish. The kitchen was clean apart from the smell of the compost bin that really needed to be emptied. I’d just keep Kevin out of there.
Nancy placed the order; Kevin will be at mine in half an hour. My phone rang again, it’s Kevin and he’s early. I thought if anything, he’d be late. I hardly had time to put on music to seem casual. That’s a mini-panic, but I just opted for Arab Strap because I’d been listening to it a lot recently anyway.
As he gets upstairs the phone rings again. It’s the woman from the pizza shop - the ‘vegetarian special’ isn’t allowed. The deal we’re doing only allows pizza with one topping. I hadn’t explained to Kevin about the whole pizza story yet. I went into the kitchen to deal with the call. The woman was aggressive and Scottish. I say ‘Just mushroom then’ without letting Kevin hear that I’m talking about a discount deal pizza on the phone, in a kitchen he can’t come into because it smells of compost.
It was time for a glass of red. Kevin didn’t produce a bottle when he came up the stairs and the drink I bought probably won’t stretch very far. I told him the pizza story; I thought it was a nice inspirational introduction to my friends and how we can look after each other. He’s like ‘ Wow, do you think I could arrange to send a meal to my girlfriend’.
1.
KEVIN
Today was my first dinner with Kevin. It should’ve been exciting, but it was mostly taxing because of the minimal finance situation. I’d been making a collage to send down to Sheffield, but it was tough to focus onwhilst deliberating about money.
I watched Alain de Botton’s Status Anxiety and was disheartened to hear the summary- ‘Oh just don’t worry about what you do or don’t do because eventually you’ll just die and then it won’t have mattered’ .
I didn’t have enough money to feed Kevin anything impressive and I knew I had to buy Ellie a crate of beer, because I’d drunk her last one.
I‘d been drinking frequently because the house became so alien when Urara first moved in. She and Anna, within about twenty minutes, transformed the whole flat into a studio to make the costumes for their performance at Transmission.
I like to think I’m quite bohemian and would love to have people being creative all over my flat, but it made me really uptight. I had to sit in my room for the majority of the time, to prepare for pretending I was okay whenever I had to use the kitchen or toilet.
I was considering cancelling dinner. It would be simpler than cooking or entertaining. Being poor really prevents things unless you’ve got a strong resolve or are good at stealing.
Jeanette Winterson wrote something about how soul destroying being poor is, in the foreword to Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. I remember something about how when Douglas Gordon was becoming really celebrated he still had to eat frozen veggie burgers for dinner. It’s soothing to know that prosperous people were modest once.
I watched a short programme on Nietzsche; it just made me agonize about hugging a horse and then dying.
I was leaving the studio at five, to prepare dinner. I had decided on homemade pizza. I could afford vegetables and already had flour and yeast to make dough. I would need about two hours, but Kevin already called and said he wouldn’t be there until half nine
‘Well I’ll walk through the park and up Byres Road, go to Tesco which will make me feel calm and, then I can go home and make dinner’.
Unusually, the thought of going to Tesco didn’t make me feel its regular tranquillity. It made me agitated at having to go round thinking how much money I was spending. Usually I would buy what I fancied. I’d pretend the money didn’t matter and that would relax me. But recently money has mattered more.
Resolving that Tesco would make me feel depressed and in an effort at budgeting I decided to try out Lidl instead. My first encounter, once inside the Lidl, was a store manager shouting at a girl who worked there. Then a man really aggressively asking someone else where the peaches were and they didn’t have any so he got really irate. I don’t think you can even buy peaches in Waitrose in late September. Maybe you can, but obviously not in Lidl.
