Geekhood

by Andy Robb

  IM: She’s buckling…!

  “Hmmm…”

  IM: … buckling…

  “You might be right. D’you need some money?”

  IM: And down she comes! Bingo!

  “Thanks, Mum.” I throw in another dig at the chin for good measure. “How much are razors?”

  “Take a tenner. You’ll need some shaving foam.”

  How did she know that? More to the point: why didn’t I know that? Shamelessly, I raid her purse and set off for the shop, the wind blowing through my childish whiskers for the last time.

  Fast-forward a love-powered trot to the shop and I am gazing, slack-jawed, at rows of Male Grooming Products. I had never considered that buying razors could be so difficult. How am I supposed to know if I want disposables, triple blades, quadruple blades, aloe vera strips, swivel-headed or fixed? And then there’s the foam: moisturizing, protecting, razor-rash reducing; I only want to shave off my bumfluff so I can grow something a bit more butch! In the end, I go for the foam that has the coolest-looking logo and the razor with the most sharp bits.

  IM: What could possibly go wrong?

  Ten minutes later, I’m back in front of the bathroom mirror and feeling a little nervous: I realize I’ve got no idea what to do. Getting the razor out of its packaging was hard enough – I suppose I could give Dad a shout and get some hombre to hombre advice, but I’m just not ready to talk to him at the moment. My chin hairs laugh at me from the mirror, daring me to cut them off. I wish there was someone I could talk to. A concerned knock at the door and my mum appears with all the timing of a genie.

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s not at the moment. I don’t … really…”

  “Hang on, I’ll get Tony.”

  The “NO!” doesn’t even make it to the back of my throat before Mum has bellowed his name across the landing. There’s a moment of silence, followed by the muffled flush of the downstairs toilet and Tony lumbers upstairs and appears in the doorway.

  “What’s up?”

  “Can you give Archie a hand?” Mum might think I don’t notice the little elbow to the ribs she gives him, but I do.

  “What? Oh, yeah … yeah … right … OK.”

  As Tony manfully enters, Mum tactfully exits; she’s engineered the perfect bonding moment and, judging by the tension in the air, it’s one that neither Tony nor I are thankful for. In the absence of any spiritual enlightenment, my EM takes over and plasters a loose impression of a smile on my face. My IM cheerfully comments from the back seat.

  IM: Tosser.

  And Tony lives up to my expectations.

  “Oho! Shaving, eh? The Big Day! Right then, let’s get stuck in!”

  “Thanks.”

  He then lurches into some flannel about how the razor’s going to be my best friend, as long as I treat it with respect. Like a woman, apparently. A beautiful one. Like my mother. It’s a wonder my teeth don’t impact with the pressure I’m putting on them. Finally, we get to the point where it looks like we’re going to do something.

  “OK, you want to fill the basin with hot water…”

  I do so and am subject to another Wikipedia-style monologue about opening up my pores and getting my oils flowing. After an instructed splash of my face, it’s time to put foam in my palms and stick it on my face.

  I look like Santa. With a black eye.

  Tony’s reaction is to fall into a series of wheezing laughs that culminate in a long, rattling cough. Despite the protestations of his lungs, Tony continues to wheeze/laugh until there are tears in his eyes and he has to hang on to the basin for support. All I can do is stare back at my reflection, which seems to make him laugh all the more.

  “Sorry, Arch,” he gasps, slapping a hand on my shoulder, “but I think you’ve put a bit too much on there!” More steam-train laughter.

  IM: Tosser.

  Once he’s calmed down, we get round to the razor. Downstrokes and don’t be afraid of putting pressure on the skin. With more than a little apprehension, I put the razor to my cheek. It practically disappears along with most of my hand into the thick layer of foam that’s hiding half my head. Within five minutes my face looks like I’ve had a terrible accident with a Victoria sponge; I am a mass of blood and foam. Needless to say, Tony is as hysterical as a man of his limited lung capacity can be. Mum, who’s obviously been hovering outside the door, comes in.

  “Oh, Tony!” she scolds, “Get out! Go on! Go and put the kettle on!” As he exits, sniggering, I hold a towel to my face, but the nicks on my skin just won’t stop bleeding. What am I going to do? Sarah’s never going to look at me again!

  IM: Meet my boyfriend: Freddy Krueger…

  “Shut UP!”

  “What?” Mum looks suddenly startled.

  “Sorry – not you.”

  “Right … let’s have a look at those cuts.”

  It turns out that there’s only four or five, but they’re running like rivers. Mum grabs the toilet roll and starts ripping up toilet paper like a demented hamster, then wets a bit and glues it over a cut. Pretty soon, I’m covered in pieces of red-stained bog roll.

  “Let them dry out before you take them off. I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  IM: You’re practically an advert for razor blades. “Hi! My name’s Archie! When I’m trying to impress a girl, I like to lacerate my face with razors made from barbed wire!”

  Alone at last, I survey the damage in the mirror. My euphoric state has finally been crushed. Too drained to do anything else, I head up to my Lair and hurl myself on to the bed, only to have something smack me on the forehead. It’s Sarah’s book. It could just be coincidence, but it has fallen open at a chapter called, “How to Silence Your Inner Critic”.

  Time to start reading…

  This book is weird. The way it’s written is like being told off by someone in a syrupy American accent. My IM is hurling derision from the sidelines, but I need to focus. According to the author, my IM has “morphed from a protector into a destroyer, leading to self-punishment”. Apart from being told that I need to love myself rather a lot (he obviously doesn’t know the nocturnal habits of twenty-first century teenagers), Dr E. P. Hughes gives me “ten ways to tell the Universe that you are worthy of love and positive outcomes”, under the title of “Attracting Abundance”.

  IM: Attracting a kicking, more like…

  My IM is the “manifestation of all my doubts and fears”. Reading between the lines, Dr Hughes is telling me that the reason I’m a Geek is because I’m too scared not to be one. Sort of makes sense. I chug on. I don’t know what “Affirmations” are yet, or how to “Make My Mind More Beautiful” and I think I’ll “Learn to Forgive Myself” another time, but Step Five catches my eye.

  “Talk Back: When your Inner Critic remains unchallenged, you have no choice but to listen. Focus on developing the voice of your True Self, your Psychic Self. This voice is the voice of your untapped potential and is only isolated from the Universe by your own fear of just how powerful you can be.”

  Blimey. This must be how Luke Skywalker felt when he found out that he could be a Jedi. I could be a Jedi, I’ve just got to stop being scared of it. An image of me standing on my head, levitating rocks with the power of my spiritually-aligned mind lingers just out of reach.

  IM: You’re a Geek. And this isn’t about spiritual enlightenment. It’s about Sarah. Remember her? The girl who kissed you…

  Right. I’ve had enough. It’s time to take charge.

  Following the book’s instructions, I sit on the floor, try to clear my mind and access my Psychic Self. I visualize myself as a bearded mystic, dispensing wisdom and holding Jason Humphries up in the air with my telepathic abilities. Maybe even doing that choking thing on him like Darth Vader.

  IM: The farce is strong in this one…

  I focus harder, imagining the effect my blinding transformation will have on those around me: Tony cowers in the face of my towering intell
ect, Dad weeps into his chkn soup in York, regretting his decision, and Sarah looks on, awestruck. I am the eye of the storm and she walks towards me, helpless in my presence. She takes her hand in mine slowly and says––

  “How’s your face, love. Are you OK?”

  I open one eye towards the sound of Mum’s voice and see her poking her head round the door.

  “I’m fine. Just … thinking.”

  “OK. Tea’ll be ready in a minute.”

  Bloody hell, it’s hard trying to achieve spiritual fulfilment sometimes. As soon as she’s gone, I get back to my visualizations and try and concentrate on finding the voice that represents the psychic colossus I’ve hidden away. Instead, all I tap into is the voice of my doubts, fears and general insecurities. It’s a bit like trying to throw away a comfort blanket.

  IM: I’m still here, Geekboy.

  Concentrate. Lose the negative.

  IM: Still here! *Whistles a random tune*

  Concentrate! Focus on all that’s positive about you!

  IM: We’re one and the same, Archie. Stop trying to be what you’re not.

  And then it happens. I hear the voice that’s been lurking at the back of my head all my life. It’s the voice of self-confidence and doubt-free reason. All I had to do was let it through, instead of hiding it beneath a jumble of fear and insecurity. My IM’s cheerful babbling is suddenly cut short by a commanding, assertive voice. Complete with American accent.

  PS: Silence! You are the voice of doubt and fear! Begone!

  IM: Eh? Who said that?

  PS: I am Archie’s true voice, the voice of what he can truly become: powerful, worthy and able to attract abundance!

  IM: Yeah, yeah, Obi-Wan – whatever.

  I’ve been so used to talking to myself in this voice that it’s hard to let it go. Dr Hughes has a point: I’m scared of my potential. I’ve lived for years on a diet of self-criticism. Time to change the psychic calories. I take a deep breath and force myself to banish the voice of self-doubt and give the voice of self-worth a bit of room to breathe.

  PS: You are not welcome here!

  IM: And what are you going to do about it? Meditate me to death?

  PS: Your mockery betrays your fear! And it shall be your undoing!

  IM: You and whose army?

  PS: I need no army! I can access the Power of … THE UNIVERSE!

  And then it’s as if my PS swells in my head, taking over every corner and dispelling the shadows of insecurity, filling them with the bright, almost incandescent light of absolute certainty. It’s amazing what giving yourself a good talking-to can do.

  IM: I’ll be baaaack!

  And then my IM is gone. I do feel different; I believe in myself at last. I feel ready, poised to take the life-affirming steps that will lead me into Sarah’s arms. I can almost feel the ghost of her lips on mine…

  PS: Stop! There is no room for base lust on the road to spiritual enlightenment! From this moment on, Archie, you will learn to see the world with new eyes! You are shedding your old psychic skin!

  And bits of toilet paper. A piece falls off just as Mum calls me for tea. With a quick pit stop at the bathroom, I remove the rest from my face. I look like a pizza, with one big, black olive on it. Great.

  Habit drags me from the table and back up to my painting desk. I sit there for a while, just staring at the paints and brushes, aware of a slight weight behind my eyes. It takes a little effort to choose a model to paint until I eventually settle on one I’d been saving for a rainy day. This ogre was going to be a treat; it’s larger than the rest, with more scope for detail and embellishment. I pick it up and give it a once-over, trying to take in all its features and looking for the bits that I can use to show off some serious paint-slinging.

  And then I put it down.

  I can’t seem to get it together; the enthusiasm’s gone. The magic’s gone. What’s wrong with me?

  PS: You are seeing these models for what they really are: physical totems of your fear of truly living.

  Could this be right? By locking myself away in my room and daubing metal men with paint, have I just been avoiding life? And there was me thinking it was art.

  PS: Art is found in the heart.

  I slump back in my chair and down tools. A long period of time passes with me just staring at my desk, not even a thought for company. The sound of Tony’s Beemer roaring down the road brings me back to the present. I’ve got to do something!

  PS: You must continue with your studies.

  The book is waiting for me on the bed and I go through the list of things I can do to unlock my potential. It might be jumping the gun a bit, but Step Nine looks like something I can do without too much trouble: “Project Your Positive Energy Through the Clothes You Wear”.

  So far, so good; Dr Hughes gives me a description of the effects that different colours of clothing can have “on the wearer and those around them”. Unconsciously, I run my fingertips over the lumps and bumps that have formed on my face since my near-death experience at the hands of a razor. It might just be “razor-rash” to Tony, but this level of disfigurement could seriously scupper my chances with Sarah. Maybe changing the way I dress would be distraction enough that she wouldn’t notice. And maybe it’s a better way of communicating my advances in the spiritual realm.

  Red could be a winner: it’s the “colour of excitement and people surrounded by red often feel their hearts beating a little faster and find themselves short of breath”. While the thought of inducing a lust-driven cardiac-arrest in Sarah is appealing, I suddenly realize that I’m going to be on Jason Humphries’s hit list for the foreseeable future. And we all know about red rags and bulls. Perhaps not.

  According to Dr Hughes, green is “associated with masculinity and wealth” and is also a “powerful bringer of good luck”. I’m just wondering what I’ve got that’s green in the wardrobe department, when my eye hits the final paragraph and the colour that’s going to help solve all my problems at once.

  Believe it or not – and in my situation I’ll believe anything right now – “often our most dangerous criminals are housed in pink cells as studies show that this colour calms aggression and drains energy”. On top of that, it’s “the colour of true love”. From where I’m standing, it’s also the colour of two birds with one stone. A quick root through my wardrobe confirms the horrific thought that crashes through my mind: I’ve got no pink clothes, whatsoever.

  Time to consult the Oracle, in case she knows something I don’t.

  “Mu-um!”

  “Yes?”

  “Have I got any pink clothes?” I can’t be expected to keep track of everything in my life.

  Her head appears at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What?”

  “Pink clothes; have I got any?”

  OK, as questions go, it’s not the one you expect to hear from your teenage son’s mouth. It’s also not one I expect to hear from my mouth. I’m running several risks here, that a) this might not work, b) Jason Humphries will kill me on sight and c) that my already tenuous social standing at school will crumble into outright ridicule.

  PS: Trust in your sense of self! Worry not what others may think! Yours is the Path to Enlightenment!

  “Like what?” There’s more than a hint of concern in her voice.

  “Like clothes!” I wonder if getting ratty with your mother hampers your spiritual development, but it irritates me that I’ve got to ask my stupid question again.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  Good question. I could opt for the bog-standard “Oh, God!” and shut the door, but I’m in need of some serious pink in my life.

  “It’s a school thing for Monday: wear something pink for charity.”

  “Oh.” More cogs turn. “Which charity?”

  My mother would have been a phenomenal asset to the Spanish Inquisition.

  It’s all in the details, but the only charity I can think of that has anything to do with pink is one for breast can
cer, and the thought of saying the word “breast” to my mother sends my EM supernova, generating a glow on my face that would keep a solar-powered house in energy for a year.

  I huff and puff before wheedling, “Does it matter? Is there anything pink I could wear or not?” I don’t think I sound sane at this point.

  With a dark “Hold on,” Mum climbs the stairs and scuttles into her bedroom. God help me if she brings out a nightie.

  “This is all you’ve got.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s out of your Baby Box. Your Great-aunt Bertha was convinced you were going to be a girl.”

  In my hand is a pink handkerchief. Complete with lacy edges.

  “A handkerchief?” A half-decent shirt is obviously not on the menu.

  “Well, if you’d let me know a little sooner…” I can feel a huff coming on, so I give her a hug and tell her it’s great.

  Back in my Lair, I examine my frilly heirloom. A pink bloody handkerchief.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’ve worked out that I can fold it enough that I can hide the frills and tuck it into the top pocket of my shirt. I look like a waiter. With cuts and a black eye.

  PS: Vanity is a sign of spiritual blindness. You must look beyond your physical self and see what lies within.

  What lies within right now is someone who is very tired. But if I’m to win Sarah’s heart, I will have to draw on all the psychic energy that Dr Hughes tells me is at my disposal.

  And probably have an early night.

  I spend Sunday waiting for the phone to ring.

  PS: To learn patience, you must first be patient!

  It doesn’t.

  Monday begins with a small object smacking me on the forehead and the all-too-familiar aroma of cigarette smoke.

  “Hey, Arch! You alive in there?”

  Tony is standing in the doorway, puffing on his early-morning heart-starter. He points to a tiny box that has rolled off my forehead and on to the pillow.

  “What d’you think of that?”