Depressaholic: Part 4

He worked at present in a bank, and would sit, with the exception of a half hour lunch break, and two other fifteen minute breaks, at his desk from nine till five, working through endless piles of forms, transferring the data onto a computer. Although it was terrible at times, horrifically boring, especially bad after dinner when all you wanted to do was sleep, and when the clock stood still and you felt like screaming, even so it was a manageable job. There were good points, for example in the morning, fresh, yet also half asleep, it was nice to work through a pile of forms, never having to tax the brain at that early hour, dozing your way happily through them, and having the satisfaction of seeing the pile go down. Also he could chat sometimes to the other employees, and when you did finally get a break – and they were very precious here so you appreciated them the more – you could have a nice cup of coffee.

He hated being unemployed, feeling always guilty for not earning money and contributing nothing to society and instead living on the dole or off his parents. More so than this he hated being idle and couldn’t cope with all the nonsense that swirls around in your head when you have too much time on your hands. No, when he worked he felt he was making something of his life; when he wasn’t he felt he was fretting it away.

So he liked to work, or at least it was the better of two bad options, and he liked to earn a bit of money, to pay his way and have a bit of cash in his pocket. His plan, his ideal was to work five days a week from nine till five, and then have the remainder of his time – all those precious evenings and the whole weekend – free to do as he liked and mainly to pursue his reading, his love of learning. This was one of the main reasons why he held such a low key job. He could’ve made use of his education by being for example a teacher, but then all his evenings and weekends would’ve been taken up with marking and preparation, in a word his life would’ve been over. Moreover being so antisocial and introverted, teaching could never have appealed to him, and he had no wish to return to school, detesting as he did his school days. Plus he hated the education system, the pushy parents, the exams, and had no desire to be part of a system which in his words was to ‘pseudo-educate dullards.’

As well as this people often asked why he didn’t go into publishing or journalism. But the answer to this was all too easy. Those students he’d been at university with, the conventional ones who’d despised Shakespeare and company and chased firsts, but who had hated the boffins, geeks and bores – they now saturated these professions. He was too true and sensitive, too refined and withdrawn to enter these. You had to have that bubbly, forceful character that came with being sated, well-fed and content, that crass simplicity of being to get on in these fields. Geeks, nerds, and bores like him wouldn’t be welcomed. It was with minor bitterness that he saw his piers take up cushy jobs in journalism and publishing; the plump, well fed goslings of the petit bourgeoisie, knowing what was cool and what wasn’t, now held sway here too. Again the girls irked him especially. He saw some of them progress in their careers. Two especially pretty blonde girls from his year, now belonged to a publishing firm, and had recently won an award for one of their books, a sell-out chick-lit novel, anathema to Tony’s soul. He’d seen their picture on the internet. The two of them dazzling, beautiful, holding their trophy, smiling for the camera like a pair of film stars, and speaking about what an ‘original novel’ it had been and how ‘it had blown them away when they first read it.’

Or there again, Lucile Phelps, a girl in the year above him, now writing a column in a national newspaper. Having the right connections, that narcissistic first chaser had made her mark on the world, writing book reviews, sounding conceited and clever, and looking, in her photo next to her column, beautiful and intelligent so that the readers were intimidated by her. It was such a lie. She’d hated all the classics at university. For her, Hardy was a boffin.

But by and large Tony didn’t care that the world should be like that. He was happy enough to live in oblivion, doing a job that didn’t make use of his skill, provided he was satisfied with himself. Whatever those fakes might do, he wouldn’t let it affect him. He just wanted to be alone, unnoticed, and allowed to live his own life. And by working a low key job, he had hours to spare in which to read; outside of work hours no-one held sway over him and he was free to do as he pleased. He enjoyed his aloneness.

At least in theory he did. In practice things didn’t work out so well. The job got to him. Not so much inside work hours where he expected the worst, but outside, when he was meant to be relaxing. It held sway over his soul, held it captive, and the wounds he received in battle during the day, he took home with him, where they rankered, festered and caused him pain.

He was not at all suited to the work environment of the office. Accustomed to the liberal atmosphere of the university, free of pettiness and tyranny, the office stifled his soul, it bullied him. Not that it was terrible or the people bad. Not so at all. It was simply that he was not of their ilk and always felt ill at ease in their presence. Felt he was too educated and wondered if they’d pounce on him. Felt secretly disliked. It wasn’t that they weren’t all nice people, they were: they were sensible, good, intelligent. Moreover Mike and Sheila were big novel readers like him, and Mike especially was a curious fellow, he had a passionate, sensitive soul, he wanted to know more. Many of the employees were graduates, they’d been to university like him. And all of the cashiers, the girls had been friendly to him, and would chat with him sometimes, and he recalled how Laura had shown him where the biscuits were on the first day. She’d been friendly. But he was an alien in their midst and couldn’t relax.

So he was constantly in trepidation, and though he was quiet, did what he was told, and worked hard, he feared he would be pulled up for something, disciplined, like he was in the army. He was in the power of decent men and women, sensible, well-mannered, hard working men and women, but he feared them, for they weren’t as educated as him, in his heart he despised them for being such robots, and he was terrified there would be a clash, that he would rebel against them. On his first day he’d been told off for wearing brown shoes and told to change to black ones. It had absolutely enraged him, such a petit, insignificant thing as that, especially since he was such a quiet and effective worker, just the sheer principle of it choked and upset him, and revelling as he did in freedom of the mind he felt bitter about it. Nevertheless he’d kept it to himself, changed his shoes and got on with it.

Then one Thursday another incident took place. He was told off for eating at his desk. A middle aged woman, a senior member of the team, had happened to come downstairs on business, and in passing, had told him it was against the rules. She hadn’t been nasty particularly, but at the same time she’d been snappy and unfriendly, and Tony was so angry with her; and to see that bossy, miserable, joyless woman, coldly, with a cold tone of voice, and cold eyes, cheerlessly tell him it wasn’t allowed, profoundly upset him. Especially so since others did it, the young girl Sarah, the flash, neatly dressed, handsome, young James. But then they were comme il faut, at home here, unlike he, the alien. He felt the woman would never have told them off, as though there was a clique.

He was on edge for the rest of the day, burning inside with hate and anger. But he kept it all pent up, and at five o’clock left the office, happy to be released, free, and as he walked home alone through the dark February night, he allowed a little tear to come into his eye, the veil of night protecting him from detection.

He was bitter, angry and upset. He burned inside and couldn’t let it go, the thought of that woman, and the way she held power over him. Yet he knew he shouldn’t let it get to him, that he was ruining his freedom, his free time, all that he had earned. It was a beautiful dark night, and as he walked alone home through it, he knew he should’ve been appreciating it, enjoying the soothing chill out music he had on his walkman, thinking, meditating, being relaxed and at ease. But it was impossible, he felt dreadful after work, lousy, unable to shake off its affects.

Sometimes, when he had a long hot bath, he was unable to feel anything but hot and bothered afterwards, as though he had boiled and heated his body so much that it couldn’t recover for the rest of the day. Likewise now with work. He had six or seven hours of freedom in front of him, but his whole being felt choked and his nerves were tense and angry, as if he needed to beat somebody: he was murderously angry and irritated, and all because of his work day. He felt filthy inside, unclean, impure, unable to wipe off the grime of the days work, just as the coalminer could wash clean his face and body, but never his temper or soul.

When he arrived back home and saw in his bedroom his copy of Moby Dick he felt irritated; no, the last thing he wanted to do when he was uptight like this was to read that. He chided himself for ever having chosen it, wishing instead he had a popular history book on the go, something like ‘They Travelled to Tibet’, a book he’d recently read, a page burner, a volume so interesting and easy to read, so light and uncomplicated that you ate up forty or so pages at a time, charging through the chapters, devouring the litany up whole. But he didn’t. He felt angered and enraged. He wouldn’t be doing any reading tonight. God, he wanted to relax.

Desperately uptight, as a first step to unwinding he went into his bathroom to masturbate, taking with him several porn magazines, of which he had a stash under the bed, addicted as he was to the images, but also to the sheer archaic human thrill of going out on a nighttime to try and buy one.

The girls were amazing and so diverse. There was Carmella, a busty, black-haired, dusky Latina, there was the slim, pert princess Anastacia, rolling around on the rocks and sand wearing only a jaguar g-string and a necklace of pearls, her supple, taut little body and buttocks covered in sand, her soft, naked body resting against the jagged, rough rocks, so that you almost felt the friction. Ouch! Then there was Petra the Pole, there was the leggy, juicy, voluptuous Asian babe Arabella, so arrogant, so haughty but so exceptionally beautiful and there were so many others too. Yet actually, after the incident at work, he hated women, wanted to hate them and he felt angered that he now had to lust over them.

But slave to these women that he was, he masturbated three times and when finished felt utterly depressed and low, as though he barely had the will to live. He felt so exhausted, so suicidal. He hated himself, he loathed the girls, he hated that he had to know of their existence. He lay on the bathroom floor, trying to recover.

At this point his mother knocked on the door.

‘Tony, would you like a cup of tea love?’

As he lay there suicidal, trying to recover, to obliviate himself, he felt as testy as a Lion to be intruded upon like this, the knocking on the door grated his soul, and his mother’s kind words so enraged him that he felt like running out and strangling her.

‘No!’ he screamed back emphatically.

It hurt his mother to hear it, but she so wanted to be his friend that she persisted.

‘Is something the matter Tony?’

But that was like anathema to him.

‘No’ he shouted once more ‘just go away!’

Upset, his mother saw however that it was best not to push it any further and headed downstairs. At the bottom she met Mr Luggin on his way up. Tony overheard their conversation.

‘Don’t go and see him love’ said his mother. ‘I think it’s best to stay clear.’

‘Oh’ said Mr Luggin taken aback. ‘I’ll just go up and see if he wants a cup of tea.’

He was in such a pleasant mood after work and was keen just to say hello to his son, glad to be back home as he was. His demeanour and feeling couldn’t have been more at odds with his sons.

‘I already asked him that’ said Mrs Luggin, taking her irritation out on her husband.

‘Well I’ll ask him again’ said the irrepressible Mr Luggin. He was so happy at heart, so peaceful.

By this time, irked, Tony came out of the bathroom and met his father on the landing,

‘Hi!’ said his father enthusiastically.

‘Hi’ replied Tony in a low, low pitch that showed how miserable and depressed he was.

‘Is something the matter, Tony?’ said his father, hurt, scared and confused, trying to reach out to his son.

‘No!’ screamed Tony, ‘just go away! Go on move! I can’t stand the sight of you. Now go away!’

Upset, and almost with puppy dog eyes, his father looked at him imploringly, then left him alone. Tony went to his room.

He lay on the bed brooding. He felt angry and stressed, bitter with himself. He hated the way he behaved, and knew he was exactly like the slave, who, after a gruelling days work, labouring in the sun and being whipped by his overseer, came back home to beat his wife.

One member of the Luggins family was however unperturbed by this, and innocent and oblivious, ran upstairs to see Tony. It was Pepper the cat.

The little ginger cat, cold and half wet from its recent jaunt outside, joyously ran up the stairs to his bedroom and after scratching at the door and meowing, was allowed in. As Tony lay on his bed, his hands behind is head, looking at the ceiling, the cat walked around on the bed next to him, purring, content, rubbing her head, itching it against his person, his toes, his legs, his head, ears and hair, meowing all the while, touching her wet nose to his ear, looking for love and affection. He indulged her, stroking her head and scratching her chin.

She was such a pleasant cat, always friendly and joyous, especially so when she’d been outside in the cold and wet for a while and was delighted to be back indoors. It was nice that she never resented being left out: whereas a human, left out in the cold would vent their anger after the event, when they were let in, the cat Pepper simply revelled in her new found comfort, completely forgetting all the hurt and discomfort of before. Yes, no doubt if it had’ve been him, the first thing he would’ve done on reentering the house would be to berate his parents for leaving him out, rather than just being thankful to be back indoors.

Only very occasionally did Pepper seem out of sorts. On cold days where she stayed in all days, she would, when night came, feel depressed: you could sense it, she snorted slightly as though she were peeved and like a puppy she pouted. At such times there was only one thing to do. Tony would put her, against her will, out of doors. She hated it at the time, but half an hour later, when she came in wet, cold and refreshed, purring and content, he knew he’d done her a favour. Now he should take his own medicine.

He went out for a long, rambling walk. The night was cold, dark and serene, and there was a freshness in the air after the rain. He walked alone, thoughtful, through the deserted streets.

He needed love in his life. He knew he needed somebody to love, to care for. He had a platonic image in his head of a girl his age – not older, not younger – sensible, sensitive, fairly plain, who needed him like he needed her. Someone whom he got a long with, a soul mate. He wouldn’t care what she looked like, in fact he would much prefer her plain and ordinary, someone who didn’t fit into this world, a geek, a nerd, a nobody. Someone who went to church say or read books or was a misfit in some respect. Someone good and sensible.

He would love her, dote on her, do everything for her. The weekends would be great. He would look forward to them all week. They would spend Saturday evening together, relaxing at home in each others company. Joyed to be in each others presence, he would hold her hand, kiss her forehead, give her the loving protection she needed. The plainer she was, the more outcast, the more he would love her. And it would be so easy to unwind in her presence. Being alone was so stressful, he craved to be in the presence of this woman, the woman he loved, it was such a relief, so relaxing. He loved her so much, it would be such a joy to do her laundry for instance or to cook for her, to take care of her and make sure she was looked after. They would spend the night together, he saw her next to him in bed, not in any sexual context, but in a loving one, and he would look over to her, hold her, comfort her, warmed and heartened by her presence. Then on Sunday afternoon the two of them would go for a walk together, alone in the countryside, in the cold, pure light of a cold winter’s day, hand in hand they would walk, loving each other and caring for nothing else, stopping to drink some coffee from a hot flask they shared.

That was his platonic ideal, but it was shattered by his obsession with sex, beautiful women and pornography. Would there ever be a day when he gave up these women, when he learnt to ignore them? It seemed unlikely. Sometimes on a Friday or Saturday night he would sit alone in a café overlooking Leicester Square and watch on as hordes, utter hordes of beautiful women, with cleavage, bare legs and body parts on show, walked past on their way to nightclubs. There were hundreds of them, and he sat there and ogled them, gorged with desire, seeing their strong naked thighs, their bouncing breasts, beautiful hair, their pretty faces adorned with scintillating earrings and necklaces, saw their sexy high heels and their tight, skimpy little costumes revealing so much. He was dazzled by them, tantalized. He wanted to sleep with each and everyone of them. Yet he would only ever be able to watch them from afar, never able to get near to them or impress them. He wanted all of them and he would never touch any of them. How was he supposed to maintain his sanity?

So his love ideal was smashed by his lust after handsome women, and there he was like a man sat, bound to a chair, his hands tied behind his back, as a procession of tantalizing lovelies came by and teased him. He loathed them for it, but it was his fault for being so obsessed. And it all left him between a rock and a hard place for if he did ever find his beloved plain wife, surely he would have unfulfilled desires, and then he would resent his wife for that, and get angry and rageful with her. Why did he associate true love with a plain woman, and lustful pleasure with the beauties? Why did he hate the beauties so much, while the plain girls were his platonic ideal? He always classified women, and put them into pigeonholes, and had no idea that they hated this. His views of women were so at odds with how women saw themselves. But then again, what he thought or didn’t think about women was all academic, since they weren’t in any way interested in him.

Thinking back to his days at university he always recalled the rows and rows of well-fed, ignorant lovelies, those magnificent girls and his hatred of them, but he rarely considered that not all of them had been like that. One girl, plain and undistinguished, had been very similar to him. She was intelligent like him, good at her work, but also upset, sad, crushed by the world. You could read that in her face; she always, like Tony, looked down, too sensitive. She lacked all the beauty and coquette manners of the other girls. It wasn’t just that she was plainer than they that made her less attractive. Tony realised that coupled with that was the fact that to him at least, a sensitive looking person, unhappy and despondent, a true thinker, someone who saw life like he did, was never so attractive as someone who was in the easy lane of life, plump, sated and ignorant of truth. No, those beauties were doubly attractive to him, because not only were they exquisitely handsome, but being well-rounded, comatose and oblivious, sunning themselves in the innocent joy of life, they seemed healthy and sexy. Yes, he and that girl the same, because they saw life as it was, and were crushed by it, lost something in their face, almost as if their physiognomy changed on account of their sensitive pursuit of truth. They looked unhealthy.

So there it was. Really he had already come across such a plain woman as his ideal. That upset-looking, plain, intelligent girl had been in his class. Yet they’d never said a word to each other, and there had just been a mutual dislike, a mutual shunning, as if to say in this lonely world, and in the presence of and under the weight of the well-fed guys and dolls, they just couldn’t ever face each other. Yes, she just like Tony, had been unconcerned about him, but rather more concerned with what upset her and what she was outcast from: the content, sated, beautiful, students.

He saw that he was obsessed by the worst of the students and especially the girls and hate them though he may, it was with them he wanted to make peace. When it came to feeling sexually aroused to women, the more vulgar, tacky and awful they were the more he found them attractive. Again with the female students in his class it had been the worst of them, that had left their mark on him, and these were the ones that he hated but whom he also in some sense found attractive. He saw clearly all the flaws in his nature. Other people found love, other people got on with their lives, other people contented themselves with what they were given. But he became obsessed and bitter, raging against the wrongs, hurt and upset by it all.

He walked on through the dark, deserted night, refreshed. For all his acknowledged faults however, he knew he also lived for truth, and that there was some justification in his anger against the world. He was lonely and confused, uncertain, unsure of himself, unable to explain why he felt like he did and why he was so different, yet at the same time sure in some small way, that it was he who was seine, and that the world was mad. When he got home he felt slightly better, as if he was coming to a state of caring less. He wanted to express himself a little, to try and explain himself, and so wrote a little comment on an internet forum. He knew it would almost certainly fall on deaf ears, but he didn’t care, he felt calmed and relaxed, and he would put it out there anyway. He would just say his peace and leave it to be.

‘Someone once said that life without love is impossible. It is unbearable. I need someone to love and I have no-one. I’m always so angry, raging and depressed. I hate myself for being like this, for hating the world, I absolutely hate myself, and I know I’m a total jerk and I’ve only got myself to blame, but I just can’t help be like that. I’ve got barely any friends and the only people who really care for me are my parents, and I constantly upset them by taking out all my problems on them. I hate myself for it, but just can’t help it. I’ve got nothing in my life, except my job, and I absolutely hate that, it’s dead end and drives me insane. I’m always down, low, dispirited and moody, but the worst thing of all is that I loathe myself and know that it’s all my fault for being this way.’