Rob Doyle - Here Are the Young Men

Everything was coming at Rez too intensely. He wished he wasn’t stoned, though he knew he’d do it again if he had the chance. He peered into the flux of telly, first at ads and then the war. It seemed to him he couldn’t tell the difference between telly and non-telly, as if the TV-reality was leaking out of the screen, submerging the sitting room. Or perhaps the telly was a black hole, slowly sucking in all of real reality, annihilating any difference between itself and the world it glowed out at.

Rez’s da shifted on the couch and bellowed to the house in general, ‘C’mon, it’ll be startin any second now.’

His ma hurried in from the kitchen, then Michael came bounding in and fell on the couch beside their da. Rez’s ma opened a huge packet of crisps and they all dug their hands in and began to munch.

On-screen, various young people were sitting in a house, doing nothing. Now and then, two or three of them would fall into conversation: about the people outside looking in; about how it felt to be watched all the time; about having conversations about being watched all the time while you were being watched. Occasionally someone would scratch themselves, or cook some pasta, or politely leave a room. There were scenes from inside the bedrooms: people were sleeping, serene under night-vision green — it reminded Rez of the Iraq invasion. There were indicators of the passing of time, then more meandering conversations that petered out into the background hum of steady, amiable senselessness.

He had seen Big Brother before — it had been going for two and a half years now. But it was tonight, stoned out of his head and alive to every glimmer of meaning, that he first recognized the sinister brilliance of the programme. With a dark thrill, he saw that the Big Brother house was really the world, and the people inside it were none other than Rez himself and his family who sat with him in awed fascination before the screen. And not only them: everyone else on the planet was in the Big Brother house too, watching themselves being watched, admiring themselves admiring. In the house, nothing of significance was spoken about; there was no purpose whatsoever to anything that went on. Unlike the on-screen version, however, in the real Big Brother house there was no outside, nowhere normal you could get back to.

Rez stayed rooted to the armchair, mesmerized by the shuffling, sighing, prattling humans on-screen, by the purity of their self-consciousness: how the slightest move they made, everything they said or did was performed, simultaneously sculpted and scrutinized by a hundred million pairs of eyes. He wondered if some rebel instinct in one of the contestants ever drove them to attempt an unself-conscious act. If so, it would have been futile. In this, Rez knew he was no different from the on-screen humans — his condition was to be forever outside himself, looking on, appraising and comparing. The innocent gesture had been annihilated. Even when there was no one around, it was impossible not to act as if you were being watched. This was the infernal genius of Big Brother : it was a decoy, an alibi, a playfully sustained illusion that it was the show, but which in the end pointed you back to yourself — the real show. Even now, sitting in the armchair, Rez watched himself from outside: a bright but troubled youth, an alienated outsider, drowning in suburban banality and hi-tech senselessness, adrift from family, law, meaning and morality. He saw himself sitting there, eyes closed, his insane family guffawing all around him. Despite everything, part of him relished the image.

He needed to get away. He left them there, his da happily rubbing his beer belly, and hurried upstairs to his room.

Usually Rez’s bedroom was a refuge, a place he could go to block out the weird signals that came to him through telly. But tonight he felt oppressed even in here. Harsh, frightening thoughts swarmed in on him. He tried to remember the last time he’d felt genuinely happy, but this only made him feel worse, because all the happy memories that occurred to him seemed false, like there’d been no substance to how he’d felt, only a grinning desperation. He fumbled to put on some music, trying to distract himself. Menacing, tribalistic drums throbbed and then Ian Curtis started singing, his voice deranged.

After lying in the dark for some time, listening to the music, Rez gasped for breath, grabbed the phone and called Julie.

‘Julie …’ he said when she came on the other end.

‘Rez? What is it? It’s late. I was just goin to bed.’ She sounded annoyed.

‘Sorry, it’s nothing, I’m just relieved to hear ye. I just wanted to hear yer voice.’

She groaned. ‘Are ye alright, Rez? Ye sound like something’s wrong. What’s happened?’

‘No, I’m alright, I think. It’s just … fuck, I don’t know, it’s just what ye were sayin out at Howth. You’re right. I should probably just cut down on the dope, ye know? Me head’s gettin a bit weird. It’s … I don’t know.’

Julie was yawning. ‘Yeah Rez, I’ve been sayin that for ages. But all that stuff ye worry about, it isn’t real, ye shouldn’t think about it. You’ll drive yerself round the bend.’

‘I know, Julie, I know. Don’t worry, I just wanted to hear your voice. I feel a lot better now. Listen, I’m really sorry for wakin ye up. Go on back to sleep, I’ll see ye tomorrow. I love ye, Julie.’

Julie said she loved him and hung up. He did feel better; Julie was good for him, she kept him grounded. Saying ‘I love you’, though — that was the worst. He meant it when he said it — at least he thought he did — but actually saying the words was excruciating. It was impossible to say the phrase without feeling embarrassed — not because you were expressing your feelings, but because you were saying something that you’d heard a million times, in the dodgiest of places, like romantic comedies and shit pop songs — everywhere that was wrong.

Some time later, he heard his parents locking up downstairs and going to bed. Then the house fell quiet, and soon he was asleep.

— Dwayne Kearney

To: Joseph Kearney

Email received at 6:23

18/06/2003

wats up faggit?

how r things back in gay ireland? im off me fucking trolly right now so sorry if i talk a load of shite except im not sorry at all u little queer. haha im only messing with u joseph dont be so touchy u faggit. listen joe drop wat yr doin an GET DE FUCK OVER HERE — amerika is unFUCKING beleievable. trust me. im only hear a cuple of days but allredy i never want to go back to shitty ireland again. seeiriously. im working like a nigger but fuck it we slEEp on the job and take coke every day and there is a session EVREY NITE!!! book yr tickets right now nigga!! or wud u prefer to stay in dublin smoking shite dublin hash all summer!!! cos hears de ting. over here i can alreddy get watever de fuck i want. wen i want. theres dis guy called Stu and hes been sorting me out with whatever de fuck i want wink wink nod nod. seerieously yu hav to meet him hes a cool moterfucker. and forget them dry cunted irish mingers as well joe. when u come over hear ill have some real wimen ready for ya. cute little bitches man i meen it u wont beLEAVE it. u have to pay of course but u no what dey say — theres no free lunch joe!! except a fuckin dog or sumting. dont take my wurd 4 it come over and sea 4 yrself.

get on dat plane joe!!!

later homes!

yr loving brother Dwayne INsane

PS seeriesly i am off my fuckeng tits here i swere to fucking god. me mate egon says hello. seeriously egon dats his fuckeing name like the bleedin gostbusters. i am off mi fuckenng hed and heres the thing i dont even no the name of wat we took but fuck me joe its fucking great GET OVER HERE!!!!