Status: my entry for the ultimate 2016 contest, 1/12, completed
You're a Bum, You're a Punk
I.
On Tuesday, a milky fog descended over the city. No one gave it much thought, no one really complained about it, which was surprising, as this fog was a particularly unpleasant one. It wasn't cold or cutting. It was smooth and slimy, like an unwanted caress, like a sweaty palm covering your eyes. Still, people let its sneaky fingers gently stroke their skin, too tired to protest really, and just used it as an excuse for being slightly late, “the traffic,” they said, and maybe as an afterthought, “the fog”.
On Wednesday, Sam resolved to writing his first and only Christmas card. It turned out to be the most stressful thing he had to face that week. With an unlit cigarette in his mouth, he walked to the window and opened it wide. What entered the room felt like the opposite of air; it stopped halfway to his lungs and refused to budge. Sam closed the window with a weak sigh. He could live with the smoke just this once, he decided, and lit his cigarette with a little difficulty as his fingers were feeling tingly and vaguely numb. His head felt also quite heavy all of a sudden, a warm pressure on the inside of his forehead, his temples. He could guess what was coming, but he decided to ignore it. Retrieving his ashtray from the windowsill he sat down crosslegged on the floor, by the coffee table that was serving as his desk at the moment. He pushed his bleached hair out of his eyes, put down his cigarette, picked up his pen, put down the pen as well, chewed on his nails a bit, flipped the card over to look at the picture. He was actually proud of his choice: it was a vintage postcard he picked up at a used bookshop weeks before with the picture of a boy riding his bicycle through a desolate landscape, Merry Christmas! written above in a cheery font. He rolled up his sleeves, took a deep drag of his cigarette, flipped the card over again and started writing, the black ink rolling out on the pen reluctantly, leaving small smudges on the way.
Dear little James, he wrote,
I haven’t done a single thing since you left. I hope you’re happier now than you were this time last year. Merry Christmas!
Love,
Samuel
It was a long message and it was hard to fit it into the tight square, as it often happens with such things. Still, he was done, but he could only celebrate for a moment. The pressure in his head intensified suddenly, with a buzzing sound to accompany it, as if it was picking up speed on the motorway. A moment later a heavy drop of blood fell onto the card, right next to the signature, and another. Pressing the edge of his palm against his sinus Sam stood up and left to find some toilet paper.
A little later, after the ink and the blood both dried, he flipped the card again and placed the ashtray over it. The little boy’s head looked comically large through the glass, but Sam wasn’t in the mood for laughing.
He was meaning to post it right that afternoon. He also didn’t want to take a nap in case his nose started bleeding again and he drowned in his sleep. In the end, he still dozed off and woke up long after dark, the card forgotten under the ashtray as he dressed in a rush, brushed his teeth to make the metallic taste in his mouth go away, and left for that Stooges themed Christmas party he was not in the mood for at all. Out in the street, he felt like he was suffocating again. It was the cold current of the Tube that made him feel alive for the first time that day. There was no trace of his friends at the underground club the party was at, so he concluded that despite leaving home late, he was the first one to arrive. He checked his phone and, true enough, he had received two vaguely apologetic, almost passive aggressive messages from two different people. With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself onto a barstool and ordered a pint. He pressed his achy forehead against the cold glass, rested his chin on the counter. The music was painful to his ears, and he felt like every single person around was invading his personal space.
“You drink to forget?” said a cocky, slightly hoarse voice beside him. At first, Sam didn’t realise he was the recipient of the question, but as a long silence followed, he decided to look up. The boy sitting next to him flashed him a smile, his teeth bright and straight, contrasting an otherwise uneventful face. Maybe he was looking to pick a fight, Sam thought. He answered wearily, “Nah, mate, I just feel like shit.”
“Your bird left you?” the other one pressed, and Sam couldn’t suppress a laugh.
“No, it’s just Christmas.” He also wanted to add a ‘fuck off’, but decided against it. His head couldn’t really take a punch tonight. It would have probably just split in two. But, at the second glance, the kid seemed almost friendly. Sam shrugged to himself; he might as well talk to him while he was waiting.
“You alone?” he asked. The boy laughed in his face.
“Why the fuck would I be sitting alone drinking tap water at an idiot party a day before Christmas Eve?” Sam glanced down at the bar, and, indeed, the boy was nursing a large glass of water with not even ice in it. “I’m driving,” he explained. “But all of a sudden I don’t feel like watching my idiot mates getting pissed. I’d rather just sit around here in silence.”
“Well,” said Sam warily, not sure if he was being told to shut up. He looked down at the bar, at his pint, at the coaster underneath it, and he suddenly remembered the thing he should have done earlier.
“Fuck,” he exclaimed and hit himself lightly in the head, which sent a shooting pain coursing through his skull. “Fuck,” he said, again, now in a whisper.
“What,” said the boy next to him, and Sam felt vaguely stupid for having to explain.
“I wanted to send a, um, Christmas card to someone but I forgot to post it. Suppose it’ll get there by tomorrow night if I just take care of it in the morning?”
But the kid just laughed at him. “Who even sends Christmas cards? You’re sitting here at a party worrying about a Christmas card. What are you, fifty?”
“You’re sitting here alone drinking tap water,” Sam reminded him sullenly, and tried to turned away. The boy bumped his knee into
Sam’s to get his attention again.
“Who’s the card for? Your mum?”
“For this person who used to be my friend, I guess.”
“Used to. Wha’ happened?”
Sam just shrugged and broke eye contact again. His skin felt uncomfortable and he was wishing desperately for a way out of this conversation, this whole situation. There was no sign of his friends, and by now he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them at all.
“Come on. I’ve got an idea. Where does this person live?”
“Yorkshire,” said Sam with a vague gesture of the hand, and took a long sip of his drink.
“Yorkshire where?”
“Just South of Sheffield,” Sam replied reluctantly.
“Let’s take it to him then.” The wide grin had returned to the boy’s face, and as Sam tried to protest, “You’re mad,” he felt a little tug of warmth somewhere deep inside. Was he joking? There was an eagerness to his face Sam couldn’t place. He didn’t seem to be joking. It would’ve been nice to get out of here, Sam thought. Maybe he could breathe somewhere else. This is how, in the end, his only objection was, “I’ve got to work in the morning.”
Still grinning, the boy glanced at his black plastic watch. “We’re gonna be back by seven, tops, if we leave now. Does that work for you?”
Despite himself, Sam laughed. “What about your mates?”
“They can fuck right off and drag themselves home,” the boy said, already on his feet, already moving towards the exit. Sam pushed the remainder of his beer in front of an old punk and slid down from his seat.
“I’m the one who’s fuckin’ mad,” he said as he caught up with him by the door. “I don’t know you. I ‘ave no idea who you are. I’ve never even seen you before.”
The boy smiled at him indulgently, zipped up his leather jacket and held out his hand. “My name’s Noel.”
Sam squeezed the hand briefly, frowning. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”
On Wednesday, Sam resolved to writing his first and only Christmas card. It turned out to be the most stressful thing he had to face that week. With an unlit cigarette in his mouth, he walked to the window and opened it wide. What entered the room felt like the opposite of air; it stopped halfway to his lungs and refused to budge. Sam closed the window with a weak sigh. He could live with the smoke just this once, he decided, and lit his cigarette with a little difficulty as his fingers were feeling tingly and vaguely numb. His head felt also quite heavy all of a sudden, a warm pressure on the inside of his forehead, his temples. He could guess what was coming, but he decided to ignore it. Retrieving his ashtray from the windowsill he sat down crosslegged on the floor, by the coffee table that was serving as his desk at the moment. He pushed his bleached hair out of his eyes, put down his cigarette, picked up his pen, put down the pen as well, chewed on his nails a bit, flipped the card over to look at the picture. He was actually proud of his choice: it was a vintage postcard he picked up at a used bookshop weeks before with the picture of a boy riding his bicycle through a desolate landscape, Merry Christmas! written above in a cheery font. He rolled up his sleeves, took a deep drag of his cigarette, flipped the card over again and started writing, the black ink rolling out on the pen reluctantly, leaving small smudges on the way.
Dear little James, he wrote,
I haven’t done a single thing since you left. I hope you’re happier now than you were this time last year. Merry Christmas!
Love,
Samuel
It was a long message and it was hard to fit it into the tight square, as it often happens with such things. Still, he was done, but he could only celebrate for a moment. The pressure in his head intensified suddenly, with a buzzing sound to accompany it, as if it was picking up speed on the motorway. A moment later a heavy drop of blood fell onto the card, right next to the signature, and another. Pressing the edge of his palm against his sinus Sam stood up and left to find some toilet paper.
A little later, after the ink and the blood both dried, he flipped the card again and placed the ashtray over it. The little boy’s head looked comically large through the glass, but Sam wasn’t in the mood for laughing.
***
He was meaning to post it right that afternoon. He also didn’t want to take a nap in case his nose started bleeding again and he drowned in his sleep. In the end, he still dozed off and woke up long after dark, the card forgotten under the ashtray as he dressed in a rush, brushed his teeth to make the metallic taste in his mouth go away, and left for that Stooges themed Christmas party he was not in the mood for at all. Out in the street, he felt like he was suffocating again. It was the cold current of the Tube that made him feel alive for the first time that day. There was no trace of his friends at the underground club the party was at, so he concluded that despite leaving home late, he was the first one to arrive. He checked his phone and, true enough, he had received two vaguely apologetic, almost passive aggressive messages from two different people. With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself onto a barstool and ordered a pint. He pressed his achy forehead against the cold glass, rested his chin on the counter. The music was painful to his ears, and he felt like every single person around was invading his personal space.
“You drink to forget?” said a cocky, slightly hoarse voice beside him. At first, Sam didn’t realise he was the recipient of the question, but as a long silence followed, he decided to look up. The boy sitting next to him flashed him a smile, his teeth bright and straight, contrasting an otherwise uneventful face. Maybe he was looking to pick a fight, Sam thought. He answered wearily, “Nah, mate, I just feel like shit.”
“Your bird left you?” the other one pressed, and Sam couldn’t suppress a laugh.
“No, it’s just Christmas.” He also wanted to add a ‘fuck off’, but decided against it. His head couldn’t really take a punch tonight. It would have probably just split in two. But, at the second glance, the kid seemed almost friendly. Sam shrugged to himself; he might as well talk to him while he was waiting.
“You alone?” he asked. The boy laughed in his face.
“Why the fuck would I be sitting alone drinking tap water at an idiot party a day before Christmas Eve?” Sam glanced down at the bar, and, indeed, the boy was nursing a large glass of water with not even ice in it. “I’m driving,” he explained. “But all of a sudden I don’t feel like watching my idiot mates getting pissed. I’d rather just sit around here in silence.”
“Well,” said Sam warily, not sure if he was being told to shut up. He looked down at the bar, at his pint, at the coaster underneath it, and he suddenly remembered the thing he should have done earlier.
“Fuck,” he exclaimed and hit himself lightly in the head, which sent a shooting pain coursing through his skull. “Fuck,” he said, again, now in a whisper.
“What,” said the boy next to him, and Sam felt vaguely stupid for having to explain.
“I wanted to send a, um, Christmas card to someone but I forgot to post it. Suppose it’ll get there by tomorrow night if I just take care of it in the morning?”
But the kid just laughed at him. “Who even sends Christmas cards? You’re sitting here at a party worrying about a Christmas card. What are you, fifty?”
“You’re sitting here alone drinking tap water,” Sam reminded him sullenly, and tried to turned away. The boy bumped his knee into
Sam’s to get his attention again.
“Who’s the card for? Your mum?”
“For this person who used to be my friend, I guess.”
“Used to. Wha’ happened?”
Sam just shrugged and broke eye contact again. His skin felt uncomfortable and he was wishing desperately for a way out of this conversation, this whole situation. There was no sign of his friends, and by now he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them at all.
“Come on. I’ve got an idea. Where does this person live?”
“Yorkshire,” said Sam with a vague gesture of the hand, and took a long sip of his drink.
“Yorkshire where?”
“Just South of Sheffield,” Sam replied reluctantly.
“Let’s take it to him then.” The wide grin had returned to the boy’s face, and as Sam tried to protest, “You’re mad,” he felt a little tug of warmth somewhere deep inside. Was he joking? There was an eagerness to his face Sam couldn’t place. He didn’t seem to be joking. It would’ve been nice to get out of here, Sam thought. Maybe he could breathe somewhere else. This is how, in the end, his only objection was, “I’ve got to work in the morning.”
Still grinning, the boy glanced at his black plastic watch. “We’re gonna be back by seven, tops, if we leave now. Does that work for you?”
Despite himself, Sam laughed. “What about your mates?”
“They can fuck right off and drag themselves home,” the boy said, already on his feet, already moving towards the exit. Sam pushed the remainder of his beer in front of an old punk and slid down from his seat.
“I’m the one who’s fuckin’ mad,” he said as he caught up with him by the door. “I don’t know you. I ‘ave no idea who you are. I’ve never even seen you before.”
The boy smiled at him indulgently, zipped up his leather jacket and held out his hand. “My name’s Noel.”
Sam squeezed the hand briefly, frowning. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”