Jolts

by Fernando Sdrigotti

  ‘Want to smoke?’ he asks the group. The Landlady is the only one to nod — she stretches her arm, gets hold of the joint and drags once. She coughs a couple of times, drinks some wine and then she continues to talk with The Former Banker’s Writer Wife, holding the joint between her right index and middle finger. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend and I stare at her hand for a couple of minutes, until she puffs on it once more and then passes it back to me and I puff on it and then pass it to The Common Unemployed Boyfriend who has a few drags and skips The Landlady to give it back to me (I’m still holding the smoke from the previous round). I smoke again and gesture to give the joint back to The Common Unemployed Boyfriend who signals — with the universal up-down hand movement — for me to slow down. So I drag once more and feel my throat a bit dry and have a drink from my can of Stella. And then I smoke once more, have one more drink, and pass the spliff back to The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  The beer is so cold, so nice and cold.

  ‘Shall I get two more beers?’ I ask.

  ‘Mate, you talk so much sense!’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend and goes back to the joint. He goes for it and then moves his arm forward to pass it back to me. I gesture no no no, enough.

  ‘Anyone? Drinks?’

  Nobody replies. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend put his right index and right thumb together and moves the hand up and down, calling everybody a bunch of wankers. Nobody but The Boring Civil Servant and I spot him. She gives him an evil look and I laugh. When I stand up and walk towards the kitchen I realise that I’m pretty drunk and stoned. The kitchen is only a few metres away but it takes me ages to make it there, like a human Zeno’s paradox. But I do get there, and then to the toilet, after a jump cut. Lid up and an eternal piss. Lid down, flush and out. I succeed in not looking at my face in the mirror. Another jump cut and I’m in the kitchen once more. I get two cans from the fridge and go back to the garden.

  ‘You’ve left your fly down,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend and I look at my crotch. ‘I’m taking the piss! Thanks,’ he says when he gets the beer. ‘Good shit, innit.’

  ‘Pretty strong. I’m quite stoned.’

  ‘Good skunk. GM Dutch — we’ll miss this shit, I’m telling you.’

  ‘I’m having time troubles,’ I say.

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Yes. It’s like time is flexible. It took me forever to go to the kitchen. And then I was in the toilet just like that and I pissed forever. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah… Sort of…’

  ‘Quite scary.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Just don’t fight it, mate: be with the wave.’

  It’s so sunny still. If only the walls around the garden were lower — the sun only succeeds in bathing us from the chest up and I feel half cold and half hot. But it’s nice anyway. And birds chirping and indie bands playing from bluetooth speakers connected to iPhones, iPads, MacBooks. Moments of beauty — Instagram moments — make them last, make time stretch, let a minute become five minutes and five minutes twenty-five hours and so on. And I’m holding the beer in my right hand, forever staring at the others, listening to their talk about remortgaging houses, breastfeeding, Glasto, the coming elections and not voting Tory even if Labour are shit — perhaps they’ll vote Green or LibDem. Well-informed people, educated, lovely accents, multi-cultured, left-leaning now, to the centre by their mid-forties, age fifty-five and above they’ll buy the Times but they’ll never read the Mail, no, not them. How beautiful, young and English they are — I love them. Does this mark the beginning of a new era? Me being among the English? I’m certainly among them, sharing their back garden, eating their sausages, listening to their music, their talk, answering their questions, drinking their drink and getting inebriated with their culture, still in their country, one of the ones who are allowed to stay, not like the others who’ll leave, the ones who have left and the ones who never made it or were never welcomed. I never dreamed about this. I never thought I would make it this far. I’m one of them now — this integration bliss is amazing. Stretch the duration, make it last and drink some more beer. Avoid jump cuts of any kind. Be here. Be with the wave, like he said, until the wave passes. Extend this moment forever. And smile: I smile at them and I smile at The Landlady. She smiles back at me.

  ‘Would you get me a glass of wine?’ she asks, slurring a bit.

  ‘Sure,’ I say and go back to the kitchen, walking very slowly, step after step. I can hear them laughing behind my back but I don’t care. It’s Sunday and it’s sunny. Plus, she’s slurring and I’m not.

  ‘There you go,’ I say and pass her a glass of rosé, just some minutes or decades later, perhaps at an earlier moment, I don’t know.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says.

  ‘You have a lovely backyard,’ I say.

  ‘A bit small.’

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it. And I’m glad you came.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m glad I came.’

  ‘Are you having a good time?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can you follow our conversations?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t we talk too fast for you?’

  ‘It’s fine, really.’

  ‘He’s got a funny accent, doesn’t he?’ she points to The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘The finest of Plaistow,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend smiling back at her.

  ‘What is that?’ jokes The Landlady, pretending not to understand.

  ‘Pure East End. Born and bred.’

  ‘Don’t worry if you don’t understand. I don’t understand him myself,’ she says.

  ‘I do understand him,’ I say.

  ‘The guy is a star!’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. High five.

  ‘Where did you learn English again?’ she asks.

  ‘At school.’

  ‘I thought they taught French in school,’ she says.

  ‘They teach English back home.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I say.

  _________

  And then it’s already quite dark.

  We’ve moved to the back of the garden and we’re sitting under the tree. Everyone is still wearing their shades and drinking. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend and I have to be the drunkest but The Landlady is quite drunk too. The Unhappy Estate Agent disappeared a while ago, citing an urgent matter pertaining to some flat in London Fields. And The Former Banker, his wife and the other two women are talking — animated words that make no sense at all, slurred words, careless sunny Sunday words that I attempt and fail to retain. More of the same but somehow different, an exhaustion of the usual themes — sunny Sunday variations. Yes, I love Fleetwood Mac. You backdate at least thirty years with your musical taste, honey. Don’t be a bitch, please. Ha, ha. Stevie Nicks — now, that’s a woman. You’re making your wife jealous! Let him be — I’ll take the only car he’s got left when we get divorced! Ha ha. Anyway. Nice weather isn’t it? Don’t you wish it stayed like this forever? Oh, poor you… It can’t last forever. It will start raining any moment. We haven’t been blessed with a proper summer, have we? Are you having one of your days? Been having them forever darling! I think you’re turning menopausal. Ha ha. Talking about the weather, when I go back to work —if I go back, ha ha — we’re thinking of having a holiday in Amalfi. Where’s that? I think it’s the south of Italy — it’s somewhere in Europe, anyway. Have you been to Ibiza? That’s not Italy. Yes, I know but it’s still awesome. No way, it’s full of junkies and gays. You live surrounded by junkies anyway, and far from the beach. But I’ve got Victoria Park. Sod that park, you need to move to South London — much greener. No way, I’d rather live in East Berlin, I mean, if we still could. It’s all the same now. Yes, it’s all the same. LOL (someone actually says ‘lol’). And so on and so on. Talk, talk, sunny Sunday talk.

  ‘That’s it, matey,’ slurs The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. ‘You got
ta do what you gotta do. You can’t do otherwise. Or you’ll be fucked. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes. True,’ I slur.

  ‘After all a man’s a man. If you can’t be a man you’re nothing. You know what I mean. You gotta do what you gotta do.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘There’s plenty of fish in the sea. If there’s anything in the sea it’s fish. And water. There’s a lot of water. But it’s fish that we’re talking about, and it’s full of it. Fucking bitch; don’t worry about her. Get another one. I’m with you, buddy!’ High five.

  ‘Thanks… yes.’

  ‘High five.’

  ‘High five,’ I say and we high five again but I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, matey. These bunch of cunts are a pain in the arse. Wow, said it! Hahahaha. Fleetwood Mac! Ibiza! Go back to fucking Chiswick! Hahahahaha!’ he gives them the two fingers. ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ They laugh too.

  ‘Common Unemployed Boyfriend!’ says The Boring Civil Servant, reprimanding him. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend pulls a face and they all laugh but it’s clear he thinks they’re all a bunch of cunts and it’s clear that they know he thinks they’re a bunch of cunts. And he may as well be right.

  ‘This happens when you befriend the plebs,’ says The Former Banker and they laugh, everyone laughs. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend laughs and I laugh too although I don’t really know why I’m laughing because it wasn’t that good a joke. But they’re all laughing and so it’s my duty to laugh too. And we’re all quite drunk, so laughter comes naturally. And I wouldn’t like to be an alien to this laughter because it’s so contagious and I feel that this laughter is mine as well and I have a right to laugh.

  ‘I’m joking,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. ‘You know I love you all!’

  ‘We love you too!’ says The Landlady. ‘And you too, The Tenant. We love you too!’

  ‘I think your opinion is slightly biased,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘How dare you!’ says The Landlady and the laughter escalates once more.

  ‘The chicken’s ready!’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend and he elbows me. ‘Ha ha! The chicken is sooooo ready,’ he says again. ‘Someone will skewer the chicken tonight! Who will skewer the chicken? Who will skewer the chicken, UH?’ he asks and elbows me again.

  ‘Stop it,’ says The Landlady and she blushes and they all laugh and laugh and laugh and I may be laughing too and some more drink, some more talk. The Amateur Footballer Admin moved in with his Aspiring Media Whore Girlfriend. The Gay Lawyer bought a flat in Walthamstow. The Asian British Guy With a Rich Father has moved to Australia (or was it Singapore?) and he’s taking over some family business. How long since we finished uni? I’ve never been to uni! Darling, you didn’t even get your A-levels! Laughter. LAUGHTER.

  And I listen carefully but I miss most of the conversation. I won’t speak and I won’t even attempt to open my mouth. Not because I’m angry or sulking about something and I hate them and wish they were dead, that I had never come. It has more to do with a sudden loss of speech provoked by the necessity to keep some kind of contact with the situation — a matter of prioritising energies. No more words for me for a while.

  It’s getting colder: dew, chills.

  ‘Shall I brew something?’ asks someone.

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ replies someone else.

  _________

  Now next to the grill, something is burning, intentionally. I must have fallen asleep a couple of seconds ago. When I open my eyes The Landlady is saying something. She’s speaking to me. I nod and laugh but actually don’t get a word of what she says. She repeats it and I laugh again and then she moves closer and kisses me. I feel her lips first and then her teeth and finally her tongue. She must smell like booze but I can’t tell because I must smell like booze too, because my mouth tastes like booze. I automatically thrust my hand forward and place it on her leg. She stops kissing me. I move my hand back. And she kisses me again — it’s a nice kiss. I enjoy it. I move forward to kiss her and she moves her head out of the way. She laughs aloud, teases me, then reaches for the wine glass and has a sip. And then kisses me once more and with admirable aim spits the wine in my mouth. I drink it, it’s only rosé after all. I get turned on by this and thrust my hand forward once more and rest it on her leg and she stops again.

  ‘Have some more beer,’ she says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  ‘No, really. Have some beer: you have bad breath.’

  ‘OK,’ I say and drink some more beer from my can and she kisses me again.

  ‘Do you want to come inside?’

  ‘Would you let me come inside?’

  ‘Don’t be silly! It’s getting cold here.’

  I look around. ‘Where’s the rest?’

  ‘Everybody’s gone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did they leave?’ I slur.

  ‘Two hours ago.’

  ‘Ha ha. Nah…’

  ‘Yes. I told you already. Have some more beer and let’s go inside: I’m cold.’

  ‘Yes, let me come inside.’

  ‘Stop it! Let’s go inside.’

  ‘Let’s stay here a bit longer…’

  ‘I’m cold!’

  _________

  Now back under the tree at the back. It’s dark, almost completely dark. The Landlady is telling a story about a holiday in the Lake District and how it rained all the time, ‘It was like Withnail and I with sex,’ she says. They all laugh. Weren’t they gone? Anyway. Meanwhile, I’m staring at what seems to be a small tombstone in a corner, next to a rosemary plant. I can’t see the words written on the tombstone but I’m quite sure it’s a tombstone. A tiny tombstone, a pet’s tombstone.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a tombstone,’ says The Landlady, intercepting my gaze. I don’t reply and just smile back at her.

  ‘Fuck,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend, ‘you’ve got a tombstone in the garden!’

  ‘Yep, she’s got a tombstone in the garden…’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Skeletons in the closet, tombstones in the garden,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Never saw it before,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Me neither,’ says The Boring Civil Servant. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My grandpa, Fonzie,’ says The Landlady and they all laugh.

  ‘Shit, I wonder what it is…’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Not a clue!’ says The Landlady. ‘It came with the house. Nineteen eighty-four, nineteen eighty-nine…’

  ‘Sounds like a badger to me,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Badger? Who has a badger, darling?’

  ‘I had a pet badger when I was a kid!’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘You were a strange kid,’ says his wife and they all laugh. I follow the conversation closely. I understand that they are talking about the tombstone but I don’t have a clue what a badger is.

  ‘I think it’s a fish,’ says The Boring Civil Servant. ‘They live for four or five years.’

  ‘Would you bury a fish?’ says The Former Banker. ‘I mean… I think people just flush dead fish down the toilet…’

  ‘Yeah, I think he’s right,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Flush it?’ asks The Landlady.

  ‘Yes! Where else?’

  ‘You’re sick!’ she says. ‘That’s so cruel!’ They all laugh.

  ‘Why don’t we just dig it out?’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Are you joking?’ asks The Boring Civil Servant.

  ‘No, let’s dig it out.’

  ‘I don’t think we should,’ says The Former Banker. ‘Just leave the thing there.’

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks The Landlady.

  ‘Do you really want to dig it out?’

  ‘I want to know what’s buried in there!’ says T
he Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘What do you think?’ she asks The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘I’ll go either way,’ he says. ‘But I won’t do the work!’

  ‘I’ll do it!’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘This is so funny!’ says The Landlady.

  ‘Yes!’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘OK, I’ll get a trowel,’ says The Landlady and disappears towards the kitchen.

  ‘She even has a trowel!’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘What’s a trowel?’

  ‘A sort of spade,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. ‘A gardening thingy, to make holes.’

  ‘I see… This is great!’

  ‘This isn’t right,’ says The Boring Civil Servant.

  ‘Darling: chill out,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Yes, it’s not like Fonzie will come back from the afterlife to kill us all,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘I know, stupid! But it isn’t nice. Somebody’s buried Fonzie there. Someone cared about Fonzie. Just leave Fonzie alone!’

  ‘You’re such a bore,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘You’re only fun when you’re drunk,’ The Boring Civil Servant replies.

  ‘That’s correct,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘OK, darling, take it easy. We’ll bury Fonzie back afterwards. She had a pet fish called Fonzie when she was a kid,’ explains The Common Unemployed Boyfriend apologetically.

  ‘Yes,’ says The Boring Civil Servant and starts crying. She leaves.

  ‘Shit,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘I didn’t know…’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Oh, fuck it. She’ll be fine. HAVE A DRINK DARLING,’ shouts The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. ‘Oh, look at him,’ he points in my direction. ‘What’s up buddy!’ But I miss all this. I never hear anything at all, because I’m knocked out.