The Companion

by Lorcan Roche

  I sit by the side of the bed, I stroke his head, he opens one eye and smiles.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey yourself.’

  ‘I thought. It was, your Day. Off.’

  ‘I’m a glutton for punishment. You want me to hook up the machine for a little while?’

  ‘You’re. Becoming. Ob-sessed. Man. I need to. Rest.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Don’t come. Back. Without buying. Something. Alright?

  ‘Alright dude. Later.’

  He lifts a pale finger on the duvet, it stays up for a second, then collapses, like a blind-born bird lifting its featherless head.

  I’m wearing new sunglasses in the park. I purchased them from an incredibly calm Korean who didn’t speak a single word during the entire transaction even when I tried to haggle he just shrugged and pointed at his sign – All glasses five dollar.

  I’m smiling now, remembering my mother years and years ago on a park bench in Dublin, feeding breadcrumbs to overweight pigeons, saying ‘How do you do?’ to old people and young. Taking off her silk scarf shaking out her still thick hair, raising her handsome face to the sun. Bathing in its heat, smiling down from behind Jackie O sunglasses: Isn’t it great to be alive, Stretch? Isn’t it a zillion times better than being dead and buried?

  I like when she floats back into my head without bidding, they’re usually the happy memories, the ones that arise naturally, whereas if you sit with a bottle and force yourself to remember at night you usually come up with stuff that’s not exactly pleasant to look over; veins spreading, like cracks on a porcelain vase across her pulsing temple and forehead; the flesh tightening, as if Death had pressed a layer of cling-film over her exhausted face; her hair thinning, then breaking off at the roots, never to grow again; the light in her eyes fading, a leaking boat slipping out on the tide, Decide which thoughts to conduct, which to dispel.

  I miss her which is normal, I mourn her which is natural, I talk to her at night which can occasionally be quite soothing. But sometimes I’m like a drunk priest down on his knees who realizes he has no Faith left, he’s just talking into the vacuum, emptying his mouth and mind into the void: No one is listening, no one gives a shit. And if he wanted, this priest could lift his fist and shake it at the buffalo and bison water-stains on the peeling ceiling above, but then he’d cut an even more ridiculous figure, now wouldn’t he?

  Two guys my age are playing frisbee, they think they’re the greatest thing since the sliced pan; they have these big baggy shorts and naff tattoos like the guys from Red Hot Chilli Peppers they think they’re really hard. They float the red disc nearer, it is coming lower and lower all the while they are laughing themselves silly, Yo man, look at the great white hope. No man, look at the great white dope.

  They don’t understand if it so much as grazes my outstretched arm, I will rise up, I will take their stupid beaded necks in my grandfather’s hands, I will … Nah.

  It’s my day off. I will lie on the grass till the sun sets behind the darkly mirrored buildings. I will watch secretaries sip soda, and listen to them talk about J-Lo’s latest flame. I will watch as a distracted father releases an expensive model boat on sluggish pond water. I will wait in the shade for wind to blow slow understanding towards his overweight child who knows now the boat wasn’t bought for him.

  It’s a Kodak moment; it may define him for Eternity.

  I’m no xenophobe alright, but why is it Americans have to advertise the fact they’re having a really good time? I mean, what is it with these fuckin’ people, why do they have to try so hard to tell you with their perfect teeth that their day off is better than your day off, fuck it their whole life is better than yours? I mean, here comes yet another waxed chest, John Kennedy Jr. lookalike with the latest in-line blades and a shit-eating perma grin straight out of an Orbit Sugarfree ad. On his helmet he has this little mirror, see how he checks out the babes as they zoom past. See how his Mayflower-eyes instruct me to get out of the … No way pal, today you move round me, ‘Yeah stare all you like. I’m going nowhere.’

  He flits past, fast, his air hitting mine. He wheels round, balletically. Bent over like a giant insect, his over-muscled legs crisscross as if they were made of rope, and it’s weird because I feel I’m the one who is going backwards. And did you ever notice how on your day off you might be strolling in somewhere, say the Whitney Museum or the Algonquin Hotel, and everyone else is coming out, and the revolving doors spin a little too quickly for comfort, so you end up standing there for the longest time? And I’ve been meaning to tell you just how much it pisses me off when people bang on about how wonderful, ethnically diverse and supremely entertaining New York City is, because here’s the real-deal.

  When you know no one, you wind up on your day off watching the sun sink behind a fake fuckin’ castle in an over-populated park five minutes from where you live, whoopee.

  A Puerto Rican girl on my favourite bench holds the answer: an ice in a little paper cup against which her lips are the most incredible colour, like coral. She has this cropped top on, with these tiny cut-off denims below and I’m thinking, Jesus, she’s much hotter than the worked-out wasps flying by.

  Miss Puerto Rico has a lazy kind of way of moving her fingers through her hair as I approach she holds her hand there, like a visor.

  ‘You need somethin’?’

  ‘I was wondering, where did you get the ice?

  ‘This?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s a really nice ice. Really fuckin’ freshing.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘From a guy.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘A guy with a little silver cart.’

  ‘That’s the guy I’m looking for.’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe he went to some cold country to get more ice.’

  ‘Alaska?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Or the Antarctic maybe?’

  ‘You some kinda geography teacher?’

  ‘No. I’m a gyna-fuckin’-cologist.’

  ‘Yeah. And I’m a fuckin’ weather girl. On TV.’

  ‘I’d pay per view.’

  She laughs and drops her hand.

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely.’

  ‘Dressed like this, an’ leaning over the charts?

  ‘Dressed exactly like that. And leaning all over the charts’

  ‘You can have the rest of this. Here.’

  ‘You going?’

  ‘No. I’m jus’ being friendly. Take it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her lipstick has blemished the ice; a ludicrous Latin priest-voice inside says, it looks like my soul will look when all of this is done.

  ‘You’re blocking the sun. Why don’t ya sit?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Man, your face is all red. Shit, you a fuckin’ lobster.’

  She touches my cheek and draws away, as if I am on fire. Her hands are not her best feature, you can see she chews her finger-nails which are badly painted, but other than that she’s an angel sent to save me from feeling sorry for myself.

  She places her hand on mine, measuring.

  ‘You a fuckin’ giant, man.’

  ‘Fi fi fo fum I smell the blood of a Puerto Rican girl.’

  Her hand is taken away, it’s like a privilege being removed.

  ‘’What’s that shit? You being fuckin’ racist?’

  ‘It’s from Jack and The Beanstalk. It’s a fairy tale.’

  ‘It’s a fuckin’ weird tale, if beans can talk.’

  ‘It’s about a giant.’

  ‘OK.’

  She puts her hand on mine again, she lets the heat of her go into me, and it is an antidote to the falseness of everything under the sinking sun. Then she narrows her amazing Natalie Wood eyes.

  ‘He have a room, this giant?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Nearby?’

  �
��Madison and 57.’

  ‘This giant, he nice?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Not gonna to get rough, is he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not gonna want any fuckin’ crazy shit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  Her name is on a chain around her neck Lucia has a smile which is a secret weapon, she can use it to alter the mood; in a funny way she really is a weather girl.

  ‘So this giant, he have money?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Cash-money?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Kay. What we waitin’ for?’

  She stands up. The marks of the bench are embedded on her upper thighs so she spits, then runs her imperfect hand along the tops of her legs which are smooth and hairless. Just like that, the bench marks are gone.

  ‘How much do you think it’s going to be?’

  ‘You wan’ me stay for a while?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You wanna go out for dinner first, maybe?’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  ‘Make like it’s a date?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK. Dinner. Maybe a movie, we’ll see. Then back to the giant’s crib. We can talk money then.’

  She wants to know why I’m laughing, so I say the idea of a giant with a crib is kinda weird, and she says, ‘So are you’, then she adds, ‘but weird works for me …It’s like, you go into a store OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And there are all these carrots or vegetables, whatever. The carrots are all regular size then you find one that’s a funny kinda shape, it don’t mean it ain’t gonna taste right, I mean, maybe the other carrots are the, you know, ab-normal ones.’

  A lot of the time you just agree with people without really knowing what they’re banging on about, it seems this supermarket theory is extremely important to her so I just say ‘yeah absolutely,’ I even list off a few more vegetables, just to show I was listening.

  Lucia explains that technicolor-speaking it’s her day off, but she saw me earlier on, she really liked the way I stuck my hand up without looking, in fact she thought it was really cool the way I fucked-up their frisbee game, yeah, those two were major fuckin’ assholes, they been giving her a lot of shit axe-ing was she Mariah Carey after she lost her record deal and put on weight an’ all. I tell her Mariah Carey wouldn’t get a look in, and in the distance you can hear softball applause as she lifts the sleeve of my T-shirt she seems to be checking me for tats.

  ‘You a soldier?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Navy-boy?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I’m a Companion to a Boy with Muscular Dystrophy.’

  ‘A Companion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like, some rich kid pays you to sit with him and read fairy tales about beans an’ shit.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Shit. Where can I sign up?’

  She laughs and links my arm, and far as I’m concerned there is no difference between us and the people pretending to be in love in the leaking boats on the silting lake. And maybe the reason Americans advertise their emotions so much is, if you keep telling yourself something over and over and over again, then eventually you’ll start to believe:

  It’s OK to sleep with a hooker. It’s not sad. Or lonely.

  ‘Is it true you don’t kiss?’

  ‘You wanna kiss me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go ‘head.’

  Her mouth is an invitation to a perfect day. I kiss her, the park spins, and when I open my eyes there’s this great big shiny black mare staring down, Jesus.

  The guy says forty-five bucks without being asked and she says for forty-five she’d pull the fuckin’ thing round herself, what he needs to ‘preciate is the horse is the one with blinkers on, not her, OK?

  He laughs and says, ‘OK, whatever, hop in’, as she does she gives him the thigh-treatment, and that’s when he looks at me as if to say You lucky fuckin’ bastard. And I have to say it’s nice to be complimented, even if she is a tart, and I know it’s a turgid movie full of really sentimental shite but I can’t help but think of Pretty Woman, especially when she climbs up beside the driver, laughs, and takes the little whip thing in her hand.

  Some people are incredibly easy in themselves under the exaggerated skyline I believe I already indicated I sometimes feel a bit queasy, but the more Lucia shouts the faster the horse trots, and the more the guy beside her laughs the further Ed, his mother, and the claustrophobic room fall miles and miles behind.

  Dana too is fading in the neat clip-clop of hooves even the high smell of horse-dung has its compensations.

  A boy’s sweet voice inside says, This is the best day off so far, best day off ever.

  She’s one of those people I told you about like my Ma she doesn’t feel the need to be serious all the time we’re walking she keeps saying stuff like ‘What’s the weather like up there?’ and ‘Hand me down the moon’ and when she puts her hand inside my combat-pocket she pretends to be very concerned and says, ‘You’re pretty tall for your size no, maybe not, shit it’s growin’ some already …’

  She takes me to this steakhouse where the Puerto Rican waitress knows her well, and the handsome little guy who brings the drinks knows her even better. He touches her lips with two dark fingers, and she kisses them with her eyes closed; you just know that for them the whole room disappears.

  The steaks are nice and big. They come with a strip of well-done, a strip of medium, a strip of rare. We have a pitcher of beer and she leans across a lot to wipe my mouth, and once, when I get my mouth ready in an ‘o’ she just pulls my nose instead, which might sound stupid to you but I find it pretty fuckin’ funny. In fact Lucia and I laugh a lot, mostly at the state of the other diners, how serious they look, how little time they take to register what the other person has said; I mean, some of them have their mouths open waiting to jump right in while others don’t even bother to pretend they’re listening, they just look around the room till it’s their turn again. One flip-flop guy waddles to the salad bar, his wife mid-sentence.

  Lucia says she’s seen a lot of life, she doesn’t think much of the human race, she does like kids however. Or anyone who takes the time or the trouble to make her laugh, which isn’t much trouble at all.

  We share a hot fudge sundae with sparklers on top, and we have a pretty interesting conversation about how you laugh maybe one hundred times a day when you’re five, then twenty years later it’s dropped to once or twice a day if you’re fuckin’ lucky.

  Outside the restaurant she kisses me very strongly and thanks me for dinner and I can’t stop laughing at Mabel’s voice in my ear, Make sure you treat yourself to something nice now, you hear? And even though she hasn’t a clue what I’m laughing at, Lucia just joins right in which is a little bit disconcerting since it reminds me of the bum outside the shoe store, but it’s not like we’re getting married now is it?

  A power-walker flits past; Lucia falls in behind her for a whole block we do exactly what the power-walker does, including the mad elbow thing.

  We stop for breath. We laugh. Her eyes are deep pools.

  You can dive in and get lost, for a very long time.

  A frighteningly beautiful Japanese girl in white goes past on a mobile phone; black mascara streaks are destroying the pale perfection of her face, her billboard eyes brim over with tiny, belladonna tears. Lucia says ‘Oh shit’ and squeezes three of my fingers, tight. Then she says, ‘Let’s skip the movie, huh?’

  Which is exactly what I was thinking; I have to say, if I’d known it was going to be this nice I’d have been at it donkey’s years ago.

  She is sorry to leave really, she wishes there were more people out there like me, I’m gentle, kind, I’m really sorta special. And I know it’s ludicrous but there’s a lump in my throat when she tells the elevator-guy to look the other way she kisses me with her f
oot hooked around my leg, and the sensation of her sweet, soft mouth nuzzling mine, plus the lift descending, makes me very fuckin’ giddy.

  She can feel it in my mouth, the laughter rising, and as she kisses me the last thing she whispers is, ‘That was a nice day-off from the world Trevor, thanks.’

  She wiggles her perfect ass as she passes Barney who takes off his cap and scratches his head as if to say, Jesus, ya’d nearly have to.

  Then the elevator-guy steps out of his box, it’s the first time I have ever seen him smile. He says, ‘I think I just died an’ went ta Heaven.’

  For a little guy his voice is incredibly deep and rumbly. Then the three of us watch her walking away, the great thing is she puts on a hell of a show.

  One by one I light the scented candles in his room, to be honest I feel like Jesus pouring warm water into the bowl.

  I wash the china-feet, then softly towel them dry. I get out the baby-oil, massage the baby-feet, pull the crooked toes which make a soft crack, like when you were a kid and pulled the wishbone of the roast chicken with your Ma, only not so loud.

  I do the same with his hands and fingers gently as I lift him from the chair onto the waiting bed his hair is falling back like a little Indian squaw and I don’t know why I feel the sudden need to kiss his head, but when I do, he isn’t shocked, just pleasantly surprised.

  ‘What was. That. For?’

  ‘The hell of it.’

  He smiles, and I realize it’s been a while since we sat in the dark like a captain and his co-pilot, him calling out ‘bedpan?’ me saying ‘check’; ‘a bendy straw?’ ‘check’; ‘decongestant, poured out in a paper cup?’ ‘check’; ‘my inhaler under the pillow?’ ‘check’; ‘panic-button?’ ‘check’; ‘within easy reach?’ ‘check’; ‘the little Sony recorder?’ (in case he thinks of something for the book about his life), ‘check’.