enemy of art, literature, and soul.
“Second that. Me and Scott are just poor gap-year vagabonds now,” says Jack, reminding me of their plans to travel the world for several months. Scott seems embarrassed by their anti-prospects, all too willing to trade the idealism of his wind-in-the-hair route for some of the soulless City bread—all those loaves and fancy rolls—that Sanjay’s going to be getting his hands on.
“If anyone should be minesweeping for free drinks it’s Eliot—he’s the one who hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing next!” quips Megan. I don’t think it was meant to sound so cruel, but she’s right: I really haven’t got a clue.
What’s it going to be then, eh?
I look around the table: some of the slightly-above-average minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the—
“Hi, I’m so sorry. I haven’t had a chance—”
“Eliot! I’ve been trying to get hold of you all—” The signal in the King’s Arms is terrible. I jump from the table and head to a corner, left index finger plugged into left ear, pressing the phone harder against the right like it might absorb her voice better.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear that. It’s my last night, you know, I can’t spend it checking my phone all the time …” Slightly quieter, I say, “This might be the last time I see some of them.”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.” She pauses. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
“Sorry. What’s wrong?”
“I need to tell you something … but I’m not sure how …” Her voice trails off into silence. “Where are you?”
“The King’s Arms. I told you that, hun. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good place to hear something like this.”
Cautious eyes glance over from the table, trying to gauge the seriousness of my call: Ella, Jack. They talk amongstthemselves, hypothesizing and screenplay plotting. I turn my back.
“What’s going on, Lucy?”
“Eliot, I—”
The phone is beeping, like it’s censoring a long illustrious obscenity. I look at the screen and see the usual mountain of signal incrementally dropping to a mere doorstop. She’s gone. Was she crying at the end or was that the dwindling connection? I try calling back, but there’s still no signal. I try again.
Sorry, it has not been possible to
— “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I head back over to the table. The others can tell from my vacant look that something is up.
“Everything okay, mate?” asks Jack.
“Yeah, fine.” It wouldn’t have taken them long to deduce that Lucy was on the other end. That might explain their timorousness: Lucy always did fit uncomfortably with Oxford. And somehow hearing her on the phone just now reminds me of that … a disembodied Lucy … not fully present …
“She’s quite shy,” I warned Ella and Jack, down the college bar the night before Lucy’s first visit to Oxford. It had been nearly two weeks since we had said good-bye and I’d left for university, but it felt like we’d been apart forever.
“I’m sure she’s lovely, Eliot. We’re all looking forward to meeting her,” Ella had said with a tender maturity that made me want to fall for her that little bit more—
Why am I torturing myself with memories? How am I ever going to be in any kind of moment if I can’t just let things go? But past incidents are what I’m full of and I must continue to play catch-up. It’s not a question of an Aside and a B side, of present and past, for it all feels contemporary to me; it all goes into the making of tonight. It’s the only way I am going to make sense—
Okay. Lucy’s first visit. My nerves were threatening to get the better of me, grabbing me by the balls and letting me know who was boss as I waited for her at the bus stop outside Sainsbury’s. The heavy air and sodden gritty pavements compounded my fears, the rain teasing out all
“Second that. Me and Scott are just poor gap-year vagabonds now,” says Jack, reminding me of their plans to travel the world for several months. Scott seems embarrassed by their anti-prospects, all too willing to trade the idealism of his wind-in-the-hair route for some of the soulless City bread—all those loaves and fancy rolls—that Sanjay’s going to be getting his hands on.
“If anyone should be minesweeping for free drinks it’s Eliot—he’s the one who hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing next!” quips Megan. I don’t think it was meant to sound so cruel, but she’s right: I really haven’t got a clue.
What’s it going to be then, eh?
I look around the table: some of the slightly-above-average minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the—
“Hi, I’m so sorry. I haven’t had a chance—”
“Eliot! I’ve been trying to get hold of you all—” The signal in the King’s Arms is terrible. I jump from the table and head to a corner, left index finger plugged into left ear, pressing the phone harder against the right like it might absorb her voice better.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear that. It’s my last night, you know, I can’t spend it checking my phone all the time …” Slightly quieter, I say, “This might be the last time I see some of them.”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.” She pauses. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
“Sorry. What’s wrong?”
“I need to tell you something … but I’m not sure how …” Her voice trails off into silence. “Where are you?”
“The King’s Arms. I told you that, hun. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good place to hear something like this.”
Cautious eyes glance over from the table, trying to gauge the seriousness of my call: Ella, Jack. They talk amongstthemselves, hypothesizing and screenplay plotting. I turn my back.
“What’s going on, Lucy?”
“Eliot, I—”
The phone is beeping, like it’s censoring a long illustrious obscenity. I look at the screen and see the usual mountain of signal incrementally dropping to a mere doorstop. She’s gone. Was she crying at the end or was that the dwindling connection? I try calling back, but there’s still no signal. I try again.
Sorry, it has not been possible to
— “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I head back over to the table. The others can tell from my vacant look that something is up.
“Everything okay, mate?” asks Jack.
“Yeah, fine.” It wouldn’t have taken them long to deduce that Lucy was on the other end. That might explain their timorousness: Lucy always did fit uncomfortably with Oxford. And somehow hearing her on the phone just now reminds me of that … a disembodied Lucy … not fully present …
“She’s quite shy,” I warned Ella and Jack, down the college bar the night before Lucy’s first visit to Oxford. It had been nearly two weeks since we had said good-bye and I’d left for university, but it felt like we’d been apart forever.
“I’m sure she’s lovely, Eliot. We’re all looking forward to meeting her,” Ella had said with a tender maturity that made me want to fall for her that little bit more—
Why am I torturing myself with memories? How am I ever going to be in any kind of moment if I can’t just let things go? But past incidents are what I’m full of and I must continue to play catch-up. It’s not a question of an Aside and a B side, of present and past, for it all feels contemporary to me; it all goes into the making of tonight. It’s the only way I am going to make sense—
Okay. Lucy’s first visit. My nerves were threatening to get the better of me, grabbing me by the balls and letting me know who was boss as I waited for her at the bus stop outside Sainsbury’s. The heavy air and sodden gritty pavements compounded my fears, the rain teasing out all
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