Rhinoceros 11
The habitual existence into which Alan had settled, like an abondoned barge in silt, did not seem to permit his thoughts being committed to writing, although he had made a few desultory attempts in the past. But one day he sat at his desk in the sitting room, glanced around him, at the dust-coated surfaces and threadbare rug, at the clock missing a hand and the window coated in city-grime, and he picked up a pad and started to scrawl. He made the following list.
A. I'm quite sure that I am not as stupid as people think;and yet I do a lot of stupid things. People patronise me, and I accept this for an easy life.
B. A thief is a thief. Do I feel sorry for him, because his poor life-chances have led him into crime, or condemn him for his poor choices? Does the bump on my head make a difference? Is the specific morality of the incident the same as the wider morality?
C. Is framing a poor manager the same as whistelblowing? Am I not simply using an immoral act to take on a person who lacks common humanity? Do I really have the right to decide that this is right? Tony Blair's defence.... Means and ends. Besides which it’s too late.
D. I have been to the lion’s den. Despite the stupidity of the act, now I know. Experience beats supposition. I suffered, but I looked them in the eye. Well, at least until they gobbed in mine.
E. Jen. Her face, freckles, mouth, laugh. She at least thinks I can be saved despite myself. Or does she tactfully overlook how useless I am? But being forgiven for small acts is a good feeling, too. So I’ve not blown it yet. There’s still time.
F. I’m going to lose my job. One can’t beat a file of statistics with twenty-five years of experience and a useless, gentle rapport with lost souls. I might as well have been a proper bastard. Like all the true survivors. SUMO. Shut Up and Move On. Find something else. But what?
G. I am a prize, 100%, gold plated idiot.
When he had finished writing he read it through. A reasonable summary, he thought. He put it into the top drawer of his desk, unsure what it signified. A benchmark, perhaps, of his lowest ebb. Or a summation, a pivotal point. But it was difficult to see what lay beyond. Maybe that was his problem. He didn’t seem to recognise the patterns of life, trace the threads to their origins. For some people – Annie, for example – it came naturally. She had an innate ability to spot who to trust and who to avoid. Once, when they were out for a walk, a shifty teenager had asked them a few questions about where he was, and whether they could help him out with a bit of money, and Alan had desperately willed Annie to come along, tugging her coat, preparing himself for the knife or the sudden punch. But Annie continued chatting amicably, then got out her purse for all to see, and gave him a few pounds. He thanked her politely and went over to the bus stop she had indicated. For the rest of the walk Alan had looked wide-eyed over his shoulder for a silent assailant.
He looked out of the window now, and the window showed him a long, drawn-out winter of big coats, blackened lorries and chapped faces. And, after a time, it showed him his shadowy self, staring into his eyes, as still as an effigy.
