Meatspace (29 page)

I leave my screen hovering over the ‘delete account’ screens for Twitter and Facebook.

I run down the street, worrying about being late. I live by my Google calendar. I’m dumb without my phone.

I reach the pub that the reading is above and clatter through commuters, sweating. I’m halfway up the stairs when I stop. All this for £25. I catch my breath. I can hear the hush of a room of people upstairs and the low mumble of someone reading in a soporific rhythm.

I walk slowly up the stairs, trying to be quiet, trying to not be the late guy who clatters in. At the door, there’s a guy in big glasses and tweed sitting next to a square tin of money. By the little in there, I judge that there’s perhaps 10–15 people at the reading.

‘5 pounds,’ he says, not looking up from his phone. He’s streaming football.

‘I’m reading,’ I say. ‘Kitab Balasubramanyam.’

‘Balasubramanyam …’ he says, slowly, like he’s double-checking every syllable against his brain’s data records. ‘Nope. You’ve been and gone.’ He looks up. ‘You’re not him.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You finished your reading 10 minutes ago. Said you were leaving, that you had some drink and dick-time coming up.’

‘No. I’m Kitab Balasubramanyam.’

‘No,’ he says, repeating my frustration, with 20 times more sarcasm. ‘You’re not. You look nothing like him.’

‘Where’s May? She’s running this, isn’t she? She knows me.’

‘Look, it’s only 5 pounds. Okay? Just pay the money if you want to come in.’

‘But I’m reading …’

‘Kitab’s done,’ he says, looking back down at his screen. ‘Oh, now I’ve missed a goal.’

‘He already read?’

‘Yeah, and he was hilarious too, judging by the guffaws.’

‘Thanks,’ I say and turn back towards the stairs. I stare down into the pub, processing what’s just happened.

I walk down the stairs feeling a chill of nausea around me. I walk into the toilets and I’m about to sit down on a toilet seat just to steady myself and calm my nerves when I realise this is one of those pubs where they distrust the men to keep toilet seats clean by not pissing all over it, so have removed them. I remain standing, feeling my spine unaligned, the usual weight not distributed evenly through my body. I have no phone in my left pocket. I take a breath and walk back into the pub. I scan for Kitab 2 in case he’s lurking. I can’t see him anywhere. I stand in the doorway and let the silky rush of a light breeze cool itself on the cold sweats at the fringes of my face. I’m so nervous I need a poo. But the toilets have no toilet seats.

He read in my place. I don’t wait around to go up to May and clear the air. If she didn’t notice, then more fool her. There’s nothing I can do. It’s done. This is what he wanted from me? He can have it. I feel strangely free. Without a phone and without the obligation to fulfil, to muster up the strength to entertain for money and validation, I feel fine. I feel okay. Standing in that toilet, the thick gristle of piss welding itself to my nasal hairs, I think, ‘Well, that’s okay then,’ and I leave the pub.

I walk back in the direction of home.

Via my local.

I spend 2 pints with Mitch talking about his new girlfriend, someone I didn’t even know he had. He tells me about her job, her likes and her dislikes. He regales me with stories of old-fashioned dates, how he romanced her and where they’re going this weekend. I sit and listen and laugh at the relevant bits and awww at the soppy bits. He soon takes his leave of me to go and see her. They’re off to see a film tonight. He read a review of it in the paper and it sounds up their street because there’s a colour in the title, and it has subtitles and is only showing in one art house cinema. It sounds like a slam dunk for Mitch.

I take up Mitch’s stool at the bar and order another drink. I take the book he’s left for me and open it at page one. It’s Wodehouse. He says it’s the funniest book in the world, something for me to aspire to. Despite alluding to being well-read, I’ve never picked up a Jeeves book. I read the back – it sounds like it’ll make me laugh.

I feel a tap on my shoulder some minutes later and look up. It’s Hayley.

She smiles at me and I lean forward to kiss her. She offers me a cheek then her lips. I smile at her.

‘What you been up to, cryptic email man?’

‘Ha,’ I say. ‘Funny story … I got stalked by my namesake off the internet. Remember I told you about him?’

‘Yeah … but yeesh, really? Really? Tell me everything,’ Hayley says. She orders a drink first and while she does, I regale her with stories about Kitab 2, from his add request to him staying with me, thinking I can help him cut loose in London. Mitch steps back into the pub to pick up the card he’s left behind the bar by accident and she stares at him awkwardly while we wait for him to settle up and leave again. We retire to a table in the corner. I continue my story of Kitab 2, filling in the blanks of the last few days with the full thing, from the add request to the appearance to the dickpic to the sex party. It sounds insane. It sounds like it didn’t happen. It sounds like fiction. When I’m done, and she’s given me an appropriate amount of laughing and ‘wow, that’s incredible’ and ‘tell me about the sex party’ we decide to go home for dinner.

As we leave the pub, she stops and asks, ‘Wait, did you have sex with anyone at Party Orifices?’

I shake my head.

‘Not willingly and not completely.’

‘Unwilling at a sex party.’

‘Physically, and emotionally,’ I say. ‘Unwilling at a sex party … good name for a band.’

Hayley is silent as we step away from the pub. She is silent for 20 yards. She slips her arm into my hand and we walk back home.

It doesn’t feel old-fashioned. It feels just right.

Then Hayley’s phone rings. And it appears to be me phoning her.

aZiZWILLKILLYOU episode 15 Aziz vs Bob
[posted 18 September, 14:52]

Today, I had just met Teddy Baker for brunch when we got attacked with a knife.

It was Bob. He didn’t announce himself like that. IIIIIIIT’S BOOOOOB (that looks like someone is saying Boob not Bob but whatevs). He jumped out from a stairwell and jabbed a knife in the air between Teddy Baker and me.

We were both tired but we felt we owed it to the internet to meet up and record a viddy-cast about our meeting, try and sum up the evening we’d had, try and sum up the feeling of making that connection.

We had been talking about the weather and then rehashing the events of last night and suddenly, we were being jabbed at by Bob.

‘Teddy,’ he shouted. ‘Get away from the sand nigger.’

‘Bob, what the fuck are you doing?’

‘Teddy Baker, get away from the sand nigger.’

I obviously took offence to this. Who did this cracker redneck city motherfucker think he was? So I grabbed the wrist of his hand with the knife and pulled it down to the pavement and stomped on his fist with my boot (thank you, Ted Baker) and he let go. But this cracker redneck motherfucker wasn’t going quietly. He uppercut me. On the chin. And I stumbled backwards.

Sand nigger? It wasn’t even factually accurate. It’s double-racism against anyone from the Middle East and black people and I am neither of those things. Fucking idiot. Got me using words I’m not comfortable with on my own blog. Don’t flame me, bros.

He fell over, clutching his hand, but kicked out at my legs and caught me on my bad knee, from an old bike accident. I fell over, but on top of him, so I attempted an elbow drop, but he punched upwards and caught me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. Teddy Baker just stood back and watched. Was this who he was? A coward? I leaned into Bob and tried some close punches. He tried the same. We were rolling around and throwing in as many small punches as we could.

Bob smacked me around the temple and pushed me off him. He stood up and looked at me, on the floor, winded and bleeding, my hair a mess.

‘Teddy, come on, buddy, let’s go.’

‘Sure, Bob … I …’

I tried to get my breath back. I spluttered like I was trying to talk, and they were very gentlemanly in waiting for me to spit out what I wanted to say. ‘I … Te …. Ted … … ….. Tedd … … … … TED … … … … … … … … …. TED. TED … TED. TED. Teddy Baker, you are nothing like me,’ I said. ‘You were supposed to save me. You were supposed to be my doppelganger. I even got a tattoo to cement the deal. A copycat doppelganger tattoo. You were supposed to change my life. You’re an idiot. You know that. I realised something, just now while your mate was racially abusing me and punching me in various marine pressure points, like he’s been training to take down darkies professionally for a while now. I don’t understand how you could possibly have that cool-ass tattoo and be the most boring anti-awesome person I have ever met. Matter has anti-matter. I am Aziz. You are anti-Aziz.’

‘That detective told you I got arrested for making home-made explosives didn’t he?’

‘No. What the hell?’

‘I was young. I was an asshole.’

‘Still … what were you planning to blow up?’

Bob threw his whatever hands at me. I pulled myself up onto a stoop. He tugged at the skin around his tattoo, straightening his skin bow tie.

‘It was a drunken bet,’ he said, playing scuffed toes with his trainers. ‘I was out with Bob and some girls that we were into and they all kept calling me straight-laced. They all dared me to get a tattoo that would get me fired. So I got this because … I don’t know, I can’t remember the exact reason. I was drunk. But yeah, I got it. And I got fired for having it. And ever since, I’ve been trying to take control of it. Ever since I got this tattoo, everything’s been going to shit for me. I got fired, I had to move back in with my mum, I lost 100 followers on Twitter … lots of shit stuff, man. I hate it. When you showed up, I thought my luck would change. But you’re rocking that tattoo. I’m going to get mine removed. It’s brought me nothing but trouble. You have swagger. I have a tattoo I hate. You see, this tattoo changed my life. It became a curse for me. For you, it seems to be your life-blood. I hate it.’

‘You can’t actually get it removed just yet. Not for 3 more years,’ Bob said. ‘Remember?’

‘The contract. But isn’t the contract void? We didn’t sleep together in the end.’

‘But … come on.’

‘COME ON … Bob. No one cares what you think,’ I said.

‘Don’t talk to Bob like that,’ Teddy Baker said, indignant.

‘Oh my god, you’re not the guy I want you to be, Teddy Baker,’ I said. Bob ran towards me screaming but I was ready and I held out the heel of my palm at the optimum time and caught Bob on his chin. He dropped to the floor. ‘What’s his fucking deal?’ I asked.

‘Bob’s mum … her cleaner died on 9/11.’

‘Right, okay … shit. Wait, what? What’s this got to do with me? And his racism?’

‘Oh, he’s just a racist. A really nasty racist.’

‘His mum’s cleaner. Fuck me, that’s tenuous. North tower?’

‘No, heart attack. On 9/11. A couple of years ago.’

‘So, what’s his problem?’

Teddy Baker shrugged.

‘You’re a dullard,’ I said to Teddy Baker. ‘But it was nice meeting you. I believe the rest of New York has a lot of swag to offer me so I’m going to leave you be now.’

I shook Teddy Baker’s hand.

‘Stay in touch, homeboy,’ he said.

‘Whatever, homeboy,’ I said.

But Bob was not done. He stood up and socked me in the mouth with a knuckle duster on his fist. I fell back to the ground and cracked the back of my head on a stoop.

Bob laughed and they both walked off together in the direction Teddy Baker and I had been headed. I lay there for a few minutes and wondered exactly what had happened. Maybe meeting people off the internet isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. But then, while I was lying there recuperating, I checked my Blendr and realised I was on the stoop of a girl looking for ‘whatever’. I messaged her. She messaged me. I messaged her that I needed some medical attention urgently. She came down and helped me up to her apartment. There she fixed me up. She put cold compresses on the back of my head and cleaned up my cut lip. She gave me a happy ending while I told her my story and this girl, this Della, well, she ruined my only pair of jeans with my own spuzz because I was so tense and came so hard, it went everywhere. Girl can tug, ya get me. So that’s a win for meeting strangers off the internet.

There are 17 comments for this blog:

GustaveGrimes: I’m going to meet you at the airport tomorrow with a screwdriver and rape your arsehole with it.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: You’re taking all the romance out of it.

GustaveGrimes: You should have killed yourself out there.

Teddy Baker: Hey Aziz, So much for state secrets, eh? Anyways, I was just letting you know I’m getting my tattoo removed. I’ve got job interviews in the next few weeks and I think it’s time to be more professional. Anyways, thanks for documenting the good times. Boring though?

GustaveGrimes: Teddy Baker, fuck off.

df232: Hey Aziz, I’m in London. Call me. I’m at the Old Street Travelodge. Room 323.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: Teddy Baker, my friend, it’s been a journey. If there’s one thing I ask, keep the tattoo. To remember me by. And boring? Come on. Have a long hard look at yourself. @GustaveGrimes – go fuck yourself.

Teddy Baker: Fuck you Gustave. At least I use my real name.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: Keyboard warriors, mate. It takes all sorts.

Teddy Baker: I got the job by the way. And the guy didn’t mind the tattoo. I work in web development now. Need a website? I’m not cheap but I can sort you out.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: We’ll talk. ps give Bob a kiss from me.

Teddy Baker: Bob says you have unfinished business.

df232: Fuck you Aziz.

GustaveGrimes: Jeez-us Aziz, you really do write shit, don’t you? That’s why we’re not in a band. But every fucking day I have to hear about your bullshit from people. You will not leave my life and I’m fucking sick of it. Look, just take this paltry time you’ve been given and fuck off okay?

df232: I hate you, Aziz.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: Not as much as I hate myself, darling.

Jimmy329: Hi, I’m a literary agent and just wondered if you’d ever thought of turning these blogposts into a book. I think there’s something here. Would love to talk some more about it. How do I get in contact?