Some Beginning

They had always just missed the big bands, or at least that was what they testified to themselves in youthful “Pity me” arrogance. In reality, they’d only missed out on Nirvana by two years when they finally had enough money to buy “Nevermind” which became a central staple of their stereo’s diet. Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine had slipped them by over five years, when they were still listening to the Top 40. Suede, who they were currently listening too, had been a favourite of theirs in the right time. They got it right with them. Philip and Gareth had met in year eight and had been close not only because of music - but films, books and girls uniting them. Now in the winter of their final year, they were sitting on Philip’s single bed facing each other, listening passively to the music, after they had just kissed for the first time. It was a strange kiss that Gareth had fallen into and had indirectly silently agreed too over a year ago, when Philip had asked him to suck his right index finger. The right index finger had just been inside Polly Sidwell’s vagina to which its smell attested too. Gareth had punched him, and had walked away in a swagger of defiance you can only pull off in teenage years - in years where friendships could be made and lost in a mere matter of months. But, they went against the grain and had remained friends. Close. Tonight over Hooch bottles and PlayStation games and long, long glances over an A3 poster of Gillian Anderson the two had locked lips and had continued to lock and un-lock for a number of minutes. They moved from the bed and began to smoke silently next to each other by the window. Their silence was interrupted by spitting large globs of yellow into the faint snow that rested in the back garden. Their cigarettes were coming to an end. Gareth was about to flick his.
“Oi. Aim for my Dad’s shed.” Philip spoke.
Gareth tried, but didn’t even get close.
“You fucking fag.”
“Fuck you Jimmy Sommerville”, Gareth laughed. “Don’t your Dad mind all the butts out there?”
“Nah. Probably think their his the old cunt.”

After their smoking interlude, Philip was laid out on the bed reading an issue of The Face. At the foot of the bed Gareth sat with a CD case open, in between his feet, as he played on the PlayStation. The room was swamped with titbits and pieces of a dedication to “what was in” and slob like behaviour. Clothes on the floor sprawled up and into the plastic laundry bin. The faux pine desk with small hi-fi atop surrounded by discs and cups and a dirty plate or two. On the walls, joining Gillian Anderson, was a poster for “Trainspotting”, a folded-gate poster of Kate Moss clutching a teddy bear, a postcard of Kurt Cobain holding up a handgun, a poster of “Apocalypse Now” tacked to the ceiling above the bed, small posters of Denise Van Outen, Jayne Middlemiss and Zoë Ball. Newspaper cuttings of Stewart Lee and Marilyn Manson were tacked inside Philip’s wardrobe. A couple of X-Men comics and a football sticker book were somewhere here, lost in growing up. Yesterday’s game was then. In a small gap between Philip’s bed and the adjacent wall were a clutter of tissues. Under the bed was a rumpled up copy of Escort that Philip had found in the bottom of his Dad’s wardrobe. Amongst all these testaments of culture and teenage libido was a gaudy painting of The Last Supper. This was placed above the small television and stood out like a Faberge egg in a pig sty. The school that they attended was a Catholic one and for awhile Philip had dabbled with it. He gave up in year nine after stealing a bottle of Communion wine and getting quietly drunk at home. His fake guilt couldn’t take the schism. In the same year he’d lost his virginity and his desire for the white collar and celibacy. Gareth wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in any of it.

“This Life” had just began. Philip watched attentively as Gareth flopped backwards and then straightened up to let his back rest against the wall. Philip moved his gaze back to the screen.
“Y’know I tried for a whole episode to get off to this.” Philip spoke.
“Why couldn’t you make it?”
“Dunno. Too much beforehand.”
They both laughed at this pun. Forty minutes later, before the show had finished, they’d both came and Gareth had collected his bag and was on his way home.

The walk was a thirty minute affair past suburban dulling houses, up hills and down. The tops of houses had a sheen of white as heat battled out. Gareth looked at the snow falling, contrasting against the white sky to make it look like a detuned television screen. The cats scurried away, his breath hung in the air as an occasional car dwindled down and off. The bungalows he passed had shut up for the night and he saw no one else walking on his trip home. He thought about the night and how easy it had all been. It was bizarre and simple. Equals through it all. It was like making a cup of tea. He tried to keep his back straight, his core tight, as he thought of this while walking. Despite the cold, a film of sweat lay on his forehead that he wiped back and into his hair. He spat out the gathering phlegm onto a freezing puddle. It settled. He got in and grunted a good evening to his parents through a crack in the living room door. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they grunted back. He went into his room and got a packet of cigs from his bottom desk drawer hiding place. He smoked into the pages of a book he was reading. He believed that years later the smell would stay. A smoked cardboard sandwich.

Now, before he was due to meet Philip for the first time in eight years, Gareth smelt the book but only got a whiff of aged paper. Agreeing to meet up in a restaurant they had wanted to go to when they were teenagers but had neither the money nor the grace to enter, was a pure accident. They hadn’t moved from the suburban cul-de-sac that they grew up in and had simply bumped into one another at the bus station. Gareth was now running late after smelling the book and had entered the restaurant with his familiar film of sweat on him. The headphones from his mp3 player were still firmly in his ears. Nothing of any consequence was playing. He saw the back of a thin man’s head, black hair - gelled back- black leather jacket, sat down with a child in front of him. The child was beaming, playful, and pointed towards Gareth who couldn’t resist to wave which the child reciprocated to. The black haired man turned round. Philip waved to Gareth, smiling widely with all traces of adolescent awkwardness and fake cold detachment removed.

“Did you think I was a fag the last time you saw me?”, Philip laughed. Gareth was now sitting in front of him. The child, and the high-chair, moved next to daddy.
“So, when did you have a kid?”, Gareth parried the question.
“Jake is two, ain’t you Jake?” The child laughed as his father looked at him.
“Who would have thought it?”
“Only the poets and day dreamers, right?”
“You’ve grown up.”
“Nah. Not really. I’m the only Dad in the playground with a leather jacket, checking out the yummy Mummies and then driving the kid home while we listen to The Dead Kennedy‘s.”
They both laughed at this.
“So nope. I ain’t grown up. Just had a kid, that’s all.”
“Hey, you remember Jane Roberts?”
“Vaguely.”
“She’s got seven kids.”
“Seven?”
“Yep.”
“God. It must be like a tunnel by now.”
They laughed again at words that wouldn‘t have been out of place in their adolescent life, but felt slightly awkward in the light of adulthood - in light of the usual polite company they kept. From this promising start, the conversation would fade from here.

The child was off the highchair now and was throwing his toys on the floor. Constructing some war on linoleum. The conversation was strained and unusual. Neither wanted to delve into a Q & A session, but it was the only route left.
“How’s music journalism going?”, Gareth asked while pointing out the crème brulee to the waitress stood behind him.
“Great. I get to see bands who can’t piss on the old ones and I get to keep their CD’s to boot.”
“There must be some things you like?”
“You get to see a lot of women you can’t sleep with, but at least you can see them. Store ‘em away.”
“Pay good?”
“Nah. Reasonable. The wife has a good job, so y’know, we ain’t gonna go hungry any day soon. What about you? Advertising right?”
“Yep. Until my karma is re-aligned. My job’s too boring to mention. What about you though man? Being around music and writing about it. Its like a teenage dream come true. You talked about it enough.”
“Yeah, but when you grow up and get it, its not what you thought. Its only a black and white version of the colour you dreamt.”
“That’s a good line. Jot it down.”
“Nah. It’s a line I perfected long ago. Goes down great at parties. Makes you look sophisticated and humble to those who don’t know you.”
There was a pause again as Philip smiled. Gareth tried once more.
“C’mon. You telling me that there is nothing you don’t like about your job?”
“Well, it gets me out the house. You know, away from the old mother hen.”
Gareth in-voluntarily laughed.
“Is that really good?”
“Of course it is. You know Gareth, between you and me, I fucking hate women.”
The pause now was longer. Exaggerated.
“But, when you find the right one - you just know.”
Philip theatrically winked. With that, it was over before it re-started.
“But hey, have you got a little lady?”, Philip spoke everything calmly. Never any anger. Gareth was unsure, reticent, to say that he was gay and all this, the child, the wife, his words, were all a shock.
“Nope, not at the moment. Work takes its toil.”
“Hey, remember that line we had growing up. ‘Cunt for all, all for cunt’.”
Philip laughed violently at this. Gareth tried harder than to just smile politely, but it was the best he could muster. Philip was slapping the table, pounding his right foot on the floor, inches away from his child’s battle. After moments he stopped, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I haven’t thought of that in years.”
“Same here.”
“Hey, what were you listening too?”
“When?”
“When you came in.”
“I’m not sure, nothing memorable.”
“So, no Rufus Wainwright?”
The pause this time was over before it started.
“Check please.” Philip inquired to a waitress before running his eyes to Gareth and smiling that wide smile. That wide arsehole smile.

The two musketeers and child were stood outside the restaurant.
“We should do this again.” Philip lied.
“Definitely.” Gareth nodded into the conspiracy.
“Remember to call.”
“Likewise.”
“Take care.”
“You too. See you Jake.”
The child was oblivious to this goodbye, starring at his father as the two grown men lied to one another.

On the bus Gareth retrieved his mp3 player and listened to a mix he created of music they used to listen too. He was lucky to be able to sit alone and hoped for this miracle to sustain for the rest of the journey. He stared out at the crowds of people, pondering what secrets they held. The dilemma of the day - not wanting to know people, but wanting to know everything about them. He thought back to that night, to every detail of the room, to the soft drink alcohol on their breaths, to the imperfections of their skin and whiteheads on their chins and blackheads on their noses, to the faint wisps of music and the nicotine coloured orange on their first-finger and index finger fingertips. He thought of other times when they inched closer, made other mergers amongst themselves. Nothing was as susceptible to happiness as that night. Thinking about his past wouldn’t do much for his present. Produce an advert from it but nothing more. Some advert for condoms or a social networking site. Make it pastiche, add in some aspiration element, throw in some irony and mix into a banal cocktail. He had to cheapen it and throw it away. Some beginning. Some beginning for him alone. In reflection, that was all the night had been.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

And here's some music that was swimming around in my head when I wrote the story above...