The Inside Out Man

by Fred Strydom

  At that point I remembered Leonard telling me that the weekend gathering would be a farewell party. But after the attack he’d just made on the limited offerings of the world, I found it hard to imagine the type of trip he had in mind.

  Where are you going? I asked.

  My guests believe I’m moving to another country, and that I won’t be back for a very long time. It’s easier that way. There won’t be any questions. Well, not for a while, anyway. Everyone is under the impression I’ve decided to, well, take a sabbatical, so that should make things easy for you.

  I sat upright. For me?

  Ever since I first heard you play, I knew you were the one. I can’t say why, but I knew. You see, Bent, that’s the real reason I called you here this weekend. That’s why you’re still here and the rest of my guests have gone home.

  Something sparked in my head. An alert button had activated: I’d been tricked. Manipulated. I instinctively sprang from my chair.

  Please, he said, please. Have a seat. I don’t mean to scare you. Please, just—and he pointed to my chair.

  I paused for a moment, and then slowly sat down.

  Leonard rested his elbows on the table. He rubbed his palms together. I’d appreciate it if I could talk openly with you. There’s no reason to be alarmed. We’re just two men talking. So, can we speak freely?

  On guard, I mumbled, Okay.

  Good. Now, tell me, what are your feelings on madness?

  Madness?

  Madness. Does it ever scare you, the idea of going mad?

  I haven’t really thought about it, I said. Don’t they say the mad don’t know they’re mad?

  Leonard smiled. Maybe that’s true. In which case, everything we do in our regular lives, the way we talk to people, the way we dress and act, the things we aspire to, is madness?

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to respond.

  He emptied what was left of the bottle into my glass. Then he sat up, cleared his throat, and dropped the smile. Okay. I’ve kept you here for a while already, so let’s cut to the chase. Here’s the thing. I’d like to propose something. And I’d like you to think carefully about what I’m about to say. I’ve practised this conversation in my head many times. He looked up, as if through the ceiling into the room above.

  Then he took a deep breath, exhaled, and began: There is a room in this house. There’s only one way in and one way out. There’s virtually nothing inside. No furniture apart from a bed and a bedside table. No clocks. No calendars. There’s a toilet and a basin. There are twelve boxes of soap. Four toothbrushes. About two dozen tubes of toothpaste. A hundred rolls of shitting paper. A blanket. Two changes of pants, ten pairs of underwear, and four shirts. That’s it. There’s one lock on the door, and only one key to that lock. Now, what I’m going to ask may seem strange to you. I don’t necessarily need you to understand, but what I do need is for you to agree to help me.

  Help you with what?

  Well, Bent, my friend, you see, in a few days’ time I’m going to enter that room. The door will be locked behind me, and that’s where I’ll stay, by myself, for exactly one year. He took a big swig of his wine. I’d very much appreciate it if you would … how shall I put it … facilitate this by staying here.

  Staying where?

  In this house, he said, waving his arms about. Which will be your house for a year. This house and everything in it. The cars, the toys, the lifestyle—

  Wait. I was lost for words. I’m sorry. What exactly are you asking?

  Let’s call it an experiment. One year for each of us to do things differently. What’s a year in a lifetime? The rest of our years will get mashed together, vanish in a blur, but if we do this, well, we can die with the knowledge that we did what we could to swim out from the islands of our own little lives. Proving we’re not cowards like everyone else.

  Look, maybe I’m missing something, I said.

  He gave me an indulgent half-smile.

  You’re saying you want to stay in a room—a bedroom—for a year?

  Leonard opened another bottle, poured a glass, and took a sip. Then he said, Twelve months. Three hundred and sixty-five days. And all I’d like you to do is pass food through a slot in the door. Three times a day. Every day. Nothing else, and no speaking. Not a word.

  He put a finger to his lips. Then he looked at me hard.

  I’ll probably beg you to let me out at some point, tell you it was all a mistake, but it is important you ignore me. No matter what I tell you to do. Do you understand? Just leave me be. Don’t answer my questions. And of course, don’t tell anyone I’m in that room. No one. That’s crucial. Not even Carl will know. Like I said, I’ve had my farewell and nobody will come looking for me. It’ll just be me in that room, and you in this house.

  I laughed. This is ludicrous.

  Leonard seemed not to hear me. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to do this for nothing. I’m happy to make an additional arrangement, on top of your weekend’s earnings, guaranteeing you’ll never need to work again. A hefty living allowance will be deposited into your account every month. Along with full access to everything I own. But I’m quite certain the money won’t persuade you. Not completely. Though the experience might. The challenge.

  You’re joking, I blurted. This must be a joke.

  No joke.

  And once the year is up?

  I walk out, we go our separate ways.

  But why? I don’t—I shrugged my shoulders—why would you put yourself through something like that?

  For a moment, he seemed nonplussed.

  Why? Hmm. I suppose I do need a why. Something to assure you I’ve given this real thought. Well, okay. Fair enough. Let’s see, now.

  He pulled a cigarette from his top pocket, smoothed it with his fingers. Then he stuck it in his mouth, leant forward, and lit it with the flame of the candle placed between us. He took a drag, exhaled. The smoke rose into the darkness like a mushroom cloud. As if the planet had just blown up.

  Leonard calmly continued: I suppose I could elaborate on my endless desire to have the world entertain me, reducing life to a parade for my own pleasure. But I’ll spare you the bored-rich-man’s lament and break it down like this. He flicked some ash, went on: Take away the things we own. The houses. The clothes. The cars. Etcetera. Take away the people. All the jabbering and the dinner dates and the handshakes. The schmoozing. The bills. The noise. The media. The preachers. Image after image. The fucking slideshow of life. Take away the traffic and the weekend retreats and the jet-setting and the events and occasions and traditions on top of traditions. Take away the things we’ve convinced ourselves are important. Our little responsibilities to each other. Our mundane habits. Our rituals. What to wear. What to eat. Where to go next, what to do next, on and on and on. Take away this entire swirling hurricane of existence, and then take away our ability to control any of it.

  The cigarette drooped on his bottom lip as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up. Now ask yourself, he said. What remains of us? Who are we without any of that stuff? What do we think about? Cut off from the world, what do we hold on to, what do we let go of? Do you know, Bent? Because I don’t. I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. But I do know this: I know that when I look in the mirror I see a copy of a copy of a copy. I also know that the idea of being locked in that room for a year, well, just the thought of it makes my stomach turn. Terrifies the shit out of me. He gave a nervous chuckle. But really, why should it? Hmm? I mean, why should being in a room by myself make me feel that way? What harm could there be? And yet, I can’t shake the fact that the prospect makes me feel more scared—more intrigued—than I’ve felt in a long while. He stubbed out his cigarette; it was only half-smoked. Then he turned to me. And in the end, isn’t that the point, Bent? To face that secret, voiceless something inside ourselves?

  He stopped, and I took it as my cue. Well, maybe there’s nothing waiting for you. Just boredom. I slumped in my chair. A year of the worst boredom
you’ve ever experienced.

  Leonard guffawed. I still couldn’t tell how serious he was about it all. Was he high? Had he just cooked up this plot now, over dinner, or had he been stewing in it for weeks? With every word he’d become more dishevelled; as he ran his hand over his head strands of hair rebelled. Oh, there’ll be boredom, I’m sure. But nothing like this. He flicked his eyes around the room. Think of it as a whole new level of boredom. And fear. And frustration. But here’s the kicker. No release. No shortcuts. No diversions. No channel-hopping my way out of it. There’ll be nowhere to go, except straight through the muck and the mist. No, Bent. I’m quite sure. For at least the next twelve months, what I’m interested in isn’t out there. Not any more. It’s right here, he said, tapping the side of his head. What I really want to know is this: after everything is gone, after everything I’ve spent my life obsessing over has disappeared, what’s left of me? How deep is my rabbit hole? What will I find in the company of nothing and no one but myself and my own thoughts? And if I go in that room and it’s madness—his eyes glinted—if there’s nothing in my stripped mind but eat-my-own-shit insanity, well, hell, won’t that be a trip?

  II.

  Knock, knock

  22.

  It’s my first day of being eleven years old.

  Earlier in the week, my mother decided she wanted to throw a birthday party for me. She said I could invite a few kids from school. Not the whole class, just a few, because she had no intention of running a circus. A cake. A couple of games, two hips, one hooray, and everyone out the door by four in the afternoon. The trouble was, she said it five days before my birthday, in one of her better moods. At the time, I’d thought, Don’t get excited, Bent. Five days is a long way away. That’s at least four or five yells, a couple of door slams and more blames and bloody klutzes than I can count. By the time my birthday actually arrives, there’s a big chance she’ll call the whole thing off.

  But today’s the day, and she’s been up since eight. Three clumps of balloons are dangling from corners of the ceiling. One’s flying from the postbox so my friends can find the house. I’ve invited four boys. I gave them my handmade invitations earlier in the week. On each card I’d drawn a picture of myself standing next to the boy I’d invited—my arm over his shoulder and his arm over mine. None of them seemed excited to get it. Two of them said the drawing was lame. One asked if he’d be the only person at the party because I’d drawn only the two of us. I laughed and said, “No way,” but I wasn’t sure he believed me. The other said he’d be there, and then stuffed the invitation into his bag and ran off. I watched him blitz to catch up with the gang and thought about my invite, crumpled under his tatty exercise books and Twinkie wrappers.

  That was two days ago.

  Today, my mother steps out of her room wearing a floral dress. She pats herself down and twirls on bare toes. I’m sitting on the edge of the couch near the front window. She asks me what I think of her dress. I think she looks nice in her dress. Her hair is brushed, which is nice, but her lipstick is very red. Her skin looks like the top of my lemon-meringue birthday cake, the one sweating on the table over there, between the stack of side plates and the packets of chips and the polystyrene cups. I end up telling her only half of what I think, that she looks nice. “Really nice, Mom.” She looks at the clock on the wall; there are only ten minutes left before they turn up. She runs into the room to fetch her shoes. I turn to look out the window, waiting for that first car to pull up, my stomach turning with every passing second.

  But there’s no point.

  My friends, they don’t come.

  It’s already three o’clock. They’re two hours late, and I’m still sitting at the window. I haven’t touched any of the eats—I’m not very hungry—but my mom’s already had a glass of wine. After a while, she puts the glass down and comes over to me. She says, “Never mind them. Come. You and me. Let’s do our own thing.” She tells me to get in the car. We reverse out hurriedly. The lone blue balloon is still hanging from the postbox, like a flag on the moon.

  We drive to the mall and my mother says we’re going to watch a movie—“Hey, just you and me, when last have we done that?” It’s a good question, because I really don’t remember. My mother knows nothing about movies but she sees a poster of a man in a black suit and sunglasses, and there’s also a dragon, and a pretty Chinese girl with angel wings.

  My mother says, “That looks good, something you’d like, hmm?” and she gets us tickets, sending me to the snack counter with a couple of coins. She doesn’t realise she hasn’t given me enough for much more than a small popcorn. Not even a Coke, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. Instead, I say that I don’t feel like anything else. “And you just decided to forget about your mother, then? Okay, well, keep the change, Scrooge. The movie’s starting, let’s go in.”

  We take our seats in the front row, and I pick up that there are no other kids in the cinema. The screen stretches up in front of us and I lift my chin to see; as soon as the trailers start, I start feeling dizzy.

  The movie begins. It seems like everything happens at night, and it’s always raining. I try to follow the story but everybody uses big words. I can’t figure out the good guys or the bad guys. But I do work out that there’s a gangster who’s died. He goes to hell and meets the devil. But this devil isn’t a red monster with horns; he’s just some old man in a coat. The devil tells this dead gangster he’s going to send the gangster back to earth, and he’ll have special powers, and guns strapped to his arms (I don’t know why). There’s a lot of talking in the movie, and the story, well, I don’t get it. I feel myself nodding off.

  I start to think about those four boys I invited to my party, wondering why they didn’t turn up. Maybe they wanted to come but their parents wouldn’t let them. Maybe they went right past that blue balloon without seeing it. I’m sure there’s some good reason; they’re my friends, after all. I’m always with them during break. I make them laugh a lot. It doesn’t make sense. As my eyes begin to close, the sounds from the movie start to mix with my dreams. I hear the boys from my class, talking to each other—where is she? i don’t know! last chance, pal. i seriously don’t know (click, click) but i know a guy who does! you know a guy? i know a guy. then start talking. okay, okay! take it easy, man!

  Then the voices stop. I feel myself slipping away, out of the grip of this difficult day. Suddenly, I’m jerked awake by a tug on my wrist. I turn to see my mother beside me, and I know that face of hers. Even in this dim cinema, I know that face. She’s furious. She grabs me by the wrist and pulls me out of my chair.

  “That’s it!” she yells, in front of everyone. “That’s it!”

  Everyone in the cinema is looking at us, watching, as I’m dragged up the staircase by my angry mother. I’m too confused to be embarrassed just yet, but the embarrassment is just around the corner. I can feel it coming. For now, it’s just a dopey strangeness. We burst out of the cinema and the ticket collector hops to the side as my mother yells for the manager. The attendants try to calm her down. She doesn’t want to be calmed down, she tells them. She wants the manager. “Now!”

  An attendant runs off into a back room and the mall security guy in the corner seems nervous. The manager strolls out, a bony young man, about half my mother’s age, I think. He’s got pimples around his mouth and his forehead is glistening like a frosted doughnut. He holds out his hands and asks my mother what the problem is—which I’d also like to know.

  “It’s my son’s birthday!” she yells. “Did you know that? He’s eleven! Today! And I’ve just been with him, watching the biggest load of shit—the biggest load of absolute rubbish! There’s no warning on your poster! Nothing!”

  “Ma’am, what poster?”

  “The poster in front of the bloody—”

  She points, though not at the poster, and says, “There’s no warning, none of you could be bothered to mention, even when I bought tickets from you—yes, you, missy!—you said nothing about
all the sex and the swearing and the killing!” She is shouting. “So what kind of sick racket are you people running here?”

  The manager turns to look at the short woman behind him, the one my mother called missy. He says, “Did you mention to the lady that this movie’s restricted?”

  She lifts her shoulders, and says, “No.”

  “No, exactly!” says my mother. “Exactly.”

  “She was alone,” the woman says. “Her son wasn’t with her. She was alone. I didn’t—I would have …”

  Everyone’s looking at my mother, who’s just realised this is true; I was at the popcorn counter. The manager wants to put an end to this.

  “Okay, well, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry. And what I can do is refund your tickets. That’s what I can do—”

  “Refund?” By now a crowd has formed around us. “My son has already seen these things, these lurid, awful, horrible things. Right, now you tell me, how’s he expected to un-see them? Eleven years old. On his birthday. Killing and sex. Fuck this, fuck that, every second word—tell me, now! How does he un-see and un-hear these things? Can you refund him on that?”

  Sometimes my mother doesn’t know how to stop, and this is one of those times. The security guard has come over and passersby are sniggering and I hear them call my mother a kook, a psycho, a bitch. I start to say I didn’t see anything—that I was asleep the whole time—but nobody is listening to me. Instead, it seems as if the whole place is crowding around my mother, who’s screaming to the devil about sex and killing—fuck this and fuck that—and how there was no reason for me to be exposed to all of that, for a boy my age to have to see and hear those things. Then she yells again, “And on his birthday, of all days!”

  23.

  Leonard instructed me to go home, to take a few days and think the whole thing over. I left after dinner and was soon back on the mountain pass, chugging along in my Cressida. Friday’s misty white world had morphed into a starless black night. As I drove behind the odd tail light, Leonard’s words were like a cold draft blowing through the swing-doors of my mind: There is a room in this house. There’s only one way in and one way out … One year for each of us to do things differently … We can die with the knowledge that we did what we could to swim out from the islands of our own little lives. Proving we’re not cowards like everyone else …