“We are like the spider. We weave our life and then move along in it. We are like the dreamer who dreams and then lives in the dream. This is true for the entire universe.”
David Lynch
I was just trying to read The Independent. I can’t be fucked with newspapers right now, they are like children’s colouring in books, but stupid, but I was reading it anyway, because it was three am or so and the busses aren’t so regular at that time of night. I’d accidentlally left my copy of Ham On Rye at home. I stayed up till just before seven last night – well, this morning – reading that. I couldn’t put it down.
But the girl sat next to me was shouting at the man who kept trying to put his arms around her. He, in broken English, said what he thought were reasuring things, and tried to hold her. She shouted at him. Eventually, he got up, and took a piss in the doorway of MacDonalds. She looked at me in exasperation, and smiled, with a little anger. “When he comes back,” she said, “please tell him not to talk to me.”
I said, “Maybe you should have done that yourself, a long time ago.”
“I work with him,” she said. “He’s fucking Polish. I don’t mind drinking with him, but then he always tries to be all fucking nice to me, look after me, fuck me. He tries to fuck me. He wants to stick his hand in my pants. I’m sick of it.”
“My Grandad was Polish,” I said.
She burst into loud, violent tears.
“MY granddad is dead! Today. He is dead. I have to go to Kent and sort it all out tomorrow.”
She wept. She looked very young.
“What about his children?” I said
“They’ll only care about the estate,” she spat, bitterly. “They don’t give a fuck about him. They’re doing a cutting thing on him! What is it when they cut them?”
I said, “an autopsy?”
“Yes,” she said. “That. He had heart failure, but he never had it before! He died of a broken heart. My Gran died 83 years ago. 83 weeks ago. A broken heart. It is bad that he died. So bad.”
“No,” I said. “It is good. Even if you don’t believe in heaven, they are together now. Mingling in dust forever. They lived. They were in love. It is good.”
“He never got to fuck her,” she said. “She was raped when she was 22. She never let him fuck her. But he loved her. Even when she got alzheimer’s, and would hit him. She called him a prick and fool. She said she didn’t know him. She would hit him with a broom handle. He put her in a home, but he visited her every day. He loved her. He said, ‘we made vows.’ She was his third wife, but he loved her. Now he is dead. It is bad.”
I said, “so it goes. Don’t be sad. Love is always.”
The man came back, wiping his hands on his trousers. He tried to put his arms around her. She screamed at him.
“You Polish prick! My grandfather died!”
“I’m part Polish,” I said.
“I just want the bus to come!” she wailed.
I asked her what bus she was waiting for. It was the same one as me. I lit a cigarette, and she asked for one. I said, “OK.” The man was trying to put his arm around her. She hit him in the face with the back of her hand. He protested, feebly.
“He was a good man,” she said. “He didn’t even hit her much. He was in a war. And she wouldn’t even fuck him”.
The man tried with his arm again. She got up and screamed at the sky.
“Polish prick!”
The bus came.
We got on. I sat at the back, and she sat in front of me.
“Did he get on?” she asked.
I said, “no.”
“I work with him,” she said. “He’s OK for a drink. But then he tries to fuck me. He thinks I need looking after. Where did all the real men go? All men do now is cry.”
I said, “David Beckham cried a lot in ’99. Maybe that gave them the idea.”
“That man is a fucking fag!” She said. “A Polish fag!”
“I’m part Polish,” I said.
She wiped at the corner of her mouth. There was crust on it, and she missed. It stayed there.
“I need a real man,” she said. “Like my granddad. He loved my Gan. He fucking loved her! She wouldn’t even fuck him!”
“Rape is a hell of a thing.” I mused. “Maybe I wouldn’t fuck anybody if someone raped me.”
“What would you know?” she demanded. “What do you know about love?”
I said, “It’s the only thing that matters.”
“I need a cigarette,” she said. She lit half a cigarette. I don’t know where it came from. She got off at the next stop. “What are you looking at, you fag?” she shouted at the man sat adjacent to me.
I got off at the stop afterwards. I took my packet of cigarettes out of my pocket, and lit one. It tasted of cardboard. The didn’t sell Embassy Number One at the club I’d just been in. I didn’t even mean to go there. I watched the new David Lynch film this evening. It freaked me out. Even the actors in it say they didn’t know what it was about. I thought it was obvious. It was about how we see women. And it was about infidelity, and jealousy, as a metaphor for chaos, and control. My friend Chandra has a new club night round the corner from that cinema I was in. I went there afterwards. It was OK. Chandra was making a good go of things. I was proud of her.
— Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007
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