Why Not?

          “Come back out here and face me like a man you motherfucker!”

            “Hello Jane.” I said, approaching her from behind. I’d just arrived home from work to find her on Ed’s front door step. I’d heard her from down the road, screaming and shouting like a woman possessed. She was practically clawing at the door.

            “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me! You can’t just fuck off out of our lives without taking the slightest hint of responsibility! Come out here!”

            “Jane!” I shouted. She turned around to face me, as though seeing me for the first time.

            “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.” She looked up at me with a plain, unmade face. She’d gained a little weight and softened around the edges since I’d last seen her.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “What do you think? He’s shacked up with some American bird in there while I’m left out here, in the real world, to fend for myself and look after his mess!”

            “What mess? What American bird?”

            “He called her Sharona.”

            “Ah,” I said, “she’s not with Ed, she’s with me.”

            She paused for thought. “That’s not what Ed said just now, and they were sitting awfully close on the sofa when I walked in.” She narrowed her eyes and studied me. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

            So saying she stormed off.

            I opened the door and walked towards the lounge.

            “Oh God!” I heard Ed say. “I think she’s found a way back in. Quickly, help me out here and get rid of her!”

            I strode quickly in. “It’s not Jane,” I said, “it’s me.”

            The two of them looked at one another, not exactly as relieved as one might imagine.

            “What’s going on?” I asked.

            “Nothing,” they both said, simultaneously.

            “I’m going to make dinner,” Ed said, and walked out into the kitchen.

            “What happened Sharona?” I asked her, once he was gone.

            “I don’t really know. That woman, Jane, just barged past Ed at the door ranting and raving incoherently. I didn’t really get the meaning of any of it. Sorry.”

 

*

 

            Later this evening I found myself alone in the lounge with Ed. Sharona had gone to bed to read.

            “Ed?” I started, uncertainly.

            “S’up dude?” he replied, ever unable to be sensible.

            “I’m not sure… that is, perhaps… maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time with Sharona. Alone, I mean.”

            Ed looked at me in apparent disbelief. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you love her?” he asked.

            “Er… yeah, why not?” I was taken aback by his directness.

            “Why not? Yeah, great answer Tom. Why not? She’s without doubt the most remarkable girl either of us have ever had the honour of sharing time with. Neither of us have been with a girl who had a better body, and hell, what matters more than that? I even include that girl, Wilmena, in that! She’s certainly smarter than Annabell, and a hell of a lot more open minded. She’s even as sweet as young Alice.

            “She has more confidence than any of them at all but none of the aggression borne of insecurity that Jane has. Yet even in her confidence she sometimes shows that delicate, female vulnerability that I remember you describing when you were with Cathy, all those years ago, but without the need for constant care and support.

            “She’s got rare talent – the talent that isn’t just claimed or theorised but the kind that actually speaks for itself. Her ability is irresistible and undeniable and yet modest, enchanting and delightfully surprising.

            “Yes, she’s beautiful, through and though. So why not, Tom, why not?”

            I frowned.

            “For fuck’s sake, Tom, get over it. She’s your girl, though heaven only knows why.”

Platonic Love

          I met Sharona and Ed for lunch today to take a break from working in the Temple. We talked about the Sisters venture.

            “Okay,” I said, “what are the options?”

            “Er… let’s see,” Ed replied, “Annabell? Scheherazade?” He was certainly being a prick.

            “Yeah, why not Alice, or Jane while we’re at it?”

            “Okay, do you guys actually know any girls you haven’t screwed?” Sharona asked.

            “Er…”

            “Oh, I know!” I said. “There’s this girl, Nicole, a good friend of mine who lives in Soho. You’ll really like her, she does graphic design for television.”

            And so it was sorted. We’re all meeting tomorrow night.

Dreams

          Ed got home this evening with a black eye.

            There was an awkward moment at first, we hadn’t really spoken since my outburst last night. I broke the tension by laughing at his eye.

            “Mate, no more bets involving Jane, alright? That’s a new rule. It’s now as good as inciting violence, which I understand is against the law.”

            It was my turn to laugh. “Fine,” I said, “but at least tell me you got the next song.”

            “Well, she wasn’t really in the talking mood.”

            “So?”

            “So, she punched me under a billboard. It was advertising The Game’s old album, The Documentary.”

            “How do you know it’s old?” I asked.

            “What do you mean mate? I’m as black as they come. I’m down with all that rude, sick shit.”

            “Right,” I said, “well ‘Dreams’ is clearly the best track on that album so…”

            “Mate! How the fuck do you know that?”

            “I too am down with the rude, sick shit, my nizzle. And further, dog, that song is clearly about following your creative dreams, alongside handing out the props to the most hippety hop characters of history. So, Ed, what’s your dream?”

            Ed had been laughing but this last question stopped him in his tracks. He looked suddenly pensive. He looked up at me. “It’s easy for you to have dreams Tom; you have means.”

            I laughed at him. It was all pure jealousy. “This is what I’m talking about Ed. Fine, I’ve had help, but mine are self-made means in the main, but all you do is destroy.” Though I didn’t say it, I meant that he destroyed both of us.

            “Right,” he said, ignoring my words completely, “I’m going to write down what I dream tonight and in the morning we’ll type it into Google.”

            At this moment I got another text from Fiona.

 

            Well?

 

            Shit. I’d forgotten about her text. I told Ed about it and he laughed raucously.

            “I can’t bring myself to fully reject her; it’d be like kicking a baby pony.”

            “Don’t then. I mean, mate, from what you said of your date the other night it looks like a guaranteed free shag. Make the most of it.”

            “Fine,” I said, dubiously, and replied.

 

            Sure, but I’m not free until next Saturday…

 

            Naughty, she replied, playing hard to get eh? I’ll make the wait worth your while! ;-) xxx

From New Ghandi to Your Moma

“Doctor Leibniz mentioned to me long ago that there are two sorts of intellectual labyrinths into which all thinking people are sooner or later drawn,” said Caroline. “One is composition of the continuum. The other is the problem of free will.” – Neal Stephenson, The System of the World.

 

          “So how does this song go then?” asked Ed. I played it to him: Jane, by the Barenaked Ladies. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, “I’ve got to be a thief, unfaithful, or a letter writer. Alright. Which?”

            “Theft is against the law, and that’s against the rules.”

            “Pussy.”

            “Unfaithful is strictly impossible, since you’ve no one to be unfaithful to…”

            “What are you trying to say about us? I thought we had something special.”

            “…it’d be too easy anyway. So that leaves only letter writing.”

            “Okay.”

            “And since the song is about Jane…”

            “Not okay. That’s a really bad idea.”

            “Come on Ed, I can’t believe you’re threatening to wuss out on me.”

            “Look, I already went to lunch with her and you saw how that turned out. Can’t we just leave her out of it now?”

            “No. Let’s not. Let me dictate:”

 

            Dear Jane,

I had to write, I can’t seem to express myself to you in person. I wanted to tell you, I regret how it ended between us. The thing is… the other day, I had something important to tell you, but I couldn’t get it out. I’m sorry Tom was there. Here, let me spit it out… Jane, I’m having a baby with another woman.

 

            “No, Tom, that’s really not clever.”

            “The more you say that the more brilliant a plan it sounds to me.”

 

*

 

            We went around to Jane’s address so that Ed could post the letter in person. When we got there he paused, gripping the letter with white knuckles.

            “This is a fucking bad idea mate, she’s already psycho enough without this kind of interference.”

            “Fine, I’ll do it.” I snatched the letter out of his hand and posted it through her door. At the last moment I became seized by a sudden fear and ran for it once the envelope was through the door. Ed was shaking his head slowly when I returned. “What now?” I asked.

            “Dunno,” he said, absently.

            On the way back to the station we walked past a Post Office collection branch. “In here,” I said. Once inside I asked the first member of staff I saw for his favourite song.

            “Insane Killers by the Insane Clown Posse,” he replied.

            “You’ve gotta be kidding,” Ed said, “what the hell is that?”

 

*

 

            Back home we looked up the song. Our concern increased.

 

From New Ghandi to your Momma,

We gives absolutely no fucks

Mothafucka

Natural born serial murderers

Mass mothafuckin murderin murderers,

Bitch, come and meet your maker.

 

            And that’s just the start.

            “Christ, I’ve got to become a serial killer,” said Ed, slightly dazed.

            I stared at him.

            “Are you okay mate?” he asked.

            I guess I’d been staring at him as though he might be serious. With Ed, one never quite knows.

            “I’ve got a better idea…”

            “I should fucking hope so mate.”

            “…you can meet a killer. I’m representing one on Tuesday.”

 

*

 

            Tonight we discussed my next adventure. We listened to ‘I Write Sins, not Tragedies’ by Panic! At the Disco.

            “Mate, this is all about a wedding,” Ed said, with a glint in his eye.

            “I can hear that. But this doesn’t mean I’m getting married.”

            “Come on!”

            “No.”

            “Alright. I suppose that would be a little extreme. It might break some of your bollocks rules.” He adopted a pensive look. “I know, we’ll crash one!”

DontDateHimGirl

          “Yes, of course I’m serious, why wouldn’t I be?”

            I would have difficulty swallowing that line from Ed, and I haven’t even dated the guy. He was on the phone to Jane, asking her out for lunch. “No, there’s no catch… No, I’m not trying to scam a free lunch. Look, if you’d rather not bother then… Good… Okay. See you later.”

 

*

 

            Ed had agreed to meet Jane at a cosy café in Camden near to the school he worked at. It was a little out of my way but fortunately I have no boss to watch my lunch hour so I was free to wander over. We both got there before Jane and ordered a cup of tea while we waited. After ten minutes she walked in and saw us straight away.

            “Tom, no offence but why are you here?” I looked blankly back at her. I suppose I might’ve been a gooseberry but these are the adventures, we both have to at least be there. “Ed, why is he here?”

            “Well this was all his idea, so it seems only right he witnesses it.”

            “‘This’ is what, exactly? I thought you wanted to see me for something important.”

            “Here we go,” muttered Ed.

            “I knew this was a waste of time,” Jane said.

            “You haven’t even sat down!”

            “I hardly need to. You can’t even think to ask me to lunch on your own and you expect me to sit down with you.” She paused. “You know, we really do have certain things we need to sit down and talk about.” She glanced at me. “Alone.” She added.

            Ed thrust out his lower lip in a display of indifference. “Maybe so,” he said, simply.

            “Oh I don’t have time for this.” She fished about in her bag and found her wallet. From this she drew out a card. Leaning low over the table and into Ed’s face she held out the card. He went to take it but she flicked it in his face. “You’re a waste of time, Donavon.” She turned and strode out.

            “Have some ham and eggs!” Ed shouted after her.

            I picked up the card. On one side, in handwriting, it read ‘Fuck You’ and on the other was a website address: www.dontdatehimgirl.com.

 

*

 

            “Jesus,” said Ed, “where the hell did she get that picture?” It’s true that it wasn’t flattering. “It’s a bad angle,” he added.

            dontdatehimgirl is a website where aggrieved women get to post information about their exes in order to warn other women off them. The whole concept seems somewhat flawed to me. It’s perfectly obvious that jilted girls are going to write terrible things about the men that have dumped them. No one in their right mind would trust this stuff. This didn’t stop Jane. Here’s an extract of her entry on Ed:

 

            Don’t date this guy girls! He presents himself as an exciting and mysterious man, a bad boy with an honest sweet stroke, but don’t believe a word! He’s rotten and sick, through and through. He’ll show you a glimpse of something else, something better, every so often. Just enough to keep you hooked, keep you thinking you can fix him, and make it better. He’ll even stand up for you when you least expect it, but when you most need him he’ll turn on you and screw you over. He can’t handle any commitment at all. He’ll lead you to believe you might just have a shot at a future but he’ll always keep a part of himself back. He’ll disappear for days without explanation. One day he wants you and the next you’re in the way.

            He can’t handle responsibility. Our lives changed forever in one moment and I’ll never forgive him for leaving me in the next.

 

            “What happened Ed?” I asked.

            “It’s all just melodramatic nonsense.” He frowned. “Can’t you do something about this? Isn’t it illegal to write things like this?”

            “Probably,” I agreed, “although, in truth, she seems only to be expressing opinion. Consciously or not she actually seems to have stayed perfectly within legal comment. She hasn’t alleged any specific fact that we could prove as false. It’s not libellous I’m afraid.” I paused. “But you’re evading my question. What’s this critical moment she’s talking about? What happened?”

            “It’s nothing,” he snapped, “leave it.”

Déjà vu

“A man has free choice to the extent that he is rational.”

 – St. Thomas Aquinas

          By the standards of the last few weeks, today was thoroughly ordinary. I think Ed and I felt a little deflated by our lack of entertainment last night. Ed obviously thinks that any time he does something zany in front of a girl they will sleep with him. Unfortunately last night he broke his own rule: he tried it on an English girl. They just look confused or angry whenever he speaks to them.

            We slept half the morning and lounged about doing nothing in particular all afternoon. Eventually I summoned up the energy to think about the next step.

“Déjà vu,” I said.

“Indeed,” he replied.

            “What?” I asked, perturbed that he hadn’t misunderstood me. I hadn’t told him that was the song the girls mentioned.

            “Déjà vu,” he repeated back to me.

            “Yes, but why did you agree with me?”

            “Indeed.”

            “What?” I repeated.

            “Déjà vu!” he said, laughing.

            “Right,” I said, frowning, “anyway, that’s the name of the song the girls gave me. It’s your next adventure until Turkey.”

            “Deal. What do I have to do?”

            I thought for a moment. “You have to see Jane. You have to speak to her.”

            Ed sat forward on the sofa and gazed at the worn carpet for a while. “I don’t think that’s a good idea Tom,” he said, eventually.

            “Tough. You have to do it. Tomorrow, before we leave.”

            He thought in silence for a little longer. “If I do this, Tom, then you can’t wimp out of anything later.” He looked up at me intently. “I mean it. You’re asking a great deal here. You’re upping the ante on this whole thing.”

            “Okay.” I said slowly.

            He nodded briefly out of apparent respect for something. Somehow this makes me nervous.

Jane

            I actually resisted.

 

*

 

            About a week and a half ago I mentioned Jane, Ed’s only English girlfriend.

            I worked in Chambers today (my office in Temple). For lunch I went to meet my friend, Robin. We went to school together and have stayed in touch ever since. He knows me well and is possessed of very sound, calm judgment. He expressed his regret about Annabell, reflecting my view that she was just right for me. He’s a solicitor, so we then talked business for a while.

            Robin took his leave of me and I was about to head back to work when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned.

            “Tom, isn’t it?”

            “Yes… You’re Jane!”

            I had never decided whether Jane presented an attractive picture. She has straight well tended mousy hair, and a pretty little nose above a full mouth. Her eyes, though, always bothered me. They were narrow and cold, unsettling somehow.

            “You’re living with him, aren’t you?”

            “Er… Yes. How did you know?”

            “I always liked you Tom, so I have to tell you…” She looked troubled. “Don’t trust him.”

            I laughed. “That’s the number one rule with Ed, isn’t it?”

            She didn’t. “I’m serious. He…” She paused.

            “Go on.”

            “Ask him.”

 

*

 

            In the evening I cracked open a couple of beers and sat down in the living room with Ed.

            “I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time Ed: what was the deal with Jane?”

            Ed continued watching television as though he hadn’t really heard me. “What do you mean?” He replied.

            “What went wrong?”

            He muted the television and slowly turned to face me. “Now why would you want to know that?”

            “Er… Curiosity?” I paused as he stared at me. “Don’t you think it’s odd, that you never talk about her?”

            “What’s to say? We broke up. It’s over. It was a long time ago now.”

            “I thought you really loved her. At the time.”

            Ed began looking about, distracted. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter now.” He un-muted the television, turning back to it.

            “Ed, won’t you tell me what happened?”

            “No, Tom, I won’t.” He replied. “Besides, there’s nothing to tell. Now drop it would you?”

Alice

“Free will is an illusion. People always choose the perceived path of greatest pleasure.”

- Scott Adams

 

          Ed’s an English teacher now and I think he hates it. We got the same degree in the end: despite his best efforts, Ed did have a remarkable talent, and I worked hard. After that I told him I’d like to become a barrister and he scorned me. He was suddenly overcome with some kind of social conscience. He saw the law as an affront to common decency and morality, a self-serving set-up where only the lawyers ever won, while teaching was the key to a better future. He hated the privileged and the pretentious, lawyers, and deep down wanted to champion those with the same disadvantages he’d suffered.

            Now, however, two years later, he was becoming disillusioned, and resentful of the fact that teachers should be paid so little. It was yet another injustice handed down by those arrogant bastards in power who had no idea what it was like to really live in this country, making your own way. Of course, many of these politicians were once barristers and solicitors…

            And so, because Ed had his philosophies, I was forced to go to work today in a knock-off teacher’s suit.

 

*

 

            My offices are actually in central London, in the Temple, even though I moved out to Oxford with Annabell. She prosecutes there and so, in many ways, it made sense. Today, staying with Ed, I got back in the early afternoon, paperwork for the day complete.

            We chatted about Ed’s latest reading conquests for a while and then, in early evening he got up to cook me dinner. As he pushed a slab of beef around a frying pan he suddenly spoke, and changed topic.

            “I’ve been thinking. Since you’re single, I’d better be so too.”

            Ed had been dating a truly lovely girl called Alice for some months now. She was half Hungarian and half English. She had grown up in Hungary and still had a residual accent, though her English was perfect. Ed seems to have some kind of phobia of straight forward English girls; he hates them all. The only proper girlfriend he ever had is also the only English girl he’s ever dated, Jane. Personally I think it’s because English girls see straight through his confident arrogance to his awkward insecurities whereas foreign girls just see the strength and magnetism of him. Somehow, other subtleties are lost on them. Alice, I believe, saw it all, and really loved him. I thought she was perfect for him. I was therefore shocked by what he said.

            “Setting aside the fact that I’m not single, you can’t! Alice is wonderful!”

            “I disagree. She’s nothing special. In fact, I’m going to do it right now.”

            He took out his phone from his pocket and dialled a number. I sat in silent disbelief watching him.

            “Hello? Alice? Yes. I’m fine thanks. Yeah, listen, never mind all that right now, I’ve got something to say.”

            “Ed! What are you doing? You can’t…” I tried. He waved an angry hand in my direction.

            “Yes, sorry, that’s just Tom being an idiot. Right, listen to me. It’s not working out between us. I’m afraid we can’t see each other any more.”

            Ed took the phone from his ear and held it out in front of him, looking at it. I could hear no sound come from it. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow, shrugging his shoulders. “Good.” He said. “That’s that sorted then.” He hung up and smiled at me.

            I was horrified.

            “You can’t treat someone that way. Especially not Alice, she doesn’t deserve it.”

            “I can, Tom. You have to learn that life isn’t all about other people. You live inside your own skull and you can’t ever really get out. You can’t ever really connect to someone and see life through their eyes can you? So you’ve got to do what’s right for you.” He laughed, callously. A thought occurred to me.

            “You didn’t do it, did you? You’re just trying to teach me something. There was no one on the other end of that call!”

            “There was. I’ll prove it.” He dialled a number on the phone and handed it to me. The display read ‘Calling Alice’. It was ringing.

            “Hello! Ed? What was all that about?” She was crying.

            “Alice?” I said. “Is it you?”

            “Who’s that? Tom? Yes, it’s Alice. What’s Ed doing? Is this one of his silly jokes?”

            Ed had been listening closely. At this question he nudged me, smiled and shook his head. I looked at him with disgust.

            “No.” I exhaled. “It doesn’t seem to be a joke. Not in the sense that he doesn’t mean it anyway.”

            “Why? Everything was fine. I don’t understand.”

            “Alice.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. But I felt for her. After the week I’d had I really knew what she was going through. “I’m very sorry. Honestly. I thought you were lovely. I… I’ll talk to him.”

            She carried on sobbing and I hung up.

            “What are you doing?” I said. “Sometimes I really can’t understand you Ed.”

            “Ah well. I’d’ve thought you’d be happy. Grateful even.” He shrugged and thrust out his lower lip. “Have it your own way.” He carried on cooking, apparently unconcerned.

            I took out my own phone. I was filled with a sudden desire to run away from this place, and go back to Annabell, away from this monster. As I brought the screen up before my face I experienced the familiar pang of doomed hope that I might see a message or a missed call. Nothing. I was stuck.

            Inertia took hold and suddenly I was eating. It was getting later. I couldn’t go back to Annabell, that is, I can’t, until she understands what really matters and calls me.

            So I’m still here, in London.