Diary of an Oxygen Thief (The Oxygen Thief Diaries)

by AnonYMous

  I'm sick of talking about her. But I have to tell someone the whole story. Not just bits and pieces here and there, but the whole thing, partly because I don't know if I believe it myself. I'm of the opinion that if I write if down, I can at last walk away from it all. It will have been dealt with. Maybe it'll act as a warning to the others. So, the next week I was busy at work and even managed to tell Aisling that I couldn't go to the pictures with her on the Wednesday night because I was being "wooed" by another agency. This was only one-third true. A guy from another agency, a writer, wanted to meet me and have a chat and yes, they were hiring, but the place wasn't known for doing great work.

  Aisling and I arranged to meet on Friday night for "a drink" at a bar. I didn't know it was to be the last time I'd ever see her. I just thought I was meeting the girl I loved, just one of the millions of times I would meet her over the course of the rest of both our lives. Love was patient, kind and undemanding. A lot of what I'll describe did not occur to me at the time, but later, when I felt calmer and more objective. At the time, I can definitely say, I lived from day to day in a mild form of shock.

  No question about it.

  I got there early. She’d said 8:30pm-9pm,. I was there around 8:15pm. I was the first. After a few minutes, her friend Sharon (Irish) and a guy (we'll call him "Brazilian Shirt" because he was, in fact, wearing a yellow Brazilian football shirt) came into the bar.

  Sharon chatted for a while and when I said I was a friend of Aisling, Brazilian Shirt said, "Oh, another one?". I felt odd immediately and he seemed overly unfriendly. Unfriendly for the sake of it. So this went on for a while, me not saying much and him trying to be unfriendly with someone who was agreeing with him.

  Then she turned up. She looked great. I think she'd had a few drinks. Maybe even something else, the way her eyes sparkled. Maybe it was just the anticipation. They all seemed to have a heightened sense of something about them. If my theory is right, they were enjoying the thrill of the pre-kill. Or maybe they were just looking forward to a good night out. Aisling hardly looked at me, barely acknowledged me.

  Again I was very hurt by this but moved into autopilot. I told myself, smile politely and whatever you do don't let them know. If I'd left right then I'd have had a much nicer evening and wouldn't be sitting here writing this. But I was curious to see if I might get laid. I knew she'd be getting fairly drunk and after all, I had nothing else to do.

  My options were; be tortured by a beautiful blonde girl who looked like the Virgin Mary with at least the distant hint of sex or; go to another AA meeting.

  Actually that's not fair, because the Soho meeting of New York AA has some of the sexiest women I've ever seen. I was there last week. But here I was, being ignored by the only girl in the world I gave a shit about and getting far too much attention from Brazilian Shirt. After about my third pint of Coke with ice I began to get really bored. Then I got that fuzzy feeling in my head. Numb would be more accurate. Like there was pain, but something in front of it.

  Brazilian Shirt leaned in very close to her. Too close. Close enough to be kissing her. He wasn't kissing her, but it wouldn't have seemed strange if he had. At one point, he was standing between her legs and bending toward her as she leaned back against the counter from her barstool.

  It was unreal, her looking over his shoulder, at me as if to say, "Look at what I'm doing. Look at what he’s doing. Doesn't it make you angry?" It did. It also made me feel foolish. But that was open to interpretation. He might have been trying it on. She was attractive, after all, or she might have been exercising her right as a young chick to flirt on a Friday night in a bar in downtown New York. Sure. But what happened next elevated events to an altogether different level.

  Here's what happened. If you can imagine standing in a bar with the counter on

  your right with a big mirror behind it. The girl you love is on your right between the bar and yourself. The guy you hate in the Brazilian shirt is standing with his back to you and talking to another friend of She. The girl you love makes a gesture with her hands that can only mean one thing. She holds both hands in front of her as if describing the length of a small fish. Small fish? She’s sniggering and looking at you as she does this. You're not really aware of what she means. You look at her quizzically. You're grateful that she's looking at you at all. She glances at you again and as she's making this gesture for Brazilian Shirt, he gazes down at her hands. And then at you. And then he smirks, embarrassed for you.

  Almost sympathetic.

  She leans forward and whispers something to him. His smirk widens. Her face beams now. She seems happier than you've ever seen her. She’s beautiful, but she doesn't want you to look at her like that. She can see how enamored you are. She leans forward again and he stoops to allow her access to his ear. She could be kissing the side of his head. She does the "fish" thing with her hands again. This time it's even smaller. She looks you up and down. So does he. They laugh together. So as not to be totally excluded, so do you.

  Awkwardly. Then he says loudly, as if talking to the other girl. "I'd tell him he's dead and buried and that there are four others buried over him. How many...?"

  With this he turned to Her to check. She was counting on her fingers. Overacting, intentionally resting a finger on her lips, pretending to think and then count another finger. He continues,

  "I'm buried over him... I'd like to be buried over him...or buried in you."

  She shoots back with,

  "No, I'd be on top."

  That clinches it. He's eyeing her like they're going to do it right there and then. You're getting the idea. The only merciful thing you've got going for you is that they

  have not done the whole performance to your face, which allows you to pretend that you don't understand. So you move as gracefully as you can to the other girl and open up a polite conversation. You need time. You are dazed. If what you think is happening, is

  in fact happening, then you'd better get the fuck out of there because this is some

  seriously evil shit.

  But you can't be sure. At least not that quickly. What if you're wrong and you make a run for it? It'd be the second time you'd done it. These are her friends, what will they think of you? Or her. If they're laughing at you now what will they do if you go? So you stay. The other friend is giving you nothing. She virtually looks over to Her as if to say, "He's your problem, you deal with him."

  She does.

  You're leaning on the counter talking to yet another of her friends, some dickhead from Galway. By the way, the whole reason you've been invited is because there are a couple friends who are just in town for the weekend whom you have to meet. These, you later realize, are the publishing students from Harvard. One of them, the girl, is Irish, and

  so there you go. Old school buddies, no doubt about it. And they're about five yards

  away; with Her.

  Then it happens. Slowly. Or maybe it just seems slow like you remember it in slow-motion. Brazilian Shirt putting on a green combat jacket as he picks up a canvas bag.

  He comes over to you and places the bag on the ground next to your feet. He pushes both arms out of the sleeves like a pianist before a performance. You feel relief because you think he's about to leave. Now he’s standing in front of you, sizing you up and down. He’s holding a light meter which you know is used by photographers to measure the amount of light bouncing off a subject, and takes a reading from it. The thing is pointing at you. He gestures some numbers back to what now looks suspiciously like a small audience consisting of the girl you love and her confederates. They chat amongst themselves but look over at you and your new friend with unconcealed smirks and the occasional guffaw. You ask Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket if he's about to take a shot. He doesn't answer. Because you're an art director, you know the gestures he's making, telling the photographer what shutter speed and f-stop to set on the camera. You feel uneasy. There's something not quite right about this.

  There's a pr
ofessionalism about this guy that's starting to unnerve you. It's Friday night, shouldn't everyone be more relaxed? Why's he taking such a serious stance? Then you see that the light meter is gone. Back in the bag? And he's holding a camera lens. Holding it away from him. Squinting with one eye shut tight, he's looking firstly upwards through it against the light, then down. He's overacting. His movements are clown-like and grotesque. As if he's performing the actions for the pleasure of others. What pleasure, though? He's only looking at a camera lens. He picks some dust out of it to see through it more clearly.

  It hits you.

  At first you think you're being paranoid because, let’s face it, you are. But then you realize it's the only solution to this whole escapade. Cushioning it in a creative distraction, you say to him:

  "You could make it look like I've got a small dick."

  The lens he's holding has been pointing down directly at your groin. His squint becomes more pronounced when it's pointing there. You laugh. You don't like it but you laugh. Laughing along is better than being laughed at. You think. You see him react as if to say how-did-you-know-that. He looks over at the audience for directions. He makes shoulder-shrugging gestures. He points to you and then his own temple and mouths the words "he knows" or at least that's how it seems to you in retrospect. He eyes you, perplexed. You smile. You think you've given him the idea. He does it again.

  This time openly.

  And here's where I'd like to make a suggestion for the film version of the

  book you’re reading. The screen goes black after the introductory credits. We hear the Dante Symphony by Franz Liszt, the customary pretentious quotation in white lettering on

  black reads:

  Through me you enter the city of sorrow

  Through me you pass to eternal pain

  Through me you reach the people that are lost

  All hope abandon ye who enter here.

  Maybe Dante’s warning should be written over the door of the Cat and Mouse Bar on Elizabeth Street. By this time, Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket is pointing the lens at your dick and openly grimacing with the supposed effort involved in trying to see your little thing. He picks at an imaginary speck of dust that must surely be hiding your minuscule member. He looks at you in mock-sympathy.

  You're not enjoying this. But you can't let him know it. You laugh as if you think he's very witty. So does the audience. You know what's going on now, you think. They're making a fool of you. You're the entertainment. It's Friday night in the pub and you, my friend, are it. You risk a look at the girl you love.

  She’s lovely. Even if she's laughing at you. And she is. You've always liked her laugh. You laugh along. Her laughter increases. She's laughing at the fact that you are laughing. Now she's pointing at Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket.You follow her laughing eyes. You turn your head towards him. He's handing you the lens. He's offering it to you. It occurs to you that if you have it, then at least there will be an end to the whole ordeal. So you take it. It feels warm. But hang on, I forgot to say, how could I have forgotten this? Earlier you tried to get to the toilet, thinking "Fuck this, I don't have to stand here and take this." you made a move in that direction with the intention of gathering your thoughts and maybe even your bag and coat and getting the fuck out of there.

  But no.

  There are two guys, one of them about six foot five and very aristocratic-looking putting their hands on your shoulders far too firmly "Hold on," he says pleasantly "let's see this," pointing to the lens. "I'll be back in a second," you say, trying to smile. But now you're beyond hurt or even angry. Now you're frightened. They're pleasant enough, but they're holding you back from going to the toilet. What the fuck is that? You stand still.

  You need to think. The guy with the lens winks at you and the audience laughs. You think you might try and barge your way through them, but you don't. You turn around and ask

  the bartender to call the cops. You're smiling as you do it, but you do it and though he looks at you strangely, it’s not strangely enough. Could he be in on this little parlour game? He doesn't seem surprised enough. He asks you why. You tell him you're being harassed by these guys, jabbing a thumb against your chest. He seems to be complying, but he saunters over in the direction of the audience instead and leans into conversation with them.

  Now you’re very worried.

  So you've taken the lens, thinking that maybe your idea of calling the cops has shown Brazilian shirt that continuing this humiliating fiasco is pointless. But you can't resist trying it out. You hold the lens at the same angle that he was subjecting you to. You point it at his groin and squint. You feel slightly avenged. You do it again. This is more like it. But it takes you a couple of beats to realize that he now has another lens pointing at your already ridiculed rod.

  This time, it's a huge telephoto lens.

  This should be where you hit him. Where enough meets enough. But somehow, you're ok. You can take it. So much so, that you smile at him. Smile at him?

  Yes. And it's a genuine smile.

  For some reason you suddenly find it all sort of flattering. Flattering that these urbane, cosmopolitan people have gone to such trouble to humiliate you. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, but that's honestly how you feel. He winks at you again. The kind of wink that is the last gesture before two people start fighting. I've seen that wink before. I've been in a lot of bar fights. Correction. I've been beaten up in a lot of bar fights. That wink means the exact opposite of what it normally means. It's the kind of wink that a man uses to another man when it's been revealed that he's had illicit sex with his wife. It says in a mocking friendly way, "I've fucked your wife, and therefore you." It's as intimate as the fight that follows. But you don't feel like getting to know this guy any better than you do. You’re smiling. Your smile is saying the very opposite of what it would normally say, too. It's saying, "I'm not going to be drawn into a fight with a fuck like you. I'm not stupid."

  He's still holding the telephoto lens.

  Suddenly, there's a huge flash of light.

  Huge. At first you think it’s lightning. But inside?

  Then you realize that it’s a camera flash and because you're an art director, you know it

  isn't just an ordinary camera flash. It’s the kind of flash professional photographers use in studios. The light seemed to reach over everybody like a gigantic white hand and tug at

  your chest with its forefinger and thumb. It almost took something from you.

  Almost. Afterwards, you remember something about the Aborigines or New Guineans or some such primitive types believing that the camera can steal your soul. Not too long after all this, you agree. But somehow you're intact. You just know it. You feel it. An assault has been made on you and you've deflected it. You don't feel great but you know you'll survive. It's a good feeling. You know now that for some reason they are taking professional shots of you. You don't care. All you know is that a photo of you standing in a bar smiling can't be much use to anyone.

  So you keep smiling.

  And without thinking you raise the fuck-you digit on your right hand and in turn raise your right arm in the direction of the audience. Not exactly a victory, but you feel compelled to acknowledge openly that you're aware you're being humiliated.

  So there.

  Looking over at them, you wait for the next shot to be taken. You're trying to tell them, "Okay. So you want a shot of me? Take this. This is the only shot you'll be taking of me tonight." But Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket has an idea. Not a bad one, you have to concede. He begins squinting through the telephoto lens at your upraised finger. It's not your dick, but it'll do.

  You realize what he is up to and bring your arm down to your side again. He's disappointed. He motions for you to raise your arm again. You refuse. He's annoyed now. Things aren't going to plan. He looks over to the girl of your dreams for inspiration. She's busy congratulating him on the finger idea. Applauding him noiselessly. He bows.


  She wants it again.

  "We didn't get it,”

  Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket says,

  “Just do that with your hand again and we'll leave you alone." This you take as victory. Up to now you haven't been sure whether this whole farce is real or imagined, you have after all been under

  a lot of stress lately, but now you know. You resolve in yourself that whatever else happens this night he, they, she will not get that picture of you.

  You smile. You want him to know that you're winning or that you at least believe yourself to be winning. Next, he takes out a comb. He holds it high for everyone to see. Like a magician, he holds it between finger and thumb. He deftly combs first your right shoulder and then your left. You are genuinely perplexed by this latest development. Then it hits you. You look at her. Her face is exquisite but her eyes are glazed with hate.

  For you. She hates you? Why? That's not important right now. Right now you've got to get out of this. To your shame and constant embarrassment, you have hair on your back and shoulders. You will later have it waxed, but for the moment, there it is.

  The only person in the room who knows of your vegetation is Aisling...and now Monsieur Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket. She told him. The enormity of this begins to uncoil. She is out to destroy you. This is when you actually have to restrain yourself from making some pathetic gesture like punching or kicking somebody.

  You will always be grateful that you didn't.

  Lawsuits in the United States are commonplace and someone who makes $200,000 a year is worth the effort. Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket is now flagrantly trying to provoke you with the comb, the lens and the occasional finger jab to the chest, coupled with the wink. You continue to be shielded by shock. You want so much to attack him, but something stops you.