S.A.D.

© Tom J Vowler 2007

Autumn

I tell the driver to stop a little shy of the gate and hand him twenty pounds. He hopes the ungodly hour means I’ll forget the change, but I don’t. As I get out, he mutters something under his breath, performs an ungainly three-point turn and drives off.

That was half an hour ago and I’m still staring at the house. Fat rain has found every weakness in my clothing, but I’m still not quite ready.

The phosphorous beam from the security light is broken by shards of rain. There are no lights on inside. I walk up the steps, get the spare key from under the plant pot and let myself in.

Spring

You know how it is: you reach a certain age on your own and friends start inviting you to dinner, where mysteriously there is a fourth person of the opposite sex. She, as it happens, turns out to be single. ‘Oh, we invited Clare / Maggie / Frances / Donna to make up the numbers. She likes Blake / Wagner / Venice / squash; I’m sure you’ll love her.’

I didn’t, mostly. You don’t get to thirty-six and find yourself still single by accident. I know they were trying to help, trying to do their bit. Matchmaking is so satisfying for some; it imbues them with purpose, with omnipotence. It’s as if their creative bones can’t stretch to any artistic endeavour, so they try to construct a couple. Then, when you’re married and children arrive later they can drone on about how they introduced you; how they always knew what a wonderful couple you would make.

For the most part I behaved. I took up my role with faux enthusiasm, grinning inanely at Clare / Maggie / Frances / Donna, listening to their vapid tales of how wonderful marketing / banking / teaching / selling is. If I took their number, I deleted it before the taxi meter had moved. If I gave them mine, it would have an erroneous digit.

And then, at one such contrived gathering, when I was convinced the fatigue and depression of it all would render me into a welcome coma, I was introduced to Anna, and I knew, I knew before our host reached the soft vowel at her name end, that things would be different now.

Winter

My name is (say name) and I’ve been here now for (say number of days). Smile sheepishly. Sit back down.

It’s good to get in early in these hideous exchanges, otherwise your reservoir of joie de vivre quickly drains. Take Martin next to me. Last week we had to listen to his near medical description of how he obtained alcohol on the outside in the absence of cash. The poor sod would tip lighter fluid down his neck with milk to keep it down just long enough for his stomach to absorb the alcohol before he vomited.

I prefer the cocktail of pills they give me, which provide emotional ballast apparently.

Earlier, I was in the bathroom and all I could think about was that scene with Jack Nicholson, where the Native American pulls the sink up from the floor and throws it through the window to escape.

I sense a pause: ‘My name is James and I’ve been here now for ten days.’ I sit down. There are twelve of us today. Graeme is our co-ordinator; he looks keen to see me open up.

‘Do you want to tell us some more, James,’ he says.

So I do.

Spring

People who talk about finding their soul mate always rile me. What a misguided notion, that there’s this one special person waiting for your paths to cross, that fate is driving you there. A pretentious friend of mine always talks in such cod philosophy: When a relationship ends, it’s because someone special is trying to find you. If you were to challenge him, he’d offer you some green tea and call you a cynic, which I suppose I am. Until, that is, the dinner party the other night, where at the end of the evening I gave Anna my real number and wondered if I could bear the wait till she called.

As first dates go, it felt wonderful: none of the awkward pauses and fumbling and outdoing each other with benign topic starters. We quickly fell into sarcasm and teasing, as if we were old friends. Everything I said seemed to flow from my mouth, as if I was the greatest door-to-door salesman of myself. I was on top form. We both laughed in all the right places and by dessert we were flirting with each other. Her laughs became giggles, my looks became lascivious.

That night I couldn’t sleep. As we’d parted, I kissed her mouth, softly and for no time at all, and as I pulled away and looked into her eyes, it had been like looking into my own soul. It was like being seventeen again, but with the vocabulary to describe it.

Autumn

It’s been several months since I’ve been here but Dixon brushes against my leg, purring as if I’ve never been away. That it’s four in the morning doesn’t seem to matter to him. The mantel clock in the hall ticks away, its mechanism preparing for the half hourly chime.

I think about growing up here, the seasons flashing through my mind too quickly to fully observe. Smells and noises come to me, Christmases, endless summers with Mum pottering in the garden, Dad working on his Norton that never left the garage. I reflect on how little the house has changed, on how the spare room is still really my room.

Then I think of how different it should have all been and wonder what could make someone do that. And then I go upstairs.