writing

Chapter 6: Dragonfish

Matt JohnsonLeave a comment

I’m in the maintenance cupboard; I can smell bleach and something else that is stale and musty. A lone bulb, not long for this world hangs from the ceiling above my head with cobwebs above it casting shadows on the yellowing ceiling and walls. I cast a shadow across the hard concrete floor, overflowing onto the wall like I’m a giant. What I’d give to be a giant under this dark sea! The door creaks open slowly; she peers around then steps in closing the door behind her.
“Gilly?” She squints her eyes in the dim light.
“Sam?”
She shrugs her shoulders and just stares blankly over in my direction, the light bulb hanging between us. “What are you doing in here?”
I could ask you the same thing,” I whisper conspiratorially. “Damn it!” I hiss.
“What?”
“I missed the best opportunity to say ‘I’ve been expecting you.” I sigh, “Go back out and come back in.”
She sighs now and looks around the room, her hands open in question.
“I come here for a break sometimes.” I finally answer.
“I came in to get a mop. There has been a spillage.”
I look at her sceptically, “Since when has cleaning been your job?”
“Since Rob decided to call in sick for two weeks running.” Her shoulders slump as she leans against a wall. She chuckles to herself.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She smirks more.
“Come on!” I ask eagerly, wanting in on the joke.
“It’s just…” She looks down at her shoes then at the wall behind my head, “Being in the maintenance cupboard kinda just reminds me of story lines in films. It feels like there should be a camera here and this is the scene where we kiss.”
I stare at her, blinking. I can hear the sound of my blinking in my head like I’m a cartoon. Clink, clink. “Um…”
“I mean because” She starts defensively, “it’s like we’re sneaking around.” She shrugs her shoulders, “I’ve seen it on Scrubs.” She laughs.
“Okay.” I mimic the action of undoing my belt.
She covers her mouth to stifle her laughter.
I have an urge to kiss her, and in haste, I launch towards her like a man on a mission, all my instincts never to share bodily fluids with anyone have evaporated, and I kiss her hard on the lips.
She pushes me away, “What?” She gasps, startled, wiping her lips “What was that?”
“It’s called a Kiss,” I shuffle uncomfortably on my feet and feel at the back of my neck, “What do you call it? Did I do it wrong?”
She closes her eyes a moment and shakes her head, “This is…” She reaches the door handle “Gilly…” She murmurs and fumbles with the door handle, “I bet you don’t even know what colour my eyes are!”
”Blue.”
”You notice no one but yourself in this world,”  She hangs in the doorway hesitantly, looks back at me with a sad expression lit on her face.
“Sorry,” I whisper to the emptiness of the room as she leaves and the door closes.

The clouds loom low over town hiding the stars. Sometimes the weather just syncs up with how you feel. We never see the stars in Shademore anyway; we’re much too deep under the ocean, lost in our artificial lights, our artificial suns. Jasmine is at the bus stop; legs stretched out in front of her. “Gilly!” She pipes up, gum churning between her teeth and a cigarette between her fingers.
I nod to aknoweldge her presence.
It’s started to rain that summer rain; the road has a sheen to it reflecting all the different sources of light.
”You notice no one but yourself,” Her voice repeats in my head, “You notice no one but yourself.” Everyone seems to think that, but I swear it’s not true.
“Get a bus with me.” Jasmine asks pleadingly.
I look down at my shoes blankly. You notice no one but yourself. No. Sometimes I notice so much it coalesce to noticing nothing at all!
“I’m going to The Insider.” Jasmine’s voice finally burts my bubble
“The…The insider?” I ask
“It’s a club,” she tilts her head and smiles, “You ever been?”
“No,”
We watch a few passing cars, watching as they spray water under their tyres.
“You called a taxi yet?” She interrupts the swooshing sound of traffic.
“Might have.”
She smiles furtively, “I’m betting you have.” She flicks the stub of her cigarette onto the path, “Fuck the taxi. Get on the bus with me!”
Why do people get on buses but get in cars?
She winks and chews the gum hard with new found enthusiasm.
My taxi arrives just in the nick of time.
“Go tell him to bog off,” Jasmine laughs.
“Nah.” I go towards the taxi and behind my step I sense someone close behind.
“Okay, we’ll get a cab.” She grins. She walks around to the other passenger side.
The driver smiles at me through the rearview mirror, “Going home?”
I look beside me at Jasmine feeling as though she’s an intrusion.
“We’re off to The Insider. You know it?” Jasmine butts in.
“The club?” The driver starts typing a postcode into his sat nav system
“Yea.”
“Near Blackpond Avenue, right?”
Jasmine nods.
“Okay,” The car jerks forwards. The driver’s teeth appear to glow, “Never took you as the clubbing type.”
Jasmine rolls her eyes, “This one here,” she points at me, “the clubbing type,” she laughs, “I know right!”
“I’m a club virgin.” I pipe up.
The driver laughs as does Jasmine, “You’ve got virgin written all over you,” Jasmine raises a brow with a smirk.

Chapter 5: Dragonfish

Matt JohnsonLeave a comment

My manager is in my face pointing to the spreadsheet with an accusing finger, “You haven’t even logged several sales we had on Friday!” Spittle is spraying from his lips until he glances at something or someone behind me, then he suddenly eases up and practices restraint. I follow his gaze and Sam is stood there, her cheeks blush a little as she tries to make herself look busy, her eyes sliding down to some chocolates on a shelf and starts ‘neatening’ the stack. The manager takes his accusing finger away from the screen and places his hands in his pockets, “Just make sure you log all the ticket sales before you leave in the future, okay?”
“Sure,” I nod in response. The screen glows against my face like a replacement for the sun. I scan the food section seeking Sam’s face, and she looks up over at me, I give her my best glare. She saunters back to the snack counter as a customer comes in, has another quick shot at me, bites her bottom lip and then averts her attention to the customer and puts on her best smile.
After work, I sit at the bus stop with the neon sign from the cinemas glowing behind my back giving me a green halo. I cast my eyes down onto the pavement, noticing all the lights reflecting on the wet tarmac, including the green neon sign, my artificial moon shining under all this water that I’m drowning in. Night time shoppers walk by, the constant tack, tack, tack of feet in light shoes as people take it easy with their shopping bags of artificial moonlight. An image pops into my head of Sam dancing to the beat of some music I can just about hear from someone’s headphones as they lean against the glass pane of the bus stop. Halos of green light outline her curves, and I’m taken deep into my head where the bus stop has disappeared along with everything and everyone else it’s just Sam and I.  She’s dancing, and I’m trying to move to the beat but coming off as awkward with two left feet. Her blue, blue eyes are looking at me enticingly, and an extra hollow layer makes its way into my psyche as I try to feel anything other than the water in my lungs.

“Hello,” my head flashes on, off, on, off and Sam just keeps on dancing, slowly shimmying closer to me, gesturing with a ‘come hither’ gesture. But just as we appear to float closer together my head flashes on, and the fish with  all it’s teeth greets her with a grin. She steps back, her eyes wide and horrified. “Hello,” I repeat as if she’s still somewhere near, even though she’s disappeared from my visions. “Hello,” I say again to the darkness.
“He speaks!” A woman squeals breaking me from my trance.
I freeze on the spot like a deer in the headlights. I knead my hands and flick my tongue on the roof of my mouth making a clicking sound, a nervous tic I get sometimes.
“What? Are you trying to call a dog?” Chewing gum woman asks, sitting next to me on the bench, too close.
I get up from the bench, and I run my hand over the back of my neck and hone my vision on a bit of reflected light in a puddle in front of my foot. “Hello,” I whisper.
She tilts her head “Are you speaking to me?”
I nod
She claps her hands together, which draws the attention of other commuters. I knead my hands nervously. “He speaks!” she screeches again.
I recoil inward a cartoon image of myself as a turtle going back in it’s shell plays in my head. I Remain still like a statue till all the attention is away from me.
I click my tongue on the roof of my mouth, “I’m J.J.” I mumble as fast as possible.
“What was that?” she leans forward on the bench
“J.J,” I try to speak more clearly, “I’m J.J.”
“Thought you were Gilly?” She chews gum loudly.
“No, No. I..I am Jacob James Gilbert. Gilly is a nickname people use, my surname shortened.”
“Ah,” she takes her phone out of her pocket, her artificial moon glows against her face, then she puts it back in her pocket, “I’m Jasmine”
“Both our names begin with J.” I notice out loud.
“Yea.” She lights a cigarette with a flick of her lighter and I step further away from the bench. “Whats up? Do I smell?”
“Y…Yes”
I can almost hear the turning of her neck as her body tenses up in some mental restraint and, the tension then flickers into to amusement, “Wow.” She stares ahead.
“Cigarettes” I nod my head towards the smoke
She looks at the end of her cigarette, watching the ash pile up with a puzzled expression on her face until it dawns on her, “Oh!” She beams, “I see!”
“I’d smoke if it wasn’t for the smell,” I remark.
“Why?”
I shrug
She stares into the distance, clearly thinking, “e-cigs,” she mumbles.
“What?”
“e-cigs, you can smoke them without the smell.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“So…” She sucks in some air and smoke, “Ya finally speak!” She starts excitedly.
I shrug again.
“Shit,” she flicks ash onto the pavement, “Don’t go all mute on me again!”
She continues to sit, and I continue to stand in silence till the bus arrives. The buses lights are glowing on the inside, and its headlights glare like eyes. I look at the faces in the windows, the bus turning into a submarine in my imagination. “You waiting for a taxi?”
“Yea.”
She starts towards the bus, “Hey,” she says over her shoulder, one foot on the platform, “How come you get taxis at the bus stop?”
“Bye”
She scoffs, “You’re a funny guy,” she hops onto the bus, “See you around, then, I guess.” She shouts over and drops her cigarette on the pavement and then shows a pass to the driver.

Chapter 3: Dragonfish

Matt JohnsonLeave a comment

I’m standing at the bus stop envisioning my head flickering on and off with that electric fizz in between, and people are looking at me. Some manic guy with OCD is trying to stop his eye visibly twitching because he wants to change the broken light bulb! I’m stood here flickering on and off like an occasional beacon of light, but the light only shines to show you the monsters in the dark. If someone were to ask if they could paint a representation of me, I’d ask them to paint a human body with a light bulb head. It would have a gruesome-looking fish inside bearing sharp teeth, and it would be electrocuted every time the bulb flickers on and then disappears just as suddenly, the last thing you’d see would be its eyes bulging from the electricity.
“Gilly,” An unfamiliar voice interrupts my imagination; I turn my flickering head towards her with a zig-zag mouth and crosses for eyes.
“Are you stunted or somethin’?”
I imagine her breath smells awful with its mixture of stale cigarettes and minty chewing gum.
“I’m talkin’ to you!” She screeches waving her hand to grab my attention. “Earth to Gilly!” She giggles and sits back down on the bench stretching her legs out, “Do you even talk?” She scowls at the pavement in puzzlement; hands dug deep in her pockets. “Oh,” her body becomes animated with new insight, “Are you deaf?” She smiles proudly at herself.
An old man with a walking stick joins her; she gestures towards me with her thumb and says, “I think he’s deaf.”
“Have you asked him if he is?” The old man says in a grainy voice, a smoker’s chuckle following.
“He don’t talk.”
“Maybe he has headphones in.”
She leans forwards on the bench and looks at him, shakes her head, “Can you see any damn headphones, Grandpa?”
“I dunno,” his coat makes a shuffling sound as he shrugs his shoulders, “They’re tricky these days with all this technology.” He nods towards me, “Especially these youngsters.”
She opens her mouth wide with chewing gum squashed on her tongue, eyebrows raised, “He’s about the same age as me I reckon.”
“A bleeding baby then!” Her grandpa replies with another hearty chuckle, “Ya bleeding babies you two!”
She rolls her eyes and sits back, her back resting against the glass pane and folds her arms, her denim jacket tightening at the elbows and rolling up a little at the wrist. She has a small tattoo on her wrist that I can’t quite make out.
“How do you two know each other?” her grandpa asks, “Are you two an item?” He winks and chuckles again.
“Grandpa!” She spits, “I don’t know him,” she chews her gum loudly, “He’s just always at the bus stop.”
“What are we talking about him for, then?”
“I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me.”
“But he’s deaf.”
“No, Grandpa. I said I think he’s deaf; I don’t know if he is!”
Her grandpa waves his hand nonchalantly, “Ah,” he shakes his head and tuts, “Leave him be. He don’t need you mithering ‘im.”
They fall silent for a few moments then I hear the rustle of a bag of sweets, and he offers his granddaughter one.
“Thanks,” She takes the chewing gum from her mouth, holding it in between her finger and thumb. She pops the sweet in her gob, and I wonder how it must taste after that minty fresh gum contradicting the cigarette taste. I hear rustling get closer to me, just at my shoulder, the old man holds the bag out towards me. I look at the broken zipper on his coat and turn to look out the glass.
“I don’t think he wants one.” I hear him say as he shuffles back to the bench.
“Fucking rude.” She screeches.
“Leave him alone, Jas”
“Well,” I hear her sigh, “Still.” She continues, “Just so rude.” She whispers.
Her grandpa leans in close to her ear and whispers something. She sighs with an air of resignation, and then their bus arrives.
The old man waves at me through a window on the bus. A submarine comes to mind, his wrinkled face looking through the circle window waving at me in that illusion of safety inside all that metal. I find that I’m waving back, looking at the old man’s lips. People’s mouths are windows to the soul for me; I shall never cross the threshold of eye contact.
Another woman takes her place on the bench, she stares straight ahead through everyone passing by, a big smile on her face and occasionally mouths something at someone only she can see. I’ve seen her around before; I saw her on the psych ward once. I don’t feel sorry for her, she’s in her own world, and she’s comfortable in it. People say she’s ill, I say that may be so, but she seems better off than everyone else I see.

I’m wearing a suit with a red noose (a tie) contrasting against my whiter than white shirt. I even envision black socks in shiny black shoes. My bulb flickers on and off, the gruesome fish inside shimmering into vision every time the light comes on,
“Earth to Gilly!” Her voice echoes in my head, I’ve heard that voice before. “Earth to Gilly!” Her face is a blur in front of me; I blink hard and open my eyes again. Sam stands in front of me, “Ground control to Major Gilly!” She grins.
“Hey, Sam.” I finally manage.
“Where were you just now?” she chuckles
“Here,” I say dryly.
She rolls her eyes, “you know what I mean.”
I take a peek at the spreadsheet glowing in front of me, inviting me to boredom. She puts a finger to her lips feigning surprise, “I know! Have you got a girl on the mind, Gilly?” She winks.
I look at the spreadsheet before me, inwardly sigh at the grotesque task of looking through all the tickets sales this month and editing any stupid fucking errors. Kill me. Shoot me now.
“Gilly?”
This artificial sun glowing in my face, this nothingness disguised as something.
“Jeeze you are really out of it today! Are you okay?”
Her words are bubbles popping into nothing, just white noise inside my head. She’s looking at me through the window of the submarine and we departed from each other’s lives years ago, she just doesn’t know it yet.

 

Chapter 2: Dragonfish

Matt JohnsonLeave a comment

Part 1 

Part 2

 

“Gilly,” Samantha asks me at the ticket checkout, “do you still play the guitar?” I’ve known Sam since primary school,
“no,” I reply numbly.
Sam sighs as if feeling defeated, her cleavage resting on the edge of the countertop, “Aww,” she moans, “I was hoping…” She stops short and looks at me; her eyebrows raised, “Wait, why did you stop playing the guitar?”
I shrug my shoulders
She tilts her head, “But why?” She’s nothing if not insistent.
“Because…” I let the word roll on my tongue as I move the mouse tiredly on the mat and click another cell in a spreadsheet, “reasons.”
“Should I be worried?” She bites her bottom lip.
“No.”
“Are you okay Gilly?”
I yawn from boredom at the spreadsheet glaring at me, “Yea.”
“Tired?” she giggles.
“Bored.”
Some customers make their way over to the confectionary counter, and Sam runs across to be of assistance.
The Beatles were right you know. We’re all living in a yellow submarine, well the majority of people are. I look over to Sam and imagine us swimming away from the submarine holding hands. I’m already out of the submarine; I fell out. Sometimes I look through the little round windows, and sometimes you look back at us from inside and some of you sneer some of you smile that sympathetic, pity smile, but most people just look through us. Sometimes I think maybe you’re all sad too, confined and claustrophobic in there. It seems everyone drowns in the end. After the customers have got their chocolate, popcorn and fizzy drinks they saunter on over to me, the tickets guy. I’m the guy that changes their life with a ticket to a new perspective for a couple of hours. The fact we’ve only had these five customers is why I take the evening shift.

A ribbon of steam curls under his nose, the froth from his cappuccino staining his upper lip. Plates and cups clatter behind us with the gush of the coffee machines. The lights above our heads have a monotonous hum, and one strip of fluorescence light near the entrance keeps flickering. My social worker pours another sugar into his cappuccino. “How are you doing?”
I shrug my shoulders, my staple response. I watch as a woman walks in with an empty pram, pushing it with one hand while holding the baby in the other, the baby’s head is on her shoulder, and he or she flails her arms about and wails loudly.
“How is it going at the cinemas?”
“I’m changing lives evening by evening!”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you?” He leans over the table to hear me better.
”I’m changing lives evening by evening,” I repeat trying to raise my voice over all the noise.
”Oh,” I’m unsure if he’s heard me. His NHS Identification badge that tells you he’s a social worker with ‘Shademore NHS services’ with his name ‘Gregory Davies’ dangles down a ribbon around his neck, with a picture of him looking a bit young with a bit more hair.
“How’s the guitar going?”
“I dunno,” I gulp down some of my orange juice.
“Are you keeping to your practising schedule?”
I shake my head
“Is there any particular reason why?”
“Don’t have my guitar anymore.”
He looks at me questioningly, “Sorry,” he winces a little at the sound of the baby crying right behind him now.
”I don’t have my guitar anymore,” I repeat.
“why? what did you do with it?”
“Sold it.”
He takes a sip of his cappuccino, “Why did you sell it?” He asks, his voice rising with surprise.
“Just felt like it.”
He puts the cup down gently on the saucer, “I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t do things on a whim.” He looks at me sceptically, “you usually have reasons, a plan.”
“My plan was to make money from it.”
“I see. For anything in particular? A new guitar perhaps?”
“Maybe.”
“Hmm,” He wipes the froth from his upper lip, “It seems odd if you ask me.”
“What can I say, I’m a weird guy.”
We sit in silence amongst all the noise; the baby has since stopped crying.
“Any negative thoughts and feelings?”
“Since I last saw you?” I ask, as a way to be evasive. “Isn’t that like asking if I’ve taken a breath since?”
A little smile creeps his face, “Any I should know about?”
“Not any out of the ordinary, for me anyway.”
“So yes you’ve had the usual negative thoughts, but anything more serious?” He looks at me, expecting an answer like the previous one he quickly utters, “You know what type of thoughts I’m speaking of.” He gives me a pointed look.
I consider how to answer this one because If I appear too confident, he’d know I’m lying, but I can’t tell him the whole truth either. “I’ve had, you know, thoughts.”
He knows what I mean. “And have you wanted to act on them?”
“I’ve wanted to..”
“Do you have any plans?”
“No. It’s just a passing thought and feeling.” I lie.
“So no plans?” He asks again as if not quite hearing me.
“No, no plans. Just thoughts and feelings.” I lie again.
“What stops you acting on those thoughts and feelings?”
“Fear.” There is some truth to that, “The idea of those it’d hurt.” I lie.
I don’t believe in the long run the particular actions in question would hurt anyone. To the contrary, it would bring relief to a lot of people. But I learnt that this is the response they want. “You know what people like me lack?” I ask him.
“What?” he peers over his cup curiously.
“We lack a fundamental part of the functioning human’s psyche,”
“And what is that?”
“Delusion. Illusion. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“How so?” he puts his empty cup down with a little clink.
“See to function a human needs delusion. It’s like what that writer Albert Camus said about suicide being the most rational answer.”
“I see.” He tilts his head, the light flickering behind him at the entrance.
“If you go too high on the scale with delusion you get the mental illness label, if you never even get on the scale you also get diagnosed with mental illness! My problem is, I see that life is meaningless and I have no illusions to put a veil over it. It’s just there, bleak as it is staring at me.”
“What if your delusion is thinking you’re not deluded?” He chuckles, “A common delusion,” he winks, “I find.”
“But objectively speaking there is no purpose. I’m rational in an irrational world. It’s perfectly rational to be depressed in this world, to see that life is meaningless.”
“But if life itself is so irrational, then why bother spending time being so rational?”
“Rationality or lack of it isn’t a choice.” I gulp down the last drops of my orange juice, “Plus, without any rationality, we wouldn’t be where we are today.”
My social worker tilts his head to one side, “But according to your theory rationality is, in fact, an illness.”
“No. Too much rationality without delusion is an illness. You need an illusion to drive the rationality you do have into something that can be used to thrive. You take away a delusion that propels that rationality then you have no wheels to spin the thriving.”
“So delusion is like the wind to a windmill?” He picks up his empty cup and looks down at the emptiness then puts it down again.
“Yes. Or water to a watermill.” I squish the bottle in my fist.
“Interesting.” He rests his chin on his hand.
“And that’s the problem with trying to treat people like me.”
“I gather you’re feeling hopeless.”
“I guess,” I shrug my shoulders, “I mean I suppose I feel that way but I also know that feeling is bullshit because hopelessness necessitates that hope exists somewhere or did exist at some point.”
“You’re a very deep thinker, I think to your own detriment.”
“Detriment to what?”
“Objectively to your survival, to your own thriving.”
“What happens once a person has seen how an illusion works? You can no longer see past the fact it’s an illusion! So any treatment is simply about installing illusions and some mild delusions of worthiness, meaningfulness. But what if you can’t unsee the truth that it’s all just lies we have built into our psyche purely for survival?”

Meditation diaries: Not the man I want to be

Matt Johnson3 Comments

Like rats teeth, the feeling of being overwhelmed gnaws at me.

It’s a subtle sense of overwhelming.

Where I daren’t say aloud the things that are making me feel that way.

Because they are surface things. They are stupid.

One of them is a pretty narcissistic thing, something to do with my looks. I’m not one to obsess that much about how I look. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I often go out with my hair still messy. But there are a few things, niggling things I have a complex about.

The other thing, well I guess the fact I saw a rat in the garden for the second time today is on my mind.

I keep having conversations in my head with support workers and managers and the manager says to me, “Matt, you need to stop feeding the birds.”

And I…

This is how pathetic I am. I guess.

I had always wondered why I often found it so painful, so odd a feeling, so stressful to some of the smallest of changes.

I guess now I have the autism diagnosis it makes sense.

The idea I might have to stop feeding the birds makes my brain feel fried. It’s a hard feeling to describe. But it hurts.

Not to mention that my key interest in life is… yea, you guessed it…Birds!

To an obsessive degree.

Do you know what I spend the majority of my time doing when in my flat? Talking to my budgie and looking out the window watching the birds feed at my feeders.

Do you know what I do when I notice the feeder is empty? I clean it and then refill it.

And do you know the action of cleaning it, then leaving it to dry makes me a bit angsty?

It does.

I always wish I wasn’t this way.

I’ve always wanted to be one of those men that exudes competency with a really calming, laid back appeal to me.

But my brain doesn’t allow it to happen. It’s not wired that way or something. I don’t know.

I’m the kind of person that watches western movies wishing I could be like clint Eastwood silent characters or like Shane from the book Shane written by Jack Schaefer.

Read books about how to be more ‘stoic’ etc.

But inside my head, it’s too painful to be that man.

It’s funny in a depressing way because I’ve searched about autism and stoicism together, trying to find ways to group the two together. To find ways to make stoicism a way of coping with being autistic.

And I’ve found a few posts on Reddit and one or two on facebook where people claim that as autistic people stoicism seems to come naturally to them.

Yet I can’t figure out how they’ve found it to be so compatible. Given the anxiety that often comes with autism, the tendency to meltdowns etc.

I can see how visually I may seem like a person who it would be compatible with. I don’t have as many expressions on my face as others, I can say very little and seem relaxed. But often inside I’m the exact opposite.

But eventually, that silence cracks and I become overwhelmed and show my hand for what it is.

Often broken.

Stressed.

Part 2 of Chapter 1: Dragonfish

Matt Johnson1 Comment

Read part 1 of this chapter

The neon sign glares through the bus stop and reflects on the night washed pavements; it’s raining that summer rain, and it’s humid as hell.
“Gilly,” A voice beckons to me, loud and boisterous, “My man! How are you doin’?”
I turn to see who it is; it’s a guy I used to know from school, I nod in acknowledgement of his presence, hoping he doesn’t wish for any more conversation.
“How’re ya doing?” I know this is just that thing people call small talk, and he doesn’t give two shits about me, I turn to look at the bus routes.
“Have you heard the news?” He continues on
I nod and I look down at the shiny pavement, closing one eye then closing the other watching how the reflection of lights appear to change their position.
“What do you think?”
I look at my shoelaces that I’ve just noticed have come undone, I find his topic of conversation to be too vague, I shrug my shoulders.
“Ah man, you’re still as awkward as ever.” he smiles, and fist bumps my shoulder.
He used to do that to me at school ironically to take the piss out of my supposed social incompetence.
“But yeah,” he leans against the glass, “Shademore high is closing down.”
“Oh” I manage
“Yeah.” He shrugs his shoulders, “It’s a real piss take because my auntie was gonna put my little cousin in Shadmore.”
He runs a hand through his hair, “She’s ranting at us all the time now, man!” he leans his head back against the glass, “We can’t move again.” He says, trying to mimic his aunties voice.
I nod to show I’m listening as I watch rain drops on a reflection of a green neon light. “Ofsted closed them down, said they’re not up to scratch,” he laughed, “They’d been threatening that all the time when we were there,” he looks at me, “do you remember?”
I can only nod, I remember it well because every time rumours got around about Shadmorehigh closing I was fucking buzzing! But then I’d consider the fact my mother wasn’t just going to keep me out of school if it closed down, she’d just take me to a new one. And then I’d get angsty about Shadmore high closing.
“I mean,” he continues with himself, “It’s not like we turned out bad is it?” He laughs, though it’s clearly fake, “I mean we’re still alive, right?”
He asks as if needing reassurance.
I take quick glances at him as I take in all the changes that have happened to him since school, never crossing that threshold of looking at his eyes. He’s filled out since his school days, we both have. He has a goatee and is wearing long shorts and sandals with white socks.
I never thought he’d be one to dress like that, sandals and stuff. He’d have pulled a mooney through the bus window at the guy he’s dressed as now. “It’s gonna start lightning soon,” he lifts his bag from the bench,  and points to the sky “got all my camera gear in here.” He grins.
A woman about the same age as us; in her late 20’s comes and sits where his bag was. She’s chewing gum and smoking a cigarette.
“What you doing nowadays, anyway?” Nick asks, his eyes subtly glancing over at the woman.
I shrug.
“Nothing?”
I shrug again, close my eyes tight and try to unleash the leash around my throat, “Work.”
“Ah.” He nods his head, “Yeah, life got old quick after school and all that shit, eh?”
“I…I guess.” It’s like he read my mind, then again life got old way before leaving school if you ask me!
His bus arrives, and he rummages in his big pockets on his khaki shorts, “Nice seeing ya, Gilly.” he steps on the bus and shows his pass, the driver nods his approval and Nick walks on and is still walking to a seat as the bus starts moving.

“What kinda name is ‘Gilly?'” She chews loudly in between her words.
I feel my body go more rigid, wooden. I freeze up inside. A stranger is talking to me; I don’t like the intrusion.
She scoffs, “Cat got your tongue?”
My taxi arrives just in the nick of time, my saving grace. I go to open the car door when her voice, shrill behind me, “Eh, are you ignoring me?”
I quickly get into the back of the car, tell the driver my address and the car jerks forward.
I find myself looking out the rear window at the woman chewing gum.

Part 1 of Chapter 1: Dragonfish

Matt Johnson2 Comments

The neon sign from the cinemas glares through the glass panels of the bus stop, my taxi arrives and a bus pulls up behind it.
“You have nice night?” The driver asks me in a strong Asian accent
“Yea,” my eyes dart around the interior of the car, I take a deep breath.
There is that summer hum of distant mopeds, and for a moment I reminisce of holidays as a child in Spain.
But to serve as a stark reminder, there are stickers all over the cab advertising ‘Shademore taxis at the lowest price for all local destinations an more.’
“Nice summer,” The driver intones as the car jerks forward and the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror swings rhythmically to the motion.
“Yea,” I try a smile and think about a line I read in a book the other night where the protagonist pays a cab driver more money not to talk. I consider for a fleeting moment that I do should do the same.
“You been out with nice girl?” The driver asks in his broken English.
I focus down on my shoelaces, “No.”
“Shame,” I don’t look to greet his eyes in the rearview mirror, but I know he’s staring at me through it and that he’s grinning with white pearly teeth.
“Right turn at traffic light?”
“Yes,” I confirm the direction.
I feel a sense of relief sinks into my flesh as we edge closer to my flat, and I let my breath settle into the moment as the car pulls up outside the building.
I show the driver my Shademore disability pass to get a lower price.
He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and shakes his head as he looks at his counter on the dashboard, “Should show pass when begin!”
I always forget, “Sorry.”
He smiles and I try to mimic the action of a normal smile back to him but it just feels like the friction of lips behind forced off their hinges.
“Never mind,” He waves away my apology but with a huff at the end of his sentence ejaculating his frustration.
I give him the money and close the door, running my finger down the edge four times to double-check it’s really closed.
The driver is eyeing me through his window, his face the epitome of a living question mark. I watch him pull away and drive off.

The lobby of the building is lit up, I pause and gaze through the gaps in the blind through the window and see a man checking his post. I wait for the figure to go and for the light to go off before putting my key in the door and turning. The light beams back on as I enter and then darkens once I’ve left the lobby and the other corridors light up to my presence till I arrive at my door.

My flat greets me with a calm emptiness. Security lights beam a little glow through the windows from the garden. I close the blinds, just another day over in a life not long for this earth.
The laptop whitewashes my face against the vast blackness of my empty flat. I’m picturing myself with a lightbulb head on a regular human body; I imagine my lightbulb head in different scenarios like walking down a dark unlit alley and lighting up the path as I walk. Drunks and druggies are stood against the wall, their faces reflecting orange from my head. Yes, I’d wear a suit with a tie and draw an ironic happy face on the glass. Come to think of it the bulb would be a dud; it would keep flickering on and off with a fizzing sound in between each flick. I’d go off into the town of Shademore at night with a smiley face drawn on my head and stand outside someone’s window, “police,” his or her voice will say shakily down the line, “there is a lightbulb stalking me.”