Social Pariah
I patted Alicia’s back as she pawed her way through her chips in pitta. It was a miracle she didn’t have any sick in her hair. “I like garlic mayo.” “I know you do.” “I like it so much.” “Yup.” “Do you want some garlic mayo?” “No.” Mainly because the only place I could take it from would be off of her face. Sigh. Looking across the road and through the drizzle in which we sat I saw a couple of boys crossing. Alicia raised one finger very slowly in their direction. “Pat Willis,” she boomed. Pat, who we hadn’t seen since we were 13, looked a little confused. “Hi,” he said. “I’m so sorry she’s pretty fu–“ “Didn’t you go out with Andy?” interrupted one of Pat’s friends. “Uh yes.” “And you dumped him for being thick?” “Uh no –“ “Yeah she did,” piped up Alicia, “Thick and boring.” I stared at her. “What?” said Alicia, “That’s what you said.” All eyes on me.
***
“He’s calling, he’s calling! Shit, he’s calling!” I threw the phone down. “Who is it?” Lesley asked, from her pyjama clad position on the other sofa. “The boy, you know, the one from last night.” “The short one?” “The fit one.” “He was short.” “He was fit…” The phone stopped. “But weird…he kept showing me pictures of kitchen installations he’d done.” “Hot,” mused Lesley. “Who rings though? Seriously. This is the 21st century; direct communication was made unnecessary five years ago. Just text you fucking weirdo.” Text tone. “u made my nite babe. ne chance of gettin 2geva?” Silence as we stared down at the message. Gettin 2geva seemed unlikely. “Shit! He’s calling again!”
***
The toilet attendant’s voice drifted out from the gents. (to the tune of London bridge is falling down) “Freshen up for punani, punani, punani, freshen up for punani…” It was a classy joint. Somehow through the din, the sad voice of a lovelorn student drifted through. “But it’s really bad,” he said. “Why?” said the friend. “Because I actually like her.” “So that’s good right?” “No, like I like her,” he said. “No splaaaash no gaaaaash!” came his musical accompaniment. The boy continued: “Like so I’m going to have to tell her I love her.” The boys paused at the gravity of the situation. “No Armani no punani!” The friend coughed and said: “That’s nice I guess.” “Wash your fingers for the mingers!” Not long after that the two boys walked out. Lovesick had a strawberry lollipop in his hand: she was one lucky lady.
***
I was alone at the bar, squinting over the crowd of sweaty students looking for my sweaty housemates. “Why are you wearing a tiara?” slurred a stranger. He slurred heavily, moistly, and right in my neck. “Um, it’s just a hair band,” I replied. Why are you standing so close? Why are you over forty and at The Duchess? Why are you over forty and alone at The Duchess? He continued to stare at me until I coughed, touching my hair a little nervously. “Are you an artist?” “No.” “Are you French?” “No.” “Why are you wearing a tiara?” “It’s still a hair band.” “It’s a bit random isn’t it?” “I like it.” He looked deeply into my eyes/breasts and touched my hair band; clearly no one had ever discussed the issue of personal space with him. Taking a small step backwards I said: “I’m going to go and find my friends now.” “But I was trying to make a connection with you.” His fat clammy hands grasped at the air in front of him. “I see.” Run.
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