Yeah. Okay. But you’re the one who’s really into Cohen.
You agree. Yeah you are. And you carry on singing at me.
In the voice.
He sings a few lines of ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’ by
Leonard Cohen.
And you spin me under your arms as you whisper the sweet beginnings of our own memories before you twist me out and pull me back and then face to face, kiss me, and send me spinning off –
And then we spot it.
And then we stop.
She’s small, around twenty-two feet.
You reckon she’s probably a young humpback.
You start telling me that adults are like forty-eight to sixty-three feet in length, that they’re known for their magical songs, which totally relay over like huge distances to mainly attract mates but also to just communicate…
And that noise pollution in the sea is really problematic for them and one of the main causes for beaching… and you tell me how the only day on record when whales’ stress hormones noticeably decreased was in 2001, the day after 9/11 – the day when noise and ship traffic also decreased. Because across the world… Hundreds upon thousands of ships were confined to port.
And on that day, for the first time, in –
I don’t even know how long…
The whales could finally hear one another.
And they could talk to one another.
Sing and shout and call to one another.
On that beautiful day, they reconnected to one another.
Most of the crowds and the news crews have dispersed.
There’s a couple of dog-walkers and some kids running about.
But it’s mid-afternoon now and the novelty factor is waning along with the hope and people have shit to do like make dinner and do their washing and live their inconsequential little lives and I can’t take my eyes off the dying magnificent beast.
You ask someone what’s happening.
The quick response is nothing.
The slightly longer one is that we have to wait for the water to rise.
And you check for the next high tide… and it’s like five hours away.
And the whale is dying.
And it looks hopeless, and it doesn’t feel right to leave her to the crabs and the wind, and it feels like we have to stay with her.
So we do.
And we spend ages on the beach trying to find some kind of container and when we do, we spend the next few hours pouring water all over her.
Just the three of us.
Me. And you. And Sophie the Humpback Whale.
That we met on Dungeness Beach. And we tell her we’re really chuffed that she’s hanging out with us and we promise her that we’ll do our best to get her home.
And a few hours later, when the three of us have fully and intimately shared our war stories and the tide seems to be rising a little as we proper move into the total friendship zone and it’s clear she’d really rather stay… more dog-walkers inform us that she’s too high up on the beach for the water to reach her and there’s no one to really come and help…
And I don’t know what to do.
Panic rises and…
I sit next to Sophie, she’s lying on her left side and her right eye is open, staring skyward. Her lower jaw is open too and I notice the long baleen filtering plates.
And they’re beautiful and as I look into her eye, an eye that’s as big as my fist, I see my own reflection.
And in that deep dark orb I also see fear.
Real fear.
And I can’t keep it in and I almost yell that we have to do something.
And we do do something.
We knock on doors.
We get a spade.
We dig a channel so the water can get to her.
Because she can’t die, she’s just a baby, we can’t let her die.
And within about forty-five minutes we have maybe ten, maybe like maybe twelve people and we’ve dug a small trench and we start to heave…
And it takes us a further thirty minutes to get anywhere.
But we do.
We get there.
We start to move the whale.
And… and it’s hard and feels hopeless and panic continues to rise and I can see that panic in Sophie’s eye, the one eye I can see, I see the panic there too and I hope she can understand, I hope she gets that we’re trying to help her but there’s also a sense of calm in her so maybe she does. Maybe she gets it.
And as a group we push and we roll and we thrust her back out into the sea.
We make it.
And I linger with her, trying to get her deeper, deeper… deeper still.
And I’m not a great swimmer and the current is strong and I get her to a depth where she can move… a depth that’s maybe out of my depth and and as as as exhausted as she is… as weak as she is…
She manages it.
She swims.
And before she goes, before we lose our connection for ever, I take one last look at her and she looks back at me and I’m positive that I see gratitude.
And then she’s gone.
For ever.
It’s rowdy round the table.
Lights. Candles. Family. Shouts.
Reuben… mixes grape juice with the wine for Kiddush.
He pours it out…
Takes the cup in his right hand, passes it to his left, and lowers it back onto the palm of his open, outstretched right hand.
Holds it there…
Still
Steady.
Approximately, no, exactly nine inches above the table throughout
Unmoving.
Baruch atah, Adonai he says
Eloheinu melech haolam he says
borei p’ri hagafen he says
Amein we say
L’chaim we say
And then he brandishes the challah…
Baruch atah, Adonai he says
Eloheinu, melech haolam he says
Hamotzilechem min ha’aretz he says
I whisper it under my breath… It’s like the easiest blessing and it’s just gone…
Like gone.
We eat.
And I struggle.
Food’s gross. Conversation’s hard.
And these people are harder.
Granny repeats. Uncle and Reuben bicker.
And I feel drowsy, drowsier… like I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t slept in a year really…
And the slow creep digestive sleep claws its way up from the inside out.
And I lose myself.
And everyone around the table.
And I stare at you.
Just.
Stare.
And when I finally pull my gaze away it’s already the after-dinner blessings…
Reuben chants to the rhythm and Devorah, my uncle, Granny and Jesse keep pace.
But I lag.
I just want today to end.
Devorah offers drinks. And it feels like Reuben’s still not happy about my poor show.
I was the best at Hebrew on Kaytiz.
I even gave you lessons.
I mean you’re pretty good yourself but my mum’s an Israeli so…
Uncle asks me about college. He always interrupts. I nod.
Smile.
My parents discuss a party down the street, pre-bar mitzvah, we should go.
I excuse myself. Say I’m tired. Can I go to bed now please? Another warning look from Reuben. I should help with the dishes.
But Devorah tells me it’s fine. I look tired…
I’m wired, bent double like an old beggar… Hunched under the double duvet that serves to block the twisted nematic light-modulated crystals that glow from my iPad. Because Devorah thinks turning the wifi off is some kind of no-tech-on-Shabbat deterrent because Devorah doesn’t quite understand the concept of 4G or a data package.
And as I hide away in my little man-made blanket booth, I pretend like it’s Tishrei… like I’m in
my own tiny Sukkah, like I get to tune in to my own tiny world in my own tiny space like a radio tuning all around me.
Click to click to click to click as tabs and panels jump up and about.
And I tab Fetty Wap. All quietly. Click. Who rose to prominence with his 2014 single ‘Trap Queen’, which was a sleeper hit that peaked at number two on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart. Click. And I like that song. A lot.
He sings a couple of lines of ‘Trap Queen’ by Fetty Wap.
And I tab Twitter click where we don’t agree with who’s been kicked off #CelebrityBigBrother. And I tab Facebook click where Vin is being stalked by an unstoppable robotic assassin on his birthday and Mike’s watching cats and Sam’s got the best mum in the world and Kanye’s bigger than rock and Lee wants one ov these I dunno what it is and we still can’t find the llama’s and Fetty Wap’s vocals are vibrating through my mattress and my hips are rocking out to his rhythm…
He sings a few more lines from ‘Trap Queen’.
And I think about what you’re doing right now…
And now. And now.
And that every time I’m doing something… that so are you… that there’s whole life… outside of me – life… this whole place where you’ve been present. Where I’m not.
And I want to be there…
Watching what you’d do.
Listening to what you’d say…
And I want you to touch me.
I miss your touch.
And your face feels so far away… and I need help… to get to you.
So I quickly, click, search for images… to help… to get me – – to you…
Hot Jewish guys. Click.
The IDF guy holds a prayer book, wears a dirty vest and tefillin.
But I click away because it…
Doesn’t.
Stop.
And I click back on Twitter and we’re posting photos of dogs protecting penguins and click through to #richkidsofinstagram and tap tap tap on the door. Me down. Screen down. Silence. Down. Shush.
Devorah’s asking if I’m okay.
I’m fine I say.
Are you sure? she says.
I don’t want to tell her how much I –
You’d tell me?
MUM.
Because we’re here if you –
Stop.
They’re going out she says.
Will I be okay? she asks
I will. I think I’ll be alright.
Soon.
Night love, she says.
And off she goes.
And I count.
From ten.
And soon… before nine… I imagine you.
Like I do.
In the dark.
Blue-green eyes.
Messy hair. Cute smile.
Us two aliens. At either side of the solar system… Venusian you.
Ganymedian me. This little ET. Trying to call you home.
And I google you because you’re always here… Close…
And the picture… and the headline
NO
…and the number… fifth that year.
No.
Third at that particular –
NO.
…I click away.
Onto your Facebook.
No.
I don’t want to see what’s on your Facebook.
I imagine you in tefillin… click.
Wrapped… all around your arms…
Holding you.
Taking you. Being taken…
And I get into you. Think about you. Get really into…
You message.
The vibration from my iPad rousing and I read and I tap back straight away…
Weird… I was thinking about you…
Ping. Be weirder if you weren’t no? Smiley.
Dunno… Smiley.
Ping. Why wouldn’t we be in some kind of communicative synch that transcends all of space and time?
You’re so fucking clever I love you.
Ping. You didn’t come today.
I’m sorry.
Ping. You okay?
Ping. What you doing?
Shabbat. You?
And I wait ages for your reply…
My heart beats in my mouth. Fast. Fast. Faster still. Waiting.
Where you gone?
Waiting. Again.
Fuck, have I upset you? I read the messages back.
Twice.
Trying to find something I missed.
Twice.
Ping. Shabbat. Sorry. Visitors…
Ours has been quiet.
Ping. Everyone’s been here today. I swear they’re still with the
Rabbi. Fucking Frummers…
You can’t say that shit
Ping. Just did.
Ping. Come Gants Hill
I wish you could come to Hendon…
Ping. They’re right here…
So how can I come to Gants Hill?
Ping. They’re leaving soon… some bar mitzvah thing
Yeah and mine.
Ping. Come then.
It’s ages
Ping. It’s like half an hour
It’s like the other side of London
Ping. Cab?
Money?
Ping. Tube then.
Ping. Come on.
K. K.
And I can’t wait to see you.
My heart is racing as I sneak out.
They would kill me for this. Especially Reuben. He takes
Shabbat way too seriously and –
Northern Line blur.
Bank. Blur.
Change.
Blur.
This is a Central Line train to Hainault via Newberry Park. The next station is Stratford. Please mind the gap between the train and the –
…lad on the other side of the carriage is kinda hot. He’s older. Maybe thirties… I’ve clocked him checking me out a couple of times now. I think about fucking him. It’s gone almost as quickly as I think about it.
He smiles though. Nice.
Good arms.
I turn round to open the window thing. The mix of sweat, booze and curry is making me reel.
I pull out my phone. Nothing new on Facebook. Or Twitter.
So I open Grindr.
I never open Grindr. It’s just something me and my mates do when we’re fucking around… A hundred profiles flash up all around me. I check mine.
The pic is cute. It says I’m cut. It says I’m versatile. It says I’m nineteen. Only some of this is true.
Then come the pings.
Badboi Online
Forty feet away
(insert chest pic)
(insert ass pic)
(insert cock pic)
wanna fuk?
Ur cute
It’s him. I flash a smile.
Ready. Aim…
You into younger?
Yeah. He says.
How young?
Young young. He says. He asks for pics. I tell him to go first.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
He’s got a pretty decent dick on him and it goes on like that… my teasing, him sleazing across the carriage. He knows it’s me. Asks to see my ass.
The picture’s not mine but he doesn’t know that. It’s convincing enough.
I ask for his… Get him to make all the moves… Get him to keep it coming. Keep up like this until I get off.
Then I close the app.
Think about you.
Delete the app
I message you.
Under the park clock. Ten minutes…
I wait.
And I wait.
Ping. Five.
I’m smiling. I can hear my heart thump-thumping across my chest and echoing around my body.
I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket and notice my mini-Zohar is gone. Annoying. My kippah is there though. The oversized knitted one Aunt Ada made for me. It’s so ugly and big and obvious and white and urgh and I put it on ready to do my impre
ssion of Dungeon Master Rabbi Bloome cos that always makes you –
I swear he’s a midget
Like officially?
Like he’s no way over five foot.
And you called me a knob. And it was the most beautiful moment of my life. Cos you looked at me with such –
Dungeon Master’s the educational lead on Jew camp and he’s not anywhere as clever as he thinks and the fucker got us booted off and he’s round with a funny walk and I pop the kippah in place and I start practising the walk and I’m immediately, firstly, kinda primarily aware of the matched pace.
Then in peripheral I count three.
I pull myself upright. Knee-jerk as much as anything…
There’s something about the intensity. The pace.
I speed up.
So do they.
I turn towards the park.
So do they.
And I’m suddenly really scared for a laundry list of reasons, I’m afraid of them because well basic maths and and and I am entirely aware, like fully engaged with all the ways that they could hurt me, and I know that regardless of how hard I could fight back, bottom line – they’re a group, they’re a three
A triad
A troika
A a a a triumvirate
A triptych
A fucking trinity and that makes me laugh a bit but doesn’t really hide the fact that words may well form and clash and jump around my head but they don’t quite silence that underlying rumble… three equals the upper hand and if they start I’m fucked.
I cross onto Valentines Park.
So do they.
Two behind. One to the side
I have one hand in my pocket fumbling around for something that I could use to defend myself because these numbers do not pan out for me. The key goes between the first and second fingers of my clenched fist.
And then I remember the kippah.
I pull out my phone. Message. Let me know it’s not just me…
I’m nearly here.
Click Facebook
I’m wearing the fucking kippah.
Click. Olive has made a giraffe, Buzlie links to a bunch of randoms who’ve crushed it and I forgot to wish Vin a Happy Birth–
What you looking at?
Stop.
One on each side.
The other in front.
A triangle.
Slow, Dough and Ho.
I dunno why I call them that… Partly I guess to undermine them… Partly to steady the rising anxiety tightening across my chest… Partly cos Slow looks special, Dough’s a bit fat and Ho’s wearing too much make-up.
I feel like I’m standing tall but I slightly buckle
Just off to see a friend.
I stammer it out…
Ho says she likes my little hat.
Plays from Vault Page 21