Copyright.Writing experiment 1/20/10: Words suggested one after the other were AUTISM; JOBS; SHOWER; LOVE
“Do you know what Bill said about me, that guy with just a little learning which in his case is a dangerous thing? He said I was a prime candidate to be classified as autistic. He’s been reading about it! Or Asperger’s syndrome he added. He cited as examples my constant moving, my fanaticism about having details right, my going from subject to subject, my hopping and flitting he said. I just sat back knowing he was a windbag who eventually like bagpipes would run out of steam. He then said I had St.Vitus’ dance, a malady involving twitching. He didn’t think I knew about St.Vitus, a poor Christian child martyr killed under Diocletian in the late third or early fourth century. The technical name for the illness is chorea. It was thought that by praying to the child saint the illness would be cured. I suppose he must have twitched a lot during his martyrdom. Do you know what I said? I said Bollocks.”
Gordon was looking wonderingly at Jonathan who today seemed more than usually over-excited in their twelve years together. In mid-flight in his excitement, Jonathan continued. Gordon laughed. “ Was he cute?”
Jonathan paused frowningly. “Who?
“St. Vitus.”
Jonathan looked severe. “Don’t be frivolous about the saints. You never know when you might need them.”
“Sorry.” Gordon looked contrite but inside he was laughing. That’s why he loved Jonathan. He made him laugh. There should be more people like that. Life was not dull with Jonathan. He was a source of endless stories. Scherazade would have envied his capacity.
Jonathan continued; he had not been put off his stride.
“I told Bill as grandly as I could and you know how grand I can be, that I was aware of my condition, that I was quite happy about it and hoped that he would stop being my unpaid therapist as I did not need it.
However since then I have been thinking about what he said and I realize that I could have really spooked him after some recent experiences. I have come to the conclusion and listen carefully: I am a magnet for death.”
Gordon who as Mrs. Lovett said of Sweeney Todd liked a good story, sat mouth agape” “Death, “ he uttered, “What can you mean?”
“I’ll explain. I swept away from Bill and you know I can sweep and descended to the gym weight room, relieved to be away from his nosy eyes, if eyes can be nosy.
Apart from the occasional masculine grunt from budding Arnolds, who should be seeking jobs, the weight room is usually quiet. I was trying out unsuccessfully the new chest machine that has two semi-circular handles lying behind one. I got hold of one but the other eluded me until I felt it pushed into my flailing fist.
The person responsible for this assistance was a guy I had seen before at the gym and truth to tell, and this is to go no further, we had a little play around in the steam room some months ago. Like St. Augustine I do want to be chaste but not yet. Nothing much. Just an amusing dillydally, my dear. It never goes beyond that.”
Gordon tutted but smiled.
“Oh well you know, a young man’s fancy…..
Now this guy is different from the other either silent or too loud macho dummies. He has a direct, confident quality about him. Moreover his appearance is unusual because his angular lean face, long nose, black eyebrows and hair with a pair of gleaming eyes give him a Mephistophelean look. Striking. Good camera material. Probably SAG.
"Anyway after my workout I saw him again in the shower room. I smiled and he returned it. In the unusually full steam room I thought full house but found a seat on the far tiled bench and as I sat down, Mephistopheles plonked himself next to me. Silence reigned among the self-conscious young buffs in the pea soup steam, everyone a shadowy figure. Suddenly I feel fingers beating a light tattoo on the back of my left shoulder. It was Mephistopheles with his arm stretched out behind me. Well, I let it go on for a bit but then stood up and went outside to dry off. Mephistopheles, eyes agleam, soon emerged, as I knew he would.
I laughed and said, “I’m Jonathan.”
‘Oh hi, I’m Richard.””
“I’ve seen you before here. Do you live nearby?”
“ No, uptown but I have not been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve been lazy. You see mother died last Tuesday.”
This abrupt change in the light conversation was quite disturbing. After all he’d been drumming a tattoo on my naked shoulder a minute ago and now here we are talking of his mother, passed over at the age of 85.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “A difficult time for you.”
As I sympathized, another man overhearing our chat said, “Please accept my condolences. I sympathize. You see, my brother died two weeks ago.”
We digested this as he went off to get some water. I whispered to Richard: “His brother could not have been very old.”
When the other guy returned, I said, “How very sad for you and your family. Had he been ill for a long time?”
“He was forty-five. He suffered from years of depression. He committed suicide.”
This rather took our breath away. My mind raced. Was I in an Absurdist play? What does one say? Nothing lighthearted as that could be construed as flippant. After a small pause, I plunged in, rashly as it turned out. In the stroke of a sentence we had gone from vague erotic feelings to death. Entering the lists of this melancholy news competition, I said.
”This seems to be a bad time.” I said. “My friend Harold died last week, but he was 96.”
This did not have the desired effect. I saw right away I’d overplayed my hand in the pecking order of grief. Plus my English accent appeared suspicious. The British have the reputation for not taking serious things seriously enough. .
I left them to dress, reflecting that in the space of a couple of hours I was involved with a child martyr, two unfortunate deaths and a suicide.
Am I a magnet for these stories? Do I have the look of one who listens to gloom, attracting death? It was clinched when I ran into Gloria, gloomy at the best of times, who cornered me to say lugubriously she’d lost her grandmother to dementia. There was no riposte to that. Gloria doesn’t like competition when it comes to bad news.
I could put a major spoke in Bill’s wheel next time, but I fear he would feel I am a candidate for a revised Kraft-Ebbing edition: a real bag of nerves. What Bill doesn’t know is that actually I have nerves of steel. After all, I survived the blitz; as a student working in a hospital morgue I handed bodies over to the morticians and once had to burn an amputated leg. Oh. I forgot. I said to Mephistopheles emerging into the changing room to get a drink of water we should have a coffee. Sometime. “Yes, “ he said.
“I’ll give you my card”
“Do,” he said over his shoulder as he sallied back into the steam room. My remark was not too clever as he was wearing nothing. Where would he put the card? Conceal it in some orifice? I didn’t say that. But I could see that Richard was more intent on the momentary pleasures of the flesh, preferring Mr. Right now as opposed to Mr. Right, his dead mum quite out of the picture.”
Later on I continued my cogitations. Amidst all these things, sex in the shower, death in the steam room (sounds like a detective novel), St Vitus, St. Augustine, I thought there’s not one ounce of love in all this. Sad really. Nothing. Just the moment. The poor suicide, my old friend who finally kicked the bucket, Richard’s mum, did they have any love? Will Mephistophelean Richard, plunging back into the steamy soup for a quick grope, his five-day dead mum forgotten, will he find a gram of love?
No of course not. And why? Well, love doesn’t exist. I’ve not seen it. Infatuation, yes. Experienced that myself usually with people not entranced by me. Maybe better an ounce of pleasure than an age of regret and nothing. You can’t buy love as Vicki Carr once said but you can sure rent it for while. Gather ye rosebuds as Ronsard told us. Don’t forget, Gordon, I am a magnet for death. But, my dear friend, not yours or mine. Oh Gordon, how wonderful you are to listen to my nonsense. I have a secret to tell you. I love you, despite this public persona. Let’s have a toast to life and give death a run for his money.”
Gordon laughed loudly.
“Did you like that story?”
“Oh yes," said Gordon.
"Even if it isn’t true?”
"It’s true if you tell it.”
Jonathan smiled complacently. "I'll write it up for ROOM TO WRITE. Wait till tomorrow though. I’ve got another one about a naughty vicar.” He laughed.
THE END
