Read Online This is the Life by Joseph O'Neill - Free Book Online
Authors: Joseph O'Neill
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that I find the jangling, ice-breaking atmosphere a realtrial; the full bowls of cashews, the conversant hosts, the lucid thickets of glasses waiting in the kitchen. But it is stronger than me. I dread being late or untimely, it makes me physically unwell, and the appointed hour tugs at me with the force of a huge magnetic horseshoe.
I decided to park further round the block and wait for a few minutes where I could not be seen from the house. I reversed into a space, creaked the handbrake on, switched off the lights and waited. It was cold, the rain was rivering down the windscreen. I checked the appearance of my face in the rear-view mirror – pasty, freshly shaven – and sat still.
My shoulder muscles were like rocks and my stomach fluttered with pains – I had to smile at myself, I was exhibiting precisely the symptoms of some adolescent on a hot date. My psychological ploy was rebounding on me: I was the one on tenterhooks, not Donovan. He was probably relaxing in front of the fire right now, sipping a whisky and water. Why did I not just step out of the car and go? Instead of putting myself through this torment?
Still, now that I had taken this course I had to see it through. I switched on the radio. A financial analyst was making exotic predictions about March gold and April nickel, and, not having any money in futures, I reached over and tried to find another station.
Unexpectedly I timed into a pop song. The reception was pure and stereophonic and, ridiculously, the music went straight to my head. Maybe the surroundings – glamorous doorways, high windows burning in tall white houses – played a part, I do not know, but suddenly I was intoxicated, light-headed, as if I had inhaled my first cigarette in years. I began daydreaming. I saw the running windscreen as a cinema screen and my looming face in close-up upon it: there I was, the cool, brooding hero poised for significant, resonant action, the cheekbones twenty feet across, the eyes purposeful blue slants; that song on the radio, that was my theme song, my soundtrack. I turned up the collar of my raincoat and started smoking a cigarette. I turned the volume dial so thatthe sound pumped and flooded out of the loudspeakers, the music slowly contacting my prickling skin like water entering a wetsuit. It was amazing! There I was, a man of thirty-three, buzzing and aswarm with adolescent fantasies! Somehow the song, which was utterly unconnected with my situation, was imbued with mysterious poignancy and meaning. Somehow the lyrics, about a jilted, disbelieving lover, hit the spot exactly. Although I have never experienced romantic rejection, I sympathized with the singer, I knew what he was going through when he sang
Tell me that it isn’t true.
For a moment I, too, had been thrown over, I ached with loss too. What sensitized me to the singer’s predicament, of course, was not his song, which was nothing special. It was Donovan, waiting for me only half a block away. His proximity opened me up like a house visited for the first time in years; inside me doors flew open, inside me rooms lit up.
I switched off the radio and stepped out into the rain.
I doubled over and began sprinting along the street, occasionally flashing a look at the numbers on the houses to keep track of where I was. I tried, where I could, to run below arches and overhanging branches, and to sidestep the pools rising before my eyes in the hollows of the street – but it was no good. I was drenched before I had gone a hundred yards. I should never have parked the car so far away from the house, I thought furiously. I should have brought an umbrella. Now the evening was ruined – I would show up at the doorstep like a drowned rat, my shoes filled with water, my hair in strands, a mess. Damn, damn, damn.
The countdown of houses seemed interminable: 74, 72, 70, it seemed to go on for ever, and with every panting step I took what felt like a fresh litre of water went straight through the
I decided to park further round the block and wait for a few minutes where I could not be seen from the house. I reversed into a space, creaked the handbrake on, switched off the lights and waited. It was cold, the rain was rivering down the windscreen. I checked the appearance of my face in the rear-view mirror – pasty, freshly shaven – and sat still.
My shoulder muscles were like rocks and my stomach fluttered with pains – I had to smile at myself, I was exhibiting precisely the symptoms of some adolescent on a hot date. My psychological ploy was rebounding on me: I was the one on tenterhooks, not Donovan. He was probably relaxing in front of the fire right now, sipping a whisky and water. Why did I not just step out of the car and go? Instead of putting myself through this torment?
Still, now that I had taken this course I had to see it through. I switched on the radio. A financial analyst was making exotic predictions about March gold and April nickel, and, not having any money in futures, I reached over and tried to find another station.
Unexpectedly I timed into a pop song. The reception was pure and stereophonic and, ridiculously, the music went straight to my head. Maybe the surroundings – glamorous doorways, high windows burning in tall white houses – played a part, I do not know, but suddenly I was intoxicated, light-headed, as if I had inhaled my first cigarette in years. I began daydreaming. I saw the running windscreen as a cinema screen and my looming face in close-up upon it: there I was, the cool, brooding hero poised for significant, resonant action, the cheekbones twenty feet across, the eyes purposeful blue slants; that song on the radio, that was my theme song, my soundtrack. I turned up the collar of my raincoat and started smoking a cigarette. I turned the volume dial so thatthe sound pumped and flooded out of the loudspeakers, the music slowly contacting my prickling skin like water entering a wetsuit. It was amazing! There I was, a man of thirty-three, buzzing and aswarm with adolescent fantasies! Somehow the song, which was utterly unconnected with my situation, was imbued with mysterious poignancy and meaning. Somehow the lyrics, about a jilted, disbelieving lover, hit the spot exactly. Although I have never experienced romantic rejection, I sympathized with the singer, I knew what he was going through when he sang
Tell me that it isn’t true.
For a moment I, too, had been thrown over, I ached with loss too. What sensitized me to the singer’s predicament, of course, was not his song, which was nothing special. It was Donovan, waiting for me only half a block away. His proximity opened me up like a house visited for the first time in years; inside me doors flew open, inside me rooms lit up.
I switched off the radio and stepped out into the rain.
I doubled over and began sprinting along the street, occasionally flashing a look at the numbers on the houses to keep track of where I was. I tried, where I could, to run below arches and overhanging branches, and to sidestep the pools rising before my eyes in the hollows of the street – but it was no good. I was drenched before I had gone a hundred yards. I should never have parked the car so far away from the house, I thought furiously. I should have brought an umbrella. Now the evening was ruined – I would show up at the doorstep like a drowned rat, my shoes filled with water, my hair in strands, a mess. Damn, damn, damn.
The countdown of houses seemed interminable: 74, 72, 70, it seemed to go on for ever, and with every panting step I took what felt like a fresh litre of water went straight through the
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