Mad

by Chloé Esposito

  So bored at work I’m gonna watch porn #Ilovemyjob. Tweet.

  I meant it as a joke, but now I’m curious. I call up YouPorn on my phone and scroll through genitalia. “Threesomes.” “Fetish.” “Fantasy.” “Sex toys.” “Big boobs.” Oooh, “Female-friendly.” Then my phone rings: BETH MOBILE. Bloody hell, she’s persistent. Why is she calling me at work? I am busy and important. I scan the office, but nobody’s noticed. I try to send it to voicemail, but my fingertip slips and I answer it instead.

  “Alvie? Alvie? Is that you? Are you there?”

  I hear her voice calling my name; it’s small and far away. I screw up my eyes and try to ignore her. I want to hang up.

  “Alvie? Can you hear me?” she says.

  I grab the phone and slam it against my ear.

  “Hi, Beth! Great to hear from you.” Seriously, she’s made my fucking day.

  “At last. Finally, I—”

  I grit my teeth.

  “Listen, Beth. I can’t talk now. I’ve got to run to a meeting. My boss is waiting. I think I’m getting a promotion! I’ll call you back later, OK?”

  “No wait, I—”

  I cut her off and get back to the porn: cocks, tits, and asses. Someone with both tits and a cock. Cool.

  “Good morning, Alvina! How are you today?”

  I look up and see Ed (Balls: face like a testicle) peering over his cubicle. Oh God, what now? What does he want? Apart from a personality transplant.

  “Hello, Ed. I’m fine. What do you want?”

  “Just checking how my favorite coworker is doing on this fine Monday morning.”

  “Fuck off, Ed.”

  “Right, yes, of course. I was just er . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Er . . . I was just wondering when you might be able to . . .”

  “Pay you back that fifty quid I owe you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, not today, obviously.”

  “No. Obviously not today.”

  “So fuck off.”

  “Right. OK then. Bye-bye.”

  His head pops back down again. Finally. God. I’ll need to avoid him this week at the watercooler. I almost wish I hadn’t borrowed it now. I only needed the money to get a vajazzle; in hindsight it wasn’t that urgent, I guess. I had a super hot date with a crazy hot guy that I’d met in the Holloway Poundland. I thought a bit of glitter would add some sparkle to our first night of passion. But the sequins went everywhere, all over the bed, all over his face, all in his hair. He got one stuck behind his eyeball and had to see a doctor. I kept finding sequins for weeks and weeks after, in my shoes, in my wallet, on a pack of chicken nuggets in the bottom of the freezer (I have no idea). The worst thing was that he didn’t even appreciate all the effort I’d gone to: his name spelled out in pink diamante all the way across my crotch: AARON. Apparently it should’ve been ARRAN. So what if I spelled it wrong? It’s the thought that counts. By the end of the night, it just said RUN.

  I get back to the porn. I lower the volume to mute the moans, but it’s still very loud. Moaning and groaning and grunting and swearing. “I like that ass, baby.” Someone shouts, “Whore!” A “MILF” is just getting fisted by a man in a mask when I notice a figure in my peripheral vision; Angela is looming over my cubicle. Shit.

  “You’re tweeting about porn from the company account?”

  “That was the company’s account? Oops. My bad,” I say.

  “You’re fired,” says Angela.

  “YOU ARE SOOO FUCKED, BITCH,” says YouPorn.

  I grab my handbag, the peace lily, a stapler, and the copies of Heat and Closer from under my desk. I go home again.

  Chapter Two

  Archway, London

  Seagulls the size of illegal dogs squawk overhead. Gang-raped foxes scream. Drunkards with lexicons limited to “Fuck” and “Cunt” shout at passersby. It’s a lovely area, the kind of place estate agents describe as “up-and-coming” because it couldn’t possibly be any more “down-and-gone.” Everything is a dirty gray: sky, walls, streets. Diseased trees grow plastic bags and empty cans of Pepsi. They’ve been digging up the road for the past eight years. It doesn’t actually smell of dead rat, but you wouldn’t be surprised to catch a whiff. Even the squirrels look rabid.

  I’m not sure why I took the stapler. It isn’t mine. I don’t really want it. It’s not like I have people or things to staple. I throw it on someone’s front lawn.

  The homeless guy runs after me with my “FINAL NOTICE” letters.

  “Hey, you! You! You!” he shouts, stumbling, breathless.

  I ignore him and stomp down the street.

  People often mistake our doorstep for a Dumpster; I regularly discover empty lager cans, kebab wrappers, used condoms, and broken toys in the mornings. Once there was a fully nude, decapitated Barbie doll. The body lay, pink and prostrate, on the pavement, like some kind of Toy Story crime scene. There was no head to be found. We do, at least, have a killer view of the Archway Tower, unofficially the ugliest building in the UK. Ace.

  I push through the front door; it always sticks, so you have to shove it. The hinges creak. Someone’s spray-painted TWAT in messy graffiti. I don’t think it was me.

  Living in a flat share is cheaper than renting a studio, but slightly more expensive than a cardboard box under a subway. The latter, however, has become an increasingly attractive option, especially when queuing for the bathroom at some godforsaken time in the morning, only to discover that one of the slobs has neglected to flush:

  You look up at me

  With one eye; you want to stay.

  I flush you away.

  The first haiku of my day! You’ve still got it, Alvina. You poetic genius, you. The Nobel Prize is within reach. Never give up on your dreams.

  The flat is on the top floor of a botched Victorian house conversion and falling apart. A piece of the roof fell through the ceiling into my bedroom last week. I emailed the landlord, concerned about the rain. He offered to buy me a bucket. The wallpaper is peeling off at the seams, but I doubt it was attractive to begin with. The carpets are beige and threadbare. At least I have a roof over my head (partially) and a bed to sleep in (a futon from IKEA), so I try not to complain, especially not to Beth; she’d never understand.

  I climb endless stairs. Somebody’s bicycle is blocking the hall. The unmistakable stench of weed. I climb some more stairs and then some more. I live with a couple of slobs called Gary and Patty or Jerry and Patsy or Geoff and Pinkie or something. They stay in a lot and hot-box the lounge, listening to bands I’ve never heard of. They both wear the same black drainpipes, black T-shirts with skull motifs, and big black hoodies with ironic Day-Glo accessories. I don’t really wear black.

  The slobs are snogging on the sofa when I get in. Gross. They wipe their soggy mouths and look up. Red eyes. Stoned already. Some inane shit blares on the television: home sweet home.

  “Hi,” I say, hanging my keys up on the hook.

  “All right,” say the slobs.

  Empty Wotsits and Skittles packets litter the carpet. There’s a half-empty bottle of Dr Pepper. I skulk past them into my room and shut the door. Bolt the lock. They’re a chatty pair. If I’m not careful, they’ll talk my ears off. Perhaps that’s what happened to Vincent van Gogh? I fancy some absinthe.

  The bed’s still unmade from this morning. I kick off my shoes and crawl under the duvet, yawn as wide as a cat; I think I’ll take a nap. There’s nothing else to do. I’ll just lie here and wait for the zombie apocalypse: something to cheer us all up.

  The walls are paper thin; I can hear what the slobs are saying next door:

  “Oh my God, I just found her Facebook profile. This is freaking hilarious.”

  I think they’re talking about me.

  “Wait, that’s not even her,” says Gary.

&
nbsp; “It is! Just like insanely Photoshopped and about five years ago,” says Patty. “How many people do you think there are called Alvina Knightly?”

  They’re definitely talking about me.

  “Ha-ha! Look at this. She lives in Highgate?” says Gerry.

  “She works as a poet at the Times Literary Supplement?” says Patsy.

  “She’s in a relationship with Channing Tatum?” says Geoff.

  “She’s so freaking weird!” Both of the slobs unanimously.

  I sharpen my imaginary knife . . .

  “Send her a friendship request,” suggests Pinkie. “Just for jokes.”

  “Done,” says Geoff.

  I die a little bit inside. It’s cruel of them to laugh at my lies. Name me one person who doesn’t embellish on social media? Stretch the truth? Exaggerate? It’s just little white lies, my airbrushed life. So what if I’m not a famous poet? Who cares if I don’t have a job? At least I have a goal, some aspiration. What do they have apart from chlamydia? Crabs?

  “I found her on Twitter the other day,” says Gary. “Did you know she tweets haikus?”

  “What’s a haiku?” says Patty.

  “Boring,” says Gerry. “It’s a kind of really short poem, under 140 characters. I think it’s Korean.”

  They are momentarily distracted by Geordie Shore: one of the housemates is screaming at one of the other housemates about something. Another housemate enters and starts screaming at them both. Eavesdropping has made me cross. I give up trying to sleep. My phone is in my bag; I grab it and stare at the screen. It’s a Samsung Galaxy S5. I got it on sale at the Carphone Warehouse. I know everyone else has an iPhone, but I like to be different. Anyway, it looks like an iPhone, but it’s cheaper.

  Poker? Solitaire? Pinterest? Minecraft? One of those games where you have to kill everyone? Grand Theft Auto: Vice City? Dead Trigger 2?

  Tinder.

  Time to judge some losers on a dating app. (No one judges me. I use Beth’s photo. Clever, huh? I’m not just a pretty face.)

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  God no!

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Gag reflex.

  NHS specs.

  Too thin.

  Creepy grin.

  Looks like a frog.

  I’ve seen fitter dogs.

  Ears like a jug.

  Teeth like a pug.

  What’s with that hat?

  Nude with cravat.

  Hitler stache.

  Contagious rash.

  Crossed eyes.

  Ate all the pies.

  Tattoo on face.

  Human race?

  Toilet selfie.

  Looks too elf-y.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  Left.

  RIGHT! Holy fuck! RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT! Hello, Harry, twenty-seven, from three miles away. How are you, sir? Oh, sweet Mary mother of Christ, yes! He’s a right. That’s Mr. Right, right there. Come on, baby, I’m gonna swipe you. Oh yes, I could eat you up, Harry, twenty-seven, from three miles away. You’d better fucking swipe me back.

  Fifteen minutes later:

  Nothing.

  Half an hour later:

  Still nothing.

  One hour later:

  Still nothing. I hate Tinder.

  Two hours later:

  It’s a MATCH! Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Breathe, Alvina, breathe. My inner goddess does a triple cartwheel followed by an arabesque like a fucking thirteen-year-old Belarusian gymnast. Breathe, Alvina, breathe. What happens now? Is he going to message me? Have I got to message him? What are the rules? What do I do? I can’t believe I got a match.

  Ping.

  What’s that? What the fuck is that?! It’s a message! What’s he say? What’s he say? Come on, come on, what’s he—

  “Hello sexy.”

  Holy crap. He’s a true romantic . . . a master of seduction! He thinks I’m sexy. We’re going to have sex. Oh, wow. Hyperventilating now. My lady bits clench like my grandmother’s gums around a Turkish delight. What do I say? “Hello sexy” back? OK, OK, here goes:

  “Help stay.”

  Send.

  What? No! Help stay? No, that’s not what I meant! Fucking predictive text. Help stay? Oh God, please say I didn’t just send that. My inner goddess has me curled up in a ball in the dirt on the floor and is kicking the shit out of me with steel-capped Dr. Martens. I am vomiting and bleeding from my spleen. Help stay? He’s going to think I’m desperate. He probably has commitmentphobia and I’ve already scared him off. That’s it! It’s over! My life is over. He’s going to dump me. My one chance of happiness, gone, forever. Fuck, fuck, fuck! What do I do now?

  My inner goddess offers a frankly feeble suggestion to save my ass: write “Hello sexy” again, followed by a smiley face. Or an ironic winky face? Is that subversive? Or the mark of a retard? Whatever, just do it, Alvina. Here goes . . .

  “Hello sexy ;)”

  Send.

  Pause.

  Anticipation hangs over my head like a tropical rain cloud that’s about to burst, leaving me drenched to the skin in a see-through top, mascara streaming down my cheeks like a bedraggled Alice Cooper.

  Why hasn’t he replied? It was the wink, wasn’t it? He thinks I’m an imbecile.

  Ping.

  He replied! Amazeballs.

  “I like ur tits.”

  Oh. OK. That’s sweet, isn’t it? Paying me a nice compliment. Such a gentleman. Right, now reply, Alvina.

  “Thank you.”

  Send.

  A kiss? Shall I send a kiss?

  “X”

  Send.

  Pause.

  Why hasn’t he replied? He’s not going to reply. Was the kiss way too forward? Oh, great job Alvina, well done. Now he thinks you’re easy. Why not just write, “Fancy a fuck?” and be done with it? “Here’s a picture of my vagina . . .”?

  Ping.

  “Wanna meet? Do you swallow?”

  Ha-ha! What’s that? Do I . . . Do I . . . Do . . .

  My inner goddess takes a fistful of aspirin, then slits her wrists in a warm bath. The blood drains from her veins till the water turns magenta.

  Unlucky for him, I’m still sober.

  “No, I bite.”

  Send.

  Log off.

  Log on again.

  “Wanker.”

  Send.

  Delete app.

  Should have said I was a vegan (that’s so hot right now; just look at Beyoncé and Jay-Z); I always think of the comeback when it’s way too late. Oh, well, at least my inner goddess is dead; she was really starting to piss me off.

  Facebook.

  I log in and scroll through the posts; it’s a tic rather than an interest. No one has said anything witty since 8:21 a.m. when I last had a look. There’s one new friendship request, from one of the slobs. Reject. Someone I don’t know has invited me to play Candy Crush Saga. Fuck off. I “Like” someone’s picture of a wet Persian kitten in a bathtub: “Fugly,” then update my status: “Finally quit my job!” I add the “Feeling blissful” emoticon. Post.

  Harry, twenty-seven, has made me think about sex, not that there’s anyone to do it with. My favorite sex toys in descending order are: 1st: Real Feel Mr. Dick vibrating 11-inch dildo; equal 2nd: Rampant Rabbit, the Mighty Pink One and Rampant Rabbit, the Throbbing One, 3rd: Silicon Pink Plus Phallic Vibrator; 4th: Vibrating Jiggle Balls; 5th: Rampant Rabbit, the Little Sh
aking One. (I didn’t really see the point in that last one; I had to fake it.)

  I bet Beth doesn’t have any sex toys; she’s way too square for that. Plus she’s got an actual real live husband with a penis, so . . . I guess he does the job. But he isn’t ever-ready like Mr. Dick. I open my bedside drawer and pull out my Number 1; he is my lover and my best friend. I consider sticking him on the wall (he has a super strong sucker at the end of the shaft for easy application to shower tiles and doors), but I don’t think I’ve got the energy.

  “Sorry, Dickie boy, I’m just not in the mood.”

  I give him a peck, then shove him back in the drawer.

  I smoke cigarette after cigarette and then another one and another one; I don’t want them or like them, I’m just bored out of my brain. I play with my lighter, watch the flame rise and flicker, red then yellow, in the stale, still air. It’s mesmerizing. I’ve always admired fire: an elusive enigma, a grande dame of destruction. I’m not a pyromaniac; I just like watching shit burn. It’s amazing to think that this one little Zippo could turn this whole city to ash; that’s power. Nero knew it when he set fire to ancient Rome. He watched from his palace on Palatine Hill, singing and playing the lyre as the people ran screaming away from the blaze, flames licking their robes and singeing their hair. Nero waited until the flames died down, then he built his new palace in the heart of the city, where the fire had cleared the old houses away. You’ve got to admire Nero for that; the guy had chutzpah.

  Prometheus was a dude too. He knew the rules were there to be broken. He really pissed off Zeus when he lit a torch from the sun and brought fire to man. Turned out Zeus didn’t want mankind burning shit down, just like my mother. She didn’t want me to burn Beth’s teddies or the neighbor’s cat or the shed with the dog locked inside. (The dog was fine. Mum heard him barking before the roof caved in. He just needed a bath to wash off the soot. . . . ) Some people don’t know how to have fun. My old headmaster was a killjoy too. What did he have to expel me for, just because I set fire to his car?

  Who needs school anyway? Kids don’t need educating now that we all have the Web. The Internet knows everything. It’s amazing what you can learn online without having to tolerate head lice and uniforms and soggy school dinners. This week alone I learned that we are living inside a computer-generated hologram, that Matthew Perry was the actor who played Chandler on Friends (I couldn’t remember, so I had to Google it), and that when the male and female anglerfish mate, they melt into each other and share bodies forever. (Apparently the sea is so vast and deep, that when a male finds a female he latches on tight, then loses his eyes and internal organs until the fish share one body and a single bloodstream. It’s kind of beautiful.) Good to know.