HUM

About a year ago or several, I was part of a weekend away to a faux remote town in the Highlands. The purpose was an experience of culture, food, drink and maybe emotions. It turned to mostly drink, ill-informed dancing and unwanted emotions. After one night, I became an inexpensive walking white noise machine on autopilot. This may have been caused by repeatedly downing pints of a fruity tasting drink which shared the same outfit of a red cabbage. Can’t remember what it was called but it sounded deadly.

The second night resided in a bar far too stylish for my beige palette (even though there were a lot of beige on the walls). I melted into my seat in the corner booths as the music became louder. I zoned more and more out of the group conversation which may have been on loop as I’m sure I've heard it before. My attention began to scan the remainder of the spacious bar where several tables were filled with younger revellers which really hammer down how old we have become. As the murmurs in my head began to take over, I noticed a commotion.

There on the far corner of the room by the wall of windows, atop a table was the alpha of alphas. A twenty something purest of lads who seemed to exude a dedicated club atmosphere. He was the lights, the music and the after-hours tinnitus. Surrounding was the adoring harem of all genders hooting and hollering; salivating to eat out of his palm, wanting more and more to be simply acknowledged. At that magical moment in time on a crisp autumn night, their shared sexual preference would ultimately be ‘Him’.

The travelling horde of hormones followed as ‘Him’ jumped off the table to be met with more intense adoration for his presence. Who were they to deny ‘Him’. ‘Him’ has them all in his control. Whatever happens would be a guaranteed delight. They could be led to a mould covered lock up to all sit on a mattress and watch expired porn and it would still be the greatest night of their lives.

Two tables ajar from the far corner of hedonism was another person who would assumedly be referred to as ‘Um’.

‘Um’ crudely slumped in his chair with a non-conforming party. The remnants of a group lost to their own accord. They may be work colleagues of the ilk who have nothing in common besides the shared toilet seat and meandering small talk. ‘Um’ was not traditionally the alpha of alphas. The shaggy hair and asymmetrical beard do not provide the rugged look originally planned. The semi-formal shirt which is somehow two sizes too large is damp with several drinks over it. Clinging for life onto ‘Um’ are the shameful pints of whatever was cheapest on tap and no one either seems to notice or care. What does seem to care is ‘Um’. Somehow his eyes are fixed simultaneously onto the tantric antics of ‘Him’ and the back of his head. However, the body language seems to speak the most clearly despite his sitting disposition of a yawning bean bag. ‘Um’ doesn’t want ‘Him’. He wants to be ‘Him’.

Who wouldn’t want to be the talk of the town? The life of the party. The one who is adored. You can wear what you want and get away with it. Say what you want and is deep in other’s minds. ‘Um’ wants this and despite his inebriated state is going to grab it.

The atmosphere is subdued. ‘Him’ seems to be involved in some deep meaningful conversation with the group. Holding court would diminish how in control he is. Everyone does not seem to take notice of ‘Um’ rising to occasion and walking through chairs and tables to reach the now fabled platform of ‘Him’. I only seem to take notice. As if I was the only poor soul trapped in the room with ‘Um’. I’m not the choice of audience though. Is there an audience for ‘Um’? This may be a statement of intent. The opportunity to move forward with his magnolia life and grab it into something more colourful. He’s under no illusion that he’ll suddenly become ‘Him’ and will become his greatest fantasy but it’s something far greater. The big step into the beyond.

‘Um’ continues his stead and seems to take a moment before taking the stage. Is it nervousness, meditation or possibly a foreseeable bout of vomit? Either way the moment passes, and he slumps onto the table and rises to his feet. There are no theatrics. No performer’s call. The atmosphere is somehow electric. Music is still pumping to the beats of something no one knows the name of. ‘Um’ takes a hard beeline stare ahead. Not at anything other than some wooden panelling and thankfully not myself. He removes his shirt. No reaction. The stare continues. Will he dance? Sing?

Pants are down by his ankles, and he is shaking his cock.

As ‘Um’s head cracks the pavement, the doors close behind – so does the opportunity to gain the glory, let alone some semblance of love and adoration. The opportunity lost to be the talk of the party. ‘Um’ saunters away stage left into the unknown darkness wearing a pair of socks and an overwhelming trail of melancholy. There was no uproar, no heckling, slander or jeer. The night continued with or without ‘Um’. The chance lasted less than a minute before the pounding reality of an omnibus of poor choices. ‘Him’ led the parade to who knows what via stage right.

The hum settled across the room as I seemed to reset after the commotion. Life just carried on without the parties present. My cider turned flat and warm as the fear fizzled into what I could become.

PROMPTLY AND THE HAM & CHEESE SANDWICH

There staring back at me on an adequate Wednesday afternoon at my doorstep was what can be described as an oversized tub of paint. I assume it’s paint judging by the annoyingly clingy white lid and the about to break any second plastic handle. There was no label except for a hastily ripped off piece of masking tape with the words scratched onto it in blue,

‘MOTHER S MAGGNOLEEA’.

From the reasonable attempt at spelling (of which I shouldn’t be scornful about as I have to double check at least five words a paragraph. I don’t trust autocorrect as it ultimately led to my dismissal from the ‘Great Duck Society: Chapter 45’.) and lack of notice, I assumed this tub of which seems to mostly resemble a barrel, was left behind by my landlord’s son.

He could’ve at least knocked or chapped or whistled or screamed and I would’ve have offered a glass of milk (both kinds at that). I do feel a morsel of guilt as I don’t even know his name. We have met at least a dozen times, but he never formally introduced himself and he knew my name well judging by his outright refusal to use pronouns - only names. After a dozen meetings it would be rather unjust to ask for his name. I can’t ask his mum and for a man who never uses pronouns, he never signs off his messages with his name. Always with the word ‘promptly’. I’ve even saved him on my phone as ‘Promptly’.

I think the additional guilt comes from the lapsed friendship with my landlord despite the flaky promises to put a fourth wall on my bathroom and replacing the pictures of windows with an actual window. We used to have a connection as artists. During what would be deemed my ‘commercial phase’ of contemporary horse portraiture, I met my landlord at several car boot sales where we would be selling our wares: my anxious yet seductive horse pastel drawings and her bronzed beaver busts (I assumed they were beavers). When I think about it, I don’t even know her name. She’s just ‘landlord’ (I really need to keep better check of my files). We haven’t communicated much ever since the ‘window-washer incident’ thus the intermediary of a son intervening on her behalf. The main problem with him is that he actually checks up on the property of which was considered a rarity by his mum of whom I distracted her with my Swiftie of a chinchilla, Deirdre, for several years.

Using several screwdrivers and an emotionally damaged pair of scissors, I eventually opened the bin of paint. Staring back at me was what appeared to be layers of under baked short crust pastry with a waft of diesel. The waft triggered a memory of previous attempts to make craft beer from a friend’s lock up which led to half of the town not allowed to use their kitchen taps for 2 days. After losing my acclaimed wooden rod collection to a scornful badger set, I had to resort to their spooned cousins to stir the paint pie. As the crust began to dissipate a colour began to emerge of what would be deemed as an aggressive custard used in a children’s TV show from 20 years marred by several controversies. The smell worsened as the Lazarus paint awakens peeling off the last of the carrion to scrounging maggots. I miss the smell of diesel now. Take me back to the 24-hour bakery of paint: I deserve it.

Slathering what only resembles a depressed scrambled egg mixture on to the walls of the flat took its toll. The hallway, which is an admirable 8 washing machines long, had a series of holes that required filling – mostly caused by a solo dance off to ‘Belle of Belfast City’ by the Rankin Family. Luckily, I have a year's supply of expanding foam because of a letter campaign to B&Q which yielded such a treasure. It also led to a court order to not ‘pester’ any businesses with letters ever again, but a win is a win. My abundance of materials loiters around the flat. It was intentional due to my ‘open studio’ policy at first but after about a week it became more of a case of classic untidiness. I miss the space I had with the flat. When I first moved in, I had enough space to swing a compliant Labrador.

After that long weekend with multiple long breaks due to procrastination and inhalation led pass outs, the last chunks of paint were smeared on the living room wall. I wanted to leave that room last to memorialise another lost long weekend. Due to a typical bout of depression and anxiety, I dedicated a weekend of watching ‘The Matrix’ over and over again (15 times was my last count). I began what most mentally famished folk do and re-enact the film in the flat. I believe ‘Promptly’ wasn’t a fan of the boot prints on the walls and ceiling. If I recall correctly my fantastical malaise ceased when my offerings of red and blue pills fired up local far-right conspiracy groups which led to a few drive by riots in the neighbourhood. The pleathers were meticulously folded away into the shared loft until the local WANTED posters melted away in the near daily rainfall identifying oneself.

With the barrel empty and crying, it was left back on the doorstep for some other poor individual to wonder what died and transformed into the ether of an ignored colour chart of rain-soaked cheese. I assume ‘Promptly’ will return and take it back, but I hope someone else will make use of it and make it into a wonderful piece of art of which I never could. However, I did take off the masking tape name. The name of which made me wonder the choices behind it as a not so clever pun. It could’ve been the concoction of the son’s dry wit and maybe we could share a drink of budget friendly IPA together and laugh at the methodology of pigeons but that will probably never arise. Any shared connections I notice, I often take great means to avoid or acknowledge as I wouldn’t want to expose myself as ‘other’. The acceptable form of unusual or eccentric can only extend so far for an introvert. I used to be interesting – but in these times, I would rather take the guise of a store-bought ham and cheese sandwich.

Well, maybe just the ham.