Rein Schiphorst

IT WOULD start like this:

 

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I was sitting on the couch in my living room, together with girlfriend Susan, watching TV. A movie, some arty romcom. Something like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. We were curled up between piles of cushions – well, she was curled up, against me; her feet pulled up, folded in an apparently not uncomfortable zigzag; her small feet tucked in between the cushions, because she so stubbornly refused to put on slippers. Her long, dark hair was lying across my face. I didn't say anything about it, though.

        The flickering blue, grey, red, yellow, blue, and white of the television screen was illuminating us.

        My cat was sitting in front of the couch, staring up at us. I looked at him for just a fleeting second. He took it to mean hi, yes, come on, then! and jumped onto my  stomach, instantly, and then forced himself in between us.

        “Oh! Felix.. no.. come on..” I said, sighing. Felix lay down and purred.

 

The bright, colourful flashing of the TV screen turned to black for a second, and left the scene obscured. Then it jumped to colour again.

 

I was sitting on the couch in my living room, alone, slumped down in my boxer shorts, watching TV. A single cushion lay crooked on the backrest of the couch. I had one leg stretched out, lying on a pile of magazines between dirty plates and empty glasses on the coffee table pulled close to the couch. Scattered across both the table and floor lay more cushions and papers, books, remote controls, bills, empty soda bottles, candy bar wrappers, and the odd pizza box.

        Though it was noon, and fairly sunny at that, only the flickering blue, grey, red, yellow, blue, and white of the television screen was illuminating me.

        You could hear the scuffling of a mouse, coming to eat crumbs off the floor. Out of nowhere, my cat jumped upon a bag of crisps, clawing it frantically, but the mouse had already disappeared again.

 

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I was in the shower. The bathroom was steamed up, damp and dripping all over. I was singing, no, more like humming and whistling, alternately, some song that couldn't be distinguished. Then I turned off the tabs, drew open the shower curtain. My hair was all flattened out across my scalp and face. I ran through it and shook it loose with my hand, then leaned over to grab a towel. Felix would come into the bathroom right that moment, since I had left the door ajar by mistake. He pushed it open further, letting the cold air come in, and he himself came and brushed his tortu(r)ous body up, down, around, between my legs, so that his hairs stuck to my wet skin.

        “Ah, great! Thanks buddy. Come, out! Leave me for a moment, will you?”

        I pushed him off of me, towards the door with my foot, and waved the towel around to make him hurry out.

        I dried my hair and upper body, briskly, turned to the mirror, and whiped the moist off as well as possible. I looked at myself, leaning in towards the image of my face. I studied it. My hair, messy, on end; my skin, dry, unshaven; the straight nose with its slightly porky end; the chapped lips; the eyebrows, brushy, irregular; my eyes – I leaned in closer – blue with a few green spots in them and a grey ring. The eyelashes stuck together in pairs. I sighed, tutted, letting out a chup chap chip kind of sound.

 

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I threw a bunch of clothes onto my bed. Pants, a stack of T-shirts, sweaters – of which I held some in my hand a while, weighing them, literally as well as figuratively, but then threw them down, anyway. I took some more out of my closet, took some back from the pile on my bed and threw them onto the chair at my desk.

 

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I was standing in the hallway of my building in front of the door marked 27. I was wearing a brownish green coat – the one with the big square pockets that looked like an old army or hunting jacket – out of which stuck the blue hood of my sweatshirt. Across my left shoulder hung the strap of my gym bag. The door opened. My aging neighbour stood in the doorway in some robe and old pyjamas, curlers in her grey hair.

        “O, hi there Jim,” she said, the initial surprise at hearing someone at the door wearing off rapidly, which was demonstrated by the unwidening of her eyes.

        From inside her appartment, out into the hall, you could see me standing there, a little bent over to the left under the weight of my bag, holding up a plastic pet carrier in my right hand.

        “Hi, Mrs Chetwick. Well, here he is,” I said, smiling awkwardly, probably. “The food and litter you've got enough off, right? He only needs a little bit... I hope he gets along with the other little fellows. I think he should.”

        “O, don't you worry about that,” she said kindly, “we'll be just fine.”

        “Thanks so much, again, Mrs Chetwick. I'll check up on him later, okay?”

 

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I was walking out of the front door of my building, down the small steps, and to the car park. Birds were flying overhead, high up, crying loudly. You could see me walking across the car park from their perspective, small, insignificant, winding in between the cars. It was a grey morning. Dreary.

 

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I got into my car. I threw my bag unto the back seat, clumsily. I started the car and put on some music. Nodded my head to the beat as I drove off.

        You could see me from outside, on the kerb, turning out of the car park. My face was just visible through the dirty, cloud-reflecting window of the driver's side door, straining my neck as I looked down to see the kerb and road in front, and out across my shoulder to spot oncoming traffic.

        I was humming to the music while I was driving. You could see me from out in the far corner on the passenger's side, from on top of the dashboard. One or two ants were walking there across the dried up coffee between an empty cup and biscuit bag. I noticed them, my eyes jumping from the ants to the road and back again. I tried to hit them with a week-old paper that lay on the dashboard, but failed miserably.

 

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The music sounded, loudly, as the car, seen from high above, drove off on a motorway through some nice countryside landscapes, off towards the horizon.

        I was singing along, full blast. Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, my Sharona!

       The credits showed on black screen, alternating with footage of me driving, seen from inside the car from various, changing angles, and sceneries through which the car journeyed. Cum on Feel the Noize when speeding. Uptown Top Ranking slowing down.

 

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But I don't think the rest of the story will work that well in the form of a film. Dunno.

 

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I WAS sitting in my car. Silently, looking at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. It was starting to get quite sunny. I was facing the drive of my parents' house. Their “beach house.” My old home. My new home for the next three weeks. I sighed, made my car's moping turn into roaring, creeping up the drive to its – temporary – final destination.

 

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THIS WASN'T like the usual trips back home to spend the holidays in the suffocating company of my folks, making my stay a short one. This time was a special occasion, which meant more fuzz, tension, stress, and an extended period of time for me to stay. More of my mother's nagging, criticizing my dirty, worn clothes with tears and stains which I never threw out (and wore on purpose). More of her looking down her nose at the people on TV. More questions about my “direction in life.” More James-calling. More of my father's silence – eating at us, depressing the hell out of anyone present.

        My mother always goes nuts when people are coming over – strangers, friends, me, anyone – getting caterers, spending a lot of money on food, snacks, wine, liquor, chocolate, and of course four new outfits for herself. This time she was especially spendthrift and anal, since a new branch of the family had been discovered and was driving cross-country to visit. My mother, as it turned out, had a half-brother – Paul – who was coming over with his family to spend the holidays at my parents' “beach house, to relax and get to know each other a bit, ha ha,” supposedly. Though the 'half' part made it a scandal, the 'brother' part made the new addition a welcome one… if they checked out alright.

        I thought so. They arrived quite early; half happy, half awkward; a station wagon packed full; the sun shining on the chrome as they pulled up and unpacked. “Eleanor” came up to meet me, then. Her red hair wavy; her freckles gentle, tiny; little dimples in her cheeks – so beautifully Irish looking on the green grass. Her eyes were dazzling brown-and-green, and her smile took my breath away. We were jumping up-and-down queerly, not knowing whether to kiss or hug or shake hands. In the end we did all. She was funny – quirky – very …fresh, naïve but strong. It was hard to describe.

        We hung out most of the time. The children of the half-affiliated adults. Very old-fashioned, secluded in the other corner, set apart at the end of the table, together on the sofa. I fell desperately in love.

 

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Her outfits were all summer-frolicky. You'd want to describe the style as hipster, but it was too haphazard to be called a style. Her careless confidence was refreshing and invigorating. In sharp contrast to my mother's.

        I got to know quite a bit about her: where she lived, what she did, her likes, wishes. We hit it off. I could see us growing steadily closer, while our parents were sitting across from each other stiffly, grinning – my mother trying to find out if this Paul figure was conservative enough, and if his idea of a fulfilling life was to her liking. Once relaxed, he proved just as bad as my mother: a judgemental Puritan.

        With Eleanor it felt so good, so natural. Yet was so wrong. Culpable. Strolling through the little town; swimming; lying on the beach – her belly covered with salty sand. How could I tell her? How could we be together, intimately? How could we ever break it to our family? …society?

        I would run into her on the landing at night, on the way to the bathroom. She'd just at that precise moment finish brushing her teeth and pass me, her head tilted and her smile wide and disarmingly charming, her teeth, mouth so clean and alluring while she said “Hey, Jim,” directed solely at me. And I would feel bashful, caught, naughty, trying not to look at the flatteringly oversized, fringed nightshirt she wore …yet trying.

        I would lie in my small, single bed in my dated, old room, feeling overwhelmed by a combination of emotions – longing, fraternal affection, heated passion, butterflies, and reprimandful repression, self-conscious doubt and that sense of inadequacy. Woe.

        And she would be lying there, so intimately close.

 

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Then, on Wednesday afternoon – it was sunny, warm, humid – we were lying on the grass beneath great trees in a corner of the garden, licking ice creams, telling tales and joking. We began pinching each other and tickling, rolling around… started kissing. Eleanor looking into my eyes, in love. We lay there in the shadow, her thighs against mine, playing footsies, our fingers stroking each other. Then came the shrill sound of a melodramatic Oahw!... There stood my mother and Paul, shocked.

        We got married out of spite, almost.

 

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THE END