Projected.
Infected.
Home.
And maybe that’s what caused my little brother to go batshit crazy at Mr Weiner cos he was really living up to his name that day…
And maybe that’s what’s sending my ridiculous little yampy fuck of a father, with his totally embodied small-dog syndrome bullshit even more crazy today and fuelling this total overreaction…
And maybe that’s why Devorah finally explodes.
And fuck does she…
And it builds and intensifies and Jesse sobs and Devorah cries and Reuben thunders.
And then she slaps him.
And I’m completely stunned. Shocked into silence.
Because Reuben slaps her back.
And she doesn’t retaliate. No.
The ear-splitting silence is enough.
She takes Jesse’s hand. And crosses the room.
Reuben’s mumbled apology lost in the gulf.
She reaches the door and barks my name.
Yonni… she says.
Like it’s an order.
Yonni.
And we all just stand there…
I’m Devorah’s boy all over.
Except I’m a better cook.
Kinda have to be.
Like I’m really particular about my roast potatoes. And as I go back into the kitchen I clock Devorah basting like a maniac – I say basting… she’s shovelling litres of…
I mean.
She’s essentially deep-frying them, right.
But in the oven.
And I have to find a way to save them because I’m not sure my stomach can handle all that schmaltz today.
I don’t think I can really handle much. Today. If I’m honest.
I ask if she’s going Carmelli’s. To pick up the challah.
She counters that I could go to Carmelli’s.
I offer that if she’s getting beigels too, she might need the car.
She questions the amount of beigels I think we need.
I point out that we all like beigels very much.
She requests that I quite literally get on my bike and go fetch challah and beigels.
She also suggest I might want to stop being a smart-arse.
I remind her that she has another son, with a dog now, who might need a walk…
She stares.
Head to one side… cocked…
Go to Carmelli’s Yonni.
Don’t make me ask you again.
’Kay. Alright. Okay.
And that’s my potatoes fucked.
I walk round to the garage and I jump on my bike.
I’ve still got your stickers all over the seat, the ones from Jew camp.
And I’m cycling down the Queens Road and I think about how excited I was when I found out you were going.
Like, I nearly couldn’t be arsed. I’ve been doing LJY-Netzer shit since I was like… I dunno, like ten…
And I didn’t even know you were into the whole youth-movement thing… let alone thinking about Hadracha. As if you could ever lead anything… And I start making lists and spreadsheets of the shit I need to buy and
Stop.
First. Day. Blur.
And whether it’s the luck of the draw or a little behind-the-scenes fudging it turns out I’m in your dorm.
And your bunk is next to mine.
Well that’s mainly because I’ve chosen the one at the back.
Far end.
And all the arriving plus the intro stuff multiplied by the dinner divided by the benching to the power of the songs equal a really long fucker of a day.
I crawl in to bed.
Exhausted.
Pull the blanket up and notice I’m reciting the angel prayer in my head.
Beshaym Adonai Elohay Yisra’el
Mimini Micha’el
Umismali Gavri’el
Umil’fanei Uri’el
Umayacharei Refa’el
Ve’al roshi Shechinat El.
I dunno why…
Just enjoy…
How…
How lovely it is…
How safe it always makes me feel.
GCSEs are over.
Summer’s here…
And I dunno.
Cos I’ve got the wall to my right.
And you to my left.
My own Michael. My own Gabriel.
And maybe, for now I don’t even need Uriel or Raphael.
Maybe I feel actually safe.
Actually.
Happy.
Protected.
And safe.
I’ve turned slowly onto my left side and I face you.
You’re even more beautiful in sleep.
The room glows an eerie green from the fire escape and and as I synchronise my breath to yours and on your in-breath I breathe in and on your out-breath I breathe out
I will you to turn over.
To smile at me.
But soon fall into deep dead sleep and lost somewhere in the twilight of my thoughts, I dream of blue, and time itself hustles and hastens in the gloom and in no time at all I blur into waking and you’re there.
Smiling.
Stop.
I’ve overslept, and you didn’t want to wake me, so you stood.
Waiting.
And I smile back at you.
Stop.
Wish I could take a picture.
But you tell me to get up… there’s loads to do today…
And I look at you. At you. At beautiful beautiful you.
And I jump out of bed and I catch the smirk in the sideways glance, the way your eyes pass quickly over me.
And that look gets me through the blur of the day.
And…
Later.
Everyone has gone to bed… I’m reading about the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and you tap me on the shoulder… tell me to shut the fuck up before I’ve even said a word and you gesture out.
And I follow…
To the garden.
In silence.
Pass the tennis courts.
The weird knobbly tree thing.
The toady-pondy-bridge thing.
And I’m soon transfixed.
On your fingers, no less, as you slowly roll the joint.
I’m fascinated. No. Spellbound.
Like enchanted by… by –
The delicacy.
Dexterity.
The intricacy of the movement.
And before I know it you’ve sparked up and you pass on and I draw in –
And the THC hits me as you land on Venus.
Because if you were an alien, or or or or from any other planet you’d be from Venus…
That feels right, it goes with your eyes.
And I ask why, ask what’s so cool about Venus and you tell me how it rotates anticlockwise.
And how the atmospheric pressure of Venus is ninety-two times greater than Earth’s.
Geek.
And that makes sense to you… in your head… cos that’s sometimes how it feels sometimes…
Like overwhelming I guess and the way you make yourself so vulnerable to me.
By telling me that –
– and the way your brow furrows and your stubble bristles and your eyes tear a bit make me fully realise that –
Stop.
You explain how Venus is the hottest planet in the solar system which totally makes sense cos you’re like seriously smoking…
And it’s the second brightest object in the night sky.
Of course it is.
You’re luminous.
Then you ask what planet I’m from?
And I’m nowhere near as articulate or philosophical or actually as geeky as you are.
So you suggest that I’m from Ganymede.
There’s water on Ganymede.
Deep, deep down below the surface.
And you reckon it’s warm.
And you tell me how Ganymede radiates Aurora, and that it has oxygen, lik
e there’s not enough for us to breathe, but it’s oxygen nonetheless…
And that’s pretty fucken cool, no?
And your whole shtick just… makes me –
Stop.
We’re back in the dorm. A mess of clothes and books and shower gel and just boy stuff seems to entangle and sprawl on the bunks below.
I’m wired. Paranoid. Kinda cold.
We’ve smoked pot at the end of the tennis court again.
Crept back into the house
Tiptoed through the room.
It’s haunted you said.
I grin as I’m brushing my teeth.
And you’re telling me about some fucked-up murdering vicar dude.
That’s what you get, I pipe up, when you base a religious system on original sin.
And you nod.
Very good, you say.
And you brush past me as you walk into the toilet.
It’s gentle. Accidental.
Fully kinda mental.
And we both clock it.
And quick as a flash you’re back.
Brushing your teeth too.
Grinning again as you blatantly steal my toothpaste.
You’ve never used the whitening one before.
Your mum always buys the sensitive stuff.
Less abrasive apparently.
And I steal these glances
In the mirror…
…and I don’t know where to put them.
What they mean.
We spit at the same time.
Our hands brush and suddenly you take it…
I think you do. Maybe I do. I don’t know cos the world has stopped and your look asks me if it’s okay
And it is oh my god it’s okay it’s like so okay so just please just do it just like please just do it just please.
And time itself feels like it’s been affected by the weight of this.
And lips almost touch
And I inhale you.
And my heart stops.
And my world stops.
And my
everything
just stops.
And we kiss.
…backwards turns world the and
fuck
I
don’t
even
know
which
way
And
Everything.
Deep in me.
Just…
Stop.
Austria. You creep into my bunk… Wake me up with a kiss. I whisper. Tell you I’m exhausted. I can see. You say.
And you pull me close.
Are you gonna sleep here…?
But you can’t… and it makes you sad. It makes me sad.
You can do anything you want. And as I say it, I think I really believe it.
It’s so hot up here you say
And I’m proud of my reply. I been studying my science…
Well… Wikipedia.
That’s because heat rises.
And you play the brief pause for all the drama you can.
Well why is space so cold then? Eh? Tell me that brains…?
And you’re so proud of yourself, I kinda don’t want to tell you that.
And we spoon and we chat and we fall asleep.
Until we’re rudely awakened.
And my pleas and my panic are lost in the accusation, all lost in the punishment as we’re kicked off camp and you’re given some kind of warning.
I always order in Hebrew at Carmelli’s.
I’ve been doing it since I was like six.
The woman in there, Mrs Carmelli, has pretty much watched me grow up and week on week we run through our little how are you exchange. She’s too busy and can’t wait for Shabbat, I either love or hate school…
And can’t wait for Shabbat.
Sh’tayim challot v’tesha beigelim bevakashah
She busies about sorting it.
I work out that I’m probably not gonna eat much tonight so I should fill up now.
I’m tempted by cream cheese and lox.
I check out the pastries.
Gam ahat bourekah.
Tah-poo-ahkh ahdahmah.
We banter more.
There’s this look she gives me, that seems to penetrate my everything as she asks me in English if today has been okay.
I nod. Quickly. Look down. Quickly.
And pay. Quickly.
Leave on a todah and cycle back down Golders Green Road.
Fall deeper into your orbit.
Venus pulling Ganymede, closer to the warming sun.
It’s freezing in the bedroom.
I’m close, close, closer still
And feel your warmth as we cuddle up
You’re wearing shorts?
It’s freezing.
It’s summer.
Your house is really cold.
I think you’re just scared.
I affirm that yes I could potentially be freaking the fuck out.
And you assure me that it’s okay.
We’re just gonna kiss and cuddle and nothing’s gonna happen.
Then you grin.
Unless you want it to.
And although I do… nothing happens.
Because we want it to be right.
We want it to be conscious.
Well that’s what you said and although I don’t quite get it, I think I agree.
I certainly don’t wanna be unconscious. Right?
And we kiss and we slowly fall asleep, feet and arms entwined.
And I wake in the night with a start, and gently uncurl myself from you and I head out into the labyrinth in urgent search of the loo.
And I’m super-tired and can’t be arsed to lift the lid so piss into the sink, absently make a note that I probably need to drink more water… at least lay off the coffee and and and suddenly like fucking fuckety fuck like fully horror of horrors as a precariously balanced toothbrush tumbles right into the jet stream and FUCK.
So gross.
I wash it.
Twice.
With soap.
Twice.
And I come back to the room and you’ve moved in the bed and you’re naked, and although I knew you were naked, I felt you were naked, I just didn’t expect to see you actually naked and I crawl into you and it’s still so cold and we sleepily kiss until you wake and it suddenly suddenly feels right and we’re tangled and knotted and fully submerged…
And as we tumble through space in this new co-orbital configuration an axis somewhere shifts and it kick-starts a series of aftershocks that fundamentally change everything.
Devorah’s burnt the chicken.
Knob.
And she’s literally flapping around like a psychopath as the pre-Shabbat panic turns into full-on freaking the fuck out.
I’m like trying to be the calming influence, yeah, like fully fucken zen, suggesting that maybe she just takes the skin off and wrap some pastry round it. She asks me if I’m mental and I’m like Jamie Oliver does it.
What about the bones?
I tell her it’s fine. If Jamie’s not concerned about the bones I’m not sure we need to be
I really don’t understand why she’s fussing so much and you can tell I’ve hit a nerve but she’s being patient with me.
I kinda hate it when they’re being patient with me.
She’s wittering about salmons in the fridge and that she might do them instead and we can have the chicken for lunch tomorrow after shul and I tell her no one actually gives a shit really and she tells me off for my language and I instantly get over-defensive and she clocks it and she takes my hand, and apologises and tells me it’s okay. She understands today is hard and she can do the rest and do I want to go relax?
Hot spray hits me and I gasp.
Step closer into the stream. Close my eyes as I wash my hair. I don’t want to scrub too hard. I don’t want to wash you away. I’m good at this now. I’ve turned washing, but just skin deep into
an art…
And I think about the first time you clocked me in the shower.
As I turned round you were standing there. Watching me…
Saying I look fit.
That you’ve got something to show me…
Oh yeah, I say…
On the iPad.
A whale has been washed up on Dungeness Beach and there are rescue teams trying to get it back into the sea.
It’s been there all night and it could die and you wanna do something we should do something.
And you tell me how they can explode.
That in the process of decomposition, methane and other gases accumulate in the body and and the build-up of pressure, plus the disintegration of the whale’s flesh, potentially causes the whole thing to burst.
It’s cute when you get excited about telling me stuff.
You ask me what I think.
I hope they can save it.
You explain, slowly, cos I’m a dumbass that your parents are back tomorrow and that you want one last adventure before life starts again and I have to go back to Devorah, and going to Dungeness to check this out could be perfect…
Yeah. It could.
Sea blurs sky blur as the wash blurs the wind and this isolated milieu against this desolate headland that’s dominated by these two massive power stations is bare and bleak and wild and windswept and just so so so hauntingly beautiful.
We walk slowly down the long long boardwalk.
In silence.
Wrapped up in the empty eeriness all around us.
Dungeness is Britain’s only desert and the beach shelves sharply and the currents seem sure and strong.
I’m mesmerised as we walk across pebbles and shingle and watch the waves crash onto the beach. The coast is rugged and the sky feels vacant.
Flotsam washes up and around whilst ubiquitous junk and jetsam seem to whisper their own memories and history.
And as I lose myself you suddenly take my hand, and start singing Leonard Cohen at me, spinning me up and around and about…
First dance at our wedding you declare…
Really? You’ve thought that far ahead?
You shrug. Say maybe it’s me that’s been thinking that far ahead and now I’m just projecting it onto you.
Plays from Vault Page 20