The big C

the big C

'Leigh, I'm off to the garage?'
'Laarge,' emerges slowly from my throat as an extended croak.
Laying full-length on the sofa, my eyeballs have managed to navigate a
clear line through the glasses, ashtrays and the other clutter the
coffee table, to the television. So they, let alone the rest of my
body, don't feel like they'll be moving for the next couple of hours at
least.
'Deadly Spitting Cobras with Steve Irwin' is on. A strange and
disorienting mixture of frenetic activity and total disparagement of
deadly snakes. 'He's getting raaather grumpy,' he keeps muttering to
the camera for each new reptile he finds. Goggle-eyed, they perform an
apprehensive dance around each other. He keeps washing the venom
('copious amounts of venom') from his clothes and backpack with plenty
of water.
I'm easily, drowsily hypnotised by it.

'Oi Leigh, yer bastard!'
'What?' I call downstairs.
'D'you want anything?'
'Just those rizlas!?and some orange juice!'
'Alright mate?' the door slams.

Watching this balletic face-off switch from savanna to jungle and back
again, to desert, flicking between continents, like an uneasy
channel-hopper, I can't help but feel genuinely impressed with the
spectacle of it all. What it's for, that's not exactly clear. There's
no Attenborough-style narrative being built up, or any non-intrusive
examination of the cobras' behaviours in a natural environment. The
whole thing is about going out and picking up the deadliest snakes you
can find. Steve grabs them by the tail, pokes them with a stick, and
waves his backpack in their faces. There's no real reason for it, apart
from the fact that there's an audience for it. At the same time
however, there must be a point at which you decide your dream career
involves playing with killer reptiles, inciting them to violence. What
kind of a lifeplan did this man have? I look at the rubbish on the
coffee table and feel demoralised.
'Uuuuuh he got me.' Steve seems genuinely surprised, momentarily, that
the cobra had the audacity to shoot venom in his face. Then, next
moment, almost foaming at the mouth with the raw excitement of
witnessing an attack on his person. 'Did you see the shields on his
neck? I'm gonna have to go for more water, though.'
Hmmm, thirsty.
Aren't I supposed to be giving all this up?
It's a typical Bank Holiday Monday. Wildlife documentaries have shunted
the soap operas and bad sitcoms off their usual slots. Bastards.
Refusing to cooperate with my schedule.
Jaime's through the front door again quite fast. Something about the
thrill of contemplating an injury to oneself is still fixed in my head,
and I'm disappointed he's back to disturb my thought processes such as
they are. Hmm. The thought returns: aren't I supposed to be giving all
this up?
He bounds in, and drops into the armchair opposite, plucking sundry
items out of a thin plastic bag. Rizlas. Chewing gum. Juices. A Twix.
Three packets of the cheapest salt'n'vinegar crisps money can buy. His
final prize: four Stellas. 'I swung by the offy,' he offers by way of
explanation, 'but I ran out of money.' Nevertheless happy with the
fruits of his labour. For Jaime it's a well-earned opportunity to
continue what he does for a living. Or just what he does for a
life.
I'm still angry at him for interrupting Steve and his deadly cobra
friends.
'So what's up for the rest of the week?'
'Nothing.' Not that there's truly nothing, just that there's an urgency
to do something soon. By the end of the week perhaps. By the end of the
week to have something definite to dream of doing.

'Why are you watching this?' he asks incredulously. Anything that
operates on a level above catatonia is likely to hasten Jaime's
suspicion or anger. He sighs with satisfaction as he pushes himself
onto the floor and spreads out.
Results tomorrow. A proper visit to the doctor's though, not a letter
or a phone call. Not like your exam results or a dentist's reminder
postcard. A proper official visit. Now I feel the need to get to
myself, just stop and close into my own space. Try to swing myself
round from my comfortably established position on the sofa, with its
carefully negotiated line of sight to the TV. As I shift forwards to
stand up, I kick over a glass of water I had forgotten at my feet. I
sit for a second, watching the glitter from reflected light slowly fade
as the water seeps into the carpet. Too sluggish to do anything about
it.
I leave it behind, along with the sounds of Jaime munching to Steve's
still breathless commentary.
Splashing my face with water in the bathroom, I can hear Jaime's 'hurm,
hurm' in response to the frenzied performance onscreen. Bloodshot eyes,
the skin seems too pallid and numb to be my own. Drips form at my
jawline and the end of my nose. Space floods my consciousness if I move
just the tiniest bit now. Still I jerk my head to the right and slap my
cheek a couple of times, trying to wake up some painful life again,
rather than this nauseatingly mild disquiet. Failing, I pull my hand
over my face, sensing only the dull rub prickle in my damp
stubble.
Lou Reed comes on the downstairs stereo, part-way through a song.
'?head, said hey babe, take a walk on the wild side'. I feel flushed
with intoxication and leave it until the end of the 'doo, doo-doo,
doo-doo-doo, doo-doo's to finish before heading back down.

'New York's the city where they said, hey babe?' Feeling queasy I pick
up the tumbled glass and plod to the kitchen for fresh water. Jaime
stands by the CD player chucking random CDs on a nearby chair; Blondie,
David Bowie, and Gladys Knight.
'God man, your music is so old?' Just about the only thing he hasn't
cast aside is a Best of the Beach Boys. 'Got any 2Tone?'
'Yeah, but it might be upstairs.'
This is what it's all for, the silence. I haven't told anyone lest I
miss out on the pursuit of blankness. Least of all would I tell Jaime,
the amateur amnesiac, the professional companion to just getting
blunted. Everything floats, but not just with being stoned. I still
can't feel the needle of anticipation, the sickness of checking
yourself in with the receptionist and sitting in the waiting room. The
terrible, appalling fear that the doctor is running late, that the
results haven't arrived, that the appointment with another specialist
is already booked. Prolonging the interminable caesura of the unknown.
Oh shit oh shit. The most important thing, as they say, is to think
positively and continue with your life as best you can. Which is what
I'm doing now. Secretly making plans to make plans.
Positive thinking.
Behind me, Jaime is fully absorbed, having discarded my music, in
finding a suitable video to extend the silence. Nothing he finds seems
to quite satisfy him.
Positive thinking.
I would know if something was wrong, and if something were wrong, all
this petty irritation would not touch me because I would have more
important things to consider, like life for instance.
The bonding element of having a smoke has been recently lacking from
all those I have always smoked with. I'm getting paranoid about getting
paranoid. But it's easy to stay this way for now, even though I feel I
should be moving on somehow.
Positive thinking, you see?

'Leigh.'
'Yeah.'
'You alright?'
'No probs mate.'
'Want one of these?' He passes me a Stella and I take it. As I open it,
I take a deep breath, and, unsurprisingly, the room smells of smoke.
Jaime moves over to the coffee table, and kneels to skin up.
When he's doing this, Jaime's eyes are total concentration and
patience, gathering the fresh rizlas, tobacco, weed, lighter. And
suddenly all that stuff on the glass table doesn't seem like detritus
anymore. Everything is fine, I tell myself, and it will be fine.
Watching him so focused is liberating after all, and I'm thankful for
it too. Fine. The nagging pang for clarity fades: after all, why should
clarity be more positive than this?
It's admirable to watch. An artform, full of grace and poise - like
ballet for finger puppets, intricate floorwork and leaping. Or a thrill
of craftsmanship, spliff carpentry; the best materials, excellent
tools, a keen, skilled eye. Some day they could make a documentary
about Jaime's quest for the perfect spliff, of the kind they do for
popular cultural legends like Oliver Reed or Kenneth Williams. Intercut
with biographical anecdotes from myself and others, it would explore
all those gems he made along the way.
Positive thinking.