short story: you write love songs, don't you?
Nick hadn’t spoken in days, possibly a week. His vocal cords hadn’t hit off one another in so long he worried they’d’ve forgotten the sound of his voice. He bellowed garbled speech to the empty apartment: aaargh, woooogh, hello, hey there, hah. His voice sounded croaky, as voices resurrected from a crypt of silence tend to do. When had he last been outside? Not in the last three days, that’s all his memory could confirm to him. He headed downstairs and out the door. It looked like morning; nearly winter. The world looked alien. Unrecognisable. He went back inside.
There was three voicemails on his phone, his phone had been reminding him all week, and there’s only so long these things can be put off. His mum, telling him to pop in whenever, she’d make him a big tea; his manager, Doug, with his weekly reminder that some new work would be nice; and one from Johnny which said, enthusiastically: hey bud, hope things are going alright with you. Everyone’s been asking after you. Give me a call sometime we’re overdue a catch up. Johnny’s voice was saturated in pretend enthusiasm - it had the formality of a greetings card. Johnny hadn’t always spoken to him like this. Johnny was the first person the record label brought in to play with Nick. They’d said Johnny was “a young Hendrix in-the-making” they’d found online. Johnny turned up to the studio in a red leather jacket and shades, his most expensive guitar in hand, looking like every cliche of a flash rockstar. They mumbled a few words to one another then got down to playing. He looked like a real prick, Nick had thought, and as it turned out Johnny had thought so too - the record suits had bigged up Nick so much Johnny had decided to act the part of the Cool Rocker and show this New Kid On The Block who the better musician was, a childish jealousy-fueled play they’d both laugh about later, yet by the end of the night, when all the suits had clocked off, the shades were down and the two of them sat on the studio floor listening to The Velvet Underground and Bob Dylan and Steely Dan and Bowie, having seen something in one another they rarely saw in people. Nick had always thought: isn’t that what friends are: people who are freaks in the same way you’re a freak? And Johnny was the same breed of freak as Nick. It took only a night of swapping stories to figure that out. They’d both spent their school years feeling alienated, turning up in band tops with coloured hair, speakers around their necks blasting heavy metal, skipping school to hang out with any local musician they could find - Nick and a group of friends had once sneaked into the school office and played Nirvana’s Scentless Apprentice through the tannoy; Johnny had spent years telling anyone who'd listen he was going to grow up to become a famous rockstar and die in a drug fuelled bender aged 27. In a song Nick would play on repeat alone in his room Lou Reed sings: I wish I was born a thousand years ago, I wish I’d sailed the darkened seas, on a great big clipper ship, going from this land here to that. Nick wished for nothing so ambitious, only to have been born in time to see The Stones in their heyday, walk around Woodstock on acid, jam with Led Zeppelin backstage. He saw these same fantasies mirrored in Johnny’s eyes. They toured Britain together for more than a year, playing any student bar or rock venue that would have them. Nick sang and played bass, Johnny played lead, the drummer changing depending on the city. The crowds were always small and unbothered. They’d argue backstage over who was John and who was Paul.
But the less the two had seen of each other the more that voice - that pleasant, impersonal phone voice - had crept in phantom-like, undetected. Johnny was off enjoying the spotlight now (not that Nick had ever felt much of a glow) travelling around with a new band. They had a single out (selling well). It was hard for Nick not to feel bitter. But bitterness now hung over him like a raincloud not forecast to move any time soon.
Nick had moved into his home a few months ago: it was a small flat in inner-city Liverpool not far from where he’d grown up. A surprising choice of location to Nick’s friends and family, calmer than the bustle of the London streets where he’d spent the last few years, and far outside the watchful eye of the music industry. The living room was the only spacious area of the house, the kitchen and bedroom were small and dark, and the toilet dingy and windowless. A few weeks after moving in Nick invited round a group of pals to see the new place. Johnny came, and Martin who drummed for them sometimes, along with Tristen and Cyrus who played in a band they toured with sometimes, and Jazz, Cyrus’s girlfriend, who hung around all the local bands. Nick had been excited for the visit. He’d thought getting away from gigs and record producers and the constant striving for radio plays and new material would cure the ills, the unease, that now gloved his mind, and when they didn’t his first thought was to have his friends around him, letting these two strangely opposing worlds he now existed in collide. But this didn’t ease his mind either. The five of them arrived in Jazz’s car; once inside, Johnny had emptied out a rucksack filled with acid, ecstasy and marijuana, enough to make a grizzly bear overdose, onto Nick’s living room floor, and that had provided the activity for the weekend. The blinds remained shut, an endless loop of obscure dance music never left the speakers, pupils grew and talk grew fast and weird. But by the end of the first night Nick had sobered up and was abstaining from lines and blunts. He reclined into his sofa and watched the anarchy the’d made of his living room. They were all tripping. Tristen and Cyrus were doing a freaky violent dance in the middle of the room, Johnny and Martin were knelt down having a superfast conversation likely about conspiracy theories, and Jazz was lay with her legs up the wall testing her upside-down joint rolling skills. Nick sat alone for a long time - he’d put a bubble around himself as he always seemed to do. But what had he expected? He’d wanted to see these people, but he hadn’t thought about what they’d be doing when they got here. In the week preceding he’d pictured them talking to him about his life, telling him how he could get out of the slump he found himself in, walking around his childhood neighbourhood, maybe talking to someone he used to know. But they’d talked about the usual stuff, and they’d not left the house. It was a minor comfort to watch them, but he felt different from them now, and he knew it was wrong of him to have expected them to come down and do anything but continue the eternal binge they were all on. Wrong to expect anything of anybody. Monday morning, the house a wreck, Nick watched Jazz’s car speed away, then returned inside and collapsed onto the bed, sure he’d cry if he didn’t feel so numb.
That was months ago. Few people had been inside Nick’s apartment since. He spent the rest of the day keeping himself busy. He put clothes in the wash, washed some of the dishes, read emails, fixed the dryer. Midday he talked himself out of going to the shop and told himself he’d go tomorrow (always tomorrow) and instead scrapped his tea together out of leftovers. His finished meal: a heated up takeaway pizza slice, two waffles, (plastic) cheese on toast, and the remains of a chocolate tiramisu for dessert. It dawned on Nick, since living alone, his first time living alone, a sort of self-imposed exile from the world, that he’d never learned to do much for himself. Not out of laziness, exactly, but because there’d always been people in his life who were happy to do things for him. They wanted to let him get on with playing guitar and writing songs and poems. He’d now only leave the house to buy food, cigarettes or weed; the rest of the time he spent watching old TV shows and listening to albums he liked as a teenager. He made occasional visits to his parents’ house and sometimes attempted writing new material, but both were rare. The days, the hours, the occurrences, they all blurred into one. This night, he sat in his chair, guitar in hand. He tried writing something new, exploring the strings like he used to, like hands caressing a new lover, feeling for the sweet spots, but the strings awarded him no sensations and he soon gave up. He spent half an hour trying to play some songs from his albums - he’d released two so far; both well received, neither selling well - but they felt like songs written by someone else. Afterwards, lying in bed, his mind refusing to settle, Nick popped some sleeping pills, pills his friend had gotten him, a few more than prescription dose, a good few more given his growing tolerance, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
There was three voicemails on his phone, his phone had been reminding him all week, and there’s only so long these things can be put off. His mum, telling him to pop in whenever, she’d make him a big tea; his manager, Doug, with his weekly reminder that some new work would be nice; and one from Johnny which said, enthusiastically: hey bud, hope things are going alright with you. Everyone’s been asking after you. Give me a call sometime we’re overdue a catch up. Johnny’s voice was saturated in pretend enthusiasm - it had the formality of a greetings card. Johnny hadn’t always spoken to him like this. Johnny was the first person the record label brought in to play with Nick. They’d said Johnny was “a young Hendrix in-the-making” they’d found online. Johnny turned up to the studio in a red leather jacket and shades, his most expensive guitar in hand, looking like every cliche of a flash rockstar. They mumbled a few words to one another then got down to playing. He looked like a real prick, Nick had thought, and as it turned out Johnny had thought so too - the record suits had bigged up Nick so much Johnny had decided to act the part of the Cool Rocker and show this New Kid On The Block who the better musician was, a childish jealousy-fueled play they’d both laugh about later, yet by the end of the night, when all the suits had clocked off, the shades were down and the two of them sat on the studio floor listening to The Velvet Underground and Bob Dylan and Steely Dan and Bowie, having seen something in one another they rarely saw in people. Nick had always thought: isn’t that what friends are: people who are freaks in the same way you’re a freak? And Johnny was the same breed of freak as Nick. It took only a night of swapping stories to figure that out. They’d both spent their school years feeling alienated, turning up in band tops with coloured hair, speakers around their necks blasting heavy metal, skipping school to hang out with any local musician they could find - Nick and a group of friends had once sneaked into the school office and played Nirvana’s Scentless Apprentice through the tannoy; Johnny had spent years telling anyone who'd listen he was going to grow up to become a famous rockstar and die in a drug fuelled bender aged 27. In a song Nick would play on repeat alone in his room Lou Reed sings: I wish I was born a thousand years ago, I wish I’d sailed the darkened seas, on a great big clipper ship, going from this land here to that. Nick wished for nothing so ambitious, only to have been born in time to see The Stones in their heyday, walk around Woodstock on acid, jam with Led Zeppelin backstage. He saw these same fantasies mirrored in Johnny’s eyes. They toured Britain together for more than a year, playing any student bar or rock venue that would have them. Nick sang and played bass, Johnny played lead, the drummer changing depending on the city. The crowds were always small and unbothered. They’d argue backstage over who was John and who was Paul.
But the less the two had seen of each other the more that voice - that pleasant, impersonal phone voice - had crept in phantom-like, undetected. Johnny was off enjoying the spotlight now (not that Nick had ever felt much of a glow) travelling around with a new band. They had a single out (selling well). It was hard for Nick not to feel bitter. But bitterness now hung over him like a raincloud not forecast to move any time soon.
Nick had moved into his home a few months ago: it was a small flat in inner-city Liverpool not far from where he’d grown up. A surprising choice of location to Nick’s friends and family, calmer than the bustle of the London streets where he’d spent the last few years, and far outside the watchful eye of the music industry. The living room was the only spacious area of the house, the kitchen and bedroom were small and dark, and the toilet dingy and windowless. A few weeks after moving in Nick invited round a group of pals to see the new place. Johnny came, and Martin who drummed for them sometimes, along with Tristen and Cyrus who played in a band they toured with sometimes, and Jazz, Cyrus’s girlfriend, who hung around all the local bands. Nick had been excited for the visit. He’d thought getting away from gigs and record producers and the constant striving for radio plays and new material would cure the ills, the unease, that now gloved his mind, and when they didn’t his first thought was to have his friends around him, letting these two strangely opposing worlds he now existed in collide. But this didn’t ease his mind either. The five of them arrived in Jazz’s car; once inside, Johnny had emptied out a rucksack filled with acid, ecstasy and marijuana, enough to make a grizzly bear overdose, onto Nick’s living room floor, and that had provided the activity for the weekend. The blinds remained shut, an endless loop of obscure dance music never left the speakers, pupils grew and talk grew fast and weird. But by the end of the first night Nick had sobered up and was abstaining from lines and blunts. He reclined into his sofa and watched the anarchy the’d made of his living room. They were all tripping. Tristen and Cyrus were doing a freaky violent dance in the middle of the room, Johnny and Martin were knelt down having a superfast conversation likely about conspiracy theories, and Jazz was lay with her legs up the wall testing her upside-down joint rolling skills. Nick sat alone for a long time - he’d put a bubble around himself as he always seemed to do. But what had he expected? He’d wanted to see these people, but he hadn’t thought about what they’d be doing when they got here. In the week preceding he’d pictured them talking to him about his life, telling him how he could get out of the slump he found himself in, walking around his childhood neighbourhood, maybe talking to someone he used to know. But they’d talked about the usual stuff, and they’d not left the house. It was a minor comfort to watch them, but he felt different from them now, and he knew it was wrong of him to have expected them to come down and do anything but continue the eternal binge they were all on. Wrong to expect anything of anybody. Monday morning, the house a wreck, Nick watched Jazz’s car speed away, then returned inside and collapsed onto the bed, sure he’d cry if he didn’t feel so numb.
That was months ago. Few people had been inside Nick’s apartment since. He spent the rest of the day keeping himself busy. He put clothes in the wash, washed some of the dishes, read emails, fixed the dryer. Midday he talked himself out of going to the shop and told himself he’d go tomorrow (always tomorrow) and instead scrapped his tea together out of leftovers. His finished meal: a heated up takeaway pizza slice, two waffles, (plastic) cheese on toast, and the remains of a chocolate tiramisu for dessert. It dawned on Nick, since living alone, his first time living alone, a sort of self-imposed exile from the world, that he’d never learned to do much for himself. Not out of laziness, exactly, but because there’d always been people in his life who were happy to do things for him. They wanted to let him get on with playing guitar and writing songs and poems. He’d now only leave the house to buy food, cigarettes or weed; the rest of the time he spent watching old TV shows and listening to albums he liked as a teenager. He made occasional visits to his parents’ house and sometimes attempted writing new material, but both were rare. The days, the hours, the occurrences, they all blurred into one. This night, he sat in his chair, guitar in hand. He tried writing something new, exploring the strings like he used to, like hands caressing a new lover, feeling for the sweet spots, but the strings awarded him no sensations and he soon gave up. He spent half an hour trying to play some songs from his albums - he’d released two so far; both well received, neither selling well - but they felt like songs written by someone else. Afterwards, lying in bed, his mind refusing to settle, Nick popped some sleeping pills, pills his friend had gotten him, a few more than prescription dose, a good few more given his growing tolerance, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Months passed. Nick’s mum invited herself round one day; he barely knew what year it was when he answered the door. He answered the door in boxers, expecting to find a postman. His hair had grown, obscuring his face like a mask, not only unkempt but unwashed. She’d brought him a bag of food and she cooked tea while he watched TV. It was the nicest meal he’d had all year. After the meal they sat talking. She’d printed off a list of local jobs. I don’t need a normal job. I’ve got this place, and I’ll get back to my music soon. She left the list anyway. It wasn’t a long visit, but it made the house feel warmer than it had been. She burst into tears once she’d left and the door was closed, and took a moment crouched against a brick wall - he’d felt so cold when she’d hugged him goodbye.
Despite his mother’s worries, Nick did understand the slump he was in. On the days he stayed up to the wee hours, while the city slept, Nick felt a surge of meaning, like he could, and would, wake up the next day early, shower and shave, clean the house before lunch, start writing new material and have Dough on the phone by evening talking plans to go into the studio. These nights were the best nights. The next morning he’d wake too groggy to lift out of bed. He’d not be up til mid-afternoon and usually decide it was useless getting dressed by then, never mind doing anything else. In an effort to make Groggy Nick fulfill his promises, Night-Time Nick blue-tacked an A3 sheet to the ceiling above the bed with a list of things to do. It said:
Get out of bed, NOW!
Cold shower
Clean the floor. Do dishes
Go for a walk
Meditate
Phone at least 1 person
No drugs!
No masturbation!
On most days Nick failed every instruction; on his best days he failed only two or three.
Sometime in November Nick woke on the living room floor. He’d fallen asleep smoking weed and downing painkillers while watching an avant-garde film from the 1960s starring Mick Jagger. The clock said six pm. Reality felt so unfamiliar it was making him feel sick. Nick knew he had to do something, but what? He grabbed the phone, clicked Doug and waited for an answer, then told Doug he wanted to come to the studio and record some new material. Doug sounded jolly. He said the studio was free in three days time.
It was called Main St. Studios, a Stones reference, a new-ish studio that Nick had recorded at before. He arrived smartly dressed. Nick had fallen into the unhealthy habit of internally narrating his life as if he was the subject of a TV documentary on a now long dead rockstar. The narrator: Nick, in his first appearance in months, turned up in suit and tie ready to record his third album, considered by many fans to be his best. In the studio sat Doug by the soundboard and two hired musicians inside the recording booth. Nick didn’t recognise them. They both sat chatting. Nick walked over to Doug. “Are these guys here from your last session? I thought they’d’ve finished by now. I mean, we are booked right?”
Sometime in November Nick woke on the living room floor. He’d fallen asleep smoking weed and downing painkillers while watching an avant-garde film from the 1960s starring Mick Jagger. The clock said six pm. Reality felt so unfamiliar it was making him feel sick. Nick knew he had to do something, but what? He grabbed the phone, clicked Doug and waited for an answer, then told Doug he wanted to come to the studio and record some new material. Doug sounded jolly. He said the studio was free in three days time.
It was called Main St. Studios, a Stones reference, a new-ish studio that Nick had recorded at before. He arrived smartly dressed. Nick had fallen into the unhealthy habit of internally narrating his life as if he was the subject of a TV documentary on a now long dead rockstar. The narrator: Nick, in his first appearance in months, turned up in suit and tie ready to record his third album, considered by many fans to be his best. In the studio sat Doug by the soundboard and two hired musicians inside the recording booth. Nick didn’t recognise them. They both sat chatting. Nick walked over to Doug. “Are these guys here from your last session? I thought they’d’ve finished by now. I mean, we are booked right?”
“It’s nice to see you too, man, I’ve missed you. These guys are playing with you Nick.”
“I don’t know these two. I thought it was just my stuff we’re recording.”
“It is. That’s Theo on guitar and Karl there on drums. They’re gonna back for you. Take a seat. They’re good guys.”
Nick pulled a facial expression Doug had never seen before then went to sit down. He mumbled responses to the two mens’ introductions and mounted his guitar to announce that he was ready to get down to playing.
“So Nick” Doug’s voice came over the speakers. “What you got for us? I got these two listening to your previous stuff so they know your style.”
Nick’s mind felt blank. Over the last few months he’d jotted and scribbled lines that he thought might fit into songs, twanged a few notes together, but he had nothing. He thought being back in the studio would rekindle the fire but no sparks were forming. “How about we all jam for a bit? Just see where we end up.”
“Alright then” said Doug.
Nick began to strum a simple tune. It was slow, mournful sounding, and once Karl and Theo had took note of the flow they joined in. Theo strummed faster, speeding up the rhythm of the song, and Karl hit down hard on the drums. The jam went on for a long time, repeating the same tune on loop. Nick decided to start singing, filling the empty air with the first words that sprang to his mind. He twisted each line to rhyme with the last as awkwardly as pushing a jigsaw piece into a space that doesn’t fit. He was singing nonsense. About a minute in Nick stopped singing, and too many minutes more he stopped playing. The others stopped too. The silence was heavy.
“That was a good warm up guys” said Doug. “Nick, how about you play us a song and afterwards we can do a second take with Karl and Theo in.”
Nick mumbled.
“What was that?”
“I’ve not got any new material. I thought we could piece things together while I was here.” Doug looked baffled.
Theo chipped in: “I write my own stuff sometimes. I don’t know if it’s any good but we could give one song a go?”
Doug: “That sounds good to me. How about you play us your best song and Nick can get a feel for it?”
Theo played. It was a lighthearted country song, with lyrics about a dog that goes missing but finds its way home to its owner in the end. Nick felt like he was hiding the cringe on his face but couldn’t be entirely sure.
“That was great” said Doug. “You want to give that a go Nick?”
“That’s not like my music. I wanna do my type of stuff.”
“Well you haven’t got any of your own stuff to play, so I think Theo’s song is our best bet for this session.”
“I’m a singer-songwriter Doug, I sing my own songs.”
“You were the one who called me and said you wanted some studio time.”
“And you’re the one who's been asking me to come here for months”. Nick’s voice had raised a few volumes. “Back when I first came here you said my stuff was genius, you said I was gonna be fucking famous. Now I show up and you sit me with two nobodies so I can record their songs.”
Theo, anger rising: “Who said you’re a somebody?”
“Fuck this” said Karl, standing up. “Doug, I’m not playing with a shitbag like this.”
The two of them walked out, projecting confused looks at Doug on their way.
“Very smooth” said Doug.
The two sat in silence while Nick eyed the floor and internally cursed himself.
Doug broke the silence. “There’s a new band playing in the next room if you want to go and insult them too, you know, for a bit more inspiration?”
Nick packed up his guitar and began to leave. Behind him Doug followed until they were out of the building. I was only joking. Come back. Kid. Nick could sense a tone of worry in Doug’s voice, but he ignored this and got on his way.
Nick spent the next few days inside. He passed through each day like a ghost passes through walls. The thought of making music made him sick, as did the thought of human interaction, despite feeling a loneliness so deep it gnawed on his skeleton.
After four days Nick went for a walk. The fresh air felt clear and exact. He walked around his estate and through the park, busy with children and parents, and up to the woods. The trees, now naked, looked like people stripped of their flesh, now only a basic outline. He felt like one of them. But standing among them failed to quiet his mind. On the way home Nick spotted a man he knew in the distance approaching, a man he’d been friends with in school. The sight of a familiar face induced a vertigo-like state. Sure the man hadn’t seen him yet, Nick crouched down behind a bush and waited for the man to pass. He made the walk back to his apartment quick. Forcing himself to hide had filled him with shame. Nick returned to the apartment flustered, sure he’d not be leaving for a long time.
Nick spent the next few days inside. He passed through each day like a ghost passes through walls. The thought of making music made him sick, as did the thought of human interaction, despite feeling a loneliness so deep it gnawed on his skeleton.
After four days Nick went for a walk. The fresh air felt clear and exact. He walked around his estate and through the park, busy with children and parents, and up to the woods. The trees, now naked, looked like people stripped of their flesh, now only a basic outline. He felt like one of them. But standing among them failed to quiet his mind. On the way home Nick spotted a man he knew in the distance approaching, a man he’d been friends with in school. The sight of a familiar face induced a vertigo-like state. Sure the man hadn’t seen him yet, Nick crouched down behind a bush and waited for the man to pass. He made the walk back to his apartment quick. Forcing himself to hide had filled him with shame. Nick returned to the apartment flustered, sure he’d not be leaving for a long time.
* * *
Christmas came and went, snow fell and melted, the days got shorter and darker then started their rebound back to the light, and Nick remained unseen. His legs felt wobbly, likely the result of having not left the house. He’d promised himself he’d spend Christmas at his parents’ house but he hadn’t woken until four pm. He had expected, it being Christmas, his legs might take charge, pull one in front of the other, and carry him to his parents. But they lay dormant, like usual. He imagined the apartment now smelled rotten, but his nostrils had long since familiarised whatever scent was there. He never left. Shopping bags littered the floor - he ordered all food online. The bins were stuffed with baggies - he got his dealer to deliver to the apartment. He estimated he smoked around £30 of weed a day, although he bought in bulk so he was never sure. For anyone who uses substances frequently, the word “psychosis” becomes a familiar part of the lexicon, but the reality of psychosis is rarely known to people who use the word. Nick, although his self-awareness was in a faulty state, believed he was starting to understand what the word meant. He spent zero minutes of the day sober. The apartment breathed; the walls slid around him. A walk from kitchen to bathroom or living room to bed was a labyrinthine journey. The ashtrays were overflowing, as were the bin bags, making the floor no longer visible. When people spoke on TV the language was incomprehensible. Nick hadn’t watched the news in months: the world ceased to exist. Time swam forward quickly then halted when it liked.
If it was day or night Nick was not sure. He was lying on the floor while the speakers played a song he didn’t recognise. He heard a knock on the door, and another knock sometime later. He ignored it. Later on, hours days who knows, he passed the door and saw a note had been dropped through: Hello. It’s Brian from next door. Can you turn the music down please I’m trying to sleep, thanks.
Nick turned his music down but the note bumbled around in his brain for days. He read it frequently, more often than he noticed, the way a widower might fetishise the last correspondence of a lost lover.
Whole days were spent listening to his own albums. It was a visual experience: Nick playing to stadiums of fans rocking out; long-haired students passing around limited edition vinyls of his albums. Nick, armed with a hair comb, sometimes mouthed the words to his own songs and pretended he was headlining a festival. Kafka hadn’t been discovered until after he was dead - he liked to make the comparison.
The note from his neighbour continued to bounce round his cranium, long enough that Nick decided the note was a sign, or at least he was going to consider it a sign, as he wasn’t religious and didn’t see anything as a sign, but was well aware he was in dire need of one. The sign was bright, glowing, and in a large font, it said: GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE! He walked outside. Where would he go? He went to the next house along and knocked on the door. A man answered. He was old and not very good looking - wrinkly, slightly hunched to an angle, with a thick, coarse Scouse accent. Nick introduced himself and apologised for the noise. The man said it was okay and invited Nick inside. Nick accepted a cup of tea and while he waited he examined the apartment: it was the same structure as Nick’s, but was cleaner and lighter, and radiated a sense of peacefulness. The man held a mug the gentle way old people tend to do. “What do you do over in your place, anyhow? I never see you leave” said the old man.
“I haven’t been getting out much lately.”
“Where do you work?”
“I don’t have a job, I’m a musician.”
Nick sipped on the tea. The man was eyeing him up in a casual fashion, glancing from Nick to his tea. There was a soberness to the man that Nick liked. A soberness to the whole apartment: bright and untainted by activity, he could hear the traffic outside, and the gulps of the old man’s throat.
“So how do you pay for your place if you don’t work?”
“My grandad pays me money, every month.”
“Oh, I see. You two must be very close, for him to do something as nice as that.”
Nick paused for a moment. It was the first personal question that had been posed to him in more than a year. “We’re not that close. I haven’t seen him much since I was a kid. I should probably visit him more often.”
“So how come he pays for it then?”
“I… I make music. I mean, I’m a musician and I think he wanted to support me. I never wanted a normal job, you know, working in a shop or something, and so I put all my time into doing music and he wanted to help pay for it.”
“And has he heard your music?”
“Yes, he has. Not for a while though.”
“My granddaughter listens to all sorts of music. You think she’ll have heard of you?”
“No, I really doubt it.”
There came a pause in the conversation. “Not that there’s anything wrong with an ordinary job, ah? I worked as a typist for the police for 40 years.” The man said in an upbeat tone.
“Have you always lived alone?”
“No. I had a wife. Mary. She passed a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. You come to peace with these things after a while.”
“I’m sorry for asking” said Nick, “but did you never want anything more than this?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just typing away for 50 years then ending up in a small apartment like this, on your own. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s alright. I’ve been happy with it, life I mean. It wasn’t all good, but you take the good with the bad. My job was good and Mary, she was very good. And now I see the kids every couple weeks. But I can see how my life would look to an angry young man such as yourself.”
“Who said I’m angry?”
“I thought all young men were angry?” They both gave a chuckle at this. Then the man said: “Honestly, this was enough for me. I’m glad with my lot in life.”
Nick began to cry, at first trying to hold in the tears, but unable to they flooded out like rainfall. His face turned bright red.
“You alright there son?”
“Yes. I don’t know. I’m sorry. Thanks for talking to me.” Nick stood up and hurried towards
the door.
“Was it something I said” said the old man, rising from his seat to follow after Nick. “You don’t have to go, you know. Take a seat and we can talk about what’s upsetting ya.”
Nick mumbled out apologies to the man and told the man it wasn’t his fault and made his way outside. He went back to his apartment and soaked into the bed. He couldn’t stop the tears. It was the first real emotion he’d felt in months. It felt like dropping a weight that had been chained to his back. Like adding colour to a canvas that had nothing but black. He cried for half an hour, possibly longer. His emotions were coated in shame and paranoia, but beneath those he felt the signs of human life he’d been struggling so hard to remember.
Once the crying had stopped, Nick lay, wrapped in his duvet, enjoying the feelings, the feelings that now coated his whole body like an extra layer of skin, enjoying even the bad ones. He decided he would quit music, he’d stop thinking about making another album, stop chasing success. He’d only ever get the guitar out for a sing-song with the family. His family! He’d go see them today, before the numbness returned to consume him again. He’d go see his granddad, thank him for the money and all the help over the years, and then tell him he didn’t want the money anymore, or the apartment. And he’d ask to move back in with his parents. Start from zero. He’d have to find a job. A normal job. He’d look for a nice girl. He’d stop the drugs. He’d enjoy quiz shows in the afternoon and quiet drinks in the pub on a Saturday night. Nick thought about how if he was a character in a Dickens novel he’d wash and shave and dress smart and turn up to his parents house with a roasted turkey in hand to celebrate the Christmas he’d missed and to apologise for how he’d been. But he wasn’t in a Dickens novel. He simply gathered together a small bag of clothes and headed out towards his parents house hoping for the best.
Once the crying had stopped, Nick lay, wrapped in his duvet, enjoying the feelings, the feelings that now coated his whole body like an extra layer of skin, enjoying even the bad ones. He decided he would quit music, he’d stop thinking about making another album, stop chasing success. He’d only ever get the guitar out for a sing-song with the family. His family! He’d go see them today, before the numbness returned to consume him again. He’d go see his granddad, thank him for the money and all the help over the years, and then tell him he didn’t want the money anymore, or the apartment. And he’d ask to move back in with his parents. Start from zero. He’d have to find a job. A normal job. He’d look for a nice girl. He’d stop the drugs. He’d enjoy quiz shows in the afternoon and quiet drinks in the pub on a Saturday night. Nick thought about how if he was a character in a Dickens novel he’d wash and shave and dress smart and turn up to his parents house with a roasted turkey in hand to celebrate the Christmas he’d missed and to apologise for how he’d been. But he wasn’t in a Dickens novel. He simply gathered together a small bag of clothes and headed out towards his parents house hoping for the best.
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