Graffiti My Soul

by Niven Govinden

  ‘What’s the problem? You never drink more than half a bottle anyway.’

  ‘I thought we were getting real beer, not this watered-down muck.’

  ‘You’re very picky all of a sudden, V. We haven’t been entirely swindled, there’s still beer in there.’

  ‘Whopee-do!’

  ‘And if you start drinking up, we can go back and get a top-up.’

  ‘I think I’ll just chuck mine in this plant pot and dream of the real thing.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Give it here then and I’ll drink it. Stupid to waste it, now it’s in our hands and everything.’

  ‘If you’re going back for more, Jase, you’re on your own. I’m not going to forsake the sanctity of my family history for another teensy cup of warm shandy.’

  ‘What are you going on about?’

  ‘Long story. Listen, how come he knows so much about your mum, and I don’t? What’s that about?’

  ‘’Cos you don’t ask, V. You don’t ask.’

  If there wasn’t anyone around, and I was a more comfortable kinda fella, I’d put my arm round his shoulder, and tell him that I’m always around to talk about his mum, that I’m not as selfish as I appear to be. It’s what I really want to do, slip my left arm over his left shoulder, turn my body into his, feel a little closeness, try to make real some of the stuff that sits in my head. But I’m way too scared to do anything. You don’t get this shit going down round here. Jase is looking out onto the lanes and shifts a little, feels my breath on his cheek and moves back, seeming to read my mind, the way I’m unable to read his.

  There’s a few kids in our year who are making the most of the lanes, but no one worth talking too. Satellite mates, you know the kind. Fine for five minutes but not the kind of folk you’d miss if they were killed in a road traffic accident or anything. Jesus, what is with my mind tonight? We get chips, soggy with vinegar and criminally anaemic from the microwave, and sit on the banquette that overlooks the centre lanes. It’s only place worth sitting. If you sat in the diner section, the way lot of the kids do, you don’t get to see anything: who comes, who goes, the aggro over scores, the fights. It really is the best spot.

  An extra order of chips later and there’s still no one about of any note. Jase txts a couple of troublemakers to see where they’re at, both of them bouncing back notifications of Park and Odeon. Even with a shandy inside me (I changed my mind), the night feels like a washout.

  And then they’re here. They’re here. I’m not saying that I’ve gone all soppy and hear some kind of special music every time I see her these days, but I’m not exactly lying either. There is something special that happens when she enters a place. She’s still not the most popular girl (quite the opposite – none of the high school bitches can work out what she’s doing with Pearson), but somehow she manages to alter the vibe of a room, the chemistry as soon as she appears . . . or as soon as I see her anyway. We were sitting on a banquette covered in crumbs, watching a load of kids make a cack-fisted attempt to bowl, with some lame watered-down R&B coming from the speakers above our heads. Wacko on a big scale, a painful excuse for a night out. But then Moon’s in the room, and everything starts to fizz. The music gets slightly better, the shandy seems to have a stronger kick, the kids bowling start picking up a rhythm, with that hefty and satisfying clack of bowl meeting skittle becoming faster, harder, more frequent.

  Pass the cheese, please, but it’s true, man. Moon’s the reason for everything.

  She’s the only girl in Pearson’s group. It’s him and a couple of the volleyball idiots. We give a couple of whassups. Pearson nods his head up and down at me so quick it’s like he’s got palsy. He’s not even looking at me when he does it, just the side of his head does a quick move in my direction. That’s not respect, it’s some bogus bollocks just to make him look friendly in front of his crowd. Jason, Jesus, Jason gets a fucking hug! It’s enough to make me want to kick things off, but I know what the deal is with Pearson. It’s a given. I can’t go crying every time he tries to shut me down like that. Which is why, still seated, unlike Jason who’s up on his feet, I’m Pearson’s mirror, less palsy-like but still the same up-down; whassup, mate, good to see ya. This muppet is looking at the king of shut-downs. I ain’t going anywhere.

  ‘Hey,’ goes Moon to the pair of us, but no hug, what with her being a taken lady and all. This week, hugs are no longer appropriate. She seems to have forgotten about how she last visited me a week ago . . . when we did more than just hug.

  ‘We’re just going to start our game. We’ll catch up with you guys later.’

  Is that all I get? I ain’t greedy, but is that all I get? I haven’t seen Moon for two days, haven’t spoken to her for three. She talks at us like we’re people who took a science class together, like, four years ago or something. Married lady stuff – this week at least. A fake brightness in the voice, and facially, shutters down. Her way of avoiding an argument; a maturity that’s hard to swallow.

  I look at their feet and see they’ve already got the stupid shoes on, ready to take to the floor.

  ‘Hey, Pearson,’ I go, ‘aren’t you gonna change into your bowling shoes before you get going?’

  He’s so thick it takes him a few seconds to get the diss. Not the others, including Jase, they’re already cracking up. I’ve kept it upbeat, so it sounds friendly and not like I’m dissing the arse of the cunt.

  ‘Yeah, funny,’ he goes, but he doesn’t rise to it. Been there too many times before, we’re both tired of it. And he’s got the girl on his arm, that’s the clincher. I can try and make him look like a muppet all I like, it ain’t gonna make any difference.

  And then, when I think he’s swallowed it like a lemon, he calls back.

  ‘Yo, Jase, we got a spare place on the team, if you wanna play. Go get some shoes, if you’re up for it.’

  They’re already on their way to the far end of the lanes, playing by the twenty-something couples because they’re oh-so mature. They don’t wait to see the look on Jason’s face, they don’t have to. They know he’ll come. So do I. And I get it, I do. Jase is loyal, but he’s lonely. For him, bonding with someone at a mate’s sleepover means friends for life. I’m pissed, but can’t be really pissed if he wants to go play. It’s Jase, innit.

  Moon is the one who looks back, sees Jase as his ears break into a should-I-shouldn’t-I dance. Flapping like Dumbo. She watches as I take his shandy and push him in the direction of the fit black girl with the good honey weave in the centre booth where they swap the shoes.

  ‘Go on, mate. I’m cool watching here with my watery shandy.’

  You gotta do it, haven’t you? Getting into a denial twist with your closest friends is only gonna get your head messed up otherwise.

  I’m like some old hippy, really. Everyone should be free to do what they wanna do, or something.

  Moon is wearing the top I bought her, the H&M number I picked up when she had me over a barrel over some evidence. A baby-blue sweatshirt with some OK-looking graffiti on it, old-fashioned New York subway stuff that makes you look like a rapper from 1982. It took me ages to find that jumper. Had to go to three different branches to find it. So she’s got no right to stand there and give it the silent lip in support of Pearson whilst she’s wearing the top I bought her. Does she even remember where it came from? When she takes it off, she can give all the wordless judgement she likes. Until then, she needs to shut it. I’m not afraid of going over and taking it off, if I have to. I’m not.

  Jesus. This was only s’posed to be a random night out, no aggro. I’ve only said about five words and I’m a fucking mess.

  The shandy in my hands is now tepid and gag-inducing, but I force the last of it down. Martyrdom is what I do best, ha ha. I go to Keith for a top-up. All things considered, he’s probably my best friend in this place right now.

  There’s a grubby little Goth kid working the bar too, but I wait for Keith to clear his side of the queue before I place my kiddie sippy cup back on the
counter.

  ‘You’re back for more? Boy, you can put it away, Veerapen!’

  ‘Yeah, I’m a regular big drinker. I’m like the guys back home,’ I go, ‘where they sit under their coconut trees drinking rum.’

  I’ve got no idea what Sri Lanka is like, but presume they have coconut trees like they have in Mauritius. Same colour skin, same lifestyle I reckon. This is closest I’ve got to breaking my self-induced racial autism. Normally I can’t even look these people in the face.

  ‘You want something stronger than shandy?’

  He’s laughing now, at my brazen Tamil-ness. Also, the Goth kid has disappeared somewhere now that the queue has been dealt with, leaving us to talk freely.

  ‘Whatever you can give me, my man. Load me up.’

  ‘That kind of night? It looks like you’re having fun over there, now your friends have turned up.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you see, Keith. I’m hating every minute.’

  He smiles the way people do when they think that they know everything: teachers, mothers, disgraced trainers with persecution complexes.

  ‘What I like to do, when I’m having trouble with a girl, is to rise above it. I’m not saying that I do rise above it, just that I want it to look that way. I act like I don’t give a damn. Make out I’m busy, really busy, that I’ve got all kinds of things on my mind that have nothing to do with her.’

  ‘Who says I’m having trouble with a girl? I’ve just come for a drink.’

  ‘Man, grant me some intelligence. I got eyes.’

  ‘I’m only here for the drink.’

  ‘I’ve been looking at your face, and how it changed the minute that girl came in. You were all teeth smiling, and then your brow knotted. Still smiling, but brow knotted. Classic sign of holding something in. It’s gotta be about the girl, right? I can’t see anyone else in that group making you feel that way.’

  ‘Yeah. Course it’s a girl. I’m not stressing out over a goat, am I?’

  Heart sat firmly in my throat, hoping that if he’s this good, he won’t strip back the layers and find what I was thinking about Jason minutes before that. How much more can a thick old illegal Sri Lankan be capable of picking up?

  ‘What d’you think I should do?’

  I have to ask. There’s no one else here, and I need something. If this was Casey I was talking to, I’d make him take me down to his church, see if the Fellowship brothers have the answer; but even though I’ve only known Keith for about five seconds, I know that I can talk to him about girls the way I never can with Casey. He’s too busy watching his back to think that I might need to talk about les bitches and the messed-up stuff that comes with them. I’m not latching onto anyone. Keith is here, and just looks like he wants to help.

  He has customers, three kids the year below me who want Supersizes and keep changing their mind between Coke and Tango, and then diet over full-fat. Two girls and a guy, meaning that they’re all giggles and no focus. Getting a drink, changing your shoes, going for a slash, everything’s a fucking holiday for these retards. I have to butt in and tell them to speed it up before I start hitting them. They shut the fuck up after that.

  Between the kids, and then the beer tap, presumably for yours truly, Keith is kept busy whilst he thinks over his answer. The beer tap is one of those slow runners, it’s not like the taps you get on sinks. Obviously I don’t spend my time hanging out in pubs, so I’ve never seen how beer taps actually give. If you’re desperate for a kiddie cup, you need to place your order an hour beforehand. It’s millilitre by millilitre, something like the way his thoughts are beginning to ferment and distil: drip drop, drip drop. It’s only when the cup is filled that I get anything out of him.

  ‘Take a leaf out of the Jamaicans’ book, man. Relax. Take it easy.’

  ‘I ain’t no Yardie. I don’t smoke weed, and I don’t drink rum.’

  ‘I’m not talking about that, man. Just a little island mentality. Stop and breathe a moment. Don’t get all hot-headed around the girl and start acting like a fool.’

  ‘Why not, Keith? It sounds like the best idea to me.’

  ‘Because that’s what she wants!’

  And it was like someone had switched the light on all of a sudden. Moon, out of the shadows and illuminated, like under proper harsh fluorescent strip lighting, not the rosy-tinted bollocks I’d been using all this time in my head. Sri Lankans speaking sense, revealing the mysteries of the world like a bunch of fucking yogis. If I wasn’t so sober, I wouldn’t have believed it . . . or been dazzled by the way the new light was shinning on Moon and her not-so-flawless face.

  ‘It’s what she wants, man. You’re making trouble for yourself. And it just does the opposite of your true intentions, all the shouting, the pushing, rabble-rousing, makes her think that she’s right. Not you. Her.’

  ‘Are you a misogynist or something? Like, do you actually like women? ’Cos the way you’re talking sounds you’re the one with the chip on your shoulder, not me.’

  ‘I’ve been married to my wife for seven years, and I’m very happy, thank you. This isn’t about hating women. It’s about understanding their tricks.’

  ‘So you think that I’m right, then? Not her? How do you come to that conclusion? You don’t even know me.’

  A sip of strong beer plus wound up tension equals dark-skinned contempt. I can’t help it.

  Keith is too busy wringing out his beer towels to notice. He looks up and gets the stumpy brown thumbs out. Gives me the Fonz.

  ‘Because we’re brothers, man. That’s how I know. Brothers of the Indian Ocean, innit? Us guys are always in the right, no matter what other people think.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of the Indian Ocean connection? I could be from anywhere.’

  ‘Not with those genes, man. You can travel halfway round the world. You could be in some Penthouse in New York in ten years’ time, but you can’t escape your genes.’

  This is less to do with smart talk, his intuition, I think, and more down to Jason and his slack gob. Become a friend to Jason and he’ll tell you anything.

  I go for a piss and take my sorry ass, now slightly calmed by the voice of my people, and my new Supersized sippy cup back to the banquette, moving closer to the end lanes so I get a taste of the action. If I’m going to act aloof and unaffected, I may as well do it from a position where I can hear exactly what’s going on.

  Moon isn’t playing. She stands around the score-zone acting cheerleader.

  ‘SEVEN YEAH ! . . . THREE YEAH . . . STRIKE YEAH!’

  She could be reading a magazine, the amount of interest she’s showing.

  That’s why they needed Jason. Pearson wasn’t joking about needing to make up numbers. The four of them are clustered around the foot of their lane, virtually breathing down the neck of whoever’s up. Anyone who manages to ignore that and bowl in a straight line is a bloody miracle-worker.

  This is why Pearson will never become a sportsman of any note, not because he’s fucking useless, but because he has no respect for the rules of play. There are times when it’s more important than ability. It’s why I have to swallow my temper down if I don’t win a race the way I should’ve, ’cos one day, when I’ll really need it, some doddery old track official will remember my humility and vote in favour of the Tamil Jew. When it’s down to a photo finish, this shit counts. It’s something Pearson will never learn, because in his head he has all the arrogance in the world to carry him through.

  They’re not being quiet about it either, all taking the piss and calling whoever’s holding the ball a blind spastic cunt. The prohibition beer goes some way to explaining their enthusiasm. Jase, getting busy whilst I was in the bog; as far as he’s concerned, kiddie cups are for sharing. He’s the one who’s the most excited, shouting the loudest, cussing the hardest. He’s happy to be included, wants to show that he’s nailed it, this being-part-of-the-gang business. He can take it or leave it, but tonight he’s happy to take it, yes-sir-thank-you-very-muc
h. I have to concentrate on staring at Moon, ’cos if I look too long at Jase and see how’s letting himself be so happy with these idiots it’ll break my heart.

  No one wants their mates to be hurt in any way, but people gotta learn lessons.

  Pearson throws a look in her direction at every other cheer.

  ‘This one’s for you, babe,’ he goes, before each one of his rounds, like he’s John Travolta in Grease, and we’re the fucking muppets with nothing better to do than egg him on. He’s giving so much cheese you can smell it from here. There may be a kiss in it for her if he gets a strike, or if he can be bothered to move his ass the several steps it takes to reach her, what with heckling the other guys proving to be more important.

  I stand as close as I need to be heard, no closer.

  ‘Why would a person want to come up the Bowl if all they’re going to do is change their shoes and then stand around the sidelines?’

  She gives a hollow laugh that sticks in her throat, the kind she uses when she’s about to put the boot in. Also, walking me in the direction of the arcade games where we won’t be overheard.

  ‘Yeah, you really are wasting your time, aren’t you? Standing around . . . on the sidelines.’

  ‘I’m not talking about me! I’m talking about you.’

  ‘So stop trying to be so clever if you don’t want to be wound up! What business is it of yours where I go? If I wanna change into bowling shoes, I’ll change into bowling shoes, who gives a shit?’

  ‘Isn’t it an expensive way to watch a stupid game of bowling?’

  She looks at me as if I’m stupid.

  ‘I don’t pay, twat-head. He does.’

  ‘He knows how to treat a girl. I bought you that top, and he takes you bowling.’

  ‘Why do you always have to make this a competition? Jesus. He’s my boyfriend. You were never my boyfriend. End of discussion.’

  ‘Don’t get het-up. I was just making an observation.’

  ‘Keep your observations to yourself. No one’s interested.’