The Plough

I’m sitting in a pub. I’m back in the world. Phew. Is this…? It is: it’s The Plough, circa 1984; I recognise the pinball machine. The smell of fish fingers and chips wafts in. Am I…?

No; I’m a man. I’m in a man’s body. My man’s body. The residual image I have of myself, unable to recall any other, finding it the most convenient and pleasant. The body is the physical representation of the mind. The mind is…

Oh, here we go again.

“Still thinking weird?” It’s Chamone.

“Damn straight,” I say, “when will this thing wear off? S’been…what? An eternity? Freak sake man, I was just in space.”

“How was it?”

“Cooler than anything you could ever imagine. I was like…the centre of the entire universe. Got to see that everything was me – was in me – we were all the same thing. Like how The Big Bang happened. And why life exists.”

“You’ll forget that,” he says, “in time. Best to keep reminding yourself. Even when all the evidence says otherwise. Especially when all the evidence says otherwise. That’s the challenge. Part of the equation.”

“The dichotomy. Right. No knowledge without ignorance, huh?” I take a sip. “Ug,” I say, “who put that beer there? Why am I drinking it? Nasty stuff: I don’t even like the smell.”

“You will,” he says. “Look.”

He points over to the door on the other side of the bar, just by the pinball machine. In walks…my mum! She’s young. Quite fit.

I laugh. I go to stand up and say, “hey mum!” but Chamone puts his arm on my elbow and pulls me down.

“Not a good idea,” he says, “have a think. Probably you’d freak her out. She’s, what, twenty-six? And you’re thirty-six and you want to tell her you’re her son and she’s your mum. Just watch. I’m sorry, but it’s not for interacting.”

“This isn’t real,” I say, trying again to rise in my seat.

“Oh, it’s real all right. Just because it’s weird doesn’t mean it’s not real – something else you’d do well to remember.”

“You’re kidding?” I say, settling in my chair. I push the beer away from me, spilling a bit on my fingers. I wipe my hand on my trouser leg. Sniff my fingers and assure myself they stink.

“Holy shit!” I say, “it’s me!”

In through the door walks me – a little fuckin’ kid. What the fuck? The dude’s so tiny: I don’t remember being that small. How old? Like eight or something. This is mental. Tugging at mummy’s handbag. Asking for 10p. Mummy too busy talking at the bar, ordering some lunch. Except…

“Shit, she’s seen us,” says Chamone, “we’d better go.”

Mummy’s clocked her eyes on me. My ‘holy shit’ was a bit too loud in an empty room in a lunchtime pub. Some weird expression she’s giving me. Continuing to stare. Looking back at the bar – Johnny Lynam’s mum! – and then back at me.

Do I look like my biodad? Do I look like her son, only four times older and bearded and a man? No one would ever think such a thing.

She shrugs me off – the younger me – and takes a few steps towards Chamone and I.

But Chamone’s already rushing us down the steps and into the toilets and I think wiser of glancing back.

“I don’t get it,” I say, “how come all the other stuff that’s been going on lately but this we’ve got to run away from? I’ve been in space, man. I’ve had sex with myself. I’ve had multiple conversations with imaginary people from my long distant past. Been strapped to a – ”

“That’s the thing,” he says, “all that was imaginary. In your head.”

“Even you?”

“But this is real now. I knew this was a bad idea, bringing you here…”

“Where are we?”

“Nineteen-eighty-four.”

“What, for real?”

“For real.” He looks down solemnly and shuffles his feet.

“Hey man,” I say, “you’re wearing my shoes.”

I look closer and they are indeed my shoes. And then I notice the shoes I’m wearing aren’t mine – and yet they look vaguely familiar…

“I’ve got to go,” he says.

I look back up to his face. His face is now my face.

“What the…?”

“Listen, I’ll take this back, to the present, and you come when you’re done here. Go look in the mirror.”

I look around me. There’s a mirror over the sink, by the soap dispensers. This same old Plough toilet I peed in when I was eight, when I was…

“Eighteen. No, no. What the fuck? I don’t want to be eighteen again. Give it me back. I can’t go through this again.”

I rush over to Chamone and grab my shoulders.

“Are you kidding me? You want me to live all this again?”

“Nothing like that,” he says, brushing my arms off him, taking my shoulders in his hands. My hands. My proper manly hands and now I’m all thin and scrawny and not even shaving anymore. The clothes I wear don’t fit. I got them off the market. Such a poor cut of jeans! Such a shitty design of a t-shirt. I’ve gone from being the centre of the universe to being a stupid gawky teenager. So often we long for our youth – but now I’ve got it, I know how misplaced that longing is.

“Come on,” he says, “we’ve got time: I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I don’t drink,” I say.

“You do now.”

Out the door, I glance around. I feel almost naked in this flimsy old body of mine. How did I never notice it at the time? It feels like it could blow away in the wind.

“Mummy’s gone,” I say. The pub’s gone too – or rather, it’s changed. No more pinball machine. No more fish fingers and chips. Everything a little brighter and shinier than it was ten minutes ago.

We sit down.

“Look at that,” I say, “ashtrays. Fag ends. It feels like a lifetime ago. My dad was shit at stubbing out his cigs – all those times I’d grind it out with a glass, the trail of smoke too much for my eyes, him staring at me like I was some sort of weirdo. Man, I used to sit in pubs not three feet from someone who smoked and not think twice about it! And now I don’t even want to be within fifty feet when we’re in a park. What happened? How did I change? How did I never notice?”

“Bodily awareness,” Chamone says, once more himself, “you had no sense of what your body was doing back then, what was good or bad for it, the effects that substances and even words and thoughts were having on it. Here,” he says, “have a drink. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Ah, that’s good, I say. Tasty.” I lick my lips. Take another sip. Take a bigger one. “Real good.”

“But is it?” he says – and suddenly I’ve got my future awareness back, and I feel this weird fermented taste in my mouth and a woozy feeling in my head. My belly feels sick. Poison in my veins. I want it out of me.

“Don’t like this,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says, “you can have whatever you want. Want awareness or not?”

“Not right now. Feel sick. Better without it sometimes. Just want to enjoy.”

“Then enjoy you shall” – and with that, I feel instantly better, buzzed up and excited.

“There’s a glow in my cheeks,” I say. “I like it! Woo!”

And I drain my pint.

“So what I want you to do,” says Chamone, “is just have a night out with your old friends, see how it feels, and when you wake up you’ll be back in twenty-twelve and back in your normal, old body. Unless, of course, you want to stay here and live the whole thing all over again.”

He smiles at me, like he knows that’s the last thing I want.

“Might,” I say, slurring a little, and taking another sip, “I’m kinda getting’ a likin’ for it.”

I burp loudly. Chamone frowns. Checks his watch.

“Well that’s up to you. Listen, I’ve got to go soon – ”

“Say, where is my old body anyway?”

“Got it right here, old bean, under my hat.”

“What hat?”

“Fohat’s hat. Fohat digs holes in space, remember?”

“What?”

“What what?”

“What what what?”

I laugh. My eyes feel wobbly. I take another sip.

“I can’t remember what I was just saying,” I say, “something about a hat.”

“That’s right,” says Chamone, “you were saying you’ve never had a hat. And I was saying I’ve got to go – but before I do, I need to check in with you, find out what you think you’ve learned. You know, over the past few days. Just blurt it out.”

“Blurt it out? Okay, me old mucker, you asked for it. Remember November the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot? Remember December the fifth of December…”

I trail off. My head rolls on my neck and my body rolls in my chair.

“Whee,” I say, and flop my head onto my shoulder and try to my best to stare at Chamone, who keeps moving.

“Honestly, man, it’s important. Here,” he says, opening up his wallet, there’s twenty quid in it for you.”

Right. Twenty quid. That’s a whole lot of fun.

“Twenty-five,” I say.

“Twenty-five,” he says. “Fine.”

He lays it on the table. I go to pick it up but he bangs his hand down over it, spills some beer on the beermat as he does.

“Hey!” I say, a little too loudly, “watch the beer.”

“Twenty-five,” he says, “and another beer before I leave.”

I lift my pint. Take a gulp. Look at him over the top of my glass with the rim still in my mouth.

“Hey, I remember,” I say, “I useta bite a chunk outta these glasses and chew them up. Spit out the glass in little pieces. Same with a lightbulb. S’nuffin’ – but the girls sure love it. Meks ‘em squeam – scream – squeamish. I’ll sh-sh-show you.”

I grip the glass in my teeth.

“I’m going,” he says, and stands up, taking his money.

“Okay, okay,” I say, dropping my glass to the table and wetting the beermat some more. I suck my fingers. Wipe them on my jeans. “It’s obvious, innit? The universe got created ‘cos it was boring everything being perfect in the absolute and so I – and you – and everybody and everything – the grand old ‘We’ – had this idea of splitting ourselves into like an infinite number of pieces and then we could experience really cool things in relation to really bad things. And the bits of us that got to be really cool took it in turns with the bits that started off being really bad and that way it was fair and everybody got to have a go. It was sort of like a deal, you know – like a kids’ game: okay, no you be Hitler and I’ll be Douglas Bader – Adams – no Bader – and then next time you can be the hero and, okay, I’ll play the baddy. It’s all relative, innit? It’s like, no up without down, all that jive. Except, we forget. We keep forgetting. And so the buddy of ours who’s playing Hitler we think, what a fuckin’ shit, how could he do such a thing? – not realising that he’s the one we’ve got to thank for making all our righteousness and angel-balls possible. But forgetfulness is all part of the game too – otherwise it wouldn’t seem so real. So forgetfulness makes it feel real and makes us able – enables us – to really get into the role. Like a fuckin’ actor or somebody who forgets that he’s an actor and starts to actually believe he’s Batman and maybe he can fly. ‘Cept Batman can’t fly, can he? He just floats, really, swoops down, controlled landings and all that…”

“Henny-way…that’s the main thing, the forgetfulness. And the hopposite of that is remembering, and remembering a really cool experience and that’s why we invented forgetfulness so we could have that and so we could play the whole game of cowboys and Indians in the first place. Ya know, s’all just a game, right? Like, make-believe. Pretend. You pretend to be a human and you pretend to be a rock and then we’ll all have these experiences and do things that we could never have done before when we were all just part of the dot hanging out in infinity not really aware of anything ‘cos we just so happened to be aware of everything all the time and that didn’t leave room for not knowing and discovering and having a good old root around and looking for things. It’s like Einstein transforming himself into a single-celled being and then going through the whole process of billions of years of evolution just to enjoy the ride. It’s the getting there that’s the best bit, right? Not the arriving. Any tinpot gap year traveller’ll tell you that.”

“But that’s just the beginning. You know what’s really cool is when you get into remembering that you forgot all about infinity and time and that’s been the main thing for me these past few days, realising just how big I am and how many of me there are out there. Like billions of us. Like, even more than that. All these mes living every possible possibility and, wow, that’s just such a freeing thing. Like, all my life I used to worry about the choices I was making and, what if I did this thing and then I wouldn’t be able to do that? Or, what if this was the wrong choice and I was being daft and maybe I should be sensible instead? But having met a few of these other mes and realised they’re all doing everything anyway – well then it’s like I don’t need to worry about missing out on anything ‘cos they’re all gonna do it for me anyway and like spies or scouts they’ll be bringing back the information too and giving it me when we get reunited and squished back into one so I couldn’t be missing out, I just gotta wait. And what that really means is that I can do any fuckin’ thing I want – pardon my French – ‘cos there’s no point worrying about it. And so you might as well choose the best and the maddest thing and then let all the other more conservative yous do the boring thing like buy the house or marry the sensible girl ‘cos – well, mostly what I’m into is the learning and the growing and that sort of requires a full-speed rocket ahead ‘cos there’s only so much you can milk from any given situation or location or girl, right, before it starts to become a drag and get all mundane and heavy. Sooner or later they’re gonna make you wanna have babies – but like I’ve already been sayin’, I don’t want no babies – I don’t even wanna stick my dick in any girls – that’s all just weird, pieces of the puzzle dating from missing urges from parents and all I’m doing when I wanna stick my dick in a girl is trying to make up for cuddles I didn’t get as a child, or the time my mummy told me off for nicking someone’s lego and sticking it up my bum, and then of course all the weird thing around you that says – from billboards and movies – sex is the best, aren’t women hot? and you keep trying and trying to see what they’re getting at and wondering why it doesn’t really feel that way, why other things seem loads better – and then you realise that, ah, yes, they were just talking bullshit ‘cos that’s what someone else told them and – wow, I broke free of that spell – rode that fuckin’ donkey right off the edge of the cliff – and now I’m onto other things. Baby shakes rattle, young boy plays with choo-choo – and on and on and on…”

“Point is, don’t worry, be happy. Oh, and don’t give no fuck about dying – that ain’t real neither. The life just goes on, in some other new and better body, or maybe even in this one. Sometimes I died and then I said, no, wait, I didn’t wanna do that just then – and so I went right back and switched a few things around and carried on from where I left off or even some other place. Forgetting the whole thing of course.”

“Forgetting, forgetting – that’s where it’s at. What was I saying? I forgot.”

I laughed. I took a sip. My head wobbled stupidly.

“Flink flink,” I said, “we’re right back in the past and – wait, was it all just a dream? I dreamed I was thirty-six and had done all this stuff and wandered out from South Elmsall and discovered, like, beauty and spirituality and met these people – John somebody? some Indian woman – and…once upon a time I couldn’t ever imagine it, couldn’t bend my mind into some of the things I’m saying – ‘cept I did of course grok my young head on Hendrix and Gong and buy that weird old I Ching in a record shop in Bradford and genuinely think it groovy and – of course, what about the time I took all that acid? Except I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve been thinking, hm, maybe what if drugs like that don’t even really open your mind, what if experimenting with them is just a symptom of a mind that would really like to be opened anyway, and one day gets to be opened irrespective? But then maybe that’s not right. Like sometimes I think the brain isn’t really the source of anything anyway, it’s just the lighting-up board that lights up as things pass through. But then that doesn’t gel with what happens when you remove bits of it, either by accident or on purpose – ‘cept maybe it does: the lightbulb is not the source of electricity, nor even the wires that lead to it. What is? The sun? So what then the brain except the place that translates and transforms these signals coming from elsewhere? And, sure, we can see patterns and waves and things flashing on and off – but that’s just the lightbulb again, not the source. Who has seen the source of thoughts? What man can say, ‘my thoughts are mine and they come from me and I control them’? For what man has ever said, ‘and I can stop them whenever I want’? Or, ‘I can force them in whichever direction I want and they always do my bidding’? Psh! That’s a man I’d like to meet, if that man exists. Or woman.”

“Woman!” I said. “I need a woman!” I looked up from my drink. Daytime drinking. Drinking alone. What a state to be in – and only (watch face comes slowly into focus) twenty to eight.

Where are they? Why always late? Ah, here they come – the crew – my friends – Brent and Ady and Steve and Chris. Kelly and Debbie and…

Ah, the stirring in my loins. Glorious forgetfulness. No rush to reach the end. We’ve seen it anyway. It’s the getting there that’s the best bit – hey, that’s deep! What a realisation! And true, so true. What a wise young head you’ve got, always realising things. Like how cooking’s better when it’s not just you. Like how some people don’t really listen, they’re just waiting for their turn to speak. Like how The Empire Strikes Back is really the best Star Wars film and wouldn’t be awesome if they made some more? Like how women’s titties look better in bikinis and if you’re ever on a topless beach it’s actually quite boring ‘cos there’s no mystery or longing for the big reveal.

The longing. The getting there. And the longer it takes, and the bigger the tease, the better and more juicy it feels. The getting there is just the getting home after a holiday and a long and tiring flight – but wouldn’t you much rather stay there on the beach? Keep the holiday going? Prolong, even, the bit where you’re on the plane and watching the movies and eating the free food and dreaming about the stewardesses?

But, no, you wouldn’t: for even that would become old. Everything must be novelty, always. Everything must be new. Always growing, always stretching into new directions. That’s life. Nothing wrong with any of it – but let’s not try and let the thing get stale. That’s the sign it’s time to move on. Time for a new reality. No shame in letting anything go. And always some new undreamed of reality to move into.

Ah, what thoughts I have in the microsecond before my friends pile into the table and they laugh at me for being pissed already, even though it’s still light out, and the music blares from the jukebox, and, ‘who put this on? it’s shit,’ and the room goes all swirly and mad and the whole outside world is forgotten for this night, at least, the centre of the universe here in this pub, on this pub table, while chaos swirls all around.

Check her out man.

Down in one.

You stupid cunt.

The – harharhar!

Shubbashubbashubba fish wife – yeah! Fillet o’ fish – grand designs – oriental slinky-eyed bushwhacker – Ray-mond Ray-mond – Raymond-o – no, Ray-mong! Harharhar!

Shubbashubba fish slice. And listen as the dalek bands who are my dad sit mouldering with plasticine fingers in Victor Street attic while a yellow plastic bathtub that stinks of piss ‘cos it’s got piss in it and – shubbashubbashubba: why am I lying with my face pressed into grass with drool spooling down and such heavy eyes talking shubbashubba to myself on this cold damp Stockingate school field. Where woman? Where girlfriend? Where night go? How come…strange old dream and images before these…aching eyes, bleurgh.

Gonna…

Cry? Puke? Die?

Gonna have to change a thing or two, ‘cos this don’t feel right. What a night! And not that I remember it but – sure musta been good, judgin’ by how bad I feel right now.

Where my shoe?

How get here?

And where to now?

Ah: the human condition of forever waking up in weird places and needing to think of something to do. But what if I just lie and lie forever? Would I get swept up and moved away? But moved to where? Or would they let me just shit and piss and I suppose eventually starve to death, all because I couldn’t think of anything to do.

“I just couldn’t think of anything,” I’d say, “I got tired of moving and I tried it all and I ran out of ideas. I didn’t mean to lie here until my bones were poking through and my clothes rotted to rags and blew away – honestly, I really did think something would occur to me at some point but…it just never did. Can you blame me? I mean, why are you moving and where to and did you ever stop to think about it bearing in mind the day that this Earth’ll go spinning into the sun and all life past and now and to come will go kaboom and disappear into spacedust? So what of your grandchildren then? But I guess it don’t take the fun out of flying kites; yep, I’ll give you that…”

I sit up in the grass. The world spins violently. My eyes feel like they’re being tortured.

“Huh huh,” I say, spitting out goo and carefully rubbing the top of my head. “Two miles from home. Two miles from my bed. And I haven’t even got my keys. Hope mum’ll let me in.”

I stand. I want to heave. I shiver a little and pull my jacket around me.

“Sausage and bacon and eggs, that’s what I need.”

I walk into the sunrise and wee while I walk, spreading my legs so it misses my shoes.

“Doin’ the wee walk,” I say. “Wee walk, wee walk,” and laugh.