After Kenneth Goldsmith and Jarvis Cocker
I had gone into a bar one night, and met him at the counter. He asked me whether I would like a drink, and I replied, Why yes, I would, a Jim Beam double. He duly obliged.
And so I asked him, as you do, Where are you from? What’s your business in town?
And he replied, I make matches. He asked me whether I wanted another drink, and I did, and drank.
That’s an interesting line of work, I said. What kind of matches do you make.
Big ones, small ones, medium, and every intervening degree, he replied. I make fine matches, coarse matches, loving matches, violent matches, even, dare I say it, football matches, Australian rules or otherwise.
Oh, I said, that’s interesting. Are you paid well?
Very well indeed, he replied, and, lighting a cigarette, laid his hand on my leg. And he said, very precisely –
Are you tired of being alone?
And I supposed I was, I supposed we all were, everyone in that bar, or we wouldn’t have been there. I enviously eyed the one couple crowded in a corner, hands all over each other. The sensation of touch had entirely left me – I had no memory of any texture but the outside of cigarettes and dirty bar-glasses, slick with grease. All those others lined along the counter avoided each other’s gazes, looking far-off at some unattainable woman or other. His hand was still on me, groping its way towards my balls.
We went for a walk, and spoke about his profession. He said, The principles of love are incomprehensible to those who believe they have any connection with reality, rationality, ethics or otherwise. It is always and only a question of alchemy, of divination: one finds two suitable beings and bumps them into each other like particles. He said this in a full, operatic voice, somewhat like Billy Mackenzie. It is, in effect, an occult science, he said. One begins with a single movement, a gesture, an observation, a question –
Are you tired of being alone? –
And one carries on from there. These fucking dating shows, where they try and match people based on quantifiables – interests, similar heights, whether one will fuck anything that moves – are absolute Goddamn nonsense. Cilla Black had it almost right – randomise, cut out all knowledge. I get great pleasure from my work, not least because of the need to mop up the (*cough*) overspill. A perk, if you like.
When I met him again a week later, he told me he’d been busy. I kept running into couples fucking in doorways, on car bonnets at midnight, in the corridor outside my flat. The whole city was dripping with perspiration. His business-like appearance had dissolved, his hair splaying like an anemone of sparking wires, his neck reeking of sweat, face streaked with its trails, tie lapping around his neck like a loose dog’s-tongue. He pinned me against the wall – with his enthusiasm – next to a couple necking by a dustbin.
Are you tired of being alone? He whispered it this time, like air escaping from a tire. He isolated each word – Are. You. Tired. Of. Being. Alone?
And I could feel the warmth of his mouth on me, and could sense the sliding spit of the couple and shouted slipping out of me, And what if I am?
He exhorted me with his question, changing the intonation, as if maxing-out the permutations of a mathematical sum. Lighting a cigarette, he slid his hand down my leg. And his voice began to buck and waver and break, as he spoke about what he could do for this city, what energies there were to be released, of the pulses hiding in concrete and the rhythm of buildings and the secret congress of gases and the architecture that held us apart and the terrors of the raging horses in the tall silos smashing themselves in their fury to consumable pieces and –
that was when I left him, among the bodily fluids and the heat. And I was right, you know, and I know, and what would have become of me if I had done otherwise, and what might I have been.
And still I hear sometimes, walking the streets at night, echoing around corners, the question –
Are you tired of being alone?
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