Belonging

BELONGING
? 2003, John McKendrick

"In music news, John Lennon, making his first public appearance in
four years, introduced the Plastic Ono Band at the Toronto Peace
Festival." The tinny voice with the English accent faded to John and
Yoko raucously performing "Give Peace a Chance."
Although it was still early afternoon, the room was only dimly lit by
the gray light from the dirty window behind him. Jim was slumped on the
edge of the neatly made bed, an open book in his hand, looking at but
not seeing the stained and peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall. The
sound of the television snapping off intruded on his thoughts and he
looked at it. The electric meter needed feeding again. He put the book
on the bed, stood up quickly, walked over to the dresser and picked up
a shilling from the short stack next to the dark face of the
television. Pushing aside the cheap Indian cotton bedspread that hung
in front of the yellow-painted wood cupboard, the little sink, and
single greasy gas ring that served as his kitchen, he put the shilling
in the meter's slot and turned the dial until he heard the clink of it
dropping into the box.
The television clicked back on, but the newscaster had moved on to a
story about an impending coal strike. Jim turned it off and left the
room. The stairway was dusty and smelled of cheap cooking. On the
ground floor, in the light stealing through the frosted glass panels of
the front door, he stepped quietly past a door on his left. He had met
the young woman who lived behind it a few days ago. She was about Jim's
age but seemed much older to him. Her teased brown hair had looked
varnished in place and large glasses emphasized her watery near-sighted
eyes. She had worn a tight, shabby knee-length skirt and her once-white
blouse was fraying at the cuffs.
"You must be the new occupant of the top back room?" she had
questioned, in an educated, middle-class accent. Without leaving time
for a response, she had continued, "Do come by and have a tea sometime.
Just knock."
Then she had flashed a warm smile at him and disappeared behind that
door. He had wondered why she was living in a bed-sit in a cheap,
run-down house, but hadn't been interested enough to find out. That was
almost a week ago and he was beginning to feel guilty about rebuffing
her friendliness. He closed the front-door quietly.

Jim walked timidly into the dimly lit, yeasty smelling pub. The heavy
wood door with the corroded brass fittings swung to behind him. Grey
light came through the windows, its beams made visible by dust. There
was no one there, other than the white-shirted bartender standing
behind the bar. He walked, bolder now that he had seen that he was the
only customer, over to the stained but polished wood counter.
"A beer, please," he said.
"A beer? Bitter, porter, ale, lager, draft or bottle, 'alf or pint?
What kind 'er beer?" The barman passed his stubby hand over his red
nose and sniffed.
"I'm sorry. A draft bitter, please." Jim vaguely remembered having
heard the phrase in a TV ad.
With a grunt of acknowledgement, the bartender took a glass off the
shelf behind him, held it up to see that it was clean, and pulled the
shiny brass handle to fill it. The warm amber liquid built up a head of
dirty foam and was left to settle. The bartender watched the foam
slowly die down, then topped the glass up. Jim forced his hand into his
jeans pocket and pulled out a few coins. He held them on the palm of
his left hand and scrutinized them while selecting one.
"A Yank, eh?" Asked the barman.
"Yeah," Jim said. He was annoyed that the bartender had noticed. "I'm
still trying to figure out the money. Is this right?" He put a coin on
the counter.
"It'll do."
Jim stood at the bar, feeling awkward. Why didn't pubs have stools,
like the bars he knew in New York? Here, you either stood at the bar or
sat at a table. He had noticed that only old men, women, and couples
sat.
"So, what yer doin' 'ere then?" the barman asked, using the apron tied
around his thick waist to wipe the spillings from the counter.
Jim thought for a second before answering. Did the barman mean 'here
in this pub' or 'here in this country'?
"I was born here. My family moved to the States when I was a
kid."
The bushy, black eyebrows of the barman moved up, and he grunted
again.
"I've moved back," Jim continued, ashamed of feeling defensive. After
all, he did have a British passport and the right to live in England.
But the barman had finished the conversation and waddled away to stack
some pint glasses.
Jim took a mouthful of the beer; flat and warm with a strong flavor of
yeast and the bitterness of hops. He grimaced slightly and swallowed.
Just to have something to do, he lit a cigarette. The box had a
colorful picture of a sailor on it and the taste wasn't right but he
couldn't afford the imports. He felt awkward, standing alone at the
bar. He was conscious of the position of his hand when he raised it to
his mouth to take a drag of the cigarette. He was conscious of the
bartender, polishing glasses and arranging them neatly. It was quiet
except for the muted hum of traffic outside.

The door pushed open. A girl with sun-bleached blonde hair, wearing
jeans and a gauzy white blouse, walked into the pub. He immediately
sensed that she was not a local. The hair, the honey colored skin spoke
of sun, of the outdoors, not this rainy city. She was young but her
walk showed a self-possession that he lacked. She stood at an end of
the bar and asked for a Coke. The accent was American, but Jim noticed
that the barman felt it was not his place to make a comment about it.
She took her glass and, after surveying the room, went to a table. She
chose a chair, and sat straight-backed, knees together, but relaxed in
it. From the large, tapestry bag she had put on the chair next to her
she took a book and opened it.
Her natural beauty, a combination of nearly perfect physical features
and self-assurance, made him homesick. He thought of all he had left
behind in New York: a well-paid job, a bright, modern studio apartment,
friends and family. He thought of autumn days in Central Park, walking
the paths holding the hand of a girl. He thought of lying on the grass
in Sheep Meadow, smoking a joint and listening to folk music that
someone was playing on a battered acoustic guitar. He thought how nice
it would be to be among people who didn't ask if he was an American. He
thought how unfair it was that a short letter from the government was
all that had been needed to put an end to that life and bring him here,
where even the barman knew he really didn't belong.
He wanted to sit at her table and listen to her talk in that familiar
accent. He wanted to take her back to his room to brighten it with her
glowing suntanned skin and sun-bleached hair. Jim realized that he had
been staring at the girl's profile when she looked up from her book and
turned her eyes and impersonal smile toward him. He was embarrassed to
have been caught, and quickly looked away.
The bartender turned on the old radio that sat between bottles on a
shelf behind the bar. It took a few moments to warm up, before
reluctantly giving voice to the news.
When the American voice of the President came on, reassuring the world
that his great nation would prevail against its foes, the bartender
looked round from his interminable work polishing and stacking glasses.
He caught Jim's eye and raised one bushy eyebrow.
"Think 'e believes 'isself?"
Jim turned to the girl, wondering what her reaction to the bartender's
words would be. She was still reading the book, but he knew she had
heard the bartender: her lips were pressed together and her forehead
was furrowed by a frown. Without noticing, he had finished the beer. He
stubbed a cigarette out carefully in the empty, dirty ashtray.
"Goodbye," he said, not expecting a response, in the direction of the
bartender.
"See yer 'round, mate."
He walked by her table on his way to the door. She didn't look up from
her book as he passed her. He pulled the heavy door open and left the
pub.

It was getting darker when Jim got to the street where he lived. The
streetlights were coming on and they looked almost cheerful. The yellow
glow of an electric light was showing behind the heavy curtains of the
ground floor bay window. He went quickly up the stone steps and found
his key. It never worked the first time; he always had to jiggle it
before the front-door lock would snap open. He entered, for the first
time in days with the freedom of not caring whether he made noise. He
stopped at the door on his right and rapped on it.
The door opened a crack and she peered out, not wearing her glasses,
her hair wet.
"I'm sorry," Jim said. "I guess I chose a bad time to ask for that cup
of tea?" He thought she looked much better without her glasses and
makeup, in a bathrobe, with her hair hanging limply down.
She pulled the door open and, one hand holding her robe closed below
her throat, stepped aside to let him pass. "Oh, no. A cup of tea would
be lovely. Please, come in." Her smile was warm and friendly.