Thursday, 28 August 2008

Vegetarian (part 2)

On a dark, cold winter’s evening, a solitary figure could be seen walking hurriedly along the empty streets of town. The figure, a man, seemed agitated and possessed as if he was stealing off from some crime he’d just committed.

It was Christopher Hirst. He was deeply depressed with everything in his life, felt troubled and tormented and only one thought could comfort him: he had to have a kebab. He was exhilarated and thrilled by the prospect of a delicious Donna kebab and, a mile or so distant from the shop, he found himself breaking into a run, so excited was he to get his hands on it. He knew it was wrong but didn’t care: the only thing that mattered to him was to eat the kebab, to taste that, essential, delicious meat.

He had the money in his pocket, he was excited and nervy, like a man who sets out to visit a prostitute; driven only by carnal urges, the primitive in him usurping the helm, and heading him off to Hades in a handcart. The adrenaline pumping, he ran through the dark night to the holy ground of fulfilment.

Eventually he reached the shop, and approaching with trepidation, his legs wobbling, he stepped inside with the same feeling of guilt, excitement and almost religious awe, as if he were going to sacrifice his life to the devil, that he would’ve felt had he been entering a brothel.

He was terrified he might get caught, that someone he knew would see him, but he had to take the risk. He stood in line, fidgety and wanting the deal done.

Three weeks had elapsed since Chris had turned vegetarian. Two nights earlier, on Wednesday evening, he had found himself out of humour. It had been a pitch black and a bleak February night outside, and he had been indoors having to do an essay for Thursday. At that point he hadn’t even started it. He had been unable to face doing it, and a pile of musty old text books that he was meant to read through first, had stood heavy as a tombstone on his desk, eyeing him reproachfully. He couldn’t be bothered to read them and he had known that he should have started work weeks ago, but he had had no enthusiasm for it. He had been annoyed at having allowed this situation to arise due to laziness, and irked that he had had to knuckle down to work for the evening and all day tomorrow in order to get it done, wishing instead that he could have had a relaxing evening like his flatmates. As he had sat at his desk trying to concentrate, he had felt annoyed, angered and frustrated. And loud music had started blaring out from next door: Bomber’s room.

He had tried to concentrate but couldn’t, and had paced angrily up and down. Eventually, however it had all been too much for him, and, wishing to vent his anger, he had gone to the kitchen, hoping someone would be there.

Gary had been there, in a pleasant mood as usual.

‘What a tip this place is! It’s absolutely revolting’ Chris had blurted out angrily. ‘Do people not care? It’s like living with bloody animals!’ Gary had felt scared. He was accustomed to the quiet, sensitive Chris and had been shocked to see him act like such a psychopath.

For Chris, the sight of the dirty kitchen had been the final straw. The thought of having to write the boring essay he should’ve started weeks ago and the gloomy, cold February night were sufficiently depressing; but the filthy kitchen that iced his cake had been too much to bare.

‘I tell you who it is’ Chris had continued, angrily, not looking Gary in the eye, ‘it’s that bloody fool Bomber. He can’t make a slice of toast without dirtying all the benches, slopping sauce everywhere, sullying every piece of crockery in the frigging kitchen and then leaving it to sit on the benches. Look at that!’ and he had picked up a dirty saucepan, half full of water and sauce, lying lazily on the bench.

‘Look at that’ he had barked, showing it angrily to the terrified Gary without looking him in the eye. ‘That stupid animal thinks he doesn’t have to clean up after himself. This pan’s been here for days! It’s revolting! Well let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.’

After having poured the contents of the metal pan down the drain he had marched out of the kitchen with it in his hand. Gary had gone in tow.

Chris had gone to Bomber’s room, and banged the pan against the door. Eventually Bomber had opened up, his music blaring out behind him and pouring out of the room.

‘Yes?’ he had said, almost pleasantly.

‘Is this yours?’ Chris had asked indicating the pan.

‘What?’

And without even thinking on it – Bang! Chris had raised the pan and brought it down – bang! – very satisfactorily on Bomber’s head. It had been an impulsive outburst, and before he had known what he was doing, he’d brought it down on Bomber’s head. It had been so, so satisfying, yet he had felt utterly, utterly ashamed and guilty. Bomber had been so innocent and unsure of what was going on, and had fallen away, dazed and confused. Chris had felt such immense sympathy for him, as he had hit him, such immense human sympathy.

Chris had then rushed off to his room and locked himself in, sitting down at his desk and trying to collect his thoughts. Meanwhile Gary had seen to Bomber. He had been a little dazed, but okay. What with all the commotion, the entire flat had appeared outside Bomber’s door, and had stood, inquiring if he was hurt.

Chris had sat at his desk, sad, remorseful and confused. He had acted rashly, on impulse, and though it had been satisfying to fully strike Bomber, afterwards he had felt dreadfully guilty. Strangely, he had felt such compassion for the simple Bomber. He had expected him to open up the door like a grouchy, insolent bear. In fact when he had, he had borne such a pleasant, simple expression as if he was genuinely pleased to see swot-knot, and Chris had felt like a psychopath for hitting him. He had felt so remorseful, as if all he had wanted was to hug big Bomber and cry tears with him. As they stood around he had listened into their conversation.

‘I just opened up and saw it was swot-knot, and he’s asking me about some pan when all of a sudden – bang! – he’s hit me. And it bloody hurts as well. Argh! Mother fucker!’ and he had rubbed his head in pain. ‘It really fucking hurts’ he had said, sincerely, genuinely upset.

So had Chris begun the spiral of events that had brought him now to this. He had sat in his room wondering if he was in trouble, if Bomber would report him, sad and deflated, unable get on with his work. He had overheard his flatmates and had had the impression they thought him a psycho, which was exactly what he had felt himself to be. Desperate to talk, later on that evening he had ventured out to the kitchen and loitering there eventually spoken with a flat mate.

‘Did you hear that I smashed a pan over Bomber’s head’ he had said guiltily, smiling and trying to sound like a naughty little boy. There had been a colour in his cheek and almost a tear in his eye.

His flatmate had listened to him politely, but it was all too evident he was now afraid of him.

‘Yes, sir, may I take your order?’

‘One small kebab please’ replied Chris.

There was such a look of guilt in his face, and such an inflection of guilt in his voice, that the man serving him eyed him in puzzlement. He was given his kebab.

It was a small portion (he wanted to minimise his sin), and with it wrapped up in paper, he left the shop. He walked briskly, all consumed, and entered a small park opposite. And heading into the park, in the dark of night, and leaving behind him the noise and lights of the streets, he felt happy and alone. He trotted to a tree right on the far side, and there, solitary and at a distance from humanity, he stood with his kebab, like a fox with stolen morsels in the night. Excitedly he tucked in.

It was like being in Heaven. It was pure, pure ecstasy to eat it. That thin, gangly, meat, hot and greasy – God that was good. The tender, dripping meat was gorgeous. He absolutely loved it. He was passionately crazy over it. The chilli sauce, the pitta bread, the salad and the chilli – they were good. But the meat itself was Heaven sent, so greasy and hot and satisfying.

The day after the pan incident, Chris had gotten up early and worked all morning and afternoon to get the essay finished by five o’clock. He had handed it in and went to a lecture.

When the lecture was over at six he had felt tired and wanted to relax. He came out the lecture theatre with some friends, and when the cold, dark, February evening had hit him, he had felt disinclined to go for the run he had planned to do. What with working all day, coupled with his depressed state of mind over the previous night’s incident – he still found himself feeling guilty, befuddled and confused – he hadn’t had the energy to go out running. And when his friends had asked him to go to the pub, he had gone with them.

They had sat in the noisy, smoky, pub chatting. Chris had tried to be positive, happy and relaxed, and initially, due to the fact that he’d ducked out of going running, he had been relieved, and felt happy and in good spirits. But this had soon worn off, his true feelings had begun to shine through, and he had been very evidently unhappy.

Nevertheless he had been determined to wind down and enjoy himself. He had gone to a friend’s house, where he and another boy had sat playing computer games. They had sat on the carpet in the living room of the house, with the lights switched off so that only the illumined computer screen before them lit things up. Outside, through the large window, it had been pitch dark.

Chris had played for a few hours, before deciding he must get out. He always felt utterly deflated when he played computer games for long, long spells. It left him almost suicidal. It affected the others too. As the gaming had worn on, those good spirits that they had been in when they first got here, the humorous banter that had accompanied the early stages of the game – all of that had been sucked out of them, and later on they had merely sat there, with straight, miserable faces, totally engrossed, like automatons, on the game. As if to give up the game would mean an awful, awful return to reality, the thought of which was so unstomachable, that they had desperately wanted to play on.

In the end Chris had left. Those two could continue playing, he had thought, but he had to make a move pronto, he must get out. He had said some miserable goodbyes, not looking his friends in the eye, and then stepped outside.

When the cold, fresh, February evening had hit him, it was like a stark wake up call, reminding him about life. It had reminded him, like a rebuke, of all the good things in life he might have done but of how he’d wasted his opportunities. He had felt a dreadfully profound sinking feeling, as though he had betrayed the God-urge, as if suicide was the only option. He had felt infinite regret that he had not gone running. This time, just a week earlier, that was exactly what he’d done. What he wouldn’t have given to be returning home now from his run, purified, fresh and rejuvenated for having embraced the elements and exercised; clear headed, satisfied, and looking forward to tomorrow, Friday. Yet he’d squandered his chance, and had opted out. And as if to ram all of this home, on his way back, he had seen a jogger, in shorts, running calmly through the dark night air. It had been a dispiriting reproach.

Then when he had reached home, feeling dissatisfied, depressed and very low, he had watched the TV, flicking between the channels, unhappily.

The next day he had slept in until eleven. He had awoke feeling depressed and with a headache. Missing two morning lectures, he had made it only in time for the one at two o’clock. During the whole lecture, he didn’t pay attention to anything that was said. Then at three o’clock, depressed by having wasted an entire day, he had returned home.

Tonight, Friday, the flat mates had intended to go for a night out on the town. Despite the fact that he had been depressed by everything, for having wasted today, for having skipped running last night, and for having struck Bomber – it had all been swimming round in his head, and he had felt nauseated, at sea – despite all this Chris had still wanted to go. Partly because they’d all been looking forward to this night out for a while now, and partly because he had felt guilty over the Bomber debacle, and wished to show his flatmates he was still friends with them all, that he was normal, not a psycho. He had felt a cold shield drop down between himself and the others and he had been keen to dispel this notion.

So he had gone along with them. Clearly they had anticipated his absence tonight, but they had been willing to allow him to come along, even though they all now bore an instinctive wariness of him. He hadn’t spoken to Bomber, as the group headed into town, they kept at different ends of the pack. Chris had felt as though he were tagging along, as if the others didn’t want him there. He had tried to make conversation, and to pretend that all was well, but his flatmates didn’t appear to listen to him, and he felt foolish and guilty, like an unwanted dog as he walked along at their ‘heels’, ‘begging’ for them to listen to his words. The pack had marched manfully on, and he had felt unwelcome. He had deeply regretted having come.

All throughout the evening Chris had been on the waltzer, the compass of his soul spinning and lost. He had been tormented, dissatisfied, and not in the mood to party. They had sat in smoky, dark pubs and clubs, the music deafeningly loud, so that you couldn’t hear anyone speak. Girls had come over and sat at their table and talked. But Chris had not engaged in any of this. He had just sat there silently, looking miserable.

And when an attractive lady, who was talking to the group, had happened to look at Chris and see his miserable face, and then scowled and sighed and asked ‘what did he come for? What a misery’ he knew it was time to be off.

He had quitted the club they were in and had been momentarily happy to be out alone in the fresh, cold, evening air, his head feeling so much clearer after the noise and smoke of the club. And it was then, his spirits low and his soul confused and all at sea, that he had decided on cheering himself up with a kebab.

He walloped it down. He hadn’t eaten meat for nearly a month now, his fat supplies were depleted, and he gorged himself like a cave man on it. And as the meat ran out his heart began to sink. He wanted more! He should have ordered a big portion! He was full of regret. He polished it off desperately and when all the meat was gone, he licked the paper like one possessed, trying to suck up the fat. Finally he had to admit that there was no more. He craved more, he wanted more, but for tonight that was it. He’d had his kebab.

Yet after thinking things through, he decided he must, he absolutely must have another one, and headed back to the shop. This time he would order a large one, and not only would that fill him up, it would also keep him sated for a while, so that he would no longer suffer these cravings. After this one that would be it. He’d return to being a vegetarian.

He stood in line sheepishly once more. When he was served, the man looked at him puzzled and with disgust, at seeing him again. But he was determined to have another kebab and so put up with these disparaging looks.

However just as the man was preparing his meat, Chris was caught in compromise: his flatmates entered the shop.

‘Swot-knot!’ they all cried, headed up by the irrepressible Bomber, who after a few drinks, seemed to have forgotten that any animosity existed between himself and Chris.

‘Swot-knot! What are you doing here?’ he asked.

Chris felt mortally ashamed and wished the earth would swallow him up. He was trying to think up an excuse when Bomber said

‘Argh! You’re not having one of those awful veggie burgers are you?’ Chris felt terrible. He was smiling guiltily and muttering incomprehensibly when he was served his kebab. Bomber looked with confusion at the meat, looked at Chris who looked back guiltily in return, and then finally understood. He was happy.

‘Hey swot-knot! Whey! I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist temptation. You get stuck in son. Hey you lot’ said Bomber turning to the others ‘Swot-knot’s having a kebab!’

And all his friends, as well as everyone in the shop, studied Chris, who attempted to appear amiable and a tad guilty, as if to say he was human like they were and fancied some meat.

When the others were served their food, they all walked home together, eating. Chris felt awful and wanted only to run off, but knew there was nothing for it but to face up to the music and walk home with his flat mates. After eating a little kebab meat he’d become sick of it, realised the large portion was far too much, and was no longer in the mood to eat it anymore. It wasn’t as thrilling as eating it surreptitiously.

And Bomber, well, you had to hand it to him, he didn’t hold any grudge against Chris or angrily chide him for his hypocrisy. He simply teased him a little in his boyish way, and Chris conceded that Bomber had a certain amount of wisdom, in the way he just forgave his hypocritical actions, and dismissed them as human. It was almost as if Bomber was welcoming him into the human race.

‘You get stuck into that son, get that kebab down your cake hole. See, I told you, it’s bloody delicious. Absolutely gorgeous. Never mind what they say about the lambs, it’s bloody delicious meat that’s what I say, the perfect way to round off the perfect evening. Hey next week lads we’ll have to take swot-knot to a whore house. Eh? What do you say about that lads? See him get his head stuck into some pussy. You’ll love it swot-knot’ he said putting his arm around Chris, ‘you’ll love it son, kebabs and pussy it’s all a man needs in life. Now get tucked into that kebab mate.’

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