by James Eddy
it’s her actually. At least she isn’t blind as a bat and staring at one thing to ask for another. When that happens, it makes me wonder what they're looking at. What do they see that I can’t? This lady’s pretty friendly though and tells me she's going to be a devil today and have some coleslaw. I laugh and smile. It’s a strange thing to say I guess. I play along, weighing out a tub and handing it to her. She thanks me and goes. Strange lady. Really fucking strange. I’m still bored.
I’m fairly sure she’s not the devil. If coleslaw’s all it takes then there’s another level of hell reserved for me. I’m such a terrible person. No-one knows how much I lie or that I’d happily firebomb this whole place just to watch it burn. All that plastic packaging would make a good bonfire. Not that I'd want anyone to get hurt or anything. I mean, I believe in love. I believe in magic.
Or maybe that's more lies. I steal all the time. Why don’t I stop myself? Why can’t I stop myself? Why don’t I really care? But I do care. It’s too quiet in here. Not enough distractions. In my head, I hear Paul Westerberg screaming, “Look me in the eye and tell me that I’m satisfied,” and it feels a lot like the truth. I calm down and an explosion plays in my head. Words spin round. My brain gets into a loop, repeating odd words in odd ways. Names like ‘Mr Potato Head’ or ‘Demi Lovato’ because they sound weird to me or something. It’s probably just the way my mind works.
I look to see if Diane's here. She isn’t. I see another customer and try to look as happy as possible. Not long till I’m out of here anyway. My finger glances off the shiny metal surface of the scales. A dull thud of pain and the cut I thought had healed is opened up. Occupational hazard I guess. Still bloody hurts though.
I finish serving and the bleeding soon stops. Feeling's gone too, Reality's boring. I walk round the corner again, to hide and watch. Still nothing worth seeing. Without thinking, I pick up the cup of coffee. The way it warms my hands makes me look at it again and then along the aisle in front of the counter.
Music plays like rain falling as delicate shards of metal; echoing in a cave and joined by whispered words. Welcoming and worrying at the same time. The light in the shop dims to night. Not pitch black. Moonlight shines from dozens of ceiling sockets. Spotlights for me and the products on the shelves that I can see moving, almost dancing. Slowly and in time with the music. I look closer to try to believe what I see. I walk along each aisle. Tins, cartons, jelly, spaghetti, mustard and everything else jump down and hop towards where I am. Following me across the floor.
“MUST HAVE BEEN A DREAM.”
The words are bellowed out on top of an explosion of sound in my head, and all the products come hurtling towards me at speed. Jumping into my clothes and my pockets. They're all so happy to do it and that makes me happy too. Weighed down, I wander back behind the counter.
“Joe?” a voice says somewhere behind me.
I turn and see the clock before I see Nicola’s face. She’s right on time for me to leave so I ask how she is, thank her and get out as quick as I can. She’s nice and I think she understands it’s nothing personal.
Walking between two rows of chilled goods, I enjoy the cold. The front door opens to me automatically and I walk straight out into what's left of the heat. Diane stands waiting in the sunlight. My heart jumps a little when I see her emerald green eyes. I hold out my hand, she takes it in hers and I don't feel the weight of anything anymore.
Fading Polaroids in Reverse
Scott Drake was woken by the noises coming from the room next door. The unknown lovers thumped out a regular rhythm through the wall, as he stared up at the pattern on the ceiling. He couldn't make out the names being moaned but it seemed safe to assume it was the same couple he heard every Tuesday morning.
The sky was dark that day. Grey light drained in through the window and hung heavily in the air, making the room even more dull and uninspiring than usual. For Scott, every hotel room had become almost interchangeable. Everything was white and reflective or antiseptic. The towels, the sheets and even the matching wooden desk and bedside tables.
When he first moved into this room he'd watched the way the sun shone into it. How it hit the west wall at an angle that revealed the pattern of brushstrokes left behind; a kind of fingerprint from years before. But that was months ago. And it felt like a lifetime. Those brushstrokes and the tiny beer bottle notches in the top of the wardrobe seemed like the only real signs of life in the room.
Scott lay on the bed looking at his feet. He was glad he'd at least managed to get his boots off. All he felt was an aching moan in his bones and every breath came with nausea rising and falling in his chest. A heady cocktail of guilt, too many late nights and too much time to think was still taking its toll on him. Staring at the other side of the bed, he couldn't forget the mornings when darkness had given way to regret. The mornings when he'd looked at whatever woman was next to him until he'd realised that he barely knew her. That was the time he’d first tried to stop himself feeling. To forget Rebecca he'd gone with women he knew he could never love. It didn't help. It just made it easier to say goodbye.
Back then, Scott took his detachment even further. New friendships had become little more than one night stands. Acquaintances that were friendly enough but still barely moved past the first “Hello”. The court jester made King, he'd created an image of what he thought was expected of him. He'd say, “I’m a drinker not a dancer and a lover not a fighter. But if you give me enough drink, I’ll dance and if you give me enough love, I’ll fight to the death”. It was the kind of posturing that hardly helped him.
As his neighbours moved towards their noisy crescendo, he reached over to the bedside table. That was when he noticed how much noise the woman next door was making. ‘She’s probably cheating,’ the cynic inside him silently declared.
That thought evaporated as soon as the music on his mp3 player found its way to his ears. ‘Perfect Circle,’ by R.E.M. always reminded him of the countryside where he grew up. It made him think of lying in a green field on a sunny summer evening with all his friends.
Just fourteen years old and peering up at a pattern of jet trails in the reddening sky. Fourteen years later, he still remembered the applause of running water and how the tentacled branches of the trees darkened against the dying light. Some days he missed those things. This wasn't one of them.
Despite the distance of miles and years, Scott couldn't think about the setting of the sun with any rose tinting. For a start, he no longer knew any of his friends from back then. Most had got married or had kids and still lived there. That was a completely different world. A world he believed he couldn’t ever call home.
The music faded and his neighbours muffled pleasure became audible barely long enough to be annoying. Another song began and drowned them out again. Once upon a time, any Replacements song could have put a smile on Scott's face. Of course, that was only when he understood that if he’d heard them as a teenager he'd have been more angst ridden but much happier about it. Unfortunately for Scott, by that point, all ‘Black Diamond’ made him think about was Sarah.
When they met, The Replacements were the first band they both loved. That was one of the reasons he liked her so much. Another was that Sarah was completely different to the women he'd known since his records started selling. She was real and that made her an exception to the boho posing and tragic gracelessness of almost everyone else. That was also what made missing her even more terrible. So, most of the time, he avoided thinking about her. It was much easier to silently destroy all the women who could never compare to her.
Even that didn't help and he wasn't really surprised. He'd known that loving her so much had put him out on a limb. That was the only place he'd wanted to be but it wasn't safe for a heart as fragile as his. When the cancer was diagnosed, she was strong and good humoured and even when she got worse she stayed graceful and lovely. But that was when Scott had fallen apart.
The instant he'd seen her red hair as it shone in the sun, outside C
ambridge Corn Exchange, he'd wanted to feel again. Her china blue eyes had somehow brought back the beating of his heart. The months after they met were the closest he'd ever come to a completely calm life. And to something that was steady and purely good. For that, and maybe a million other things, he loved Sarah almost endlessly.
She was gone within a year. On Bonfire night, he watched fireworks light up the morphine sweetness of the dark. Her pain was eased as she was taken away and all he wanted was to not feel anything anymore.
He pulled the earphones from his ears before another song could begin. He reached down beside the bed for a half full bottle of vodka. The cold liquid ran down his throat and the familiar warmth travelled up his spine, briefly bringing peace to his mind. It was only afterwards that it occurred to him that he ought to stop doing this.
Tiredness was his problem that day and the drink was lying heavier on his soul than usual. He looked at his watch. It was twenty five past ten; there was still a couple of hours to wake up and pull himself together.
Scott deposited the bottle onto the bedside table and slid off the bed. He picked out clothes from his suitcase and, with a yawn, made his way to the bathroom. Mirror walls in front and beside