Meatspace (10 page)

My eyes flick enviously from Kitab 2, nervously telling me about his tube journey, to Will Self, returned with Mitch 3 steps behind him, across the room, holding court with Hayley and May and a few others and I think, if I go over there, he’ll ask who I am and I’ll say I’m an author and he’ll think I’m one of those ‘aspiring types’ from the internet and from creative writing classes and I’ll feel like a shit-bird. I’m stuck with Kitab 2, out of shame and embarrassment.

Kitab 2 is wearing a t-shirt that says ‘Fruity and Juicy’ with linen trousers. His toenails are white and cracked. He has a permanent toothy smile even when he’s not smiling and there is a thick film of saliva daubed on his front 2 teeth. His skin is pockmarked with the ghosts of acne. He looks like me when I was a teenager, albeit darker, skinnier and with greasier hair. My hair was always washed but thick with gel.

Kitab 2 cocks his head to one side as the next reader is introduced and as he grinds his jaw the saliva on his teeth works its way onto his lips. We sit in silence because neither of us knows where to start. To break the tension, I scroll through my @-replies on Twitter.

@thebookdoctor: ‘@kitab 2 coloureds in the audience. A world record?’

@kitab: ‘seriously? Is this 1853? RT @thebookdoctor @kitab 2 coloureds in the audience. A world record?’

@thebookdoctor: ‘@kitab Oh sweetie, it’s not racist if it’s ironic.’

I look up at Kitab 2 and he’s still staring at me. He smiles. I smile back.

‘So,’ I say quietly. ‘What are you doing here, man? Were you just passing through this part of the city and thought you’d say hi? I mean, how? How did you find me?’

‘I messaged you and asked where you were a whole lot of times, dude,’ he says anxiously, nodding his head with worry. ‘You didn’t accept my add request.’

‘I didn’t understand why you kept doing that. We’ve never met. Why would I tell you where I was?’

‘So I could come and find you. Never mind, I’m here.’ Kitab 2 pauses as if a bad memory has invaded his brain. He straightens his smile. ‘You didn’t accept my friend request on Facebook.’

‘No, but seriously, Kitab. Were you just passing through? What are you doing here, man?’ My brain is scrolling, I have itchy feet, I want to get up and leave.

‘No, but your website and Twitter said you would be here tonight. So I wanted to say hello. Why didn’t you accept my add request?’

‘Right, okay.’ I make a mental note to never say anything about my whereabouts online ever again.

‘You did not accept my friend request on Facebook,’ he says again. This time, more firmly. ‘Why not?’

‘I didn’t see it. Sorry. I’ve been busy,’ I lie.

‘Really? I sent it this week. Your events tab on your website was empty.’

‘Sorry, I must have missed it.’

‘But, Facebook,’ he stutters and his face falls. He remembers himself, smiles again. Another social media conversation, I think. That’s the tie that binds strangers now.

‘Sorry, bro,’ I say. ‘I’ve been really busy. I didn’t not accept your add request. Anyway, who uses Facebook anymore? It’s all about Twitter. Am I right?’

‘I use Facebook. I wanted to interact with you. We have the same name.’

‘Yes, we do,’ I say.

‘Do you think we’re alike?’ he asks. I can see Hayley looking in my direction from across the room, shooting me a quizzical look followed by a stupid ‘hey, I’m stood with Will Self’ grin. I smile back and mouth ‘Smug’. Except she doesn’t understand me. I wave her off.

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Do you like computer games?’

‘They’re okay,’ I reply. Kitab 2 looks sad.

‘Do you like
Friends
?’

‘The sitcom?’ He nods. ‘Everyone likes
Friends
.’

Kitab 2 nods. ‘What about pizza? What’s your favourite topping?’

‘I don’t know. Pepperoni?’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You eat meat.’

Kitab 2 looks crestfallen. He stares at the coke I’ve bought him and then notices my arm. He pulls it towards him and stares at the tattoo, rubbing it. It stings. I’m too weirded out by his touching me to even consider its inappropriate impact on my personal space.

‘Dude, you have a tattoo?’

‘Yes, mate,’ I say, briskly, looking around the room, hoping Hayley hasn’t left yet.

‘You didn’t tell me you had a tattoo.’ Kitab 2 looks dejected. Then annoyed. He drops my arm to the table. It lies in the slug trail of someone else’s beer condensation. The occasional hygiene obsessive in me recoils. ‘When did you get this tattoo?’

‘Yesterday.’ I’m starting to feel agoraphobic. I want to get back to the comforting whirr of my laptop.

‘Oh. This isn’t good. You have ruined your body. I thought we were alike.’

‘Mate, you’ve never met me. How would you know?’

‘I have read your book and I have watched your tweets and YouTubes and everything. I think you are like me. Except this …’ He points to the tattoo with the whole of his outstretched hand. ‘This changes what I think about us both.’

‘Listen, Kitab, it was nice meeting you but I need to talk to some people before they go,’ I say. I’ve had enough. I start to stand up. Kitab 2 grabs my hand.

‘No, please. Stay here. Talk to me. Please.’

‘Seriously, Kitab, let go of me. I need to go and sort out some stuff, okay?’ I say with my eyes on the door, the ultimate prize. ‘It was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll run into you again? How long are you in London for?’

Kitab 2’s lips are moving but he’s not saying anything. I assume he’s translating what I’m saying in his head.

‘We’re alike,’ he says. ‘I am you. You are me. I want to see your life. Show me London, Kitab. Please. I’ve travelled so far.’ He looks at his hands. ‘I don’t know anybody and I’m scared. I have never been on a plane before. I like computer games. My daddy is very strict. I … have never worn jeans. I want to kiss a girl. Have you kissed a girl? I don’t drink alcohol but I drank bhang lassi once. I was sick on my cleaner. Please.’

‘Sorry, man,’ I say, unsure what to do with the onslaught of information. ‘I need to go.’

I grab my bag and finish my drink, bang it down on the table emphatically and stretch out my ‘no hard feelings’ hand for a ‘no hard feelings’ handshake.

‘Hey man, lovely reading. Maybe you should try something from a woman’s perspective,’ a man in non-prescription glasses says to me as he passes.

I nod at him intensely, burning the feedback deep in my soul. I nod at Kitab 2 in the same way and begin my extraction from the situation.

‘But …’ Kitab 2 stammers. ‘I need a place to stay. I don’t know anybody in the UK. Please Kitab. I need to stay with you.’

‘What?’ I say to him.

Kitab 2 has launched a surprise attack on me. I look at him with a mixture of pity and bemusement and wonder what is expected of me. Pity because he might have backed the wrong namesake to expect a display of helpfulness. Bemusement because he has definitely backed the wrong namesake to expect a display of helpfulness. I’m not helpful and I do not like telling people where I live.

My dad, though not religious, believes in seva. Which is Gujarati for selfless work, voluntary service, a way of giving back to the community when you have something to give. Disregarding the last bit, where I feel like I have something to give, maybe I have the capacity for a selfless act. Maybe I have the capacity for something other than my own sense of worth. My dad used to donate 15% of his paycheque to an orphanage in the place he and my mum both grew up in.

‘You only care about the injustices prevalent in the Indian world,’ I said to my dad at a fundraiser for Hindu street children he threw, hoping it would attract some single ladies. ‘What about Africa, South America, other parts of Asia, maybe even parts populated by Muslims? What about kids on estates in South East London?’

‘At least I’m doing something, Kitab-san,’ he replied quickly. ‘What are you doing? Working in a job you hate. Writing a book mocking where you grew up? What good is that doing in the world? The community leaders of the place where you grew up, the place you mock, they raised thousands of pounds for my charity. What have you done that’s charitable?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Only because I bought your ticket.’

Maybe this is my own personal seva. Their preferred charity found shelter for street children in India. Maybe I can do the same for Kitab 2. That way I’m honouring all the good work my family did.

‘Please can I stay?’ Kitab 2 says.

‘I don’t know you, man. You’re a stranger,’ I reply and I stand up. He stands up too.

‘We’re the same. We have the same name. We both like
Friends
. Please, look, I only have one suitcase and my laptop. I have nowhere to go. We are brothers. Brothers by name. Come on.’

‘Kitab, do you watch films?’ I say. ‘This is the start of a film that ends badly. I’m going to have to say no.’

‘I read that review,’ he says. ‘That says you have no heart. I think they’re right.’

Stung by my nightmare review, the one that haunts, the one that hurts, the one that sears, I look at Kitab 2 and for a second feel a quiver of upset.

Kitab 2 is looking beyond me, probably at the curly redhead in Converse and a summer dress who has just walked past us, and he looks so sweet with his never-been-kissed smile, and I think, fair enough, and I think, what’s the worst that will happen, and I think, he can stay in Aziz’s room.

‘Yeah, no worries, man. Come and stay with me. For one night only. Then we find you a hotel. Or something.’

Kitab 2 looks at me with a mixture of validation and confirmation that 1) I respect him and 2) he knew I’d eventually say yes and he pushes his chair away from the table. He knocks his coke over the table. I step back and unwittingly into the path of his cuddle, which is thick and spindly as he throws his spiderweb arms around me.

I repeat, ‘Yeah, for
one
night only. Then we find you a hotel.’ I leave out the ‘or something’ because that’s too wishy-washy for someone who needs to remain firm in such situations.

As we leave, Hayley grabs me. Kitab 2 stands awkwardly next to us. ‘Sorry we didn’t get to hang out much,’ she says. ‘In fact, I’d say you completely ignored me.’

‘You were busy … with Will Self.’

‘Oh, him … he was busy talking about himself. I made a mental to-do list.’

‘He
is
very Self-interested.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Soon, though, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I say, loudly. People look at me.

‘I suppose,’ she says, feigning disinterest. ‘Yes, soon! Don’t disappear on me. I miss hanging out. We haven’t even done the whisky challenge we said we were going to.’

‘Yeah. We haven’t. Listen, soon,’ I say. ‘Oh yeah … Good story.’

‘You too.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘No, seriously, Kitab … it was really funny.’

‘You are too kind.’

‘Oh, anytime, sweetie pie. It was busy tonight, eh?’ Hayley has placed herself between me and Kitab 2.

‘Right,’ I say, starting to feel awkward, like I want to stay but I have to leave but I don’t know how long this conversation is going on for. ‘Take care.’

‘We should get a coffee sometime. You were always so “in a couple”. You forget what it’s like making new friends properly when you’re doing readings every night.’

‘Yeah, definitely, DM me.’

‘Or, we could phone each other like it’s 1995.’

‘You’re so retro.’

‘What’s your number?’ Hayley says, holding out her phone. I type it in. ‘I’ll one-ring you,’ she says and I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. ‘It’s official. Twitter, Facebook, now text message, I’d say we’re properly acquainted.’

‘What’s your address, so I can send you a congratulations card?’ I say. She smiles.

Hayley kisses me on the cheek and says, ‘You know, it really is good to see you, chico.’ I smile and shuffle Kitab 2 towards the exit of The Book Doctor.

*

I dream about Elvis Costello. He’s sitting in a bar with Kurt Vonnegut and JG Ballard. They are telling him off for never mentioning their names in any of his songs. He throws his drink over JG Ballard, and Kurt Vonnegut gets a cigarette flicked in his eye. Elvis Costello stands up in this bar, one that looks suspiciously like Cocktails and Dreams, Tom Cruise’s dream pub in the film
Cocktail
. I realise this because Tom Cruise is standing on the bar delivering his Last Barman poem from the film
Cocktail
.

‘The Alabama slammer …’ he says, gyrating his hips.

My dreams are never this pop culture-related and they’re usually about people I like. I mean, I love that Elvis Costello song and a few others but I don’t think he’s all that, really. I mean, he’s funny and political, but whatever, I’d rather listen to something more miserable and emotive.

So, Elvis Costello crosses over to me at the bar. I’m writing ‘NEVER REFERENCE YOUR DREAMS IN FICTION’ on a napkin over and again, going over the same letters till my pencil nib breaks off. Elvis Costello slams his freshly refreshed drink down on the table and says, ‘How can you not like me? I did one of your mum’s favourite songs.’

‘She didn’t know it was about Thatcher. She just thought it was a nice song. She voted for Thatcher. Twice.’

Elvis Costello points to my arm. ‘Why have you done that?’ He’s referring to the tattoo, which I know in my dream, if you scratch it, it plays the Elvis Costello song it references.

‘I thought it’d be cool.’

‘Getting a red starling on your neck, that’s cool. This is just a poser being a poser.’

‘Nope. It’s my carpe diem. Everyday I must write. And own that writing. I permanently ink whilst being permanently inked.’

‘You’re about to get a drink thrown in your face,’ Elvis Costello says. He stands up and throws a drink in my face. ‘Be the best you that you can muster. PS, tell your mum I said hi.’

‘She’s dead,’ I tell Elvis Costello.

‘I know,’ he grins. ‘Tell her anyway.’

I wake up to find I’ve knocked a pint of water over my face in the night. My pillow soaked, I move over to Quiltina and fall asleep.

Next door, in Aziz’s room, I can hear canned laughter on the television.

As soon as I wake up, I check my phone. No reply from Aziz. An email from Susan telling me that after careful consideration, she won’t be offering me a job. She has reservations about my attention to the productivity of social interactions in a synergetic way. I delete the email. A few tweets about last night. None mention me except one from Hayley that says: