A Private Dissection of the Public #2

The place was not 'trendy' or interesting. It was shabby and dank. My feet were cold the whole day and the floor was tiled and dirty like a junkies kitchen. The people were as intelligent as the place was pretty. They were generous, however, with their coffee which prompted suspicion in me because of the surroundings. Everybody looked relaxed and young which also made me suspicious, even though some were nearly twenty years my elder. It's not as though I wanted them broken down but they were very non-chalant and queer about everything.

The man who consulted me about my English course was small but stately and was just as non-chalant as the rest. His non-chalance was charming though. He looked tired and slouched but spoke quickly and took alot of breaths, rarely looking me in the eyes though sometimes staring holes in my head or my feet or my hands. He seemed very bored by my questions until I used the words 'expatriate American poets' which seemed to prick at him and alert him to my smarts. He even made a joke about a poet named Henry James which I feigned laughing at because I didn't know who Henry James was. Words left his mouth like bullets from a machine-gun so I assumed he wasn't thinking about what he was saying and chose to ignore him, and whenever I stopped, he wasn't answering my questions at all. It wasn't even a conversation. At least he looked like an English teacher.

I walked away from the man, clumsily taking a green post-graduate leaflet and hurriedly swapping it for a red under-graduate one. I could feel his eyes on my head as I walked off, but I was confident in my steps and knew I had made a good impression. It was mutually understood between us that we would never see one another again and wouldn't lose sleep over it, but it was too late to say anything. He probably knew it during the interview, but didn't say anything. I'd known it all day. My place next to him had been assumed by another student and I didn't have to hope he'd miss me or regret not answering my questions. I was probably the brightest person he'd spoken to all day, not that it was any mean feat.

I wandered around for a little while and bought my second cup of coffee and watched the people in the cafe. Two Indians opposite me were embroiled in a debate about heritage and politics, overseen by a large, diplomatic Negro with a curly beard. Opposite them sat two kind faced white women who were discussing their evening plans and telling eachother how well they were. This made me smile because I knew that they were both probably very unwell. That if they had sense, they wouldn't be well. I couldn't blame them. The scar in the sky outside had swollen considerably since the morning I'd arrived and the clouds began to rain lightly, plashing on all the autumn outside and making little grey streams and estuaries of muddy water in the pavement. I watched water collect in the angles of crisp packets on the pavement outside and remembered being a cleaner and having my gloves dampened by pulpy water whenever I picked up a wet empty crisp packet. At the end of work after I'd removed my gloves, my hands would never be wet but would always be pruney and cold. The memory disgusted me a bit, especially with the influx of people into the cafe who carried a wet doggy musk with them and their coats. I stepped up to leave.

As I reached the exit I was stopped awkwardly by a stout freckled woman with a big smile and little eyes. Her smile was framed by convex cheeks that were very red, though a different shade to the other. Her accent was frankly unrecognisable but as broad and thick as she was and I thanked God I wasn't two inches closer to her because I imagined her breath to smell. After asking kindly and receiving my consent she began interviewing me for her website, although halfway through it seemed to me more like an un-confidential survey. I answered her questions shortly and dryly.

These were some of her questions:
"What were your expectations of today?" she asked.
"Erm, I don't know. I mean, I didn't really have any. I don't know what I expected. It exceeded my expectations though. My expectations have been exceeded." I replied.
"What was your favourite aspect of today?" she asked.
"..Probably, erm," I had to stop and think, "all the foliage at the back of the building. All those purple leaves on the wall. That was quite nice. Classical." I replied.
"Uh, okay, how'd you find out about today?" she asked.
"Online. On the internet." I replied.

I thought I was being very funny and I thought she might get upset enough to leave me to my leaving. She didn't get upset but did leave just as quickly as she'd appeared.

I began to consider the consequences of my flippancy and became frightened. I had ignored the students and people before, but now I didn't even notice them. I wondered whether the dean (or whatever they're called) would see my video and think me a smart bastard. He might find me somehow and reprimand me. Limit my prospects. Maybe the English teacher would see it. Perhaps he'd think me witty and give me a publishing deal through the university, though probably not. Maybe I would just look like a childish fool.

I tried to stop thinking about it but couldn't. I decided I would justify my rudeness to the interviewing woman by looking at the ivy behind the building I had half-lied about. If it was my 'favourite' thing about this place as I had claimed, I would certainly feel less like a childish fool. In order to get to the back of the building, I had first to walk past all the other buildings which were just as charmless and academic and dull as they had been before the rain. The rain actually made them more attractive, if only because they presented me with the option of warmth and shelter and light. I soldiered on until I came to the rearmost face of the main building and my eyes, though squinted, met the red ivy on the wall and immediately consented that yes, indeed, it was my favourite part of the whole building. It snaked about the wall as though it were breathing and conscious. It looked like bullock blood had been tossed against the wall and had dried like a fresco, the leaves like the bloody hands of it's many makers. An organic fresco quite detached from the rest the buildings. I thanked God I hadn't lied because I would have felt guilty and an idiot if I had. The poor woman didn't need it.

I left after this and tumbled over as I walked down the stairs.

D.B.B