Andy Warhols tears

Andy Wahols tears.

Ive an hour and a half to get this place sorted. I begin , not by
cleaning, but by attending to what I consider, the more importand
details; like putting all the trendy CDs to the front of the shelf -
whilst of course relegating 'mistake' buys to the back - unwittingly
creating an ostentatious display of knowing, but obviously calculated,
grooviness. The overall impression is not of ultra hip grooviness which
I'd hoped to give, the pile of vinyl LPs alongside betraying my true
age, and lending the music collection an all too reassuring avuncular
dimension.
In the process of trying to contrive a particular image, I become
momentarily delusional, believing that if she (Julia) just casts an
appreciative eye at my CDs, then that's the same on the attractiveness
barometer as me being a cross between Brad Pitt and Cary Grant.
The days when I could rely on my cheeky smile have long receeded, with
the accompanying 28" waist. Nowadays I protest that men ought to be
appreciated for their inner qualities. What I mean is; that's all Ive
got left, so please be charitable and overlook the fact that Im not so
physically attractive anymore.
So, the next job is arranging the books, eclectically; so as to appear
terribly interesting - but not too bookish, like I can't fight.
Women like men who can look after themselves - which gives you an
overwhelming compulsion to pretend you're an you're an 'Alpha male' who
would,
on a good day, give James Bond a good duffing.

I lever obscurities from between crevices in the
TV remote .Then polish the nobs on the HI-FI, drooling over it's
mostly useless, and anyway for me, indiscipherable functions.
At night, watching the sheer pointless excess of LEDs in their
sprightly dance, can bring a lump to my throat.
But, stereo systems are a uniquely male affection, and therefore
shes hardly likely to swoon over mine.
Women niether know, nor care, about HI-FI .
They're usually content with something louder than a hair
dryer?..
...or washing machine, if they're married.

The fridge bears a kind of archeology. All ancient food traces.
This data defies all known dating techniques and takes eons to clean
off.
In the living room every cushion, curtain, and rug, are covered in cats
hairs. So, I think to myself; they're doing it on purpose.
Unable to resist the desire for revenge, I call them out to the
kitchen; open the larder, pull out two tins of catfood, rattle them
together, then put them back again. I think that it might be a good
idea for added amusement; to empty their food into a bowl and place it
the wrong side of a window.
But I leave that for a rainy day. I like my cats, mainly because I can
exert power over them. They think of me as a kind of god.

All this fuss over a girl. I despair because It seems Im eternally
attracted to the wrong type . Julia, is typical of this type. Its just
a crush reallly. She knows, but she's unmoved. Im not sure she's even
flattered.
Yet shes terribly polite about it all , which for some reason, really
annoys me.

Once, we were talking about relationships, and she says;
"I cant see why you've not found someone yet, why arent you settled?
?nice fella like you? " .

"Why, would you go out with me then?". I reply.

"Er, well? no, you know, were? not really suited - I like you more as a
friend....."

"Then why did you say you were puzzled as to why I 'hadnt found someone
yet'?"

" Well because, I , well I mean...found someone other than me. It
wouldnt work between you and I would it...."

"I dont know, would it? .....look why dont you just admit you dont find
me attractive, and dispense with the rethoric?". Why stop there I
thought?
" Julia? the very reason you feel that way... that you can only bring
yourself to like me as a friend, is... in a nutshell - the reason Ive
not found someone yet."

Its funny how I become instantly less appealing, possibly even
repulsive the moment she's asked to make conviction of her
bewiderment.
But, in retrospect, I was looking for a conclusion to jump to.

The problem is; Julia is searching for the perfect partner. Not merely,
Mr. Right, but the 'Perfect man', no less.
Actually, to be more accurate - it's a conceit of hers to presume she
merits the perfect partner. People with such utopian criteria are
supposed to engender our
sympathy. We're meant to ache with them , as though their
pernickity
quest were somehow heroic. We're meant to marvel at their perfectionism
- so conveniently focused away from themselves.
The most astonishing proponents of this narcisissm like to imply, that
this unending search for the 'perfect' partner, is actually the search
for an equal.
Poor loves. If you look closely, to the right of my shirt pocket you'll
notice
a little red damp patch.

Problem two - Julia thinks she can change bad boys - adopting a
whiny-tone when blathering on about this; " He had a reputation but
I
thought I could change him - I thought he'd be different with
me".

Thinking people will change especially for you is another vanity.
I want to say ; "Look Julia, bad boys do what they do because; in
essence, they're indifferent to peoples feelings. A guy isn't
gonna
change on account of someone else. The problem isnt external.
It can't be fixed by the right girl . Whoever it is.The change must
occur
inside . A person has to resolve in their own heart to be faithful
on
account of honour and principle - separate from the object of
affection."
But its such a mouthful I don't bother.

Tidyng complete.
Surveying my bracing minimalism - so devoid of comfort as to be almost,
sociopathic - and my cleaning skills; the flat looks like a scene from
a Lawrence Lewelyn Bowen movie.
And as if possessions alone will render me irresistable to Julia - I
imagine my efforts are sure to reap rewards. Insufferably smug with
this infantile equation, and through admiring my hopeful lovetrap, I
tear myself away to the office, where my computer awaits, like a
digital Mr.Bumble.

*****************************

Im 36 and feel it. Ruminating on this makes me feel like a
loser, and so I begin to persecute myself. Though, I cant think Im that
bad,
because I keep checking my reflection in the bus window .
Reality should be assuaged by the tinted glass and muted morning
light, but it refuses to flatterme. I feel crushed. It's a graven
image.
But, not to be outdone by merciless truth - harnessing a
combination
of haste, panic, and shameless repudiation of fact - I do what I
always
do - I start to pretend to myself that I look quite good. Now Im
fixated for the journey.
Eventually though, I capitulate, and by the time I get to my stop, I
conclude
that for 33 I don't look great, but at least I know others who look
worse.

Im a decade older than Julia, which is a bit young for me. But then,
people my own age are too young for me. The only date Im going get is a
carbon one, should science ever wonder at my age.
Ageing is a muggs game, but I just can't give it up.

LATER AT WORK.

I spend the morning inadvertently gawping at julia, who I can see
huffing everytime she catches me. She eventually gets so sick of it,
she pokes two fingers up.This engenders in me, a wave of humiliation
and finally self-loathing - possibly unjustified, but as painful as
though it were.

If you knew Julia, you'd be mystified as to why Im so pathetically
feeble for her. Shes almost pathologically unprincipled for starters.
It'd be half acceptable if she were some self-righteous liberal. You
know the sort; so busy feeling superior, pointing fingers, arguing, and
making everyone feel guilty, they fail to notice they're causing
greater disharmony than if they simply remembered to treat everyone
nicely.

Anyway, enough of the shortcomings of others , back to critisising
Julia;
as I was saying, she has no morals (that she's aware of). For instance,
when all the supermodels and 'fashion designers' assume an anti-fur
stance a few years back - working themselves into a disingenuous moral
outrage - she adopts the same self-aggrandizing, anti-fur pose along
with them. But, no-sooner had Naomi Campell et al realised focusing on
something other than themselves was too much like getting out of bed
for less than Five grand; than Julia comes back from the sales with a
jacket trimmed with a real mink collar. No-one could summon the
enthusiasm to ask her why she changed her mind(I was beginning to think
she swapped it anyway).
She's not entirely to blame, it's a fickle industry - dropping their
vegetarian crusade like a hot potato.
For the likes of Gucci or Versace, I guess fur never really went out of
fashion, but for a while, it was fashionable to care.

Its impossible to invite everyone tonight, so, although I wont like
myself for doing this, I just invite those I can use. If Dean gets wind
of the party I may as well kiss goodbye to any plans to snare Julia.
Women, inexplicably find him hypnotic. I can see through him. Im not
jealous, just puzzled. But my disdain doesnt prevent me from asking him
discreet questions, trying to determine if his magnetism has a
formula.
Does he go to bed early or late? Does he jog? Whats he eat in a normal
day?
But during lunch I avoid Dean like Anthrax, even going so far as to use
the peasants toilet on the workshop floor in order to stay out of his
way. I won't even touch the taps in there, but wait until I can rinse
my hands at the sink by the coffee machine.

Meanwhile I witness an extraordinary scene initiated by Hannah (the
office conscience) who's been at to her computer all lunchtime and
hasn't eaten.
Julia walks over and taps Hannah's shoulder, but she's engrossed, and
does'nt react. Julia percieves this as a snub ;
" Whats up with you?"

"Nothing, Im doing something...."

"Whats that?.....looks like a baby scan " she asks, pointing at
the
monitior as though it were something unhygenic.

"Its is....Im making greetings cards for everyone in the office"
snaps
Hannah with a grin
"Im going to Warhol-ize the picture first " she says, clicking her
mouse
with an unwholesome statisfaction, like an assassin pulling a
trigger.
Magically the image is dayglo pinky green in inimitable Warhol
style.

"Who's is the baby?

" You mean who's was the baby"

" I don't get you.?.."

Hannah swivels round on her chair, smartly, in one precise
semi-circular
movement, as if to denote her implaccabilty;
" Its mine, I was pregnant and I lost him , he was 3 months old and
died,
everyone in the office will get a reminder of my pain...it's
National
Pain Day...Ive just decided"

"Well excuse me for not wearing a ribbon Hannah, but
if you don't mind me saying that's a bit sick"

"Why? Whats sick about a baby photo, albiet in a nice arty Andy Warhol
style ?"

The abrupt seriousness of the conversation rattles Julia's fluffy
amiabilty, imposing a moment of rare clarity to her world; " Well...I
don't mean to be hurtful, but if it's...its your baby, and he's
well..."

"Dead ? ....so was Marylin Monroe" says Hannah. Proud of her
spite.

"Hannah.....that's not funny"

"Well thanks for pointing out the obvious, but other than that, Its
my
baby and I'll joke at his expense if I want...I think this picture is
just
Pop-art-tastic don't you?"

Hannah's intelligence has always, but tentatively, held sway over her
madness.
Making her - given even the crudest ideas - persuasive,and impossible
to dissuade.

"Lets face it Julia, your all for abortions arent you?...why lose
sleep
over my kid?"

Reduced speechless with humiliation, Julia turns away before
getting
angry. Halfway down the corridor,she turns back with a pivot that would
put
Hannah to shame.
"Im not all for abortion! Who are you to say that?"

Hannah begins bullying;
"No you're not are you...at least not this afternoon....tell me, had
you
ever given this very important subject much thought?...Or are you
content
like everyone else , to trot out well meaning 21st century
cliches
thinking... that'll do... after all it's only a few cells....."

"Hannah , what are you on about?"

Eventually achieving a release, Hannah bursts into tears;
" I asked you for advice, the quality of which was; 'Oooh it's a
womans
choice?.. its her body. What if she wants a career? '....thanks
Julia?
indispensable! ".

" Oh my God, you mean that girl we talked about last month was
you?....."
Julia places her palm, with a contrived sincerety, upon
Hannahs cardiganed shoulder - trying not to think of it as allied
in any way, to Hannahs body.

This affectation makes Hannah recoil ;
" Leave me alone, the deed, is done. And after all, the
important thing is I excercised my right to choose - right? "

"I hate seeing you hurt , Im upset for you"

"But not for the baby?"

"No I didn't mean it like that......Look Hannah, I didn't make you
have
the termination"

"No, no ,you mean you didn't force me to kill my baby - I had a
life
removed - not an appendix!"

"Why are you blaming me?"

"Im not, Im going to blame all of you , every supporter who advised
me
for the best"

"Look, had I known you were talking about yourself, I might have
thought
a little more..about what I was saying.... "

Hannah - now oblivious to Julia - abandons office etiquette, and
without cowering, cocks her fist back from the screen, and punches it.
The monitor rocks with the full impact of her compressed fury yet
manages to remain improbably secured to the desk - the screen iterated
with the message: 'this has peformed an illegal operation and will be
shut down'. Her signet ring signs a bloody impression the entire
circumference of her finger- which is numb, like her whole life.
It's now five minutes to one

The workspace once again begins to commute with
returning, comfort-fed bodies - courtesy of forlorn change from tube
trains,
cigarettes, and scratch-cards. Jeff , the companies Personal
Empowerment Fascilitator arrives back in the office with his
power-lunch still turning round his gob like a cementmixer.

"Hey, hey, whats all the hoo-ha?" .Usually Jeff trys to overstate
everything.

Jeffs company role is to motivate us. Ostensibly slick, he's what my
Mum
would call 'all top show'.The armpits of his shirt are cardboardy with
deoderant staining.Anymore and he'd end up in a crucifixion position.
He stinks profusely of BlueStratoss and covert Listereen dependency,
yet never washes his hands
when leaving a toilet cubicle.
His hair always sports wasteful amounts of cheap gel - and if you
look
closely you'll see this has acted like a kind of fly paper.

Why do people like Jeff imagine that basting their heads with
'Happy Shopper' hairgel, is the pinnacle of ladykiller chic?

"Ok people, time out" shouts Jeff making a T gesticulation.
Everyone ignores him.
Now supplementing a further suggestion with a hand contortion
vaguely
resembling the letter N - he astutely advises we all go outside because
of the bad
atmosphere; "Listen up people , I think we ought to vacate what has
become
something of a Negative-zone"
Oh I forgot to tell you Jeff is bi-lingual. Spending a mere six months
in
America he's returned complete with an American accent that would
put
Sheena Easton to bed;
"When you mix with the ebullient American people - I defy anyone not
to
find it rubbing off on them" he drawls. Correction Jeff, you've come
back
with an Amercian accent because youre a prat.

Eventually acquiescing, we amble outside, as though nonchalantly
shuffling
against an equally disinterested invisible force field. Jeff couldn't
motivate us
out of a paperbag.

**************************

Alone on the FireExit stairs Hannahs sits nursing her hand. Her
eyes
have assumed a kind of mesmeric emerald clarity as a result of crying.
Its done
her good and I tell her so. Amazingly (amazing because shes the
worlds
leading bigmouth) but mostly because she senses I mean well, she
doesn't
accuse me of patronising her.

"Would you like me to see to that hand?"

"No I can do it"

" ..Why are you always so proud Hannah?"

"Im not"

"Which illustrates my point......you'll need two hands to fix
that.
Stay there I'll get the first aid, if I can find it.. "

When I return with a first aid kit and bowl of water, Im pleased
she's still sat there. Even a little pleased she's not treated her
finger .
The kits probably illegal - consisiting of shoddy bandages one of
which looks like it fell from a mummy, and a tube of solidified
antiseptic cream poisonous enough to putrify the most innocuous
wound
through airbourne contamination alone.
As I prise open the dusty sarcophagus, it's contents spill toward the
floor,
with for me, excrutiating significance.
We laugh in absolute unison, and the hair on my nape does a little
whispery balletic movement. It strikes me that she's extraordinary. But
I cant bring myself to tell her, which, barely knowing her seems wise,
and a shame at the same time.
She's beautiful. Understatedly. I never noticed before, normally
going for come n' get it types. But they're always the wrong type - for
me at any rate. I cant work out how Ive been so blind to Hannah's
virtues, whilst similtaneuously blind to Julia's faults. Hannah, I
consider, has mostly commendable qualities. She may be too forthright
for a superficial eejit like myself, but I'd change if I could.

I do my best with a respectable bandage, bathing her finger first. I
find I
like holding her hand, she feels womenly and touching her emotes
that
tingly sensation which is a language in itself - isolated from the
world of words - but a language which exists to appease our own
isolation.
Corny as it sounds; I feel like telling her she has an angel
caught
in her hair and asking if I can untangle it?...I might then at least ,
stand a faint chance of distinguishing between them both.
Ive always harboured this romantic plan; I would give my eventual love
a
rose, which we would split in two saving one half each in an
envelope
addressed to the other.
And if ever during our courtship, we felt uncertain as to continue.
We
would save ourselves the pointlessness of ever meeting again, by
simply
posting the rose. The recipient must take this to mean the end.

Here I go again jumping the gun. Ive not even asked her to my party
yet.

??????????????????????????????????..
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

For Judith
????????????????????????????????..
?????????????. ??????
??????????. ????????????????
????????????????????????????????..