As dusk falls more men arrive. After their shifts, I guess. There is a lot of to and fro but people leave me alone. I begin to understand why there are no women here – it’s not for them. What would Mommy have said if she saw me in a place like this? Hermouth narrowing with disgust.It’s against science.I shiver.But Mommy can’t see you, I remind myself.She’s gone.
I don’t realise how drunk I am until I get up from the bench. The lights in the trees burn like comets. The dark hums and time stops moving, or maybe it’s going so fast I can’t feel it any more.That’s why I drink, I say to myself,to control time and space.It seems the truest thought I’ve ever had. Faces tip and slur.
I wander through the pools of light and dark, across the patio, past the tree. I’m looking for something I can’t name. I see an outbuilding squat against the sky, a lighted doorway. I go through it, and find myself in a mineral-smelling room with plank walls and lined with urinals. It’s full of guys laughing. They’re passing something small from hand to hand and telling a story about a friend who has a horse. Or who is a horse. Or who does horse. But then they go and I am alone with the peaceful dripping and the bare bulb swinging in the air. I go into the stall and bolt the door so I can sit down in peace with no eyes on me. It’s the butter-haired woman’s fault, coming here has reminded me of her and that is why I’m upset – normally I am cautious, I only drink this much at home. I have to get out of here, I have to get to my house. But just at this second I can’t figure out how to do that. The walls pulse.
Two people enter the bathroom. Their movements and words have furry edges, they’re very drunk – this is obvious even to me.
‘They belonged to my uncle,’ a voice says. ‘And were my grandfather’s before that. And his father’s. And his father wore them in the War of Northern Aggression. So just give them back, man. The sleeve-links, I mean cufflinks. I can’t replace them. And they were red and silver, my favourite colours.’
‘I didn’t take anything from you,’ a voice says. It’s familiar. The tone sets my sluggish synapses firing. There is an idea in my brain but I can’t seem to have it. ‘And you know I didn’t. You’rejust trying to make me give you money. I see straight through you.’
‘You were sitting beside me at the bar,’ the cufflinks guy says, ‘I took them off for just a second. And then they were gone. That’s a fact.’
‘You’re unstable,’ the familiar voice says, sympathetic. ‘I understand that you don’t want to believe you lost those cufflinks. You want someone to blame. I understand. But deep down, you know I’m not responsible.’
The other man starts crying. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘You know it’s not right.’
‘Please stop visiting your delusions on me. Go find someone else.’
There’s a thud and a crack. Someone just hit the tile. I am curious by now, and that feeling is cutting through the drunk. Plus, I am nearly certain that I know who the second voice belongs to.
I push open the stall door and the two men look at me, startled. One has his fist pulled back, about to hit the other, who lies on the floor. They look like the cover of a Hardy Boys book or a poster for an old movie. I can’t help laughing.
The bug man blinks up at me. He has a smear of dirt across his nose. I hope it’s dirt, anyway. ‘Hi, Ted,’ he says.
‘Hey,’ I say. I give him my hand. The guy who lost his cufflinks and knocked him down is already out the door. Sometimes, very occasionally, my size works in my favour.
I help the bug man off the floor. The back of his shirt is slick and brown. ‘Ugh,’ he says, resigned. ‘Maybe we should go. I think he’ll be back, maybe with friends. He seems to have those, inexplicably.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
The road is a tunnel of amber light. I can’t remember which way my house is and it doesn’t seem very important. ‘What shall we do?’ I ask.
‘I want to drink some more,’ the bug man says. We walk towardsa lighted sign in the distance. It seems to advance and recede as we approach but in the end we get there – it is a gas station, which sells beer, so we buy some from the sleepy man who minds the store. Then we sit at the table on the roadside, by the pumps. It’s quiet. Only the occasional car goes by.
I give the bug man a paper napkin. ‘There’s something on your face,’ I say. He cleans himself up without comment.
‘We’re having a beer together,’ I say. ‘It is so weird!’
‘I guess that’s right,’ he says. ‘This kind of thing is not supposed to happen between therapist and client, obviously. Are you going to keep coming to see me, Ted?’
‘Yes,’ I say. Of course I’m not.
‘Good. I was going to bring this up at our next session, but you should give me your real address, you know. For our files. I checked and the one you gave me isn’t even a house. It’s a 7-Eleven.’
‘Made a mistake,’ I say. ‘I get numbers wrong sometimes.’
He just waves a hand as if it’s not important.
‘Where doyoulive?’ I ask.
‘That’s not how it works,’ he says curtly.
‘Why did that guy think you had his cufflinks?’
‘I’m not sure. Can you imagine me stealing them?’
‘No,’ I say, because I really can’t. ‘Why did you pick your job? Isn’t it boring, listening to people for hours and hours?’
