“Well you know, I’ve just been cramming a lot before break. Speaking of, I better get going. I’ve got a big paper which is overdue already.”
“Why do you always do that man?”
“Do what?”
“Blow me off like that. Call me lame, but I’ve got feelings too.
There’s quite a significant pause, followed by a scratch of his head. I stare at the pebbles at my feet.
“Look,” he slowly begins. “I just wanted to apologise for laughing at you when we were at the bar the other day. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“It’s fine,” I insist. “I’m not upset.”
Am I upset? Not with Dale, surely. Seeing him like this almost makes me feel bad for him. But isn’t he supposed to take pity on me? I’m the friendless freak who can’t hold a conversation. How can someone like Dale be insecure? I really don’t get people. Should I offer him some meds?
“Well anyway, I just wanted to apologise to you in person. I’ll leave you to get back to your study. Have a good break, man.”
They say kindness comes from the most unlikely sources. Or maybe they don’t. My summations sound better when they come from someone else. Dale looks deflated as he turns to walk away. Last time I blew him off, he seemed pretty blasé about it. Now it’s different. He seems tired, sad, beaten. He seems, lonely. His is the face of Shavoni.
“Hey Dale, wait up.”
I run after him, a child to a long-lost friend.
“The paper can wait. Besides, I owe you a beer.”
He smiles and puts out his hand. I extend mine and we forge the bond. Suddenly I feel a warmth rush along my shoulders. I have to stop my mouth from smiling. I haven’t felt this way since my mum hugged me on graduation day. Dale smiles unashamedly, flashing his impossibly white teeth. To cap it off, he cocks his head to the side and winks at me. Platonically, of course.
“Let’s go get shitfaced!” he declares.
……
Five beers down and Dale’s stance has barely waivered. On a bar stool opposite, I slowly start to sway. We don’t say much, but a terrible Nickelback song fills the silence. Is there another kind? There’s no such thing as a good Nickelback song, right? As Professor Johnson would say, “that boys and girls, is an oxymoron.”
I contemplate the injustice of Chad Kroeger’s success, and Dale orders two more beers. Maybe the alcohol’s effects are heightened by the potentially lethal mix of drugs inside me, but the bar’s grimy surroundings feel warmly welcome. I’ve never been drunk before. There’s a sleepy brand of ecstasy creeping over my body. Inside, I’m awash with elation. My head feels heavy but light at the same time. Dale carefully inspects me upon his return to the table.
“You okay buddy?”
“I’m fine!” I shout at him. “Gimme that.”
I reach out for the beer and spill half of it across the table. Dale laughs at me again. Only this time I don’t mind. I laugh with him. We laugh until we can’t remember what we started laughing about. I am drunk and without a care in the world. Even How You Remind Me doesn’t sound so bad when you’re hammered. Note to self: the key to Chad Kroeger’s likability as a musical artist is copious amounts of cheap beer.
“You’re a sloppy drunk James. But I’m glad you’re having fun.”
“I’ve never got drunk before Dale. But now I can see why people do it cos it’s really fun and this bar is awesome and I’m having fun but I don’t know if I should stop or not cos I’ve never gotten drunk before and I don’t wanna throw up but maybe I should cos them I could drink more. Should I throw up?”
“You’re fine, dude. Just drink water between beers.”
I do as I’m instructed by Dale. Several beers and waters later and I think I’ve levelled out to the point of being manageably hammered. The bar is much more crowded now. It’s getting hard to hear each other talk. Despite this, we decide our drunken ramblings will be better spent on the dance floor, standing two feet away from the bass-heavy speakers. I excuse myself from our drowned-out conversation and head for the bathroom. I resist the urge to puke as I meet the smell of stale urine and lemon-scented toilet cakes. This place is disgusting! How do people do this every weekend?
I do what I need to do as quickly as I can. I then wash my hands (twice) and splash my face with water. While drying my hands, I scan the graffiti ridden drywall. My focus is taken by one particular message. It stands out from the myriad promises of free sex and foul- mouthed insults. Written in perfect cursive, I’d say it was put there by a girl. Hardly surprising. It is a college bar after all.
It reads “Forget the world, save the girl.”
A bouncer bursts through the door, drawing my attention from the oddly-romantic bathroom scrawl. Through a slew of profanities, he instructs me that my friend has been cut off and we both need to leave. The girl will have to wait. For now, I have to save my friend. I must confess, even as a cocky drunk, it feels weird to say I have a friend. Let alone a friend worth saving. I slip behind the brooding bouncer as he pushes open the door, eager not to place my fingers anywhere near the stainless-steel handle. Did you know almost half of people don’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom? I’d put that number even higher for this drinking establishment.
As I follow across the dancefloor, the bouncer points in the direction of Dale. There’s no need really. I can already hear him screaming and laughing at himself. As we approach, an empty ring begins to form around Dale as people gradually peel further and further away from the dancefloor. In a vague attempt at dancing, both his arms thrash about violently. His legs, more affected by the alcohol, slowly drag him to and fro. Occasionally his feet get crossed up and he stumbles. Always the innovator, he disguises the misstep with a twirl and a shimmy. It fools nobody. It’s quite hypnotic to watch the movements. He’s like a newborn foal trying to stand up. Finally, he spots me shaking my head.
“Yo James! Jim Jams?”
“Hi dale.”
“Jim Jams! This chubby doorman won’t let me drink no more. I told ’em I was only drinkin’ apple juice all night but he won’t believe me.”
Dale should have taken his own advice on water consumption. Dale attempts to moonwalk off the dancefloor, stumbling on spilt beer. He is rescued from an embarrassing fall as he reaches out for my arm. Collectively shitfaced, the bouncer forcibly directs us toward the exit. His language though blunt, is every colour of the rainbow.
“Yo, Jim Jam, wanna know a secret?”
“Not really,” I reply.
Dale puts his mouth to within a millimetre of my ear. Between deep breaths and belches, he attempts to form a sentence. His breath is foul, and I can literally hear his spit as it showers my inner ear. A stifled hiccup later, he balances himself on my shoulder.
“I don’t even like apple juice Jim Jam.”
The bouncer shoves us forward once more.
“See you later bitches!” Dale screams at the now-full dance floor.
For good measure, he bids them adieu with two middle fingers. On our way out, we pass a group of seniors waiting just inside the front door. The pack’s alpha male mocks our unceremonious exit. It’s only a few whispered words, but loud enough to know it was at our expense.
“What’s so funny?” Dale inquires abruptly.
“Just a funny joke. You wouldn’t get it.”
“You like jokes huh?” Dale asks. “I got a funny joke.”
Jesus Christ, what is Dale doing? He’s gonna get us killed.
“Oh yeah?” the senior replies.
“Yeah!” declares Dale.
He glances across at me, and attempts what appears to be another wink. With his basic motor skills malfunctioning, it looks more like he’s about to have an epileptic fit. He looks back at the senior and point-blank stares him down.
“What did the fag say when I asked him what’s so funny?” Dale finally asks.
“What the…?”
“A funny joke!” Dale cuts in.
To this, Dale laugh
s hysterically. I do too. Sadly, no one else finds it funny. The bouncer pulls at both our shirts, attempting to face us to the door. The doorman out front overhears the commotion, and swiftly comes to assist his colleague. Dale pivots the other way in a sad attempt to death stare the seniors. He overcorrects and is met face-to-chest with the enormous angry doorman. The impact causes a strange effect, as Dale vomits on his own shoes. He vomits a little on my shoes too. Thankfully enough, he saves most of it for the doorman’s Ralph Lauren shirt. Oblivious to the mess he’s just made, Dale turns towards me.
“I was talking about him, Jim Jam. Slim Jim?”
He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt before continuing.
“I called him a fag, right to his face. You do get it don’t ya, Slim Jim?”
“Yes, I get it Dale.”
“That shit’s funny, right? You like gay jokes James. You’re always sayin’ stuff is gay.”
I drag him as quickly as I can outside. At this point, the doorman looks set to unload eight vials of pure roid-rage. We stagger onto the street, and the night air is heavy. By now the laughing has stopped. Our concentration is solely on keeping upright and putting one foot in front of the other. I can already feel myself starting to sweat. Dale rolls up his spew-coloured sleeves and puts his left arm over my shoulder. As he does, I see a criss-crossing pattern of scars. They run from just below his elbow to just above the wrist. He is too drunk to notice my intruding glance, but almost instinctively he rolls the right sleeve down. I want to ask, but I know I shouldn’t. We stumble on, and suddenly I realise that Dale never wears T-shirts. From my drunken perspective, Dale seems far from designer, just like me. Am I stupid for not noticing? It makes me scared that someone can be so good at hiding something like that. What else don’t I know about him?
We arrive to his bus stop, only a few blocks from my house. I offer for him to crash on the couch but he insists on going home. I decide to wait with him until the bus comes. He’s too tired to send me away. As we slump down on the park bench, I look at my watch. It’s after midnight and for once I’m not at home. I think I’m becoming a man. Dale looks at me, his eyes heavy and glazed.
“I had fun tonight Jim Jam. I probably won’t remember it tomorrow, but it was fun. By the way, do you have money for the bus fare Jim Jam? I can’t find my wallet nowhere. That chubby doorman douche bag must’ve stole it.”
I look under the bench and instantly locate the missing wallet. It is sprawled upon the pavement with change and old receipts everywhere. Dale seems relieved but simultaneously peeved that he’ll have to move from the comfort of the bus bench. On all fours, we clumsily attempt to scoop up the contents of the wallet. Among the faded bits of paper, I notice a small crumpled photograph. In it stands Dale, minus the shades, sweater, and stubble. His face is easily recognisable, though he looks several years younger. I’d say 14 or 15. He has a huge smile on his face and his arm around a pleasant looking middle-aged lady. Her warm face and snaggle-toothed smile is surrounded by dark, wavy hair. She wears two necklaces; one a thin silver chain with a cross, the other a chunky turquoise piece. Her eyes proudly looking across at Dale, shine a slight-hazelly brown.
He looks at me looking at the photograph. Straight away he collapses, his left elbow taking his weight of his upper body. I hurriedly place it beside him without saying anything, but it’s too late. I’ve struck some invisible heart string and Dale begins to take deep, rushed breaths. His eyes well up and he holds his hands to his face. The first few tears roll slowly down his cheek. Then the well overflows. He pulls his legs in tightly, hangs his head, and wraps his arms around his knees.
His tears spill down his ankles, washing away the muck upon his shoes. Soon the ground is saturated. The saline stream trickles towards the storm drain. I’ve never seen someone cry like this before. That’s a lie. I have. But I’ve never had to comfort anyone in this state, least of all myself. I don’t know what to do, so I put my head in my hands and begin to cry with him. We cry hysterically. Cars and sirens and singing students pass us by. We hear them, but we don’t listen. I listen to Dale as he sobs. I sob louder. Soon it becomes a mournful duet.
I have no idea how this looks from the outside, but I’m sure it isn’t pretty. Still, it is one of the most beautiful moments I’ve ever shared with anyone. Perhaps Dale’s earlier prediction will come true and he’ll forget this in the morning. I hope I don’t forget. For the first time in my life, I feel like someone in the real world needs me. I silently repeat to myself over and over to write about this moment. This is the most peculiar feeling. It’s the feeling of someone else’s pain. It’s a feeling of hope. I may yet have a use after all. This is how Dale and I will become best friends.
CHAPTER 8: Plausible Deniability
I’ve run out of pills. I tried to schedule an appointment with Dr Shaw, but she’s still not returning my calls. So, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. I can’t take her pills and I can’t talk to her personally, but I do still have her stupid book. Furthermore, I have denial on my side. Whether my dreams are real or not is no longer of consequence. I think I’m finally getting better. Perhaps I was looking at things from the wrong perspective. I thought I was messed up, but maybe it’s the rest of the world that needs help. Until I met Dale, I used to think denial was a term of disapproval. Dale lives in a constant state of denial, and when I’m around him I completely forget about my problems. Sure, he’s got some underlying issues, but so do I. I don’t know how we ever hit it off. On the surface, we have zero in common. In fact, the only undeniable similarity between Dale and I is the fact that we are both well and truly in denial. But hey, they say denial is the first step to recovery. Or is to admit you’re in denial? Either way, I’m set.
Maybe all of this sounds conflicting. If so, that suits me just fine. Conflict is the way in which I justify the things I don’t agree with. As much as I want her to be real, she’s not. She makes me happy, but according to everyone else that happiness is false. I just can’t stop thinking about her. I haven’t said her name aloud since that last session with Dr Shaw. I say before I sleep that she does not exist. It has become a religious routine; my Hail Mary if you will. Denying the truth seems so much easier than recounting that incident with the hair. I see now how it works so well for others. Dr Shaw is also in denial about many things. My own dad is in denial. Why can’t I be?
The first task at hand is to sabotage my dreams. I need to evict the monsters. I need to evict Shavoni. Oops. I said her name. She means nothing. My dreams mean nothing. They are but an onion. If I peel back the layers, I will discover them to be a bunch of random thoughts. It’s all in my head. Here’s an extension on that metaphor. Dreams, like onions, can often make you cry. But when you rub your eyes, you see the world with clarity. I can duck and weave the obstacles thrown at me from monsters, but they are the anxious feelings I deny through daylight hours. Sleep is just a regulated cycle. If I find the right rhythm, I can drown out the screams. She means nothing. My dreams mean nothing.
After I recite my deniability, I pick out random words from books on the cupboard. How can I see the titles of the books? I am still sleeping with the light on. Deniability does not infer fearlessness. Most of my collection is made up of old textbooks from my distinguished high school career. One is about standard algebra, another trigonometry. So far, I’ve dreamt of triangles, x’s and y’s and swirling masses of complex looking number problems. They float over gentle, rolling hills and into deep fiords. The landscape is gorgeous in its simplicity. There is nothing to discern about these dreams. They are uncomplicated, unconscious thoughts, the result of visual stimulation. They are also the most peaceful episodes I’ve had in months.
I have defeated the monsters. Not by facing them. Not by tearing out handfuls of their dirty, matted hair. Not by rescuing her from a crumbling castle in the clouds. No, I have slain them simply by denying their very existence. If the real issue is me, then I can simply bluff my way past anything. If Dal
e can roll down his sleeves and project a conceited front, so can I. I can be the most self-confident man who ever walked the earth. I can be the bravest boy on the block. I can learn to sabotage the dreams of others, not just those of my own design. I will pump myself so full of hot air and iron, the rest of the world will worship the ground I walk upon. I will become what I hate.
It’s funny because Dr Shaw and Dr Rowland both said I was in denial. This was an accusation I most vehemently denied. At the time, I failed to understand what they were really saying. Denial is the problem, and denial is the solution. This will be my rite of spring. My strength will blossom from the roots of her dying world. Which of course is the dream world. Which does not exist. I must keep a lid on those thoughts. She means nothing. My dreams mean nothing.
She was beautiful, and I’m sure she still is. But the world I put her in is a poor excuse for anything. It’s best to cut my losses and evacuate her soul. If she completely slips my mind she’ll simply cease to exist. I wonder if she says the same thing about me. I can’t concern myself with that. I have enough to worry about with Dale, with my sleepwalking little brother, and my dad, who has set the bar for denial at an all-time high. Like father, like son. By the way, I should talk more about Hal’s sleepwalking disorder. If anyone is reading this, you’ll be waiting for that connection.
The truth is Hal began his life with me as a stranger. No one ever taught me how to be a big brother. I don’t know how to help him because I have enough of my own stuff to deal with. He’s never really done anything wrong, but everything changed the moment he came along. Mum is no longer around, and dad is barely present either. Hal on the other hand, is always around. He follows me around the house like a lost puppy. He annoys the hell out of me, even though he doesn’t do or say much of anything.
His mere presence serves to highlight the absence of everyone else. If I was being totally honest, I do love him. But it’s quite easy to love someone to death. That’s probably why I don’t like showing it. The objects of my affection never seem to last long. There are many things I have chosen to disconnect with, because, well, they are better off without me. I destroy everything and everyone I grow close to. I am the Shadow of the real world. My life means nothing.
James in the Real World Page 7