Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  I’m just about to head to the bar and order a pint when I see her.

  One of the busty blondes from the Oi Man’s table. (Yep, Sarah, I’d agree with you here, she’s definitely a fake blonde.)

  She’s dressed in skimpy, skintight clothing and wearing too much blue eye shadow. It’s definitely one of the women from that night.

  But is she the wife? Or merely a friend?

  I decide it doesn’t matter. Wife or not, she knows the Oi Man. She’ll lead me to him.

  (I wonder if the police caught the Oi Man after he hit me with the glass and if he’s locked away in prison. No. Couldn’t have happened. The police would have brought me in to identify him. Good. I’m glad. I want him free and on the streets. I want him where I can get to him.)

  The woman sits alone, smoking at a table, drinking from a pint glass. From the half-filled pint opposite her I judge she’s not alone.

  I go to the bar and wait patiently to be served, trying to look as if I’m meeting someone here. I surreptitiously watch the woman.

  A moment later a man in his late thirties emerges from the toilet. I hold my breath despite myself, but it’s not the Oi Man.

  Yet this man joins the busty blonde at her table. He slides into the seat across from her and picks up the pint, taking a long drink even as he reaches for her hand.

  The Oi Man’s woman (or friend, I really don’t know yet) looks uncomfortable and her eyes dart around the room. She allows the man to hold her hand for a second, then she pulls away and I can see the flash of a wedding ring on her finger. They’re too far away for me to overhear, but I can tell she’s nervous, unhappy, even, and her eyes keep flicking to the door.

  Is this man not her husband? Could she possibly be the Oi Man’s wife?

  Does she fear the Oi Man will find her here?

  I hope that she is the wife of the Oi Man and that she is having an affair. It would be the absolute perfect vengeance against him. He’d be so humiliated. He threw the broken glass at a man he accused of merely looking at his wife (even if it hit me instead) so finding out she’s having an affair would destroy him. I could live with that.

  It’s easy for me to hang back and let others be served before me. I pretend that I’m meeting someone and keep glancing at my watch and scanning the room.

  The Oi Man’s female friend, wife or not, stands, and her male companion downs his pint and follows her to the door. They leave.

  I wait a moment, forcing myself not to run after them. I glance at my watch and sigh loudly. I shrug my shoulders and head toward the door. No one pays me any attention and that’s just how I want it. (My shoulders are slightly slumped and I’m wearing some old Alex clothes. I don’t want to stand out, I want to blend into the crowd.)

  What if I’m too slow? What if they’ve already climbed into a car and are driving away? How will I find them? How will I follow them?

  I emerge into the sunny evening and breathe a sigh of relief. They’re walking, carefully apart and not touching, down the street. It’s an innocent picture. Or would have been if they hadn’t kept glancing nervously over their shoulders.

  I know they see me as I start to head in the same direction they’re taking, but they don’t seem concerned. Is it only a husband they’re worried about?

  Please, please, let that husband be the Oi Man.

  The Oi Man hurt me, hurt Alex, physically, but not only physically, my anguish was also mental. I felt a failure.

  A failure and a coward in front of Amber. In front of Amber and Noreen and Clarence and Diana. Bleeding like a stuck pig, standing there gaping like a fool, covered in spilled alcohol, is not a way to impress one’s new flatmates.

  They continue to walk and I follow but not like I’m following them exactly, just that we’re all heading in the same direction. Thankfully they’re headed toward a main road so I’m less suspicious-looking.

  I wish I’d thought to bring my camera with me. If this is the Oi Man’s wife I’ll need photographic evidence to ensure his humiliation. The complete and utter degradation of his pride, of his image in front of his loutish mates.

  But I’ll worry about that later, for now I just need to know where they’re going so I can discover their usual haunts.

  What would I, the old I, have done in this situation? Absolutely nothing. Alex wouldn’t have been here today. Alex would have stayed away from that pub for the rest of his life, too scarred by the memories to enter it. And Alex would never have sought vengeance. He would have been upset, angry, but it would have ended there. He would have done nothing.

  It’s better that I’m Alexander now. I can look out for myself, for my interests, as Alex could never have done.

  The busty blonde and her lover turn on to a side street and I slow my steps. To follow or not to follow? I walk slowly but decide it would look suspicious if I just stopped so I follow them and turn on to the street. I’m just in time to see them head down another street. They’re standing farther apart now and they’ve stopped looking over their shoulders. It’s like they’re scared. Like they’re getting close. Like they’re nearing their destination.

  Dare I hope they’re headed for a house?

  These are residential streets. They must be going to a house. His house. Or her house. Maybe—please, God—the Oi Man’s house.

  I speed up, cross the street they turned on to and see the woman unlocking a house in a long, 1930s terraced row.

  Bingo.

  She holds the keys. Her house, then. Not the man’s. It’s not their house, that much is obvious.

  The house is halfway down the street, opposite a park, and as the woman opens the door I can see that it’s painted the bright, deep blue of a cloudless desert sky. Like a beacon. A lighthouse light calling all ships safely home to port.

  They enter the house and then I turn on to the street, passing the house and barely glancing at the door. It’s the only one with a blue door. I’ll have no trouble finding it again.

  The park is a small neighborhood park, rather sparse and forlorn as parks go, but it has a small set of swings and a bit of grass where a pair of small boys halfheartedly kick a football back and forth. It’s perfect for my needs.

  hard proof

  I aim at the blue door. My camera’s got an auto-focus so there’s not much else for me to do, but I’m poised and ready, waiting, waiting.

  I’m standing in the park, hovering among a group of trees holding a bird book, a pair of binoculars around my neck. (Thank you, Noreen.) If anyone gets close enough to see me they’ll think I’m an eccentric and not very effective bird watcher.

  I shift slightly, tired of being on my feet.

  How long are they going to shag anyway?

  I’ve been standing here for twenty-five minutes. It took me half an hour to rush back to my room, grab my camera and insert a new roll of film (thirty-six exposures, just in case) and borrow the binoculars and bird book from Noreen before returning to the park and finding that the football boys had gone.

  I told Noreen that I’m an amateur ornithologist and now I’m terrified that she’ll corner me as soon as I get home and insist on holding an in-depth discussion concerning the child-rearing regurgitation methods of magpies compared to those of smaller birds such as sparrows and robins. I’ll try to convince Amber to join us in the kitchen for a glass of wine. (I can do it, I can just be friends with Amber. It’s feasible, I know it’s feasible, I’m in control.)

  It’s possible that the lovebirds have finished their shag, that in the half hour I was away they had their fun and it’s all over. But I don’t feel unlucky today. I think they’re still inside.

  Now, the question comes, is she the wife of the Oi Man?

  The front door opens and my finger hovers over the button, itching to press it and take my first picture.

  Come on, Alexander. Go, Alexander, go, go, go. You can do it. You can do it. You’re a winner.

  The woman, the wife, but not necessarily the Oi Man’s wife, appears in her dressi
ng gown. Silly fool, doesn’t she know the whole street can see her? You’d have thought she would have got dressed.

  But it’s good for me.

  I snap a photo of her.

  Oh, sweet Lord, I can’t believe my luck. The man steps outside and he runs a hand down her cheek. In full view of the neighbors. In full view of my camera.

  Snap. Snap.

  The only thing I can say for them is that they don’t kiss. Their lips don’t touch.

  Do they want to get caught? Is that what they’re hoping for?

  (Well, then, today is their lucky day, after all.)

  They’re chatting. Both look sad, you can tell neither wants to part, but part they must. (Sob, sob, sob, sob.)

  And then, oh, my God, I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch (sorry, Mum, that’s just an expression, I don’t mean anything by it), he slips his hand inside her dressing gown.

  Snap, snap, snap. I zoom in and the angle’s perfect. His hand. Inside her robe. I get six shots in quick succession.

  I snap more pictures, suddenly glad I can’t hear what they’re saying. It must be so pathetic and excruciating.

  I love you. I’ll miss you. Call me. When will I see you again?

  Finally the man leaves; he walks down the street, heading away from the pub. I snap a few more photos of him, getting a couple of good shots of his face.

  Little Mrs. Wife goes inside and closes her door, shutting out the big bad world.

  Poor dearie. Is she sad?

  I put my camera away, but I continue to stand among the trees, staring at the house. Is this the right thing to do? Am I being fair? If this woman is Mrs. Oi Man she’ll be punished too and it’s not her fault that I want revenge on her husband.

  Maybe I should think of something else.

  I’ve always said I don’t want the innocent to suffer.

  I feel doubt, I feel uncertain, I feel uneasy. I’m torn, undecided. What should I do? Alex would say I’m being mean, that it’s not her fault, that she’s done nothing.

  But the opportunity is there. It’s perfect. If she’s the wife of the Oi Man.

  Would the wife of the Oi Man be an innocent? Would she be nice? Would she be a member of the society of the gentle prey? I don’t know. It doesn’t fit. I can’t decide. But even if she isn’t nice, should she suffer just from her associations? Is that really justice? Is that the kind of vengeance I want?

  As I stand there undecided I hear voices approaching. A moment later two men come into view. The Oi Man and another man are walking down the street, nearing the house with the blue door. Will they stop? Will he stop?

  They both stop on the pavement. They’re chatting.

  Icicles up and down my spine. This is it. This is the moment of truth. One of these men will go inside. Who will it be?

  A minute later, perhaps two, but it feels more like ten, twenty, a hundred, the Oi Man pulls a set of keys from his pocket and turns toward the house.

  Sorry, Mrs. Oi Man, it’ll all have to come out. It’s too perfect a chance to miss. And, besides, I’ll be doing you a favor: I’ll be giving you grounds for a divorce. It’s obvious he doesn’t make you happy.

  The Oi Man heads toward the house with the blue door.

  Toward the adulterous wife.

  The other man walks away, down the street, following unknowingly in the steps of the wife’s lover. The lover of the Oi Man’s wife.

  The Oi Man unlocks the blue door.

  Vengeance on the Oi Man?

  Stage one complete.

  the residual after-effects of success, or how giddiness can be good for you

  The first thing that strikes me as I open the front door to my flat is the quiet inside and I finally allow the grin I’ve been suppressing for the last thirty minutes to stretch across my face. It’s safe now. I no longer need to worry about remaining incognito out on the streets, no longer need to hide the smile of pure, radiant delight that would make me stand out from the crowd, for my mission, or at least the first leg of my mission, is over and I don’t have to pretend to be a nobody like Alex for one single second more.

  I head straight to my room and shed my disguise, leaving the old clothes in a heap on the floor. They say that clothes don’t make a man, and they don’t, not on their own. A man needs the right attitude to wear expensive clothing properly, without looking like someone dressing up for a special occasion, all pink and freshly scrubbed and oh-so-obviously uncomfortable. But the right clothes help, because once I’ve changed into my costlier, well-cut garb I instantly feel better. And more myself.

  Opening the door a crack, I listen for signs of life, signs of habitation. Silence. No TVs, no radio, no talking, nothing. Seizing my chance, praying Noreen is taking a nap in her room or that she’s gone out for the evening and that I’ll be spared a lecture about birds, cleverly disguised in Noreen’s mind as a discussion, I grab the binoculars and bird guide and make a dash for the kitchen. Trying to move both silently and as quick as the wind is not easy, but I do my best for I don’t want to be seen. I reach the kitchen, fling open the door and rush inside.

  Amber is sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter and she jumps as I enter and gives a little scream of fright. I’m startled, too, but I manage to hide it and act like I knew she was there, that I was trying to sneak up on her. The truth is I got carried away. I’m feeling so slap-happy and flushed with success after my photography session with the lovebirds that I was half reliving the stalking and hiding games my brother and I played as children. We spent weeks of the school holidays engaged in our own private wars, being soldiers, spies, assassins, whatever our missions required. The fact that it’s been nearly fifteen years since my last participation in such a game didn’t seem to matter: I reverted to old form without a flicker of thought and it would have been downright embarrassing if someone had surprised me and seen me in hunter-stalker mode. But it hadn’t happened. My image remains intact. And anyway, tonight is my night for victory; I can celebrate any way I want to, even if it makes me look stupid. (Though, obviously, looking foolish is allowed only inside the flat and preferably when no one else is home.)

  I smile at Amber and join in her laughter when she says, “You scared me.”

  “Then I’ll make it up to you,” I say. I set the binoculars and bird guide on the counter, leaving them where Noreen is sure to find them, then cross the kitchen and lean against the table next to Amber. I’m close, very close, and it could be considered an invasion of personal space, but I don’t think she’ll mind. And she doesn’t, she just smiles up at me. “What are you writing?” I ask, and peer at her letter as if I’m about to start reading it.

  Amber colors, a flattering pink that sweeps up her neck and covers her face in seconds, and gathers up the pages, folding them and slipping them inside their envelope. “Just a letter to a friend,” she says.

  I quirk an eyebrow. “A boyfriend?” I ask, half teasing, half serious, wanting to know the answer.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “A friend from school.”

  “Good,” I say. And I just smile.

  “She’s working with the Red Cross in South America,” says Amber, quickly filling the pause I deliberately let hang in the air. “She’s the only person I write letters to.”

  My smile widens. Do I make her nervous? “Is Noreen home?”

  “No. She popped out to get some more vegetables for dinner. She should be back soon.”

  “You mean we’re here all alone? Just the two of us?”

  Amber’s flush deepens. “Yes.”

  I grab her hands and pull her to her feet. “Then we’re running away.”

  She laughs. “What?”

  I slip an arm around her waist and propel her out of the kitchen and toward the front door. “We’re going out, I’m taking you out.”

  “Now?” She glances at her clothes, so I use the excuse and glance down at her, too. She’s wearing jeans belted over a snug shirt. She looks sensational. “But I’m not dressed for dinner.”
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  Dinner? I pause. I shouldn’t be taking her to dinner, I shouldn’t let her think I’m taking her to dinner. What am I doing?

  “Then we’ll go for ice cream,” I say, using the clothing as an excuse; dinner would be too much, dinner would send the wrong message. “We’ll go to Leicester Square and we can eat ice cream and guess the tourists’ nationalities at the same time.” I give her my best smile as I continue to usher her to the front door. “Come on, say yes, it’ll be fun.”

  “Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me.”

  I grab her coat from the coat rack, slip it over her shoulders, and we’re through the door and out on the street in moments. I take her hand and we set off running, fleeing the possible arrival of Noreen, heading for the main road.

  Escape. Freedom. I hail a cab and it stops. We climb inside, it drives away, and we’re safe. No Noreen lectures tonight. I grin and flirt with Amber and the journey seems to take no time at all and then we’re getting out and I insist on buying Amber a triple-scoop sundae despite her protests that she won’t be able to eat it all.

  And as she takes her first bite and rolls her eyes heavenward in ecstasy over the taste of all that chocolate, I have this irresistible urge to kiss her. I want to kiss her. I want to do nothing but kiss her. Instead I start talking, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind and it’s only after the words have been spoken, after they’re out there, in the air, forever irretractable, that I realize what I’ve said. What I’ve asked.

  “Really?” asks Amber. “You want me to come to your father’s birthday party?” Her cheeks are glowing and her spoon hovers halfway to her mouth.

  Did I really invite her? I know I spoke, I know that, but was I insane? Was it a moment of temporary insanity? I can’t do this to Amber. I’m sending her all the wrong signals. Well, not the wrong signals, they’re the right ones, I do like her, I am attracted to her, but I’m not going to do anything about it. We’re friends and that’s the way it’s going to stay.