“Jesus Christ, there’s a name for it?”
“There are names for everything.”
He’s right—“casual hustler” makes me think of oxymorons like “surgical strike” and “collateral damage”. There really are names for everything.
Even the worst of things.
He stops.
I gesture to him, go on, go on, and so he does.
Touting for business online or in bars, the furtive encounters, outdoors weather permitting, otherwise in public toilets so he can avoid bringing punters back to his place. Giving out his address would mean taking a risk. There are a lot of twisted people out there.
“Girls have it easier, they can always work as escorts, sometimes they might even get away without having to have sex. But for us…”
Us… guys.
“Really? Is it different for guys?”
“Well, yeah… there’s a lot of casual hooking up on the gay scene. Online, in saunas, in nightclubs. These days, the guys who have to pay to get laid are the ones no one wants to fuck.”
He doesn’t need to draw a diagram: the degenerates, the losers.
“And you really don’t have any other option, no?”
He stretches his legs out, helpless, silent, shoulders hunched, eyes glazed.
“Life’s a fucking bitch.”
Sometimes I come up with just the right phrase.
Hi! Since I’ve been here, I’ve learnt a number of fundamental things: I’m old, students of both sexes are turning tricks to fund their studies, teenagers are insufferable, I hate hospitals and hospital food is disgusting, though there may be a connection between those two. Take it as a spiritual awakening. No need to thank me.
Right, just exactly what meds are you taking? Have you been seeing elephants?
I’m not taking anything, and I’ve never been more clear-headed in my life.
Oh you poor deluded bastard, you’ve never been clear-headed in your life. And I’ve got the photos to prove it… And don’t talk shit—you can’t possibly be old, you’re a year younger than me.
And on that subject, give a little thought to the wise words of Maurice Chevalier: “When you start forgetting to button your flies after you’ve pissed, it’s a bad sign, but it’s much worse when you forget to unbutton them beforehand.”
Assuming you haven’t reached that stage, all is not lost, take my word for it.
Thanks for putting things in perspective. I’ll try to keep a sense of proportion. Thank you for putting balm on my wounds.
Speaking of balm, wait until you taste the kouign-amann I’m bringing you, it is an authentic religious experience: heavenly voices, the white light at the end of the tunnel… Once you’ve eaten it, life will take on a whole new meaning. You will be transfigured.
What do you drink with it?
Excellent question… Dry cider, to be authentic to the region? But I might just as easily suggest a Coteaux-du-Layon, a Vouvray, a little Jurançon, a late-harvest Riesling, champagne, maybe, or sparkling wine?…
So many paths that lead to happiness.
Maybe you could organize a tasting?
Duly noted. I’m pleased to learn that your case is not entirely hopeless.
Not entirely hopeless, I’ll grant, but pretty worrying. I need a lot of care and attention.
I’ll make sure to bring all necessary provisions, in keeping with my boundless generosity.
THIS MORNING, I managed to get out of bed all by myself. The physio doesn’t really recommend it, it’s a little premature, but I don’t give a toss, I can’t lie around in bed any longer.
Swept along by a vague sense of elation—and to leave the field clear for the cleaning operatives—I went so far as to try to make my escape down the corridor. Hobbling with my Zimmer frame, I made it as far as the seating-area-cum-waiting-room, a distance of 10.5 metres. I collapsed into an armchair, completely exhausted. To save face and to give the impression to all and sundry that this was where I had been headed, I perused a few of the magazines on the glass coffee table.
Investor’s Business Daily, Forbes, Management, Capital.
A selection of magazines carefully chosen to encourage distraught patients to dream of a brighter future, and provide light relief for families, allowing them to check the FTSE and the CAC40 while waiting for a loved one to be wheeled out of surgery.
As I got up to go back to my room, and much against my will, I caught a glimpse of myself in the large mirror behind the fake pot plants. I admired the overall appearance. Especially the stylish hospital gown that falls to mid-thigh and is generously open at the back, allowing the whole world to admire my hirsute buttocks.
But you try putting on a nice suit, or even a pair of Y-fronts at my age, with my pot belly, with one leg in a plaster drainpipe from crotch to ankle.
In my room there is no mirror, except for the one above the washbasin in the bathroom. I feel no real need to look at myself. Me, myself and I are an old married couple. The narcissistic spell is long since broken.
And now, for the first time in months—or years, as likely as not—I came face to face with a vision of myself—in a full-length mirror to boot.
I headed back to my bachelor pad with a solemn soft-slipper shuffle. The room reeked of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. I went straight into the bathroom. It’s roomy—designed to accommodate wheelchairs—and, affixed to the back of the door, there is a good-sized mirror that I have thus far had no need to use.
I slid home the bolt, and, in strict privacy, I slipped off my nightie.
If I had to choose a word to describe myself, I think “subsidence” best fits the bill. My whole body seems to have suffered a landslip.
As far as my face goes, this is hardly news, I shave every morning. My big almond eyes have long since drooped to bloodshot bloodhound. The face has slipped somewhat, the neck jiggles a little, but I still have a high forehead. So high in fact that one of these days it will join the back of my neck. On the other hand, I am astonished to discover that I have reached that glorious age where firm pectorals are transformed into flabby dugs, when the belly hangs over the pubis, where the proud testicles, once comfortably nestled in a scrotum as snug as a pair of bikini briefs, are now pendulous bell-clappers in desperate need of a jockstrap.
Given time, I should be able to do even better: lose a little more hair, mislay a tooth or three.
Decline and fallout.
It was at this point in my inventory of fixtures when I heard the girl’s voice.
“I’m just borrowing the laptop, don’t worry, I won’t be long.”
From the bathroom, I yelled “Hey! Hey ho! No-no-no!” I hurriedly made myself decent and threw open the door.
Too late, the little minx was long gone.
I rang for the nurse.
I kicked up the obligatory fuss: shock, indignation, anger, etc.
“What girl?”
She seemed exasperated. This was the last straw. I described her as best I could.
“Oh, yes… that vaguely rings a bell. I’ll make enquiries.”
I didn’t need her to make enquiries, I needed her to track down the bitch with the floppy fringe, exterminate her and bring me her head and my laptop.
The nurse flared her nostrils, making no attempt to disguise the fact that she didn’t give a tinker’s curse about my misfortune.
“You have to realize, these things happen, even in hospitals we’re not immune to theft…”
An audacious admission, and one that helped to move the conversation forward.
“I’m not accusing anyone of theft,” I said. “That girl took my computer without my permission while I was in the bathroom. She said she was borrowing it.”
“Really? Oh, well, in that case…”
I saw a slight reproach glitter in her eye. Visibly, she was thinking, “Well if the girl just borrowed it, where’s the problem.” And she had a point: where was the problem?
I felt old. Ridiculous. Impotent. So, nothing pa
rticularly new.
The girl came back after about two hours. She came in without knocking, set the laptop on the bedside table and said with a big smile:
“Wow, pretty cool.”
As she seemed about to leave immediately, I indicated to her in carefully chosen terms that to my mind it was not “cool” at all. That I did not appreciate her behaviour and that making further use of my laptop was out of the question.
She stared at me, looking a little surprised. And a little stupid.
“Huh?”
I modified my register.
“Don’t even think about coming into my room, OK? Or touching my laptop.”
“But why?”
It was a cry from the heart.
“You don’t need to understand why. Just give me a wide berth in the corridor and don’t set foot in this room again.”
She said nothing for two or three seconds, her face crumpled—from the effort required by thinking, is my guess. Finally, she launched into a tirade of dizzying speed and improbable language, probably modern lingo, since I did not understand everything she said.
Of the torrent of words, I managed to catch one or two: right, fine, whatever, OK, yeah! And a variety of insults and onomatopoeias. The apparent significance of all this was that I was not cool, no need to do her head in, all right, fine, it’s just a computer, fucksake.
The more I looked at her, the uglier she seemed, huge, grotesque, her breasts too big for her height, her hair greasy and dishevelled, a home-made piercing in her lower lip. Not very well centred, unsurprisingly.
And I was being given a telling-off by this little troll.
Suddenly, her voice cracked and she slumped into the chair next to my bed and sat there whimpering, her face in her chubby hands, her bitten nails gracefully painted cobalt-blue.
I picked up my book again and waited for the waterworks to subside. Sobbing girls scare me stiff. I want to turn off the sound. And this particular girl was in a class of her own when it came to noise pollution. She bawled like a baby deer, sniffing and snuffling like she badly needed a handkerchief. Her shoulders heaved like a labourer holding a pneumatic drill.
Just then, a couple wandered down the corridor and, from the sympathetic smile they flashed us, I could tell there was a misunderstanding: a little girl in tears next to the bedside of an old man in plaster, it must have looked like something straight out of a novel by Zola.
Granddad was dying.
The book in my hands was probably the Bible, or an anthology of edifying aphorisms.
I set down my copy of Boris Vian.
I said:
“Are you nearly finished caterwauling, or are you planning to keep it up all day?”
As sympathy goes, I couldn’t come up with anything better.
She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands like a four-year-old. Girls, I tell you, they’re a nightmare.
I attempted a diversionary tactic.
“What do you need to do on my laptop that’s so important? Why don’t you go for a walk in the park?”
“I’m not allowed to walk. The doctor said so.”
Not allowed to walk? Given all that excess weight, I’d have thought it would have done her a lot of good. Modern medicine is a mystery.
“If you’re not allowed to walk,” I said spitefully, “how come I see you going past my room ten times a day?”
“Cos I get bored. This place really hacks me off.”
On this point, at least, we were in agreement.
I almost asked her how long she was in for, but stopped myself just in time. In the first place, I didn’t give a damn, and in the second, I don’t know the first thing about kids—given my history—but I’m guessing it’s much the same as kittens and puppies: if you’re dumb enough to scratch their heads it won’t be long before they start pissing on the table legs and hogging the sofa. I’ll have none of that here, I need my peace and quiet.
A LITTLE student nurse, pretty as a picture, trails after the urologist. He’s a feisty forty-something, terribly hail-fellow-well-met, but always in a hurry.
He comes to check the equipment and informs me that today they are removing the catheter. And that it is mademoiselle who will perform the procedure. He has her explain the process. She answers intelligently, there is a little quaver in her voice, but she does not falter.
Clearly, she knows what she has to do.
The urologist nods, then gestures to me and says:
“All right then, have at it…”
I’m not sure whether he’s talking about me or the procedure she’s supposed to perform.
Mademoiselle swallows hard and reluctantly steps forwards, contemplates my todger with an apprehension I can completely understand. The urologist heaves a sigh, Come on, come on, tapping his foot.
I’d just as soon he didn’t rush her.
“Now, you must tell me if it hurts,” she says in a timid whisper.
“Come along, mademoiselle, get on with it!” the urologist chivvies.
With a heavy heart, she grabs my wizened phallus delicti with one tremulous hand and the catheter tube with the other.
I say:
“So, do you take the tube every day?”
The urologist raises an eyebrow, the girl blushes and stifles a giggle. I’m not exactly proud of the joke, but it’s therapeutic. I need to make the situation seem less alarming.
She starts over, and as she begins to extubate, she warns me:
“It’s probably better if you don’t look…”
“Don’t worry, I’m a couch potato, I’m always watching the tube.”
She gives a little laugh, denting the family jewels in the process, but at least it’s all over.
She gives me a quick wipe-down, smiles and says thank you in a tiny voice.
I can’t exactly say that it was a pleasure—my joystick is throbbing viciously.
But I’m a big brave boy and I smile.
She leaves first and the urologist gives me a wink.
“You’ve got the knack. Personally, I’ve never been able to make any of the nurses laugh!”
As he leaves, he turns back.
“Would you like me to close the door?”
He must be new here.
THE UROLOGIST was wrong, I don’t have a knack with girls. I never did. For the longest time I didn’t even notice their presence, I rubbed along without even seeing them.
They started to seem more important towards the end of primary school. Obviously, like all my schoolmates, I hated girls. Their favourite pastime was pressing up against the railing separating the girls’ school from the boys’ and staring at us all through break, nudging each other and sniggering. Thankfully, classes were not mixed, so the rest of the time it was just us boys, in a privileged world of male apartheid with NO GIRLS ALLOWED. Private property, trespassers must have a penis.
Girls were rubbish…
Chattering, giggly, fickle creatures. Hysterics. Fibbers.
I was never getting married, that much was settled.
A year later, in mid-July, I fell stone-cold dead in love with a certain Marie-Annick with a faceful of freckles and hair as red as the fires of hell. She was a year older than me, she was from Liège. Her parents had rented our neighbours’ house for the summer. Her mother gorged me with home-made waffles I could polish off in three bites, pig that I was. Her father called me “son”, clapped me on the back and, with a theatrical wink, warned “not to go goosing his daughter or he would have a bone to pick with me”.
I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about.
I remember that I had just discovered a technique I still use when in foreign countries: if you don’t understand the language, trust inflection, body language and tone. The threats were issued in a good-natured tone. The waffles were heaped with sugar.
This tribe was not hostile.
Marie-Annick and I experienced genuine physical passion: we held hands, fingers entwined. I groped the place where
her breasts would be once she hit puberty, she pulled down her knicker elastic and showed me the top of her pussy.
I saved myself for when I had hairs.
We even had two epic French kisses, but since she was afraid of getting pregnant, after that we just pressed our lips together, twisting our faces this way and that while we hugged each other hard.
Movie kisses.
And the rest of the time, we were down at the bottom of her garden playing at having tea parties with her Barbie dolls, far from prying eyes, because I would have died of shame if my friends had seen me sink so low.
Unfortunately, at the end of the holidays she went back to Belgium. I was mad with heartache for about two weeks, then rugby season started and life went back to normal.
No more waffles, no more heartbreak.
After that, there was a long period of calm, followed by a few infatuations that never quite amounted to anything.
Finally, at the age of seventeen, I met Chantal. She was fifteen-and-a-half, with long brown hair, huge grey-green eyes, a pronounced lisp and thighs like a grasshopper. She was my first love. My first experience of the kind of true love that means you are prepared to do anything—steal a moped, enlist in the army, jump off the roof, even pass your exams—to impress your little princess. My father did not exactly approve, far from it: Monsieur Gaubert, Chantal’s father, was a staunch conservative who voted for the CNIP. He was not of the same perspective; though when it came to perspectives, my father felt that the CNIP were standing over a gaping abyss.
But given that I was the oldest son, and that I was of age to be courting, he tolerated my antics. I had the makings of a pack leader. A future alpha male. It was the responsibility of girls to beware of the big bad wolf, and of parents to guard their daughters.
Get Well Soon Page 6