High Fidelity (12 page)

DURING
the week, I think about Marie, and I think about The Most Pathetic Man In The World, and I think, at Barry's command, about my all-time top five episodes of
Cheers:
(1) The one where Cliff found a potato that looked like Richard Nixon. (2) The one where John Cleese offered Sam and Diane counseling sessions. (3) The one where they thought that the chief of staff of the U.S. armed forces—played by the real-life admiral guy—had stolen Rebecca's earrings. (4) The one where Sam got a job as a sports presenter on TV. (5) The one where Woody sang his stupid song about Kelly. (Barry said I was wrong about four of the five, that I had no sense of humor, and that he was going to ask Channel 4 to scramble my reception between nine-thirty and ten every Friday night because I was an undeserving and unappreciative viewer.) But I don't think about anything Laura said that Saturday night until Wednesday, when I come home to find a message from her. It's nothing much, a request for a copy of a bill in our household file, but the sound of her voice makes me realize that there are some things we talked about that should have upset me but somehow didn't.

First of all—actually, first of all and last of all—this business about not sleeping with Ian. How do I know she's telling the truth? She could have been sleeping with him for weeks,
months,
for all I know. And anyway, she only said that she hasn't slept with him
yet,
and she said that on Saturday, five days ago. Five days! She could have slept with him five times since then! (She could have slept with him twenty times since then, but you know what I mean.) And even if she hasn't, she was definitely threatening to. What does “yet” mean, after all? “I haven't seen
Reservoir Dogs
yet.” What does that mean? It means you're going to go, doesn't it?

“Barry, if I were to say to you that I haven't seen
Reservoir Dogs
yet, what would that mean?”

Barry looks at me.

“Just…come on, what would it mean to you? That sentence? ‘I haven't seen
Reservoir Dogs
yet?'”

“To me, it would mean that you're a liar. Either that or you've gone potty. You saw it twice. Once with Laura, once with me and Dick. We had that conversation about who killed Mr. Pink or whatever fucking color he was.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But say I hadn't seen it and I said to you, ‘I haven't seen
Reservoir Dogs
yet,' what would you think?”

“I'd think, you're a sick man. And I'd feel sorry for you.”

“No, but would you think, from that one sentence, that I was going to see it?”

“I'd hope you were, yeah, otherwise I would have to say that you're not a friend of mine.”

“No, but—”

“I'm sorry, Rob, but I'm struggling here. I don't understand any part of this conversation. You're asking me what I'd think if you told me that you hadn't seen a film that you've seen. What am I supposed to say?”

“Just listen to me. If I said to you—”

—“‘I haven't seen
Reservoir Dogs
yet,' yeah, yeah, I hear you—”

“Would you
…would you get the impression that I wanted to see it?”

“Well…you couldn't have been desperate, otherwise you'd have already gone.”

“Exactly. We went first night, didn't we?”

“But the word
yet…
yeah, I'd get the impression that you wanted to see it. Otherwise you'd say you didn't fancy it much.”

“But in your opinion, would I definitely go?”

“How am I supposed to know that? You might get run over by a bus, or go blind, or anything. You might go off the idea. You might be broke. You might just get sick of people telling you you've really got to go.”

I don't like the sound of that. “Why would they care?”

“Because it's a brilliant film. It's funny, and violent, and it's got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in it, and everything. And a cracking sound track.”

Maybe there's no comparison between Ian sleeping with Laura and
Reservoir Dogs
after all. Ian hasn't got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in him. And Ian's not funny. Or violent. And he's got a crap sound track, judging from what we used to hear through the ceiling. I've taken this as far as it will go.

But it doesn't stop me worrying about the “yet.”

I call Laura at work.

“Oh, hi, Rob,” she says, like I'm a friend she's pleased to hear from (1. I'm not a friend. 2. She's not pleased to hear from me. Apart from that…) “How's it going?”

I'm not letting her get away with this we-used-to-go-out-but-everything's-OK-now stuff.

“Bad, thanks.” She sighs.

“Can we meet? There're some things you said the other night that I wanted to go over.”

“I don't want…I'm not ready to talk about it all again yet.”

“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I know how I'm sounding—whiny, whingey, bitter—but I don't seem to be able to stop myself.

“Just…live your life. You can't hang around waiting for me to tell you why I don't want to see you anymore.”

“So what happened to us maybe getting back together?”

“I don't know.”

“Because the other night you said that might happen.” I'm getting nowhere fast here, and I know she's not in the right frame of mind to grant any concessions, but I push it anyway.

“I said nothing of the kind.”

“You did! You did! You said there was a chance! That's the same as ‘might'!” Jesus. This is truly pitiful.

“Rob, I'm at work. We'll talk when…”

“If you don't want me to call you at work, maybe you should give me your home number. I'm sorry, Laura, but I'm not going to put the phone down until you've agreed to meet up for a drink. I don't see why things should be on your terms all the time.”

She gives a short, bitter laugh. “OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK. Tomorrow night? Come down and get me at the office.” She sounds utterly defeated.

“Tomorrow night? Friday? You're not busy? Fine. Great. It'll be nice to see you.” But I'm not sure she hears the positive, conciliatory, sincere bit at the end. She's hung up by then.

WE'RE
messing around at work, the three of us, getting ready to go home and rubbishing each other's five best side one track ones of all time (mine: “Janie Jones,” the Clash, from
The Clash;
“Thunder Road,” Bruce Springsteen, from
Born to Run;
“Smells Like Teen Spirit,” Nirvana, from
Nevermind;
“Let's Get It On,” Marvin Gay, from
Let's Get It On;
“Return of the Grievous Angel,” Gram Parsons, from
Grievous Angel.
Barry: “Couldn't you make it any more obvious than that? What about the
Beatles?
What about the
Rolling Stones?
What about the fucking…fucking
…Beethoven?
Track one side one of the Fifth Symphony? You shouldn't be allowed to run a record shop.” And then we have the argument about whether he's a snob obscurantist—are the Fire Engines, who appear on Barry's list, really better than Marvin Gaye, who does not?—or whether I'm a boring old middle-of-the-road fart.) And then Dick says, for the first time ever in his Championship Vinyl career, apart from maybe when he's gone somewhere miles away to see some ludicrous band, “I can't make the pub tonight, guys.”

There's a mock-stunned silence.

“Don't mess about, Dick,” says Barry eventually.

Dick sort of smiles, embarrassed. “No, really. I'm not coming.”

“I'm warning you,” says Barry. “Unless there's an adequate explanation I shall have to give you the Weedy Wet of the Week award.”

Dick doesn't say anything.

“Come on. Who are you going to see?”

He still doesn't say anything.

“Dick, have you pulled?”

Silence.

“I don't believe it,” says Barry. “Where is the justice in this world? Where is it? Justice! Where are you? Dick's out on a hot date, Rob's shagging Marie LaSalle, and the best-looking and most intelligent of the lot of them isn't getting anything at all.”

He's not just trying it on. There's no little sideways glance to see if he's hit the mark, no hesitation to see if I want to interject; he knows, and I feel both crushed and smug at the same time.

“How did you know about that?”

“Oh, come on, Rob. What do you take us for? I'm more bothered about Dick's date. How did this happen, Dick? What rational explanation can there possibly be? OK, OK. Sunday night you were in, because you made me that Creation B-sides tape. I was with you Monday night and last night, which leaves…Tuesday!”

Dick doesn't say anything.

“Where were you Tuesday?”

“Just at a gig with some friends.”

Was it that obvious? I guess a bit, on Saturday night, but Barry had no way of knowing that anything had actually happened.

“Well, what sort of gig is it where you just walk in and meet someone?”

“I didn't just walk in and meet her. She came with the friends I met there.”

“And you're going to meet her again tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Name?”

“Anna.”

“Has she only got half a name? Eh? Anna who? Anna Neagle? Anna Green Gables? Anna Conda? Come on.”

“Anna Moss.”

“Anna Moss. Mossy. The Moss Woman.”

I've heard him do this to women before, and I'm not sure why I don't like it. I talked about it to Laura once, because he tried it with her; some stupid pun on her surname, I can't remember what it was now. Lie-down, lied-on, something. And I hated him doing it. I wanted her to be
Laura,
to have a nice, pretty, girl's name that I could dream about when I felt like being dreamy. I didn't want him turning her into a bloke. Laura, of course, thought I was being a bit dodgy, thought I was trying to keep girls fluffy and silly and girly; she said I didn't want to think of them in the same way that I thought about my mates. She was right, of course—I don't. But that's not the point. Barry doesn't do this to strike a blow for equality: he does it because he's being spiteful, because he wants to puncture any sense of romantic well-being that Laura or Anna or whoever might have created in us. He's sharp, Barry. Sharp and nasty. He understands the power that girls' names have, and he doesn't like it.

“Is she all green and furry?”

This started out joky—Barry as demon counsel for the prosecution, Dick as defendant—but now those roles have started to harden. Dick looks guilty as all hell, and all he's done is meet someone.

“Leave it, Barry,” I tell him.

“Oh, yeah, you would say that, wouldn't you? You two have got to stick together now. Shaggers United, eh?”

I try to be patient with him. “Are you coming to the pub or what?”

“No. Bollocks.”

“Fair enough.”

Barry leaves; Dick is now feeling guilty, not because he's met someone, but because I have nobody to drink with.

“I suppose I've got time for a quick one.”

“Don't worry about it, Dick. It's not your fault that Barry's a jerk. You have a nice evening.”

He flashes me a look of real gratitude, and it breaks your heart.

 

I feel as though I have been having conversations like this all my life. None of us is young anymore, but what has just taken place could have happened when I was sixteen, or twenty, or twenty-five. We got to adolescence and just stopped dead; we drew up the map then and left the boundaries exactly as they were. And why does it bother Barry so much that Dick is seeing someone? Because he doesn't want a smile from a man with buckteeth and an anorak in the cinema queue, that's why; he's worried about how his life is turning out, and he's lonely, and lonely people are the bitterest of them all.

EVER
since I've had the shop, we've been trying to flog a record by a group called the Sid James Experience. Usually we get rid of stuff we can't move—reduce it to 10p, or throw it away—but Barry loves this album (he's got two copies of his own, just in case somebody borrows one and fails to return it), and he says it's rare, and that someday we'll make somebody very happy. It's become a bit of a joke, really. Regular customers ask after its health, and give it a friendly pat when they're browsing, and sometimes they bring the sleeve up to the counter as if they're going to buy it, and then say “Just kidding!” and put it back where they found it.

Anyway, on Friday morning, this guy I've never seen before starts flicking through the “British Pop S–Z section,” lets out a gasp of amazement and rushes up to the counter, clutching the sleeve to his chest as if he's afraid someone will snatch it from him. And then he gets out his wallet and pays for it, seven quid, just like that, no attempt to haggle, no recognition of the significance of what he is doing. I let Barry serve him—it's his moment—and Dick and I watch every move, holding our breath; it's like someone has walked in, tipped petrol over himself, and produced a box of matches from his pocket. We don't exhale until he's struck the match and set himself alight, and when he's gone we laugh and laugh and laugh. It gives us all strength: if someone can just walk in and buy the Sid James Experience album, then surely anything good can happen at any time.

 

Laura's changed even since I last saw her. Partly it's the makeup: she's wearing it for work, and it makes her look less stressed-out, less tired, in control. But it's more than that, too. Something else has happened, maybe something real, or maybe something in her head. Whatever it is, you can see that she thinks she's started out on some new stage in her life. She hasn't. I'm not going to let her.

We go to a bar near her work—not a pub, a bar, with pictures of baseball players on the wall, and a food menu chalked up on a noticeboard, and a conspicuous lack of hand-pumps, and people in suits drinking American beer from the bottle. It's not crowded, and we sit in a booth near the back on our own.

And then she's straight in with the “So, how are you?” as if I'm nobody very much. I mumble something, and I know that I'm not going to be able to control it, I'm going to come too quickly: then it's, bang, “Have you slept with him yet?” and it's all over.

“Is that why you wanted to see me?”

“I guess.”

“Oh, Rob.”

I just want to ask the question again, straightaway; I want an answer, I don't want “Oh, Rob,” and a pitying stare.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that you haven't, and for your answer to be the truth.”

“I can't do that.” She can't look at me when she's saying it, either.

She starts to say something else, but I don't hear it; I'm out in the street, pushing through all those suits and raincoats, angry and sick and on my way home to some more loud, angry records that will make me feel better.

 

The next morning the guy who bought the Sid James Experience album comes in to exchange it. He says it's not what he thought it was.

“What did you think it was?” I ask him.

“I don't know,” he says. “Something else.” He shrugs, and looks at the three of us in turn. We are all staring at him, crushed, aghast; he looks embarrassed.

“Have you listened to all of it?” Barry asks.

“I took it off halfway through the second side. Didn't like it.”

“Go home and try it again,” Barry says desperately. “It'll grow on you. It's a grower.”

The guy shakes his head helplessly. He's made up his mind. He chooses a secondhand Madness CD, and I put the Sid James Experience back in the rack.

 

Laura calls in the afternoon.

“You must have known it would happen,” she says. “You couldn't have been entirely unprepared. Like you said, I've been living with the guy. We were bound to get around to it sometime.” She gives a nervous and, to my way of thinking, highly inappropriate laugh.

“And, anyway, I keep trying to tell you, that's not really the point, is it? The point is, we got ourselves into an awful mess.”

I want to hang up, but people only hang up to get called back again, and why should Laura call me back? No reason at all.

“Are you still there? What are you thinking?”

I'm thinking: I've had a bath with this person (just one, years ago, but, you know, a bath's a bath), and I'm already beginning to find it hard to remember what she looks like. I'm thinking: I wish this stage were over, and we could go on to the next stage, the stage where you look in the paper and see that
Scent of a Woman
is on TV, and you say to yourself, Oh, I saw that with Laura. I'm thinking: am I supposed to fight, and what do I fight with, and whom am I fighting?

“Nothing.”

“We can meet for another drink if you like. So I can explain better. I owe you that much.”

That much.

“How much would be too much?”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Look, I've got to go. I work too, you know.”

“Will you call me?”

“I haven't got your number.”

“You know you can call me at work. And we'll arrange to meet and talk properly.”

“OK.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Because I don't want this to be the last conversation we have. I know what you're like.”

But she doesn't know what I'm like at all: I call her all the time. I call her later that afternoon, when Barry has gone out to get something to eat and Dick is busy sorting out some mail-order stuff out the back. I call her after six, when Barry and Dick have gone. When I get home, I call Directory Enquiries and get Ian's new number, and I call about seven times, and hang up every time he answers; eventually, Laura guesses what's going on and picks up the phone herself. I call her the following morning, and twice that afternoon, and I call her from the pub that evening. And after the pub I go around to Ian's place, just to see what it looks like from the outside. (It's just another north London three-story house, although I've no idea which story is his, and there are no lights on in any of them, anyway.) I've got nothing else to do. In short, I've lost it again, just like I lost it with Charlie, all those years ago.

 

There are men who call, and men who don't call, and I'd much, much rather be one of the latter. They are
proper
men, the sort of men that women have in mind when they moan about us. It's a safe, solid, meaningless stereotype: the man who appears not to give a shit, who gets ditched and maybe sits in the pub on his own for a couple of evenings, and then gets on with things; and though next time around he trusts even less than he did, he hasn't made a fool of himself, or frightened anybody, and this week I've done both of those things. One day Laura's sorry and guilty, and the next she's scared and angry, and I am entirely responsible for the transformation, and it hasn't done me any good at all. I'd stop if I could, but I don't seem to have any choice in the matter: it's all I think about, all the time. “I know what you're like,” Laura said, and she does, kind of: she knows that I'm someone who doesn't really bother, who has friends he hasn't seen for years, who no longer speaks to anybody that he has ever slept with. But she doesn't know how you have to work at that.

 

I want to see them now: Alison Ashworth, who ditched me after three miserable evenings in the park. Penny, who wouldn't let me touch her and who then went straight out and had sex with that bastard Chris Thomson. Jackie, attractive only while she was going out with one of my best friends. Sarah, with whom I formed an alliance against all the dumpers in the world and who then went and dumped me anyway. And Charlie. Especially Charlie, because I have her to thank for everything: my great job, my sexual self-confidence, the works. I want to be a well-rounded human being with none of these knotty lumps of rage and guilt and self-disgust. What do I want to do when I see them? I don't know. Just talk. Ask them how they are and whether they have forgiven me for messing them around, when I have messed them around, and tell them that I have forgiven them for messing me around, when they have messed me around. Wouldn't that be great? If I saw all of them in turn and there were no hard feelings left, just soft,
downy
feelings, Brie rather than old hard Parmesan, I'd feel clean, and calm, and ready to start again.

Bruce Springsteen's always doing it in his songs. Maybe not always, but he's done it. You know that one “Bobby Jean,” off
Born in the USA?
Anyway, he phones this girl up but she's left town years before and he's pissed off that he didn't know about it, because he wanted to say good-bye, and tell her that he missed her, and to wish her good luck. And then one of those sax solos comes in, and you get goose pimples, if you like sax solos. And Bruce Springsteen. Well, I'd like my life to be like a Bruce Springsteen song. Just once. I know I'm not born to run, I know that the Seven Sisters' Road is nothing like Thunder Road, but
feelings
can't be so different, can they? I'd like to phone all those people up and say good luck, and good-bye, and then they'd feel good and I'd feel good. We'd all feel good. That would be good. Great, even.