Friction

by Joe Stretch

  ‘I like your tits, Rebecca. I really like your tits!’ calls Justin.

  ‘OK, handsome. OK!’ she replies.

  12

  Football Mad

  IF JOHNNY WAS somehow blessed with magical powers, like if he could see through time and space and be aware of everything, then he’d know that as he watches a football match on TV, Rebecca is walking around a bar in stilettos, panties and bra. But as it is, he’s powerless. He’s got no idea where Rebecca gets all her money from; how she affords her books, her trips to Moscow, her theatre tickets and her regular restaurant lunches. Maybe she has a job, he thinks. Or just parents, perhaps. Johnny, corpse-like, sits on the couch in his house on Kingswood Road, Fallowfield.

  Football is one star in a strange cultural constellation that appears as the sun sets on the twentieth century. It shines brightly. Celebrity, cinema, television, fashion and certain genres of music are united with football to comprise a new and strange cultural constellation. They all shine so brightly you can barely distinguish one star from another. The effect is a powerful and blinding white light; pyrotechnics, special effects.

  Most people are kidding themselves. Reality is something that flashes. Disbelief is what makes money. The modern world is utterly unbelievable. It just can’t be true. Images of the naked, the happy and the upset float like ghosts in our fields of vision. They are sustained by our blinking eyes. It’s like staring straight into the sun and then trying to look at something normal and real. Then finding you can’t see it properly because of the bright white light, left by the sun, in front of your eyes.

  Johnny isn’t the least bit interested in football. He can’t detect any beauty in the passing, the movement or the flair. It constantly eludes him. He’s shocked and confused when his contemporaries oooh and ahhh at a long shot or a seemingly uncomplicated succession of passes.

  ‘Oh my God, I forgot about the fugging game!’

  This is Zakir, Johnny’s housemate. He bursts into the living room from the kitchen with an oily fish slice in his hand. Zakir is an exchange student from Delhi, here for a year studying politics and economics. ‘What’s the fuggin’ score, Johnny?’ shouts Zakir, waving the fish slice and splashing Johnny with painful drops of hot oil.

  ‘It’s nil–nil, Johnny, it’s fuggin nil–nil, thank God.’

  Zakir sits on the edge of the sofa leaning forward at the television. Johnny estimates that about an inch of Zakir’s arse is in touch with the sofa. Incredible. Zakir has the eyes of a B-movie zombie when he watches football. Johnny likes to sit and count how long it takes him to blink, sometimes it’s minutes. Apart from believing that it’s perfectly OK to say ‘fucking’, or ‘fuggin’, in every sentence he says, Zakir is virtually invincible. He doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t drink. Studies for at least four hours a night. Cooks often and splendidly. Never spends money frivolously. Even manages to work two days a week and send regular letters and gifts back to India.

  During the six months that they’ve shared the house on Kingswood Road, Johnny has watched Zakir like a hawk. It has been his obsession to find weakness in him. Just a moment of melancholy, a hint of despair. A sigh, a tear, a crack. But so far, nothing. He got angry at the news once when it was something to do with Kashmir, but Johnny found no fault in that. It was caring, pleasantly patriotic and it looked cool to get angry at the news. The closest he came to sexual frustration was when he roared Miss India to victory in the Miss World competition. But this was disappointing, too. He did seem to find her attractive, but also seemed to genuinely empathise with her call for peace, global friendship and religious tolerance. ‘Very, very clever and beautiful girl, don’t you think, Johnny? It is so good for India, too. I’m so proud, really fuggin proud.’

  Johnny has come to the conclusion that the English are fucked as a race. Everyone else seems invincible, and the English really do seem ignorant, inane, lazy and obese. He knows that Rebecca agrees with him and blames the impact of American cultural and economic hegemony. The Americanisation of earth and space. Johnny doesn’t like to agree. He prefers to take the piss out of the anti-American attitude that dominates the world from the 1970s onwards. It’s everywhere by now, rife, a very popular hatred. Most people have issues with the land of the free. Modes of rebellion range from blowing oneself up in public places to experiencing an awkward guilt while watching US comedy.

  In the presence of Zakir, Johnny feels weak. The same is true when he’s with Germans, Spaniards and Japs. It feels as if their brains aren’t bleeding like his does, like ours do. Like they haven’t been damaged by the same attacks of information, colours, pressures and needs. Foreigners aren’t great at telling jokes, but they are often laughing. Naturally happy. Slapping each other on the back, having coffee, talking politics in an entire rainbow of languages. Bastards. Why isn’t Zakir’s brain chasing itself out of his head, like mine is? thinks Johnny. How is he immune to the detritus that owns me? The petty thoughts and obligations: women, youth and happiness?

  ‘Are you OK, Johnny?’ asks Zakir, gripping the fish slice, eyes on the pitch.

  They haven’t really become friends. In the beginning it looked as though they might, but it fizzled. Friendship hit a wall at women, fun and alcohol. They found themselves culturally estranged.

  ‘Yeh, I’m OK. I’ve got a bit of woman trouble, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh I see. Strange fuggin creatures, Johnny, never to be understood.’

  Maybe, thinks Johnny, it’s all just a question of etiquette and convention. Maybe Zakir thinks it’s improper to display any kind of weakness, base emotion or sexual frustration, unlike we who have been tutored in the ways of an open, ugly heart and amplified misery. Zakir’s not blind, though. His brain must ripple and react in some way at the sight of Lucy’s bust. He must notice the magazines. Something must occur.

  ‘I’m going to get some beers, Zakir. Would you like something from the shop?’ Johnny gets up and leaves Zakir glued to the television.

  ‘Oh no, I’m fine thank you, Johnny, fuggin brilliant match.’

  Johnny takes his dreadful anorak from a peg in the hall. He peers through a layer of dust at his reflection in a mirror. Is this it, me? Just remind me, how long is life again? Jesus. The front door slams behind him.

  It’s dark now, and cold. Johnny walks at speed with his shoulders hunched, overtaking the occasional battalion of boozers that cross his path. They’re en route to the bars and clubs of Fallowfield. With each set of girls and boys that Johnny approaches and overtakes, he is more and more struck by the formal agreement that seems to have taken place regarding fabric, cut and shape.

  The boys are like toys. Bright, simple clothes. Silly little quiffs gelled into the front of their hair. Each of them subjected to the homogenising forces of money, culture and sport. And the girls, well. Beyond the chronically obese, all girls look beautiful from twenty yards.

  Johnny is wearing a fairly decent pair of jeans and a jumper made of thin wool. The collar of his shirt pokes out the neck of his jumper; pale blue and navy blue combine to create something sensible, smart and attractive for the female gaze. It’s Johnny’s frame that is his undoing, all long limbs and unattractive stooping. He walks down Ladybarn Lane and turns right. He’s on his way to a corner shop. I haven’t made it clear, because of all the talk about fashion and how it makes people look the same, but Johnny is very sad and feeling a little daring. He’s going to do something rather reckless and desperate.

  He pushes open the heavy door. The shop is small. The owner is down at the back stacking some new products on to the shelves. ‘Hello!’ she calls to Johnny. She is small, round and Asian. Her voice has a quiver to it. When she speaks it sounds as if she might be trying to sing.

  ‘Hello,’ says Johnny, as he makes the short journey from the doorway to the magazine rack. Lucy’s here too, staring out from the cover of the magazine. Fingers over nipples, airbrushed tits, buy me, you bastard, you horny little shit. No, Lucy, thinks Johnny. You’re a little too conserv
ative for my and Zakir’s needs. I’m afraid we need the kind of kick up the arse that you and your sterile poses simply don’t offer. He smiles to himself, he’s enjoying this. This really feels like living, he thinks. His eyes scroll up the shelves of bright media to the hardcore pornography on the top shelf.

  He’s not familiar with the titles, so he’s not sure which ones he’s going to buy. When his eyes finally register the simple blues, reds and yellows of the pornos, his mouth dries and his nerves begin to fray. He can’t make out the words. He can just see sections of women’s bodies: arms, tits and face. In the end, he reaches up and grips two magazines at once. Without looking at them and with a techno heart, he takes them over to the counter.

  ‘Just give me one second,’ the shopkeeper sings, presumably unaware of the nature of his purchase. I can’t wait to see her face, thinks Johnny. Will it be judgemental or simply blasé? She does sell the things, for fuck’s sake. I wonder if she has any religious faith. Muslim or whatever. Fantastic. He looks down at the counter and discovers he’s bought a magazine called Razzle and a magazine called Just 18. The cover of the latter has a picture of a young girl wearing what looks like the kind of underwear an adolescent might wear: simple and white. She’s also wearing a pair of childish pink socks. Covering up her stomach is a caption that reads, ‘I’ve been naughty, fuck me like a dog and cum on my back.’ Johnny genuinely doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He breathes deeply as he notices, out of the corner of his eye, the shopkeeper clambering to her feet.

  Rattle! Yes. There is a rattle behind him, oh God, the door. Johnny’s head turns in a flash – something is trying to get through the fucking door. Something’s trying to get in the shop. Oh crap. This shop is normally dead. The door opens halfway, then it stops. Whatever this creature is, it must be extremely weak, it can barely push the door open. Shit. This is a nightmare. Johnny wants porn, but not an audience to watch him buy it. He takes a large gasp of air into his lungs; it feels like a drawing pin is being stuck into his Adam’s apple.

  ‘Wait there, Mrs . . . wait there, I’m coming.’

  Bollocks. The shopkeeper is running towards the door to help the creature into the shop. Why would she do this? I should have fucking advertised this, jokes Johnny to himself, his thoughts oscillating wildly between excruciating embarrassment and a kind of arrogant self-belief. The creature is human. Johnny can just make out a hand and part of an arm. It’s an old lady, wow, a very old lady, she might be dying, no, just old. Jesus, she must be at least three hundred years old, thinks Johnny, giddy, drugged by the excitement and the abnormality. The shopkeeper guides the old woman into the shop then squeezes past her on the way to the counter. The old woman’s skin looks like beige velvet. It hangs from her like a macabre flesh drape. She looks like the kind of substance that could be scooped and poured.

  ‘How are you, Mrs Stott?’ says the shopkeeper as she arrives at the till.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, dear, thank you,’ says the old lady, skin dripping from her wrist like time.

  How awful of me, thinks Johnny. I’ve spoiled this lovely moment of community and charity by bringing a picture of a naked girl to the counter – a girl who wants to be fucked like a dog. What’s the old woman thinking? Am I destroying her faith in society? Is this the final straw? Will she think, ‘Two magazines? Seems a little excessive,’ and lose all her faith in life, humanity and youth? Will she go home and throw herself down the stairs and smash her body to pieces? Johnny looks down at the little old creature; it has clearly noticed the magazines. He stares into her eyes. They look as hard as rock; turned to stone by nearly a century of stimulus.

  ‘Disgusting,’ she murmurs. ‘Absolutely disgusting.’

  Fine. ‘Disgusting’ I can deal with, thinks Johnny. It is disgusting. A girl being fucked like a dog, pretending to be younger than she is, it’s tantamount to paedophilia. I agree, he thinks, it is disgusting, fine. He turns to the shopkeeper for judgement. That’s what he wants, he’s standing by his choices. Fucking judge me. Make up your mind, you shopkeeping cow. Razzle. Just 18. How much? How bad? I don’t mind. I might just go home and fuck this girl like a dog. I might just decide I want to come on her back – grant her wish. Try and stop me, you silly little Asian woman with your superstitions and your wonderful work ethic. Sell me these fucking magazines!

  ‘Four pounds forty-five please, sir.’ The shopkeeper is smiling politely. Johnny hands her a five-pound note. He feels as if blood might be leaking from his ears. ‘Would you like a bag?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Johnny. The shopkeeper tears a plastic bag from a large stack under the counter. She shakes it open and gestures to Johnny to help her pack his porn: she holds it open wide as he places the two magazines inside. This is like history, thinks Johnny. An entente cordiale between the repulsive, sex-obsessed West, and wherever this woman’s from. Some little recess in the East. We should go for a drink, thinks Johnny. We could fuck. Yes. You could diet – make your body a little less unfathomable. We could get together, date for a while, talk world peace, age, race, culture. What we need is more harmony. Yes. Pink socks. Help. You could cook curry. Help. Like a dog. On her back. Help. Help, you exotic bitch, I need you, help me. Rebecca?

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Johnny walks to the door, his thoughts tripping each other up in his head. The cool air high-fives him, he gasps, back in the land of the living. It feels like freedom, what an adventure, I should be knighted, hahahahaha, oh God, oh God, my mind’s on fire, water, water. He walks quickly in the direction of Kingswood Road.

  ‘I’m football crazy, I’m football mad,’ sings Johnny, to himself. Delirious. Swinging the carrier bag back and forth in his left hand. You see, he has an idea that may cause Zakir to crack. An idea that might make Zakir angry and turn his brain into a sex milkshake. Johnny’s brain is a sex milkshake. And you and me, well, we’d fuck anything that moved, wouldn’t we?

  ‘I’m football crazy, I’m football mad, duh duh duh dah, duh dah duh dah duh dah!’ sings Johnny, as he passes a gaggle of denim youths.

  Johnny has a plan to crack Zakir. If someone else were present on this occasion, you or me, for example, or both of us, we’d probably try to stop him. We’d grab his shoulder and bring him to a stop on the pavement. We’d try to make it clear that Zakir is a clever young man who doubtless has an admirable degree of self-awareness regarding his own sexuality. We’d say that Zakir is probably very much aware of the state of global sexuality in general. We’d make Johnny listen, show him he’s being rather inane and insulting, encourage him to use the porno himself, but not to bother Zakir. You need to resolve your feelings for Rebecca, we’d say, presumably that’s what’s provoking all this. If he wasn’t for reasoning with, then eventually, one of us would have to shout: ‘For fuck’s sake, Johnny, don’t even think about putting Razzle under Zakir’s pillow! Do not do it!’

  But sadly, he’s on his own and on his way; key in the front door, turning, making straight for the stairs, lest the element of surprise be lost.

  ‘Hey, Johnny, come and watch the match, it’s nil–nil, fuggin amazing.’

  ‘Hi, Zakir.’ You invincible little shit. You stupid Mr Universe. You boring bastard with your mind of calm and contented thoughts; drones that stand in single file waiting to be used. Ever heard of emotions and agony? thinks Johnny, idiotically, as he silently pushes the door to Zakir’s bedroom open and creeps towards the bed. Let’s see how this goes down your annoying Indian throat, shall we? Let’s see how you handle these girls, Zakir. They’ll eat you alive. They’ll show you how hard it is to be white, idle, Western and young. They’ll tell you what a hero I am, for keeping things together and not buckling under the pressure of sex; its temptresses, creators, doers and sellers. Time to be led into temptation, Zakir. It’s time you learned to see in the dark.

  The cover photo of Razzle is taken from above the girl, as if the cameraman had stood on a chair and pointed the camera down at her.
‘Shoot your mess on my tits and face,’ says the girl, or that’s how the caption reads, at least. She means it, too, thinks Johnny, her cruel eyes looking up at his. He slips the magazine under Zakir’s pillow. Wait there, girls, then paint his brain red as he sleeps. Having hidden the porn, Johnny darts into his own room and deposits Just 18 among the pants and socks in his underwear drawer. I’ll leave it there for later. I’ll come to bed later and masturbate over my favourite pictures, flicking between the best pages with my left hand. Johnny must think something like this because that’s exactly what he does. Later on, in about an hour or so, I think. I think, he must, I think.

  Johnny returns to the living room. Zakir is sitting on the floor eating a remarkably well-cooked meal. He shares his attention equally between the television and Edward Said’s seminal text, Orientalism.

  ‘Hey, man, sit down. It’s fuggin tense.’ Zakir gestures to the sofa with his left hand, adding a little seasoning to his dinner with his right.

  ‘Who’s winning?’ enquires Johnny, his mind on nothing but the girl in the pink socks and her desire to be fucked like a dog.

  ‘It’s nil–nil. England are fuggin terrible.’

  ‘Right. Are you working tomorrow, Zakir?’

  ‘Not tomorrow, no, Thursday. Tomorrow I’m going to Oldham for a conference on the relationship between British democracy and racial minorities.’

  ‘Oh right, democracy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeh, yeh.’

  ‘Oh my God what a fuggin miss!’ On television, a stocky player with a cramped and mischievous face balloons the ball over the bar. He turns and swears loudly at the sky. The camera zooms in. Zakir turns to Johnny with a look of shocked joy smudged all over his cute little face. Johnny makes a mental note: I’ve become a twat.