by Irvine Welsh
We fought about this. We fought all the time on politics and social issues. Dad would debate up to a point, but whenever I was getting the better of him (which was more and more often as I was reading voraciously), he would raise his voice in threat, “I’m your father, and you will respect that,” he’d command, and the discussion would be over.
Dad told me to keep away from Cherie, a clerk at the hardware store, who was a few years older than me, but who seemed a normal, cheerful girl. “She’s not the sort of person you should be talking to.”
“Why?”
“You can never be friends with staff. It undermines me.”
“But they’re co-workers, I’m only working in the store.”
“Don’t sass me. You’re my daughter, and someday you’ll be running this place!”
The thought filled me with dread. But I knew it would never happen. Instead I grew to love Menards. Every grumble from him about their progress, and disclosure that his store was struggling, ignited sheer glee in my heart. If I saw a huge ad for the chain in the newspaper, I’d rejoice at their corporate firepower, envisioning it crushing that horrible Twin City Hardware store in its bleak strip mall, literally razing it to the ground. I’d rather live a destitute life than manage his store.
Then something terrible happened. It was the following spring, when things were just coming strongly to life after another brutal winter. I was sitting in the garden, reading They Perish In Ecstasy, the new Ron Thoroughgood novel. Mom was weeding, tilling the soil, preparing to do some planting. Alana Russinger, a neighbor of ours, came by and told Mom that Barry was dead.
I froze, lowered my book. Mom looked at me, then back at Alana. “That’s terrible . . . what happened?”
“I don’t know the details, but they just found his body in his bedroom this morning.”
“What do you mean?” I yelped, getting out my chair.
Alana looked at me with a pained expression, then turned to Mom. She dropped her voice and said, “They’re saying he hanged himself.”
I ran indoors and went to my room. Sat on my bed. Tried to find tears through my numbness. Nothing came. Mom walked in. Sat on the bed beside me. Said some words, about how Barry was in a better place, with God, and how he would never be unhappy again.
“How do you know he’s with God?” I turned on her. “If he hanged himself that’s suicide, and isn’t that meant to be a sin that stops you going to heaven?”
“God is merciful,” Mom said, squeezing my hand.
I looked at her, and we hugged, and then I asked her to leave me, which she did. I got out some of Barry’s sci-fi stories in the ringed notebooks, the ones he’d had bound at Kinko’s. But I still couldn’t cry. I felt dead inside.
Later I found out that Barry had left a note which simply said: I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE. THERE IS NO PLACE FOR ME HERE. I would subsequently find out that he also wrote that his entire comic-book collection should be left to me. His family withheld that information. They agreed with my parents, that we were “a bad influence on each other” and were “fixated on death.” I even caught my mom and dad in my room, going through my CDs and the music downloads on my computer, which they’d previously shown no interest in: Nirvana, Sisters of Mercy, Macbeth, Secret Discovery, Theatre of Tragedy, PJ Harvey, This Mortal Coil, Puressence, Depeche Mode, Crematory, Tool, looking for evidence, perhaps, of something that fuelled a suicidal folie à deux in the sleeve notes, lyrics, or cover artwork. It was almost as if I was being blamed for Barry’s demise: the bullies who beat, taxed, and tormented him every day were, of course, exonerated.
I practically stayed in my room for the best part of a year, other than attend high school. Yet it got easier there. While I was still regarded as a weird loser, the overt bullying stopped. I don’t know if Barry’s suicide had induced a collective guilt, or they felt that if they also pushed me over the edge, they’d have more blood on their hands, but I was left alone. And I didn’t eat, which worried Mom.
Then came Mom and Dad’s 25th anniversary party at the Event Center. I was forced to attend. I was almost seventeen. Mom yet again told everyone her “miracle baby” story, looking at me as I blushed and wished I were anywhere else. I can’t believe there was a single adult in Otter County who hadn’t heard that tale.
I was surprised to see Tanya Cresswell, from high school, at the party. She was there with her family, who knew Mom from some church group she attended. Tanya was a weird kid too, but not like me. She was cool, but also aloof and disdainful of the bullying in-crowd, who seemed a little spooked by her. Tanya spoke with me for the first time. We talked mainly about music. I sneaked out some alcohol, a bottle of white wine, which we drank in the alley at the side of the center, and smoked a cigarette. We were excited and drunk. We kind of kissed, like on the lips. We looked at each other in surprise and fear. Neither of us knowing what had happened, or what to do next. Then we heard voices, and saw an older guy and girl coming outside, and dry-humping each other up against the center’s entrance pillars.
A few days later, I saw Tanya in class. We glanced at each other in mutual embarrassment then looked away. We both knew we’d done something wrong. Like something that we would do again if we stayed close to each other, but which would really mess us up if people found out. So we avoided each other. But I never gave up on sex; I masturbated constantly. I thought about girls sometimes, kissing them, making out, but usually I thought about boys. I really wished for a boy, a dark-haired skinny boy, to come to my room in the night, and feel me up, touch the nipples on my small breasts.
Without Barry and his sci-fi distractions, I was more focused on my schoolwork, “starting to fulfill my potential” as Dad put it. But there was one class in particular that obsessed me. Miss Blake, the art teacher, repeatedly informed me that I was the most gifted student she’d come across in Otter County. She told me about a forthcoming presentation by staff from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, for prospective students from our state, which was taking place at a community college in Minneapolis.
Grandma Olsen died the summer after her husband passed. Broken-hearted and lost, she never recovered from his death. This helped our perilous Menards-decimated finances. The Olsens had also left money in my college fund, described by Mom as a “considerable amount.” I was excited at this news, but strived to contain myself, expressing a sorrow at my grandma’s death that I didn’t really feel. It sounds callous, but all I could think about was the money: I knew exactly what I wanted to do with it. I stupidly told Mom and Dad about my aspirations to study art. They closed ranks for the first time in a long while: art college was a waste of money. You couldn’t get a job. Art college was full of weirdos and perverts on drugs. I should concentrate on math.
The only good thing about this depressing conversation was Dad’s failure to raise the issue of me managing the Twin City Hardware store. It wasn’t so much an acknowledgment of my patent unsuitability for this role, more the recognition that Menards’ long-term victory was inevitable. As young and unworldly as I was, I immediately sensed the futility of arguing. I simply agreed with them: business studies made more sense.
Of course, I went along to the Minneapolis presentation of the Art Institute without telling my parents, taking my portfolio with me. There were about twenty kids in a college classroom, all with the eager, excited kind of engagement I never found from others in my art class at high school. The guy from the Art Institute had a shaved head and was dressed in black. He was introduced by the community college staff member as a professor. He immediately corrected the guy, with an emphatic shake of his head. “I’m not a professor,” he said, “I’m an artist.”
As soon as I heard this, I knew exactly where I wanted to be. These simple words were the most impressive I’d ever heard anyone speak. How galvanizing, how heady they were, to somebody who had been ground down by the steady accumulation of small defeats! A burden was lifted from my back, and I could feel my spine straighten.
I k
new who I wanted to be.
I switch on the treadmill. I’ve gone in too high, as I begin sweating and panting immediately. Each thundering step is a trial . . . but I adjust the device to maximum climb gradient, heralding a new hell, shifting the burden to other muscles, which throb in pitiless intensity. Within ten minutes a voice in my head is screaming: what in the name of hell are you doing? I try to ignore it. Soon all sense of my legs has gone, it’s like nothing is keeping me up, and I’m beset by a shuddering panic that I will fall. I attempt to concentrate on the pounding rhythm my feet make on the rubber belt, trying to force my rasping, attenuated lungs to breathe in concert with it. I try to look at anything other than those digital display monitors that measure time, speed, distance covered, and calories burned. All of a sudden, the belt starts to slow down of its own accord. I realize, to my elation, that I’ve been running at this speed and gradient for thirty unbroken minutes!
I stagger off the machine, so spaghetti-legged I’d probably have toppled over without the chain fastening my wrist to the pillar. I reel myself in toward it like a fish, and slump onto the mattress, wrapping my arms around my legs, pressing my face into the tops of my bare knees and closing my eyes, huddling into the ball of myself.
Well, thank you, Miss Sorenson. Fat geek, thin geek, both misfits, fat geek didn’t fuck thin geek, but instead made out with nonevent church bitch. Thin geek had killed himself anyway, and fat geek goes to college on a trust fund. Well, I suppose it’s a start. But that’s all it is. Excuse me for being underwhelmed! I’m also less than convinced of Sorenson’s reliability as a narrator. People like her—artsy types—they make shit up. That’s what they do.
By the time I get back with her breakfast bagel, an hour has elapsed and Sorenson isn’t happy but is silent, and her eyes never leave the food in my hand. I press it into her dirty, grateful paws.
As she eats, I pick up her bucket and flush her shit away, then her piss, then there’s the pain-in-the-ass draining of the pervert-bear pool, which involves hauling it to the bathroom and tipping it deftly over the lip of the shower tray, letting the Sorenson grime fill the drains of Miami. Then the dull, mundane refilling of all the vessels.
When I’ve completed these horrible fucking tasks, I get back to Sorenson, who is remarkably still chewing on her food. Yes, she’s forcing herself to eat slower, looking up at me between mouthfuls. So I sit on the chair opposite her, the Morning Pages in my hand. — This is a lot to take in. You’ve been very candid. Well done.
She looks hopefully at me. — I’ve really tried to be as honest as I can—
— On the downside, these are not Morning Pages.
— What do you mean? I wrote them first thing this morning, I did, I—
I raise my hand to silence her. — Morning Pages are three pages. There are over twenty here!
— The more the better, right? That’s two weeks’ worth!
— They are done three pages at a time, so we can bring up issues and deal with them in small, digestible chunks. This . . . all this stuff, I shake the papers, — is just overwhelming.
— The Morning Pages are my property, Lucy. Read Julia Cameron if you don’t believe me, she says calmly. — They’re not for you to do anything with. You’re not a trained psychologist, or psychotherapist, or counselor—
— But you’re not an adult. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see what you’re doing right now? You’re trying to manipulate me, the way the weak always try to, by trickery, seduction, subterfuge . . .
Sorenson sweeps her greasy bangs aside with her chained hand. — Lucy, this is stupid. It’s twisted. Look, I know I have issues and I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but kidnapping me, criminalizing yourself, it just isn’t the answer!
— Kidnapping. Now there’s an interesting term. Where is the ransom note? Who does it go to? What are my demands? Kidnapping? You wish! This is an intervention. This is tough love, I tell her.
— Love? What? Why? Why do you care!
— Figure of speech, I bark, unnerved by her assertion. — I’m doing my fucking job. You’re a challenge. I’m going to get you in shape if it kills me. And it won’t kill me, I emphasize, as fear clicks into her eyes. — You won’t fucking win, I tell her, then add, — Cause I won’t let you lose.
— This is because of the video clip from my phone. Sorenson shakes her head. — You’re punishing me cause I gave it to the TV station—
— Shut the fuck up about that phone video, I snap, — although now that you mention it, it did considerably louse things up for me. But this has zero to do with that. This is about your obesity and your lies and denial that maintain it.
— No! Sorenson shouts, then winces, rubbing at her temples. — Damn . . . this headache is splitting my skull!
I head into the kitchen, returning with towels and soap. Sorenson begs for some aspirin.
— No. No pain, no gain. I want you to feel shit, and to remember this moment, exactly how awful it feels. This is all due to withdrawal from Coca-Cola and Pepsi, I tell her, chucking some more Volvic bottles in the cooler.
Her face scrunches up in horror. — Water seems to be your answer to everything!
— Coca-Cola was yours, and it was no fucking answer!
Those sunken, haunted eyes look up at me from under those bangs. — I need tampons.
I dig into my purse, retrieve a few, and chuck them to Sorenson.
She fingers her sullied sports bra and looks at her stinking panties, — I need a proper shower! I gotta wash my hair! I’m gross!
You fucking said it, fat girl. — You have the pool, I point to the smirking bear. What kind of a parent would let their kid sit on that face? Asking for trouble.
— I can’t clean myself properly with . . . that. She waves it away and runs a hand through her greasy locks. — I really need to wash my hair!
I shake my head. — Sweat isn’t gross. Blood isn’t gross. Fat is gross. Lose that then we’ll see. You earn the fucking right!
And once again, I leave the apartment serenaded by screams that dissolve into heavy, catching, self-loathing sobs.
28
CONTACT 11
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Please Get In Touch
Lena,
This isn’t funny anymore. When I ring you it keeps going straight to voicemail. Please call me. Is everything okay? Did you lose your phone?
Mom x
Oh groan. Fuck off, Sorenson senior.
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:?!?
Gay woman? What do you mean? For your information I’m a mother and plan to marry my boyfriend next year. You’re crazy. Please, no more correspondence between us.
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Come On!
You’re an unreconstructed rug-muncher and it sticks out a goddamn mile. I get it: letting some faggot knock you up is good for TV deals. After all, bitch gotta eat. But jeeze, lady, when did the good ship self-respect sail the fuck out of your harbor? You really do have some serious issues concerning your sexuality, which you urgently need to resolve!
Stand up. Come forward. Don’t moan it, own it!
Yours in sisterhood,
Lucy
Part Two
Hostages
Four weeks later
29
CONTACT 12
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Worried About Our Mutual Friend
Hi Lucy,
You don’t know me but Lena Sorenson copied you into an email I got from her, and she speaks very highly of you as a motivating trainer and a friend. I’m a good friend of hers, we were college roommates. I�
�m concerned that I haven’t heard from Lena in ages, she hasn’t responded to my emails, or returned my calls. This is really unusual, as we are in regular contact with each other.
I’m sure you know that she’s had emotional issues, like guy problems, and her head isn’t in a great place right now.
I was wondering if you knew anything?
I wish I was in Miami right now—Chicago winters aren’t so good.
Yours sincerely,
Kim Sang Yung
This is the fucker who has been littering Sorenson’s inboxes on her email and voicemail.
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Worried About Our Mutual Friend
Hi Kim,
Yes, Lena has been training with me and we’ve become good friends. The guy problems issue has more or less resolved itself, and she’s been seeing this hunky firefighter named Miles. It’s not a challenging relationship, but it’s just what she needs, and I think that’s the main reason she’s been off the radar!
But it’s also motivated her to get back to work. She’s currently renting a pretty isolated shack in the Everglades, where she’s taking loads of photographs of the swamp in order to construct a landscape for her “future humans” in this new art project she’s doing. The reception is bad out there but she called the other day to say it was going well, and that she would be back in Miami Beach in two weeks’ time.
So all good.
If she calls again I’ll certainly tell her you were worried and to get in touch, but you know how single-minded she is with a project when she gets the bit between her teeth! I’d like more regular contact as I worry about her out there alone in the Glades, but I’m so delighted that she’s back “in the zone” as I was SERIOUSLY concerned about her state of mind a few weeks back. But now that she’s out of that, I don’t want to mess with her energy.