the visit ·
6 July 04

He went over to Holland to see his friends. Those he had met over the world wide wait. The anonymous cauldron of faces in that the stew being prepared for his life. He wouldn’t try everything or at least, not everything immediately. He preferred to take one step at a time, falling down the stairs at this point in anticipation would only frustrate him and slow him down.

Waving to his newly met friends, he decided to see another. He was aware she would perhaps not meet him, due to distance and perhaps personal preference. Luckily for him, he obtained her home address. He forgets how, but at this moment, he had the piece of paper with her location. Handing over the paper to the cab driver, the driver nodded back and off they went.

Holland was more interesting than he had been told, the people friendlier than was suggested – but he still felt it looked too much like home. Perhaps travelling in Europe would only disappoint him. He would like for one day, to have all his newly made friends to be in one place, to have one big party: hire a villa, a chalet, pool and such and just enjoy the company of all those he likes, and all those that interest him. All in one place, like some furiously bubbling kettle – steaming, boiling, and ready to pop at any moment.

It was late, dark, he expected her parents to be home. He mulled over the quandary of getting past the parents, and getting past her annoyance at him turning up unexpected, and, moreover, uninvited. He realised, he just hadn’t thought this all through. “What the hell, if it goes to shit, I’ll apologise and beg for forgiveness” At least he hoped that would be enough for reprieve. Was his impatience worth annoying and irritating someone he liked? “I don’t like annoying you.” He remembered what he said to her, but this would be a welcome surprise he thought. He hoped.

As he walked out, he felt a very sharp thump on his head.

He paid the cab fair, and located the premises. Standing outside now, he leaned his head on the wall, forehead against the wall, closed his eyes and looked over what was going to happen. “Disaster or success? A great moment or a tragedy? What am I doing again?”

Ringing the bell, he waited, bracing himself. He hesitated a moment, “Christ, what if SHE opens the door? Wonder if she’ll smack me in the face or just slam the door into it.” It was her parents. He looked at his phone, he noticed it as late and that this would perhaps backfire in the most gruesome way possible. During the moment of her parents staring at him, and he staring back, like a rabbit caught in headlights – transfixed, unable to move, a million scenarios flooded his head. Words passing through his head like a slideshow: “Arrested”, “Stalker”, “Pervert”, “Con man”, “Kidnapper”, “Druggie”, “Mental patient”.

“Hi” he finally managed, finally waking up. He shook his head, the two adults standing in front wondering who on Earth would be disturbing them at this time, watching some crazy short guy saying “Hi” and shaking his head as though he had just taken a whole load of drugs, and was trying to shake the effects off – shaking his head like a ball bearing game, slotting the words in to the right place to create the sentence, “Move left, right, slot it in. Next word: shake right, right, left a little, up and slot it in.”
nextpage->
During those seconds, he was also trying to construct his cover story. He hadn’t thought about this in the car on the way there. “Crap, I should have thought of SOMETHING!“ He pondered over the logical options, and options that would not frighten them, but would intrigue them and want them to invite him in. “Old friend” – naw, they wouldn’t believe that. She would probably have mentioned someone, and they would have heard that name once before.

“Ex-boyfriend”. Again, this was a bad choice – parents are protective, especially of daughters and some nut-freaked, head shaking, junkie coming to their premises at such a late time would only make them want to approach the phone for help – besides, they were probably aware she didn’t date midgets, and this wouldn’t wash.

“I came to borrow some sugar” Right, only works if you live SOMEWHERE near. No, bad choice again. He knew the seconds were ticking, and right now, only the most stupid of ideas were entering his poor little mind. If he backed away now, the police would perhaps be called or they may let him go, not wanting to get involved. On the other hand, he would tell her that he visited and left. This would probably piss her off, one for making the noise, and secondly for not even bothering to complete the task at hand. Fucked both ways, catch 22 with a lot of violent violation.

“You don’t know me” well fucking done Sherlock. You couldn’t spring another surprise like that could you? Perhaps you could tell them the sky is dark? Or that you have feet? Hell, fuck it, shock them: tell them you can talk!

shaking his head as though he had just taken a whole load of drugs

“But I’m from London” he continued, “I’m here to see your daughter about a job that she applied for, mistakenly.” Great, so now he was here for their daughter – fantastic, now they’d really feel safe. He took a breath, and slowed down. His other self awoke, and he was suddenly different. The fear, nerves and ineptness had disappeared. He turned into a coherent, clear sounding visitor from abroad.

Suddenly, the parents paid attention. They seemed more relaxed, though as yet unconvinced by this stranger. He began to explain a lie, which he was making up as he went along. He knew his service in hell would be a requirement, and he was also aware that hell had a special, right next to the devil – just so he could stab him a few times at a whim.

The lie wasn’t that he was a visitor from London. True. He was here to see his friends. True. He was also here to see their daughter. True again. About a job she applied for. The lie – the damned lie! He continued, explaining how he was an assistant editor for a magazine company that was quite big in the UK and was part of a bigger publishing arm. His line manager had asked a favour, to stop by to see this lady, who they wanted, but didn’t want them. His job was to attempt to convince her to work for the company, as they were willing to make it a nice proposition.

He continued lying, about how she had mistakenly sent them her resume, and they were very interested in her joining. They had a budget for three upcoming writers, and they liked the examples of her work. He graciously offered to stand outside, but they seemed slightly more at ease, if more than a little confused as to what the hell he was going on about.

The mother went away, and the father stood, succinct, cautious and invited him in. “Thank you kindly,” he replied as he walked in. “In the lion’s den” he thought as he walked in. Well, if he was going to get out, this wasn’t the way. It was now do or die, he had to convince two people of who he was, role play a lie, and do all this without upsetting and annoying a friend who would probably already feel shocked by how far he had already gone.
nextpage->
“Friend” was a word now at the forefront of his mind. She was, by all rights, allowed to do whatever she pleased when she saw him. Scream, shout, stab him, kill him, be angry, sad, annoyed, call the police, and have him arrested. He knew he had gone pretty far, and she wasn’t even aware of any of it…..yet.

Seated now, he knew he couldn’t explode into an epiphany of truth. “Hallelujah!!! I have seen the light! I am no longer a liar! I am not actually working for any magazine, I lied. I am in fact…..” the trailing off would be the knife going into him, slowly, as a reward for his epiphany of truth. Wrong place, wrong time to preach. He should have said he was a bible basher; it would have been apt for such a revelation.

It was a game of twenty questions between the father and himself.
“What’s your background?”
“What did you do before this?”
“How much do you earn?”
“Where were educated?”
“Have you ever been in trouble with the law?”
“Do you believe in God?”

His eyes glazed over. “Jesus Christ” he thought, that bastard question! Getting this wrong would earn him a fast exit and a dance with the gay police. The correct answer would eat his brain, and he always feels guilty about it. Fortunately for him, at this moment things got better. Or at least, they shifted into something better than a question about God. It was still bad, and he saw bad news as it walked in.

She wasn’t sure whether to smile, laugh, grimace or just stay in that picture of shock that she had brought in with her as she walked through the door frame. He flinched, and got up. She was about to speak, but he put out his hand to shake hers, which had still been lying by her side. No doubt to place upon her forehead in a smack of bewilderment, followed by the words, “WHAT THE FUCK?” Pre-empting such a moment, or at least, preventing the possibility, he spoke.

they were probably aware she didn’t date midgets, and this wouldn’t wash.

“Hi Alice. I’m Mark, from London. You sent your resume into us, and we said we were keen to have you. We are really interested in having you with us, and my boss asked me to stop by on my break in Holland to perhaps convince you to come to us.” He couldn’t tell if her face had changed; he was in a trance like state himself, just picturing her mind a battlefield – a war being fought between “possibility” and “reality”. Was it possible that he was here, and was it reality that he could be here? She couldn’t seem to figure it out.

She sat down; the mother entered and took her place on a seating space. By this time, he had sat down, clasped his hands, and looked into it – hoping for an angel of mercy to take him away from his need to push his limits, and the limits of others.

“Come on Angel of mine,
come take me away – save me from despair,
and hold my hand.

Let me feel your warmth,
your blade across my neck.
Save my soul from impatience,
save others from my presence.

Come on Angel of mine,
come take away.”
nextpage->
There was no light in his now cupped hands. There was no angel, he was screwed. But he never quits. He never gives up, for good or bad, he always finishes what he’s started.

Now there was an audience, and amongst that audience was the person he came to see. In addition were her two angels, her protectors and guardians from psychos like him. Mental people that feel they can push the envelope and take risks, without asking permission. Reckless and wanton.

He repeated the same spiel to her. She sat in amazement, annoyance, and then, a spark of malicious intent seemed present in her eyes. He could sense the oncoming freight train about to knock him out for six. She was driving that train very fast, and she dared him to stand in front: it was time for a game of chicken.

“So, Mark” She spoke, softly, but with a hint of irony, “What are you offering me, specifically?”
“Offering you? As in?”
“Money? Benefits? A remuneration package to be blunt.”

She had him by the virtual balls. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, he was hoping she would play along, and coheres him out of the premises. She was playing, but not the way he hoped – she was playing the game by her rules. He as excited by the game, but realised he had to be convincing: the audience would not accept failed performance. The guillotine was shining brightly, and the water melon had been beautifully sliced. He stared at her momentarily, then to the parents. He sparked, and smiled.

Getting this wrong would earn him a fast exit and a dance with the gay police.

“Well, Alice” repaying the irony with a gracious helping of sarcastic loving, “we are aware that someone of your talent would require a fair pay package, Naturally we see you as an emerging talent, and hope we could cultivate your talents to better yourself and to benefit us.”

She sat, intrigued, but uninterested. Her parents, on the other hand, wondered about the conversation. Had they spoken before? Did they know each other? An air of familiarity seemed to ring true, and he himself seemed a little shady in his remit.

The conversation tailed back and forth, and it suddenly appeared to be a tennis match of words. The parents could see the visual glare of questions being rebounded with answers across the net court, the rackets slamming against the words. It was a rally to behold, and it only confused the parents further. The exchange of words seemed to have an underlying or hidden message – of intent, of annoyance, of maliciousness, of daring, of opportunism. For a moment, they even forgot what he was here for.

“So essentially, Alice, what we’re saying is that we can give you the job, but relocation would be your remit. We would assist in helping you relocate, but our budget doesn’t offer a full relocation, not for one writer alone. We need the budget for three writers.”
nextpage->
“Well as you can understand, I feel you are not offering me something that I have not already had. I need something new, something inspiring, and something to make me want to wake up every morning and say, ‘Today is a brand new day, and today I will learn more, and be happier’“

They both were taken aback by her words. They weren’t quite sure whether she over played the dramatics, perhaps giving away the game of knowing one another. She was fully into the character of this play, this game, and had completely lost sight of the fact that it was all hocus pocus.

“Erm, well, I see.” He turned to the parents, “Well, I must be going now, but perhaps I could have a word with your daughter before I leave?” They nodded in bewilderment.

“I’ll walk you out.” she responded, and was already on her feet before she finished her sentence. The game was over, and the punishment for the imbecilic gesture on his part was yet to be served. As he walked out, he felt a very sharp thump on his head. It hurt reasonably, but he turned around and quietly spoke,

He could sense the oncoming freight train about to knock him out for six.

“I deserve that. Sorry.” He explained in as much complexity as possible that he was out of his mind, and was just keen to see her. He was hoping his blabbering would bore her, and in a fit of tiredness she would say “We’ll talk about this later.”

Sadly for him, it was not so. She stood there, arms crossed – the defensive position: reality. He talked with his hands open handed, the “forgive me” position: possibility. The conversation was quiet, calm, but equally heated and aggressive and also apologetic. It was a bad mess, it was a bad mistake. She enjoyed it, but it was too much even for her. They exchanged goodbyes. No embrace, no hand shakes. Just a wave on his part; and a door shutting on hers.

He knew he’d blown it. He knew he’d go back to his friends at the other end, and get himself drunk or stoned, and beat himself up about it. Perhaps he was a masochist; someone who enjoyed the pain of rejection. He called his friend to call a cab for him. He was tired, and downbeat. He saw the lights turn off in the house. It was over for them. He sulked momentarily and then smiled. “Tomorrow, I’ll offer her twice the money.” he laughed, “And I’ll wear a mask made of doughnuts!”