hagiography

I’m 37.  I’m lying on the pavement.  I’ve been floored, literally, I’m on the floor.

The concrete feels good, hard, solid, unfussy, it ain’t gonna move or argue with me or touch my best friend’s arse when I’m not looking.  I can’t fight with the concrete.  I don’t want to fight with the concrete.  I just want something fucking concrete man.

I’m on my own, it’s about midnight, maybe 1am, I don’t know, I’m lying face down on concrete, I’m not checking the time.  How did I get here?  Half a bottle of tequila and then some.  It’s got to the point where I can’t go on, not because my legs won’t work, but because I’ve given up.  I have the Midas touch in reverse, everything I come into contact with I turn to shit.  I just don’t care anymore.  No thought, no logic, I haven’t really considered what will happen to me.  I don’t care.  Stab me to death where I lie.  Fuck me up the arse.  Peel me like a ripe grape.  I’m already in bits, damaged beyond repair, nothing else can break me.

I don’t know how long I’m there for, or therefore, or whatever.  The concrete is kind of comfortingly rough against my cheek.  I’ve kind of got my hands over my head.  I’m crying, quietly.  I feel a bit like an organic statue in black wool.  I don’t take any notice of anyone.

A voice permeates the snot and tears.

‘Are you all right mate?’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘No, please leave me alone.’

‘I can’t do that.’

Silence.

‘Tell me where you live, I’ll get you home safely.’

Silence.

A hand strokes the top of my head, it’s a male hand, it goes with the male voice.

‘Please leave me alone.’

‘I feel really bad for you.  I just want to make sure you get home safely.’

Silence.

Silence.

Eventually he walks away, along with all the other feet. 

I don’t want attention, at least I don’t think I do, I just want concrete, cold, hard concrete. 

I get up.  I don’t want anyone else to talk to me.  I don’t want to talk to anyone else.  Please leave me alone with the concrete.  I don’t want people.  I don’t even want me.  I start to walk in a straight line, it’s a straight road, if I just keep going straight I’ll get to my friends’ house.

Traffic lights are bleeding into the dark, along with the sounds of the fairground.  Wet black is illuminated by streaking reds and yellows.  I can taste them all.  I’m swallowing thick city life.

‘You OK?’  It’s him again, but I can’t look at him, the pavement, with its stony slabs seems better in its stony silence.  ‘Where are you going?’

‘To a friends’ house’, I manage in tear stained gulps.

‘Where does your friend live?’

‘87 S_______ Road.’

‘Hey, that’s where I’m going, I live at number 46, I’ll walk you there.’

We walk, past road junctions, shop windows, other people.

‘Are you single?’ I ask.

He laughs.

‘No, I mean …’

‘It’s ok, I know what you mean.  I split from my girlfriend recently.  We’ve got two kids.’

I begin to howl.  It’s like the pain has gone all the way through my body, it’s not just in my mouth or my heart or my guts, it’s everywhere, filling me up and there’s not enough room for the tequila and the pain, or maybe they’ve made a cocktail. 

He takes hold of my hand and kisses my fingers.  He stands still and wraps me up in his arms.  His sweater is very soft.  He kisses the top of my head.  ‘It hurts, it hurts, I know, it hurts’, and now he’s crying while he rocks me.  People flow past us in cars, on foot, it’s like standing in a sewer.  I can taste it.

We walk up the hill.  He has his arm around my waist.  The crying has taken my legs.

I tell him everything, all the things that make no sense, they just all fall out of me, entrail emotions spilling.  He holds me up, keeps me going forwards.  I’m babbling, lost in some fucking pit that I can’t climb out of, I’m drowning in this shit.

We get to my friends’ door and they’re not in.  I go with the stranger who scraped me off the pavement.  He has tea, but apologises because it’s only earl grey, he doesn’t drink anything else.  Neither do I, teawise.

His house is tidy.  There’s a highchair in the middle of the living room.  He gives me a handkerchief and some sweet tea.  The tannin evaporates the nitrogen in my head and the mercury in my veins.

His name is Gary.  He has a shaved head and he tests computer games for a living.  We play on his machine.  The graphics are stunningly good.  I begin to apologise, but apparently there’s no need and I believe him.  I ask him why he stopped, why he did this for me and he says ‘Because someone needed to’. 

My phone rings.  I tell my friends where I am and they come and collect me.  I pass out some 10 minutes later.

This was Friday night and I’ve been thinking about Gary ever since.  I don’t know how many people walked past me while I was lying on the pavement and I don’t really know what made him stop or why he felt responsible, but, luckily for me the gods sent a strange angel, with a beard, earl grey tea and enough humanity to make a difference.