Meatspace

by Nikesh Shukla

  #WTF

  His passport is new and shiny. He doesn’t have any stamps except the one to the UK, which states it is a tourist visa, rather than a student or working one. He had no intention of anything other than coming here to appease his father. The piece of paper with the flight details only lists a single outbound flight to the UK, rather than a return one. It’s been booked by his dad.

  Annoyingly, he’s picked the bank statement that involves a payment for a 20-minute phone call to Babestation, which came one night after the pub and a particularly celibate attempt to try to seduce a girl I liked that ended up with her saying nothing made her hornier than getting stoned, me buying some hash in the toilets, even though I hadn’t smoked for years, and her taking it back to my flat to smoke it with me before falling asleep. Aziz watched from his room, laughing to himself. I went to my room, switched on the television and saw there was a redheaded girl with 2 bad tattoos and a South African accent. So I called her and asked her for love advice, which she was happy to give me. The visuals of her simulating finger-banging herself and cupping her breasts and rubbing them frantically only gave the backdrop of her advice about girls, depression and feelings of loss and ambivalence a bizarre context. Now, whenever I feel depressed, I feel horny. And I only have a redheaded South African who poses naked on television for money to blame.

  And my passport? It’s all been bullshit, the niceness and the declaration of love and the goofy intent to get laid – this is some serious identity theft. It was one thing to steal my Twitter login, that feels like a transience I can get over, but this is more serious. This feels more illegal. So, if he’s intent on stealing my online persona and my official administrative one, who the fuck will I be in this scenario?

  I jump out of bed steeling for a fight.

  *

  I write Hayley a note that says, ‘I’ve gone to see a doppelganger about getting my life back. Sorry, this isn’t cryptic. It’s surprisingly literal. I have to go see this other Kitab. Sorry. I know. Sorry. Shall I say sorry again? I will be back before you can crack the wi-fi password. Sorry. Kit.’

  I head back to the hospital to confront Kitab 2. On the way to the hospital, I try reading Aziz’s blogs but give up with his ebullience. Online, people are polemicising against the latest round of cuts by the government and sharing their favourite ‘humblebrag’. I’m momentarily distracted by a pun game involving reappropriating book titles to sound dirty. It’s called #bookporn.

  ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Boner #bookporn’

  ‘A Tale of Two Titties #bookporn’

  ‘Bellend of a Suicide #bookporn’

  ‘Even the Dogging #bookporn’

  ‘Life of Creampi #bookporn’

  ‘A Visit from the Poon Squad #bookporn’

  I fire these off before I go underground. Underground, staring at my warped face against the train window, I wonder what that feeling is within me. It feels unfamiliar at first, but then the clenched fists, the sweaty brow, the inability to concentrate on anything, plus the bubbling rage inside me, the way it pulls at me – I’m angry. I haven’t felt angry in a long time. I’ve barely felt anything but horny or upset in a really long time. Bless you Kitab 2, you weirdo.

  Rach moved out of the flat the week my book came out. Because I was booked to go on a campaign trail, write articles and blogs, do library appearances and book readings, and because it was my first big thing and I kind of liked the attention and this was what I had been waiting for all this time, I didn’t cancel anything. The week before she left me, I had gone on the radio to plug the book. Because the presenter was attractive, I flirted with her on the air, much to the annoyance of Rach who was sitting on the other side of the glass in the studio.

  Instead of one of the funnier anecdotes about Aziz and me as teenagers, the presenter had picked out a passage to read back to me. It involved the main character, opaquely based on me, arguing with his girlfriend, a version of the worst things about Rach.

  On top of all the tweeting, the Facebooking, the Q&A email interviews, the politics of getting my name out there, the obnoxious arrogance growing inside me, I’d made fun of Rach on the BBC, the most holy of all places. And she hadn’t even read the book yet.

  That last coffee we had, she was crying and looking into the space between our mugs and said, ‘Is that what you think of me?’

  ‘No, Rach. It was just satire. Fun. It wasn’t based on you.’

  ‘Now everyone who listened knows that was me. Thank you. For writing me so horribly.’

  I told her off for not being supportive, for not understanding the difference between fact and fiction, for daring to say I was anything less than a man with integrity promoting his work. I told her off for having a go at me for things that were my career. Rach just shook her head and said, ‘You used to write me the most charming text messages when we first met. Now I’m lucky to get more than one word.’

  She then told me she was moving out.

  Kitab 2’s welcome to that identity if he wants to steal it.

  On my way from the station to the hospital, my phone rings and it’s my dad.

  ‘Hey pops,’ I say aggressively, trying to hurry him off the phone so he doesn’t ruin my stride, my inertia, my anger.

  ‘You busy?’

  ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘Too busy for your old man? What you doing?’

  ‘Being busy,’ I say, high-pitched, like a teenager.

  ‘Fine, I’ll go. Just quickly, Kitab-san – I’ve got this girl who loves Mexican food. I want your recommendations.’

  ‘Try the internet, Dad.’

  ‘What? You expect me to trust strangers over my friends? Kiddo, you do not know how I operate.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘What restaurant?’ he asks, hurried.

  ‘I dunno, Dad. Honestly. I don’t know anything.’ I look at the station I’m stood outside. People stream past me in either direction. I have nothing to tell my dad.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I guess I can look online. How are you, kiddo?’

  ‘I’ve got to go, pops,’ I say, and I hang up the phone.

  I find Kitab 2 sitting outside the hospital, on a bench, smoking. He nods at me and smiles and I’m immediately disarmed. How could this goofball plan this identity theft attack on me? Look at him, smoking like a one-eyed sailor. It’s almost comical. Without wanting to, I smile at how silly he looks and he taps the space next to him, placing an arm up on the back of the bench to welcome me.

  I sit next to him. We don’t talk for a minute or so. I breathe in and out, controlling my anger, counting to 10, remembering a grief counsellor once informing me that things that were out of my control were things I shouldn’t lash out at. Kitab 2 offers me a cigarette. I take one just to take one and stare at it.

  The cigarette looks delicious, mostly because I haven’t smoked in a few years. Rach and I gave up together. She’d be so mad.

  Before I can intellectualise sign-offs and permission slips for the cigarette, Kitab 2 has flared a light for me. I accept it, cupping the flame into my neck. The light breeze distracts the first attempt. The second gets me all the way lit. Immediately, the smell and taste and sensation is sending a chill through my legs. My lungs feel acrid and warm. It’s a confusing process for my body. How can something so amazing feel so unnatural?

  ‘What’s up, dude?’ he asks.

  I remember why I’m here and the cigarette in my hand, sending toxins into my brain is making me feel angry again. I drop his passport in his lap. I shake my head. He looks up at me and smiles with all the charm in the world. ‘Dude, where did you find this? I thought I had lost it.’

  ‘You stole my passport,’ I shout. ‘You left it in Aziz’s bed.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Kitab 2 says, laughing and looking away from me, spluttering away the j’accuse with his lips.

  ‘You did,’ I say, feeling angrier. ‘You fucking did. Don’t deny it. I leave my passport in the kitchen drawer,
with my bank statements. I also found my bank statement. In Aziz’s bed. Where you were sleeping. Not in the kitchen drawer where they belong. Why did you have it? What the fuck were you doing with it? Was stealing my online identity not enough? Seriously, Kitab, this is serious shit. I could report you. You stole my passport. What were you going to do with it? What the fuck were you going to do with it?’

  ‘I wanted to see what your date of birth was,’ he says, smiling. The cigarette burns in my hands. It doesn’t taste like it used to.

  ‘Kitab,’ I say, steel-like. ‘You’re really messing with my life right now …’

  ‘What life?’ he asks.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I say, pointing the cigarette at him, dropping a mound of ash between us. ‘What the fuck does that mean? You stole my passport because I have no life?’

  ‘Dude, calm down. I was just having a look. I was just trying to help. I wasn’t stealing it. I promise,’ Kitab 2 says, cocking his head like a puppy. Either he’s that cute or he knows he’s appealing to my sense of brotherly love.

  ‘Look,’ I say, sitting back down on the bench properly and looking at patients ambling by. ‘Between my dad and his stupid dates, and this girl I’m seeing, and writing, I’ve got no time for silly buggers.’ Kitab 2 sniggers at the word bugger. ‘So why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything to you,’ Kitab 2 says. ‘Nothing, dude. I’m just being there for you. You need me to help you have fun, right? We’ve had fun. I didn’t do anything. I just had your passport and statement. You have been so nice to me. You let me stay at your flat. You fed me non-veg pizza. You took me to university and made me end up in hospital because I was buying drugs. You. You are a cool dude, dude.’

  ‘Kitab, you’re going to have to stop fucking with my life,’ I say calmly. ‘Whatever you’re up to, stop it. I’ve been nice to you. I don’t appreciate being fucked with in this way.’

  ‘Dude, I’m in hospital because of you. You owe me. Please dude, you owe me.’

  ‘You’re here because you got beaten up.’

  ‘I’m here because you wouldn’t be my friend,’ he whines loudly, the declaration clear: this is the reason we’re at this place now. Because I wouldn’t be his friend online.

  ‘Why would I?’ I say, my voice rising.

  ‘You just click “accept” on Facebook. It’s easy. That’s easy.’

  ‘Kitab, man, you’re delusional.’ Neither of us say anything for a few seconds. ‘We’ve got nothing.’

  ‘But I like you. And I love London. And I love your life. I want your life, dude. I want to be like you. You have such a cool life. You live in London. You go out. You meet girls. It’s awesome.’

  ‘Yeah, and? You can go and do all that yourself, you know. You don’t need me.’

  ‘It’s easier to find a job and an apartment with a British passport,’ he finally says, quieter.

  ‘So, you were going to use me for a job? What? You were going to pretend to be me?’

  ‘Dude, you are not as cool as I thought.’

  ‘That’s not really the point is it?’

  ‘If you were cool, you wouldn’t have such a problem helping a friend.’

  We fall into silence. I watch the cigarette burn in my hand. I don’t need another drag. My hand feels so comfortable. I don’t want to ruin the equilibrium with another drag.

  ‘Dude, why are you always quiet?’

  I don’t answer him. I shrug with the barest of shoulders and stare at buses going past, men entering and leaving a sex shop opposite the road, and the shoes of passers-by.

  ‘Dude, you need to say what’s on your mind. I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. Here’s what I’m thinking. I like you. I want to be friends because we’re the same person. I want your life. But also, I think you’re rude. You wrote this book and now you think you’re a super cool man, but you’re not, dude. You’re just a moody rude dude. So maybe I feel like you don’t like me. But also that you don’t like anything. Except this Aziz. Are you in love with him? Dude, seriously, you’re a loser.’

  I look at him and smile.

  ‘You nailed me in one,’ I say flatly.

  ‘Sorry, dude. Just wanted a reaction.’

  ‘Why did you take my passport?’

  ‘You can get a new one, right? If I take your passport, I can stay in the UK and get work, dude. “We all look alike, right?” That’s the first line of your book. I can work here and it’ll all be cool. I never have to go back. Ever. It’s boring there with my dad. You don’t live with your dad. You don’t have to study all the time. You don’t have to go into a certain job. You have freedom. I have nothing. So I want to stay here.’

  I never wanted to be the voice of brown England. I never wanted to be the Buddha of Suburbia for my generation.

  ‘Dude, your book is like The Buddha of Suburbia for our generation.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, absently.

  ‘So what if I borrowed your passport. I was going to photocopy it and take down all the details so I could apply for things. That’s cool, right? We’re brothers.’

  ‘We’re others.’

  ‘Brothers,’ he says. ‘Only 2 people in the world with our name. We all look alike, right? Dude, I’m sorry I said those words, did those things. I like you. I want to be like you. You’re cool. I lied. You are super cool. Dude, listen to me – you’re awesome, dude. Really awesome.’

  More tolerable silence follows. A mutual respect based on a rapport finally found. I feel hypnotised and strangely comforted by his words. Like helping him is a natural thing. I smile. This guy’s a charmer.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble.

  I ask if he wants anything. He says a beer. I go off to buy us teas. When I return, I sit down and we’re in silence. I feel sore about the passport thing but don’t want to bring it up again. It’s done with. I want for Kitab 2 to break the silence as he inevitably will do.

  ‘Are you on Tinder yet?’ Kitab 2 asks. I nod, because we’re friends now. ‘Let’s see if we can find a girl to visit me in my hospital bed,’ he says and giggles. ‘I need to get my dick wet, dude.’

  ‘No, man. That’s weird. Also, I don’t think they’ll let you bring girls in.’

  ‘If she’s close, I can pop out. No one would notice. I’m in a room full of 3 other Indians. We all look alike. Your words.’

  ‘I’m not going to do that.’

  ‘Okay, I understand. Can we at least look at who is on there right now?’

  ‘What if your nurse is on there?’

  ‘It’s better if I know, dude.’

  I sidle next to Kitab 2 and load up Tinder on my phone. I press refresh and it updates all the girls geographically close to me. There are 15 girls.

  ‘Why have they all got their tongues out?’ Kitab 2 asks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All these girls, they’re sticking their tongues out. It’s not sexy, dude. Maybe it’s because they’re all fat.’

  ‘That’s unfair,’ I say. ‘People get self-conscious when they have their photo taken. This is what they think we think is sexy, I guess.’

  ‘I’m not fussy, dude. I’m lost in a strange country, I’ve been beaten up and I’m a virgin.’

  ‘Well, let’s find you someone.’

  We search through the 15 girls, but Kitab 2 doesn’t like any of them. He dismisses them as too fat, not blonde, too fat, piggy eyes, too fat, too young, too old, not blonde, hairy, too fat, too fat, not my type, Indian, black, and not blonde. I close my phone.

  ‘Sorry, man, them’s the breaks,’ I say. ‘It can’t be 100% accurate bikini-clad Playboy bunnies all the time.’

  Kitab 2 looks at the ground. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I just thought …’ Another silence follows. ‘Do you do internet dating?’

  ‘I tried it once. I didn’t get anywhere. Aziz told me I should. He said it’s like a meat market for casual sex with ugly people or boring silent dates with quiet people who are funnier online than in real life. I
didn’t meet anyone though.’

  ‘I should sign up,’ Kitab 2 says. ‘I don’t mind casual sex with ugly people, dude.’ He smiles. Kitab 2 draws in a big breath. ‘Dude, I want to go to a sex party,’ he says after stubbing out his cigarette.

  ‘Pardon?’ I ask.

  ‘A sex party. I want to go to one of those sex parties they have in London, where you wear masks and people have sex on round sofas with chubby blonde girls. I have seen it on the internet. When I was coming here, I looked up the local blue movies, dude. Britain loves swingers. And doggers. And sex parties. They’re all doing it. Everyone wears masks and you can stick it wherever you want. And the girls all sound like Ross’s wife from Friends. It’ll be cool, dude.’

  ‘Cool, man. Have fun.’

  ‘You have to take me. I do not know how to find one.’

  Kitab 2 has mistaken me for a deviant. It’s hardly the decadent noughties anymore. Hasn’t everyone grown up and got cats? That’s the first sign of slowing down. Pets first, sensible job second, put all your homemade ‘art’ in storage third … then maybe accidentally have a kid as you hit your 40s. Modern city dwelling.

  ‘Neither do I, Kitab. I don’t know what sort of guy you think I am but I’m not a “sex party” man. I can barely look at myself in the mirror let alone prance about in just my penis, thrusting it into any orifice that takes my fancy.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kitab 2 says. ‘This is disappointing. I have made it my personal odyssey to have sex with a British woman. And where better than a party where everyone is doing it? And if it ends up on the internet, I can have a mask on my face but I will know it’s me.’

  I point at his pants area. ‘I’m surprised you’re so proud.’

  ‘I saw one of your Twitter followers is a lady who organises sex parties. Her name is @partyorifices. Tweet her and ask.’

  ‘Mate, I have over 2000 followers. I’m not going to tweet someone I don’t know and ask them to invite me to a sex party,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘That’s not cool. I don’t want to do that on my account. Everyone already thinks I’m a sexpest.’