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// Filed under: Verbiage on Friday August 12th 2005, 4:04 pm The choc milk is on the table before he is, plonked down with a stylish aplomb. He pulls out a chair and collapses into it, reminding me of a controlled freefall more than anything. He meets my eyes and smiles wryly, tearing open his choc milk with a practised hand, and slipping the straw inside. A comfortable silence settles on the table, as we both take in the surroundings. People bustle around us and the air is thick with noise. He mutters something about the price of choc milk these days, but I don’t quite catch it. The light of decision floods into his eyes. He reaches down into his ever-present black bag. Torn and tattered with age, he seems to wear it like a badge of honour. We’ve had this conversation before, I recall. “Surely a badge of honour should be distinctively marked?”, I quip. “You’ve just got a cheap, plain old backpack.” His lips twist into a knowing smile and he doesn’t say anything. We are back in the present, and he is handing me a book. It’s a unit textbook of some description. “It’s my Creative Writing textbook”, he explains as I thumb through it. My eyebrow arches in unspoken query. “I need to do an autobiographical piece,” he says, “and I’m looking for a fresh approach.” He leans back in the chair, and takes a long drag on his choc milk. The blue straw floods with brown liquid and his eyes half-close in pleasure. I realise he’s waiting for an answer. “Well?” I say, confused. “Interview me.” “What? I can’t interview you. I’m you.” He leans forward, eyes bright, fingers intertwined. “That’s what makes it perfect. Who better to take such quality material and refine it to perfection?” “Now that’s certainly true”, I say, finding my grin rising to match his own. “Of course, it won’t be easy,” he remarks, stretching his arms, almost hitting someone as they hurry by. “You’ll have to strike the right balance. I don’t want to come across as arrogant, you know.” I uncap my fine, felt-tip pen, setting it against a fresh page in my sketchbook, noting the approval in his eyes. You can always tell a person by their pens. “That’ll be easy enough,” I say, jotting down some ideas, forever transforming the white mundanity of the paper into something more, something greater. “After all, you’re not arrogant, just… misunderstood.” “Hah! I’ll drink to that,” he says, raising the carton of choc milk in mock salute. I study him, thinking. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always been devoid of brand names, and even in a hypothetical meeting with his own self, he’s no different. Plain, neutral shades. Not messy, but aimed to give an impression of neat apathy. Standards, I think to myself. This is a man of standards. It is then I notice that he has spilled some choc milk on his shirt, and is guiltily trying to cover it up. “Tim, I’m you,” I explain. “You know I don’t care about a little food-stain here and there.” “Oh please,” he says dryly. “We both know I’m my own biggest critic. Now, make with the questioning. I grow bored of your witty, yet insightful observations about my character.” “Have you always been such a bad liar?” I remark, tongue planted firmly in cheek. “But of course, my dear sir. That’s what a lifetime of bluntly telling the truth will do to you.” Oh God, I think to myself. Not the principles. Don’t start on your goddamn principles. But it is too late. He is already talking, and I scramble to keep up, noting with displeasure how my handwriting gets messier when I’m in a hurry. Maybe if I’m lucky, I might be able to get a word in edgewise in an hour or two. // 2 Comments
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Doomy says:
August 14, 2005 at 2:31 am
Rachel N. says:
August 14, 2005 at 8:56 am