The Companion

by Lorcan Roche

  I remember the sinking, panicked feeling as the head of my pint went slowly mildewed and old while he talked about his simple country girlfriend, the awful finger things he made her do.

  Say nothing.

  I wash his hair and say nothing when it comes out in clumps that clog the drain, I say nothing when he tells me to place a porno rag on the plastic shelf in front of him in the shallow bath, I say nothing when his eyes tell mine to move his dead white hands into position; and afterwards, as I lift him from the tepid water, I say nothing.

  Just watch grey tadpoles swim towards my disposable rubber gloves.

  Breathe in, breathe out …

  With his lashless eyes locked on mine he deliberately slides his lukewarm, leftover food off his tray, down onto the carpet. And as I bend to scoop up the soggy mess I can hear Dana’s whispered warning: Most guys last a week, less if you have any kind of ego. It pays sometimes to put an echo on – ego, ego, ego. To pretend I’m out strolling in the Swiss Alps. And that the air up there is so rare I can actually break into a smile. It works, the odd time. But mostly when he does something like this to test me I excuse myself politely and walk abruptly from the room, face flushed, heart sinking like a stone.

  Sometimes you’ll find me doing breathing exercises, in and out, in the hall. At night you might hear me playing Nirvana or Queens of the Stone Age, screaming, laughing at the glorious release.

  And if you happened by Madison and 57th of an evening you might just see me squeeze my head out the little window, a gargoyle brought suddenly to life, sucking down the first real breath of the day. And the air up there really is so amazing that I have to shout out comes Barney, out from under his awning, yep, the cap is coming off … there he is staring up … see him scratch the hair on his stupid Beckett head.

  If I’m going to ask Dana out on a date, what I need to understand is: ‘When she come out of that sick bitch’s room, she always gonna have that don’t-come-near-me-now face on. What you need to do is work on your timing. What you need to do is quit looking at her like a lovesick puppy. You way too huge to be gittin’ away with that kinda shit, a’wight?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You axe me, that skinny little white girl is way too weak to be pulling that Moby-Dick bitch ‘round in the first place. Shit, that woman should be on Wrestlemania in a one-piece, twirling people over her ugly supersize head. You pay per view then. Yeah, you laughing now and it feel real good, right?

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You forget all about Mr Ed, his turkey head, his fucked-up inner organs.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  “Cause that what that bad breath be, baby.’

  ‘I’m eating here.’

  ‘You always eatin’.’

  ‘Whose fault is that?’

  ‘You wan’ me to stop cookin’ and bakin’ for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look, Clever. Just ‘member to make her laugh. Dana got just as much shit to forget end of every day as you, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Shit, didn’t your Mama teach you nothin’? She musta whisper it one time?’

  ‘Whispered what?’

  ‘Think real hard now. Can’t you hear her?’ She’s leaning in, her incredible purple lips almost brushing my ear. ‘Hey baby Trevor, it’s your Mama. Don’t get sore now, but you ain’t never gonna git with the ladies on looks alone, not with that big old TV set up top your neck pretendin’ like it’s a regular head. You gonna need a lotta money, you gonna need to be seriously funny, you gonna need to be talking that bad-ass terrorist-shit all the time.’

  I’m really laughing now, but a lot of it has to do with how weird it feels to have her hot breath entering my ear.

  ‘Shit, you one of the ugliest white people I ever did see. You uglier than Jay Leno, an’ nurses, they just throw they hands up and run out the dee-livery room when they see his big TV set poppin’ out.’

  ‘Nice pie. Not as nice as yesterday’s, though. I think the pastry was a little soggy.’

  ‘Yeah, that why you ate up every bit. So you want me to git her number?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What do you mean maybe?’

  ‘I mean maybe you stop comin’ in my kitchen with that long face on, maybe you stop staring out the window saying nothin’. Shit, maybe you start being funny again.’

  Some days Ellie has her own stuff to contend with and the kitchen is quieter than a boathouse in winter.

  Ed’s mother wants Italian meatballs; then, at the very last minute, she demands Irish stew. She keeps ringing up asking, ‘Where is it? Where is it? Do I have to come in there and make it my goddamn self?’

  And there is only so much of that kind of crap Ellie will take. With her see-through bag of weed laid out on the kitchen table she is going to put her Walkman on with the volume all the way up, then she’ll just park and smoke and listen to the Mills Brothers crooning ‘Lazy River’ or ‘You always Hurt the One You Love’.

  That’s when the little phone rings right off the fuckin’ hook. And the door of the Judge’s office swings wide – I’ll tell you one thing, he’d surprise you with the depth of his roar.

  I’ve watched her more than once putting twigs, stems and bits of her stash in on top of the mother’s food – the odd time too a big slow dollop of spit, liquid-hate, falling like sinews from her purple, whispering lips.

  Dana’s schedule changes from week to week so there’s no point trying to figure out what days she’s on or what days she’s off; if you do that you end up stopping like a de-programmed robot in the corridor before you walk into the kitchen. And you’re always making sure your voice is low and gentle when you say, ‘Hello, stranger.’ And you sound way too fuckin’ practised and you’re hoping she won’t notice your eyes as she looks up from her ginger and lemon tea. But to be honest she usually just says, ‘Hey Big Guy. What’s up?’

  Then she moves her chair around so you can sit next to her, which is nice.

  ‘How’s Ed?’

  ‘Tired. And emotional.’

  ‘Oh. OK. And how are you coping?’

  ‘I’m alright.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  ‘If you need anything, just let me know, OK?’

  ‘I need you to love me.’

  It’s alright, relax. I didn’t say that last bit.

  I pass the Judge in the corridor sometimes when I’m emptying Ed’s bedpan he nods and tries to smile but it’s hard for him to face up to reality; he always waits until we’re busy doing something like eating, stretching, watching a DVD or a TV show then his caterpillar head pokes round the door, ‘Oh I’m disturbing you guys, why don’t I drop by later?’

  He never does, however.

  And that’s when Ed requests his headphones, hanging like a black noose in the corner of the room. Then he closes his eyes, retreats into the world of Alan White, Peter Gabriel, Rick Wakeman, Steve Hackett or The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, all four sides without so much as a word I drain the pipes on the breathing machine, I rinse them thoroughly, check the levels in the oxygen tanks, refill both inhalers, re-examine the best before dates on all the decongestants, phone the pharmacy, check the atomizers and vaporizers as well as the tiny sprays he uses to ease his vocal chords. And all the time I’m hoping he will ask to be wheeled in to his mother.

  Please God, please let me be alone. For just five fuckin’ minutes.

  I did say that last bit. Almost every other day.

  In the sanctified time he is gone I can use the Dustbuster under his bed, I can shake the curtains clean, open the windows wide, breathe in and stretch a new rubber sheet on his mattress. I can rub down his chair with anti-bacterial wipes. Fuck it, I can lift the bloody thing right up.

  See, I can hold it there for as long as my arms and shoulders will allow.

  It is not a crime to be strong. It is not a crime to stand tall.

  It is not a crime to be me.

&nbs
p; It is a crime to let resentment grow, like damp rising on the wall of the 92nd Street Y.

  A faded sign says:

  Please consider others.

  Please wipe down all surfaces after use.

  Please confine your time to 20 minutes at peak periods.

  The cross-trainer asks me my weight, my age, how long I’d like the session to last. Choose from 1–60 minutes. I key in sixty.

  After all, it’s my job to be considerate, and I’m finished working for the day.

  Sitting alone in the sauna, two of his flawless white towels wrapped around me, thinking about the sea and my dog when the door with the cracked pane opens and two black guys enter. They are arguing softly about some bloke called Delroy.

  One is saying, ‘Nah, he definitely said he mighta broke his tibia,’ and the other says, ‘Nope, fibia,’ and on it goes. ‘Fibia,’ ‘Tibia,’ ‘Fibia,’ ‘Tibia,’ until the older one with the slightly high-pitched voice says, ‘Well, whatever he broke, we ain’t worth shit ‘less we find another guard by Saturday.’

  That’s when I lift the towel from my half-baked head and say, ‘Hey.’

  They both look at me. The older one smiles and says, ‘What’s up bro?’ But the younger one, whites of whose eyes are bloodshot and angry, leaves all conversation-making to his friend.

  ‘You play?’

  ‘A little. I was on the school team.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Dublin.’

  ‘Shit. They play over there?’

  ‘Yes they do.’

  ‘How tall are you, man?’

  ‘Tall as you. Maybe taller.’

  ‘What you doing now?’

  ‘Part from talking to you, and being stared at by your sidekick, nothing much. Why?’

  He’s laughing now, elbowing the other guy, telling him to quit messin’ around. Then he asks is there any way I could get dressed again, maybe play a bit, just so they can see for theyselves?

  There’s nothing worse than putting back on clothes you’ve been dripping sweat in – no, that’s bollocks, there are much worse things in this world. And I’m tired of being all fuckin’ deep and heavy in the evening it’s amazing how completely silent a court can be in a busy city like this, zing, I hear a ball bounce in the corridor then the younger one explodes the doors open and his red eyes say, Gonna mess you up, white boy.

  His gentle friend comes in, he says, ‘Thanks for doing this for us.’ He motions me to stand under one of the hoops, ‘Stop the young blood scoring.’

  Which turns out to be impossible.

  The older guy smiles, ‘Step aside.’ He starts showing me how to do it properly, ‘Make like you the man’s shadow, but with your arms up and around like this, see. You should be breathing down his neck like so, always let him know you watching the ball, not the man. All the time let him ’preciate you not going to fall for stupid old tricks of the head, shit, see the way his body go one way an’ the ball go the other, I got you, see the way I punked him. Look how I do it, see? If he turn, I turn, if his shoe squeak, then you jus’ know my shoe gonna squeak. Gottit?’

  They stop like pieces of a clock at the same time the younger one says, ‘Your turn.’

  It’s more serious and silent now when he tries a jump shot I slap the ball right out of his hands. He picks it up, he comes right at me, his teeth are bared, his mouth melting into …

  A magnificent smile.

  ‘You learn fast.’

  ‘For a white guy?’

  ‘Nah. You just learn fast. Man, you got some big hands. Strong too. What they feed you?’

  ‘For breakfast, we usually consumed a lightly salted English child.’

  They’re laughing now. It feels good again my cares are lifting the ball off the ground with one hand he says they’re going to ‘step up y’alls education, so to speak.’ They start passing it over my head, Piggy in the Middle.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Trevor.’

  ‘JD. That out-of-breath old man, his name Charles. Let’s play!’

  They show me what will happen in a real game, how some ‘fast little mothafuckas’ll stand on your foot, elbow you in the ribs and under the chin as they pass they might say some shit you might not be too happy to hear if the ref’ree has his back to you gots to be real careful ’bout who you messing with, team we playin’ Saturday, they got two guys from Bed-Stuy, that’s where ‘Iron Mike’ comes from. Those niggahs got some serious ’tude. Last time out, they threw the ball right up in Charles’ face, caught it an’ jus’ laughed they asses off. One of them has all that gangsta shit in his mouth, look like that real ugly mothafucka from that James Bond movie.’

  ‘Jaws?’

  ‘No, man. Jaws be a film about a great white shark.’

  ‘Actually, I think you’ll find Jaws is the name of the character in the Bond film you …’

  ‘Whatever. Watch this shit!’

  And I will never have their hand-to-eye coordination – their lightness through the air, the way they hang by invisible threads. But with their stick-insect legs, they’ll never be rooted to the ground the way I am like an oak: after ten minutes they stop trying to go through me, instead they start to go around, except now I have arms that whirl and twirl, like windmills.

  We take turns playing JD, and he starts laughing when I stand on his foot and pretend to elbow him in the ribs.

  Afterwards, Charles presents his black-and-gold-embossed card; it says he is a ‘roof-repair specialist’, but JD winks and says, ‘Only thing Charles specialize in is making lonely old ladies think they house ‘bout to fall down.’

  Charles laughs and says he’ll pick me up outside my building at eleven a.m.

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘An’ don’t go celebratin’ Saturday on a Friday night, alright?’

  ‘Alright.’

  JD says bring some money, they go out if they win sometimes they drive to the track, they might have some lunch, might drink some fine wine.

  Then Charles nods his grizzled head and says, ‘Yeah, could be an all-day-out affair. Don’t worry, you won’t be the only white guy,’ and JD adds, ‘making an ass of his-self.’

  They start talking very fast, it’s exactly like the way they play: ‘Listen up, yeah pay attention, dress nice, true, you gonna need to look sharp, ya never know who you might hook up with, only don’t let Charles introduce you to none of his sisters, don’t be listening to him, he only date coyote-ugly women, on second thoughts, don’t let Charles introduce you to none of his female relative, neither, they get pregnant a brother so much as smiles in they direction.’

  When we shake hands JD smiles at the size of his hand in mine, then he says it must be ‘somethin’ in the evolution of Irish people, maybes the fact they worked on railways an’ subways for so long, yeah that’s probably the deal’.

  And as they walk out bouncing the ball down the corridor I hear Charles say, ‘Man, how the hell you know the guy wasn’t a surgeon? Shit, not every Irish guy you meet’s a motherfuckin’ housepainter.’ And then JD says, ‘Shit, surgeons be manual workers too – what you think, they operate with they feet? Anyways, me and him, we reached an understanding.’ And Charles laughs and says, ‘Yeah, you understood he could crush you like a cockroach.’

  JD is laughing now. He says out loud, as if he knows I am listening, ‘Nah, dude might be strong, but he have bitch’s eyes. An’ he was never on no school team neither.’

  My gym bag feels extraordinarily light in my head I am free to pass The Subway Inn without being tempted, and when you’re happy like that it spreads like gentle flame it fans all kinds of encounters along the way a big fat seated guy I sometimes buy Ed’s porno mags from looks up and winks.

  ‘Hey. Look who it is. Mister Big. What’s up, bro?’

  ‘Same ol’ same ol’. You know, keeping the wolf from the door, pullin’ the divil by the tail.’

  He laughs his big white socks off and waves me away as i
f one more moment of my outrageous, infectious hilarity will kill him stone dead. And of course it’s overdone, of course it’s more than a little stage Oirish, but it’s much better than walking home slowly with the other voices bidding at the auction in your head.

  And in the Irish diner on the corner the ancient waitress grins her crooked grin as she shows me to the ‘best seat in the house’ she tells the cook I’m back, in fact she says out loud, ‘He was lost but now he’s found,’ which is exactly how I feel.

  And I can see myself fitting in like a coin into a silver slot and I’m thinking, This is the real me, this is who I am, not the morose one in the sealed-off room, no, I am someone easy to be with, someone people really like.

  You can see it in the way the waitress touches my shoulder as she leans in, like an angle-poise, to pour.

  4

  I’m getting very fit and as an antidote to Ed – it very nearly works.

  I’ve been out running, pounding pavements, racing ‘round the walls of Central Park. When I get back, Jerome the black kid who does doorman at night is there, and my heart sinks a little because Jerome believes I’m friends with Barney the racist pig who always greets me way too warmly when Jerome is putting on his blazer he never looks into my eyes, he just says, ‘Whatup.’

  Then he starts waxing the lobby, or re-arranging things that don’t need to be arranged on his tiny, tilted desk.

  It’s important to clear up things like this, so I just come straight out with it: I tell him I don’t want him thinking I’m anything like bloody Barney, that just because we hail from the same corner of the globe doesn’t mean we share the same, you know, perspective.

  He nods without looking at me and says, ‘Whatever.’

  There’s a very long pause. He stretches and sighs. Then all of a sudden he starts moon-walking and body-popping, he’s doing all these excellent old skool moves.