Appollinaire: (The Other Side of Nowhere)

by Robert William Saul Harvey

  ‘Paul’ wasn’t as bad as the inanely stupid, ‘Appollinaire.’

  Pol’s intransigence on this matter used to infuriate his parents to start with and they had initially tried to persuade him to drop it but eventually had to admit defeat. In public, they now deigned to call him Paul, by way of compromise, but, in private, his mother still insisted on calling him by the name he had been given at birth.

  Appollinaire.

  Stupid bitch!

  ‘Parents are such bloody stupid animals. Who on earth gives a defenseless newborn baby a silly, crappy name like Appollinaire? How the heck, did they think I was supposed to live with such a silly moniker for the rest of my life?’

  In Pol’s mind, people, and parents in particular, took the time and trouble to grow kids, yet they did not have the foggiest about how they worked, even though they themselves used to be kids in the dim and distant past.

  ‘You’d think parents would have learned something from their own experiences. Don’t they realize, at some time in the future, all parents are going to die? Their children, namely me, will be free to call themselves by whatever names they want to. Stupid names, such as the dreaded, Appollinaire, will disappear into history. Appollinaire will, mainly because I will make sure it does. No one will remember the silly name, so, why not ditch it completely now? Why use it in the first place? An easy name, like Jim, or Fred, or David—something really, simple—would have been perfectly acceptable. But, Appollinaire? It’s just too stupid for words!’

  Stupid.

  ‘Parents are such bloody morons.’

  Pol had often fretted about his ridiculous name ever since he had been able to understand what it was all about, and had decided, long ago, he was never going to be as stupid as his parents had been.

  ‘Never.’

  He was going to be a great father to his children, a real super dad. He would take the time and the trouble to understand, and empathize with his children, child, whatever. He would give them simple, down-to-earth names. Nothing silly, nothing, which would allow their peers or elders to take the piss out of them.

  Appollinaire Bizet!

  This stupid, ridiculous name had been the bane of his life, had caused him endless heartache, many a playground beating, and one or two lost loves during his short life. Many a ribbing by kids at school had ended in black eyes, thick lips, and bloody noses. A few tasty young females, almost conquests, had turned away, some actually laughing out loud, when they had found out what his real name was.

  Pol.

  Pol was a far better name, much more him. Even Paul was acceptable, at a pinch, but he much preferred Pol. Pol got him noticed. Girls especially would ask him where the name originated from and he would make evasive, in a cool, eccentric way because he thought the very word, Pol, was cool, sounded sophisticated, and was also, slightly mysterious.

  He liked mysterious. Made him feel kind of like a Secret Agent, and far superior to those lesser mortals who thought they were better than he was. Pity he was only a mere mortal himself, he would have liked to be someone special, someone with super powers who was able to control other people by thoughts alone.

  Nice.

  If that were so, he would have been able to teach some of his tormentors a thing or two...

  Chapter 2

  Now, at the tender age of seventeen years and seven months, no one, except his mother, and in privacy, addressed him as ‘Appollinaire.’ few would dare to. He may be a bit on the thin side, have naturally curly fair hair, and look like a complete drip with his more than average overbite, which he thought made him look a bit like a smiling rabbit, but he was stronger than he looked and he had never backed away from a fair fight. Pol could hold his own against most people now he towered over them at six feet one inch. Had not been able to do so when he was younger though. Then, he had been shorter, a mere four feet nine inches tall, and a natural target for bigger, older bullies.

  In despair, Pol’s father, Ted, had given up on him, and washed his hands of the whole issue. In private he merely addressed his son as ‘hey’ or ‘you’ or even ‘hey, you.’ But, when he was talking to other people and had to refer to his son by name, Ted called him Paul.

  Pol’s mother, Joan, whilst not accepting the change of name, had eventually conceded the use Paul as his adopted name, but only in public. Only her close acquaintances knew his real name although none of them dared to use it now he was older. Joan was proud of the name her only son had been christened with, and was happy to explain to anyone who would listen; the name was that of an ancient Greek God meaning, ‘son of Apollo.’

  For ‘mother’ read ‘bitch.’

  She always kept the key to the lock on the door of the downstairs toilet in her handbag because she did not want to have to sit on the same seat he and his father used in the upstairs toilet and made him and his father eat margarine because she thought only she was good enough to eat butter. She would often work her way through a whole box of chocolates to herself. Make them last for a week or more. Never made to offer Pol or his father one.

  Even though Pol’s mother was a good twelve inches shorter than he was, at five feet and seven inches, she appeared to tower above him whenever she was wearing her ‘angry’ head.

  Today, Joan had got her angry head on.

  And,

  He knew it!

  Joan stood before him, deliberately preventing him from going into the kitchen. With her left hand on her hip, her right hand in the air, wagging an angry finger in his face, she made like a typical bossy mother.

  “Before you even think about taking your precious little Tinker out for a walk,” she growled fiercely, “you can get your lazy ass up those stairs and straighten the covers and the pillows on your bed. It looks like a bloody tip in that room. Smells like one too. Then, after you’ve sorted your bedroom, you can get back down here and do the washing up.” She indicated the sink-full of dirty dishes with a nod of her head. “And,” she continued without pausing for breath, “make sure there are no dirty clothes left lying on your bedroom floor, especially your stinking socks! I can smell them from outside, on the landing. And, make sure you put everything into the washing basket, where they belong, not on the bathroom floor, or else!”

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. Yadda.Yadda,’ thought Pol as he stared at the spot between her eyes, just above the bridge of her nose, which made her face appear slightly out of focus in his peripheral vision. By doing this, he found he was able to disengage his mind from reality. He allowed her words to go in one ear and out the other whilst making her think that he might be paying attention to what she was saying. Always made for an easier ride when she was in one of these moods.

  His mother made her serious, ‘bossy’ face and narrowed eyes. Looked as if she was attempting to place her thoughts directly into his brain whilst trying to read his mind, something, which always made him cringe inwardly.

  Pol opened his mouth to speak, but, before he could make a comment, his mother went off on another of her ‘wagging finger’ lectures.

  “I spend hours, literally, hours slaving over your father and you. I cook all your meals, clean up after you, and wash and iron your clothes, so the both of you can at least look presentable when you leave the house.”

  She bared her teeth in a wickedly thoughtful smile before adding, “I’ll not have anyone saying I don’t look after the pair of you.”

  She paused, as if she were waiting for him to agree with her, but he remained schtum, so she continued, “When you do get back from your doggie-walk, the least you can do is run the vacuum cleaner and a duster over your bedroom. There’s a bloody great spider’s web in the corner by the wardrobe. Get the thing gone. You know I hate the bloody things.”

  She made an exaggerated shiver and narrowed her eyes again.

  Pol remained calm and continued to blank out her rant. How many times had he heard the same sermon over, and over again?

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,’ he thought. ‘I wonder if all teenage boys have to liste
n to this sort of twaddle. Bet no one else has a nag for a mother.’

  A faint, disparaging sneer played at the corners of Joan’s mouth when she saw the way Pol’s shoulders had begun to sag, and the vacant look in his eyes.

  “No!” she snapped. “You can’t keep the bloody spider for a pet. One pet’s quite enough, thank you,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a deliberately intimidating manner. “And, don’t even think about dumping the horrible thing in our bedroom!”

  Pol thought about protesting his future innocence, but he knew he would not be given the opportunity to speak so he remained silent, and continued to focus his eyes on the spot between his mother’s eyes.

  ‘Shut up will you, woman?’

  Both hands were on Joan’s hips by this time and she leaned forward, almost nose to nose with Pol. She peered intently into his eyes, and made threatening.

  “Now, don’t you dare argue with me, my boy? A little bit of washing up, now and again, and a flick around with a duster won’t hurt you,” she growled menacingly. “Go and sort your bedroom out. And, make sure it’s done properly. I’ll be looking in on it, later, just to check you’ve done it right.”

  Pol remained impassive as he silently moaned, ‘Yeah. I know you will, you bloody slave driver.’

  Joan, unperturbed by the blank look in his eyes, continued, “After you’ve finished in the kitchen, then, and only then, can you take your mutt out for a walk. Right?”

  Sighing, Pol glanced back over his shoulder at the dog lying in his bed and made a ‘sorry’ look. The poor creature was obviously eagerly waiting for the off.

  ‘Poor little Tinker. I bet you’re desperate for a pee. Ah well, you’ll just have to wait a bit longer for your walk.’

  Joan knew she was lucky to have caught her son before he had a chance to take the dog’s lead off its hook, and stopping him from making a hurried exit via the back door. She knew she should not, but she could not resist having another go at him. In her mind, if she did not keep on at the boy, he would never lift a finger in the house; like father, like son.

  “And, you can stop swearing at me under your breath,” she said with a superior smirk.

  Pol made a scowl, but had the sense to remain silent, having learnt at an early age, it never paid to argue with his mother. Something like this was not worth starting World War Three over. He would bide his time. Revenge would be his. After all, when his mother was old and infirm, he would be the one who would choose which old folks home she would go into. He would make darn sure it was somewhere cheap and nasty, far from comfortable.

  ‘Yeah. Eat shit, bitch.’

  Unaware of Pol’s thoughts, Joan made a self-satisfied smile and folded her arms across her chest. Knew she had won this battle and was thinking how she would eventually win the war, one way or another.

  Sensing his mother’s tirade might be over for the time being, Pol huffily turned away and hurried across the living room with a tight-lipped smile of apology to the dog. He deliberately made his footsteps heavy as he climbed the stairs two at a time.

  Tinker watched Pol disappear into the hall with doleful eyes and rested his chin on the edge of his bed.

  “‘Mmmm. Walkies,’” he thought, instinctively knowing how he would have to nurse his aching bladder for a while longer.

  Joan molded a ‘fed up with you, sonny,’ face when she heard the noise of the slamming bedroom door and wearily shook her head.

  ‘Stroppy young git. The sooner you leave home, for good, the better I’ll like it...’

  Chapter 3

  Pol, stood with his back to the door, inwardly fumed and morosely surveyed the untidy state of his bedroom.

  ‘Bollocks!’ he growled in his mind. ‘Miserable cow. This looks ok to me. Nothing wrong with it. Can’t see what she’s on about.’

  The unmade single bed with a childish cartoon-covered counterpane, plus two blankets, and a sheet, bundled up in a crumpled heap, pushed up against the back wall, did not look any different to how it normally looked.

  ‘Don’t see why I have to straighten the covers; they’ll look just the same when I’m curled up under them tonight.’

  An ancient, well-used and scratched, three-drawer chest of drawers, which had been bought from a second-hand shop specializing in ‘antiques,’ stood beneath the single sash window, with a rickety, un-covered wooden stool sitting to one side.

  In a corner, opposite the window, was a cheap, one-door wardrobe, which was made from thin plywood, and painted in a shitty-brown colour. With a well-worn, threadbare, green mat lying on the faded, brown linoleum-covered floor, next to his bed, these were the only furnishings in his room. A pair of thin, faded brown drapes either side of the window and an almost-matching faded light-shade, which covered a dusty forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling on a short length of red twin flex, made up the set.

  The walls were painted in flat magnolia and there were no pictures or posters. Woodwork and ceiling were painted white, now yellowing with age.

  Pol did not posses any of the normal items other teenagers would have in their bedrooms; no TV, no computer, no games console, no books either. He did not even own a mobile phone, simply could not afford one.

  The single radiator on the blank wall, the valve of which was broken, in the ‘off’ position, was totally useless. Left the room permanently cold in winter, not somewhere one would want to spend much time during the day.

  He glanced at the pair of black polyester socks lying in a crumpled heap beneath the window where he had thrown them the night before and wrinkled his nose at the stink that emanated from them. No matter how often he washed his feet they always seemed to smell of stale, sweaty cheese.

  ‘A couple of socks on the floor and a tee shirt on the bed. Pooh. Anyone would think I’d left a huge pile of dirty clothes on the floor the way she harps on. Stupid woman!’

  He made a screwed-up face and groaned under his breath. He did not like his bedroom. Never had liked it, for as long as he could remember. It was far too cold, even in summer. It was too small, and it made him feel too confined.

  ‘This’s more like a bloody prison cell.’

  Pol’s heart sank when he noticed the pile of neatly ironed clothing on the bottom of the bed. He hated putting clothes away. Surely, putting clothes away was a woman’s job.

  ‘Cow.’

  He knew it would be no use him simply dumping everything into the bottom of his wardrobe, like ‘yer typical teenager’ would do, because his mother would be up later, as promised, just to make sure he had put everything away, neatly, and in their correct place. If he dared to put any item into the wrong drawer, or onto the wrong hanger, he would get the sharp end of her tongue, and she would make him come up and do it properly whilst she stood and watched.

  With that in mind, Pol heaved a heavy, annoyed sigh and reluctantly knuckled down to the task, could not help mumbling under his breath as he did so.

  ‘Like being in bloody prison, this is. Do this. Do that. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. The sooner I get out of this dump the bloody better I’ll like it.’

  He picked up the socks and the tee shirt and dropped them on the floor by the door, with the aim of collecting them and taking them into the bathroom when he had finished farting about in the bedroom.

  “She knows I don’t like this soddin’ job,” he grumbled to himself. “Why can’t she put the bloody clothes away, like she used to do when I was at school, like a real mum would? Why should I have to do it just because I’ve left school?”

  ‘Miserable asshole. You wait ‘til you’re old and doddery and you need someone to clean your ass for you. We’ll see who the boss is then.’

  He picked up two pairs of blue denim jeans plus a single pair of light-brown cavalry twill trousers from the pile of clothes on the bed and hung them on their relevant coat hangers in the wardrobe. Three tee shirts were neatly folded and laid in the drawer under his bed. Seven pairs of black boxer shorts, together with a similar number of pairs of black
nylon socks, he put into their respective drawers in the dressing table. Four sweatshirts, two dark blue, one pale green, and one red, were likewise placed in the top drawer of his dressing table.

  He stared agog at three spotless white handkerchiefs, in particular, the one he had used to polish his shoes with two days previously.

  “How the shit did she managed to get this one clean?” he wondered.

  He had been almost certain his mother would dump said handkerchief into the dustbin, considering the state he had left it in. For a brief moment, the woman went up in his estimation. Did not last long though. She was quickly relegated back to being no more than an annoying, evil cow.

  The immaculate, black fleece jacket was left neatly folded on top of the bedclothes; he intended to wear this later, when he finally managed to take his dog, Tinker out for a walk.

  ‘Poor dog...’

  Chapter 4

  It took Pol no more than a few minutes to put his clothes away. Just for good measure, he pounded his two pillows into shape, then threw the sheet and two blankets over his bed, and topped these with the counterpane, which he carelessly smoothed to some extent by wiping his hands across it. At the same time, he huffed, “If I can find me a job and earn enough money, I’ll be able to find a place of my own. Then, I’ll get the hell out of this dump. At least, in my own place, I’ll be able to slob around as much as I want to without the old witch getting on at me every hour of the day.”

  ‘Hmph. Not much chance of that happening at the moment, though.’

  With no qualifications to his name, no job, and very little chance of getting a job, Pol was stuck in a daily round of dog walking, watching TV, washing-up, dog walking, watching TV, washing-up, and being thoroughly bored.

  Pol did not have a current girlfriend, mainly because he could not afford one—they always seemed to want the man to pay for everything. Anyway, since he had left school, he had lost what little confidence he used to have in his ability to chat-up a girl. He no longer had the ‘gift of the gab,’ mainly because the millions of acne pimples on his face, all red and pus-filled, made him look, in his own mind, like something from a horror movie. What girl in her right mind would want something like him? He was so self-conscious about his spots it was unreal. Every time he looked in the bathroom mirror, there seemed to be more of the little bastards! Sometimes Pol wanted to pick up a felt-tip pen and join the dots, just to see if they were trying to send him a message.