bibliophile kid (excerpt) - "very pink skin"

A few months after the incident at the house party I passed the partner of the poet in the supermarket. He was looking at multipacks of matches and muttering to himself, smiling at choice phrases, but he saw me out of the corner of his eye before I had a chance to retrace my steps as I commonly do in such situations, gasping and turning quickly as though I’d overlooked something of profound importance in the adjoining aisle. He strode at me and we shook hands unconvincingly. His hand was enormous and entirely engulfed my own, its palm bark-rough and occupying some inexplicable space at once moist and dry.

 

“She” – I assumed he was talking about his partner; he refused to refer to her by name under any circumstance outside of his own short autobiographical passages – “mentioned you hadn’t been in touch. Not that you should have. It’s only. She could be good for you.” He leaned closer towards me. “Networking. It’s very important for a young, unknown, unpublished, pointless – do excuse me – writer. And she’s very agile. Inside beds. Really quite agile. Remarkable” – he formed his hands into a kind of portal – “strength.”

 

“I didn’t know if I should. I mean, I’m married,” I said.

 

“She is too. As good as, if not by law. To me.”

 

“It was just. You know, it was a party. You were. I saw your balls move. I thought it was. That you were liberated. Engage with the community. Fuck for freedom. Thought it was done, even demanded. I wanted to. My friend mentioned you. Connections, he said. I imagined a gateway but since I. Since your wife. Nothing. Even the open mics. Sweet fuck all nothing.”

 

“She’s not my wife,” he said. “As good as but not, in all the ways that matter.” It was unclear whether he meant they were married in all the ways that matter, or whether in all the ways that matter they weren’t. “You were described,” he said, “as having” – he flicked through his notes, back, forth, back, right through them, a purple Moleskine he’d pulled out of his coat pocket, a grey denim jacket that made him look destitute – “’very pink skin.’”

 

“Right. Okay. Fuck. I mean. Very pink skin? Okay. I mean, was the very really fucking necessary. A little rosacea maybe. You interviewed her? Right. Very pink skin. Just pink skin would do, surely. And what’s pink? Is that, like, some common description now? Very pink skin. Is it, I don’t know, a fucking IC code? IC-fucking-7 male. Pink: North European. What the fuck happened to white? I mean, white is pink, but no one says pink. I sound like fucking Porky Pig. Peppa Pig. Some kind of pig. Jesus. Writers I suppose. Interviews, observations, notes. Very pink skin? I mean I don’t have to justify myself. It was a hot day. I’d been. Look I don’t have to justify myself. Pink skin. I mean it’s just. It’s just weird okay. Would you not… it’s weird. I mean – is it? Very pink?”

 

“Look I’m just,” he said. “These are her words. I’m just telling you what she said.” He flicked through his notes a second time, forth, back, forth, through the pages of the purple Moleskine. “Described your companion as having ‘very pale skin.’”

 

“Okay that’s terrific, absolutely. Great. So we’re two fucking races now. The very pink and the very poxy pale. As though we’re – what? I mean what’s wrong with this person. I’m not very pink. I’ve got some, I mean, local, or whatever, some local, minimal, circumstantial rosacea, mild pinkening, You know what rosacea is?, fucking cruel is what, some eczema, some chaps, you know, just – standard occasional pinkening stuff. Great British blush. Change of temperature. Mostly fine. Ha ha, should be my middle name. Ha. Mostly fine. I mean it’s not like I’m very pink very much of the time. Just sometimes somewhat pink. I mean it’s a clear distinction.”

 

“So.”

 

“It’s clear.”

 

“It’s just these were her words. ‘Very pink skin.’”

 

“But that’s just it. It’s not… it comes and goes. Stress, drink, caffeine. They aggravate it, but it’s meagre. Mild. It passes. I mean I don’t think people look at me and think pink. It’s not like I’m, you know, very pink. A pig or anything. It’s skin isn’t it. When you look at me do you think…”

 

“No,” he said. He looked at my face as though it were absolutely and blindingly pink. “No, no. Not pink so much as… I don’t know. Ruddy.”

 

“Exactly,” I said. “Ruddy. Very ruddy skin. Or rather, occasionally somewhat ruddy skin.”

 

“Hmmm.”

 

“I think that’s… yeah, ruddy. Ruddy’s okay. Ruddy’s all kinds of Father Christmas, you know, jolly fellow, few drinks, overflowing with life. That’s Ruddy. Pink’s more swollen schoolboy, crying wimp, sunfucked tourist, grim Britain, baggy shorts, hirsute lumbar, arse crack, Fosters, gold chain, belch at the bar, fart at the urinal, rape in the car park.”

 

“So about the other one. The very pale one.”

 

“I don’t really…”

 

“Friend of yours?”

 

“No. I mean. I suppose so. Accidentally.”

 

“Accidentally.”

 

“Like we know each other accidentally. Bonded accidentally.”

 

“Friends accidentally.”

 

“Right.”

 

“About that.”

 

“What?”

 

“Him.”

 

“Right.”

 

“He around?”

 

“Where?”

 

“Anywhere. You seen him.”

 

“Is this about something?”

 

“Everything’s about something,” he said.

 

“Something’s about something.”

 

“Very good,” he said, and wrote something in his Moleskine.

 

“What are you writing?”

 

“She wants to meet him,” he said. “Read some of his stuff. Thinks she can arrange publication. Just a mid-sized press.”

 

“Right,” I said. “Terrific. I mean. Fucking fuck. No. I mean. He deserves it. He does. Everyone deserves the shit they eat.”

 

“Brilliant.” More writing.

 

“Fuck. Did she say anything about. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t. It’s not like. Did she? No, she wouldn’t. She didn’t mention.”

 

“Do you know where?”

 

“Why would she. No mention.”

 

I wrote his address down in the Moleskine and weakly fought off tears.