Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

Rewriting Aeneid #68 1996

We take things and make them our own. That’s how we do things, right? Nothing is pretty and polished, nothing happens like that … not to me it doesn’t, no, it’s all gone, all happened before, all gone in the blink of an eye … Woosh, there it goes, there it goes … Woooosh … Woooooooooosh … I’ll take from it what I can, like a sneak thief in the night, I’ll take it and make it my own, my only truth … like everything else, for the taking …

[He lights a cigarette.]

I’m another man from what I now appear to be … I want to keep order. Things to be secure, as they should be, you know. But they’re not … things are vulgar. I see them every day … So in my heart I feel ashamed, alas … Nothing … Nothing … Nothing but shame, the cause of my vanities … My vanities have caused me my shame. Like everyone else — you, me, everyone — I have lost all order.

[He stares at the camera for about six or seven minutes without speaking.]

Sloth … Gluttony … These vulgar things have stolen virtue away. Hah, hah, hahah … Who gives a fuck anyway? Eh? What’s the fucking point … in writing this book?

[He lifts up some pages of his manuscript and waves them at the camera.]

It’s all a sham … writing truth … it’s impossible … It’s fucking broken, and no one sees it, and if they do they turn away. Liars! Liars! Liars! … Can I get this right, my old friend Petrarch … Backward at every step and slow … These limbs I turn which great pain I bear … Then take I comfort from fragrant air … That breathes from thee, and singing onward go …

[He gets up from his armchair and puts on a record. He turns it up loud.]

Stand and watch the towers burning at the break of day … Steadily slowing down, been on my feet since yesterday … Gotta get a move on tryin’ to find a man I know … Money in my pocket, looking for a place to go …

[He is singing along, shouting at times, moving closer to the camera with every line.]

I’ve been searching all through the city … see you in the morning down by the jetty …

[With this he begins to jump around the room to the music. Laughing. Falling over. Dropping his cigarette, still singing along, picking up Dr Feelgood albums and looking at them, lining up more records.]

Streets are full of signs, arrows pointing everywhere … Parks are full of people trying to get a breath of air … Listen to the weatherman praying for a drop of rain, ah, ah love this bit … Look into the sky, the sky is full of aeroplanes …

[He crashes towards the camera. Knocking it over. He stumbles towards it and switches it off. Blackness.]

I stare into the black screen for what seems like hours. I’ve never seen Uncle Rey in such a state before. Drunk and stupid, yes, but not manic like that. I look around the caravan; it’s strange to think that what I’ve just witnessed on the screen took place in this same room in 1996. I walk over to the record player and turn up the volume. To my complete and utter amazement the same track is playing, the same track he was just stumbling around to in here, on the screen.

I’ve been searching all through the city,

See you in the morning down by the jetty.

I’ve been searching, I’ve been searching for you.

I wake up in the armchair with only one thing on my mind: the girl. I need to find her, that’s all I know. I decide that I’ll search the housing estates near the creeks, where I saw her last night, then I’ll go to Southend, to see if I can find her there. I’m sure I’ll find her in Southend, if not the island. It’s not a big place; you see the same people again and again on a given day. It can’t be that hard to find her.

After a cold shower and a cup of coffee, slipping back into the same clothes, I open the door to let in some fresh air. I’m immediately greeted with a vast blue sky, stretching out towards Kent, above the barbed-wire fence and the sea wall. I spot Mr Buchanan. He’s walking along the sea wall, with his dog. I call out to him. He stops and waves me over.

‘Good morning, Jon … We missed you at dinner last night.’

‘Good morning, Mr Buchanan … Oh, yes, I was tired … Long day … Sorry.’

‘Robbie … please …’

‘Sorry, Robbie, yes … out for a walk?’

‘Yes, she takes me every morning … All good with …’

‘Yes, that’s all been taken care of … Thanks for your help with that … Listen, I wanted …’

‘Yes … What?’

‘The creeks … Do people swim in them?’

‘Not if they don’t want to risk death … The mud, you see, the tides … It’s not the safest thing to do … I’m sure there’re some idiots after one too many, or bored teenagers in the summer holidays … But no one in their right mind would think of it.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why? Are we thinking of taking a morning dip?’

‘…’

‘You’d be lucky, tide’s hiding at the moment …’

‘What? … Oh, no, no … I was just wondering … Something I saw, that’s all … Last night … It got me thinking …’

‘Well don’t think about doing that …’

‘I won’t. Don’t you worry.’

‘Shall I book you a place for dinner tonight, Jon? It would be lovely to see you in the pub … You missed some good specials last night.’

‘Yes, please, yes … That would be great …’

‘How about 8 p.m.?’

‘Yes, 8 p.m.’

‘See you then, Jon.’

‘Yes, see you later, Robbie.’

suburban drabness

It was definitely somebody swimming, and I’m sure it was her. I’m sure I didn’t imagine it. It’s not like I was drunk last night, maybe over-tired, that’s about it. It was the way she just casually walked away that bothered me, into the darkness. I wanted to reach out to her, to help her, to save her from the blackness. I shake my head, annoyed with myself for thinking like this. I know it’s claptrap, but I can’t help it. I can’t help myself. I want to find her with every atom of my being. I can sense she’s in danger, in some sort of trouble that’s beyond her control. If that was her swimming, the same girl from the pier, and those things she said to me were true, then last night was a cry for help, a sign, and I need to respond to it.

I walk back to Uncle Rey’s caravan. I lock the door and head inland, towards the housing estates of Small Gains Corner and Kings Park. It doesn’t take me long to reach the High Street. It’s surprisingly busy for a Sunday. I walk along it, passing families and shoppers, onto May Avenue, where I decide to stop and walk up and down each of the roads that run parallel with it, back along to Small Gains Corner. Off the High Street the roads are eerily quiet: suburban drabness, parked cars, the rustle of leaves in the trees and the odd teenager on a BMX, nothing much to look at, and certainly no sight of her. It’s no use. I need sustenance. I need to formulate some form of plan, something to stick to. All this aimless wandering is getting me nowhere.

falling

I take a seat by the window at Rossi’s Café on the seafront at Southend. I sit and wait for someone to take my order, but it’s a self-service café so I get up to join the queue at the long counter. I order a sausage sandwich on granary bread and a huge mug of black coffee. When I ask for the coffee black the woman behind the counter frowns at me. It makes me smile at her; as I do this she passes me my change and frowns again, her eyes narrowing, tightening into an angry ‘V’. It doesn’t make sense; I’m polite, I smile, and yet she’s clearly disappointed in me. Maybe it’s my stick, or my muddy shoes? I don’t know. I walk back over to my table by the window. Almost immediately a woman approaches me to ask if the chair opposite me is free.