Three Shorts 2: I'm Watching

Tea Ceremony

I don't want to ride the milk train anymore..

when the guests have doneI'll tidy up the roomI'll turn the covers downAnd gazing at the moonWill pray to go quite madAnd live in long ago

                                  "Tea and Sympathy," Janis Ian 1975

 

Tea in a saucer seems like a benign offering.  I balance it on the edge, the teaspoon on the saucer, the handle perfectly offsetting the weight of the spoon lip.  There is no nice predictable cup of tea to warm your hands on, it is a false promise of hope.  Just a few spoonfuls in a saucer which is all you will take and most of that is going to waste. I hate myself for not sparing you a teabag at the end of your life, just offering you a bit off the top of my very full cup.  Hate myself for being greedy and tight with the teabags.  Such a cold comfort to you.  The tea is no longer hot, has no sugar, tastes like milky dishwater, the way I imagine your eyes taste, milky.  Milky, opaque, cold and old. Undesirable. Forlorn. Disgusting.  I hate myself for hiding my disgust and carrying on as if you are going to turn a corner and bounce back to the person you used to be at some point in the dusty past.  I hate my own full, hot and comforting cup of tea. 

 

I want to be a good child.  Doesn’t everyone?  I’ve never lost this desire.  I remember it: the times I lied, covered up my childhood crimes, mud on the carpet, broken cups, stained dresses.  The hope that you would forgive me blossoming deep in the pit of my stomach and quickly shut down so that it was always a secret.

 

We all do this, and pretend the secret is ours alone, when we all have the same secret. Ludicrous.  Maybe you still know this as you lie in your downstairs bed, awaiting my guilty tea offering.

 

 I don't want to know your secrets. I desperately want to know your secrets. I missed the opportunity and will  never have again this chance to hear any of your secrets. A secret relief blooms darkly inside me. 

 

I think I would rather be dead than have my children bring me this tea.  I am appalled at your reduction to a baby bird-like figure with your gummy mouth opening woefully for the spoon and the drops of cool  tea from my hard hands. I do not wish this appalledness on my children, I don’t want them to be repulsed and disgusted and chained to me because I need them.  I do not want to need them, to look at them in the same pleading, begging, needy, hopeful way.  You know and I know there is very little hope here, but I still try, wielding my teaspoon like a weapon against the encroaching heavy darkness, battling the desperation with a falsely cheery face.  

 

I bring you titbits of news, mostly to break the silence - the closure of a shop, the progress of a baby,  a weather event in a country you might have visited.  You look at me while I chatter incessantly,  as if challenging me to go on, seeing how long  I can hold up my end of the bargain while you wander vacantly wherever you go.  Teatime takes an age.

 

Pathetic, broken, ancient. You look at me with the desperate wonder of an infant.  I am the infantry, battling disgust to feed you this tea.  Who knows if this is what you want, what you need now.  You cannot say. I don't know. I'm sure that I am not.  The tea cools, motionless, as you cool, quiet and still.   Our last conversation. One sided, you, trying to drink from my fierce tea-time firehose. But you've gone quiet and there is nothing more to say. I wait, quietly, the tea ceremony done, wrung out, hanging limp and forlorn by the bedside. My guilt is deeper and wider than the gulf between us now. 

 

Mile End to TCR, Underground

I always feel like somebody's watchin' me
And I have no privacy 
I always feel like somebody's watchin' me
Tell me, is it just a dream?
Who's playing tricks on me? 

 

                                "Somebody's Watching Me", Rockwell 1984

 

You do not know how he was before; but you do know that he is going bad fast and without hiding it.  When he starts to hide it he will have made a decision.

 

                               For Whom The Bell Tolls, Hemingway 1940

 

You are watching me.  I meet your eyes and hold them just a fraction of a moment longer than is polite.  You look away but I watch you to see when you look back as I know you will.  You know that I know and you won’t be looking anytime soon.  Because your gaze is pointedly fixed in another direction, unmoving.  I am aware this is a pose just for me, you know I am watching.  So I take the opportunity to see  a little more while you itch to see who is looking.  You won’t allow yourself to lose this.  I win though. This first round.  

 

I am fascinated by your hands.They are the hands of a much bigger, taller, weightier man.  A meaty left hand, with no ring.  It looks like a meat glove over a normal hand. Fascinating, slightly horrifying.  What is this hand responsible for? The left covers the right hand. The fingers are all the same length and breadth, giving the impression of a cricket bat.  They tap, in rotation, in waiting.  They are not the hands of a labourer, no skill is obvious here.  They are soft and pale,  but look muscular. Clean, pared nails. You don’t just sit at a desk, I think, although you are wearing a navy suit, a corporate suit.  Your hands stick out a fraction too far.

 

The grey wool coat over the top is well made, well cut, simplicity and sleekness emanating wealth.  No, not wealth, but money spent on this coat.  Also your tie is silk, understated and wide; conservatively polka dotted.  You look well dressed.  This is not an administrator’s suit, not a workday look.  Maybe you are some kind of creative, a manager, a high level client rep, maybe a trader.

 

Your head is also striking. I think about striking it. Bald, your scalp shines a little, like with expensive cream rather than sweat.  More polished.  Your forehead has deep expressive smoker's lines and you hold your twisty face in one hand as you cross your legs and lean over, clearly in some kind of distress.  I hope I’m not the cause.  Actually I hope I am. Round two to me, too.

 

When your eyes finally dart back you catch me still looking.   I’m not ashamed, exactly.  I barely care but because you look so stressed I look away.  I don't wish to cause any more distress because I don’t know you. You might lash out. Maybe you don’t deserve it. I’ve already decided you look a little mean and uncompromising.  This time, it’s me who looks away; slowly, carefully, disinterested. You watch me look away. Round three to you. 

 

I do not allow your eyes to push me around, but I feel them on me. A level, direct stare that goes on for so long I have to take some action.  So I look back at you and hold the gaze. Pale blue eyes, unblinking.  You think you’ve won but now this is a tie. Round four. 

 

You are carrying a laptop case tucked in beside you, and this grates slightly with the whole polished image thing.  It’s made of canvas, with black plastic trimming.  The kind of thing that comes free as a protective case, thick and hefty but ugly.  Like your hands.  Jarring.  Round five to me.

 

I think for a moment about how you must smell and wish I could come over to the other sie of the aisle between us for a quick sniff.  It would tell me so much more.  It would be the knockout punch, the winning move.  I tense to rise but with a final look at me, you rise first, and you are gone.  I win on points. You will remember this.

Watching Football 

 

Don't stop me now

Don't stop me

'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time

I'm a shooting star leaping through the sky like a tiger

Defying the laws of gravity

I'm a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva

I'm gonna go, go, go, there's no stopping me



                                             “Don’t Stop Me Now,” Queen 1979

 

Sunset, and a full, ascendant moon hangs low in the sky.  I am hanging, slow and low.  I lurch at the low hanging fruit, I am the low hanging fruit.  The moon is my slow, low hanging fruit.  I try to reach it.

 

 I sit in this cold parking lot at dusk. Waiting.

 

My son runs by, does not look into the car.  He is warming up,  warming up in both sunlight and moonlight together.  I feel a wave of love for his potential, he’s not lost or broken, yet.  I want to freeze him in this moment, protect and cherish this time, this space, this innocence.  It’s perfect, being 17 and unscathed, at least by adult measures. 

 

He is beautiful, perfect, too good to be mine and true.  I watch him from the dark shadows in the car.  I watch him without filter, without restriction.  

 

I remember being so irritated about my mother watching me with the same blind and thirsty adoration, drinking in all my shit so  gratefully, and I remember seeing and despising her adoration, so I deliberately conceal mine, so my children don’t disdain and despise me, catch me staring, catch me being so unconditionally in love with each of them.  I mentally kick myself for doing it and yet, and yet, it’s like bingeing on chocolate .  Just one more piece.  On Netflix, just one more episode.  An addiction.

 

What are the things you learn from this, my son?

 

The team reel around the playing field in formation, like a murmuration of swallows.  You hold your position.  You keep up, push yourself.  In constant measurements and comparisons, you ensure you fit in, hold up your end of the bargain. 

 

You learn your physical limits, and how to push them.  You learn how to trust your team, to communicate and expect them to step up for you.  You learn to do it for them.  You learn to do your part. 

 

You learn what the fresh air feels like as it burns your lungs in your exhortations and effort.  To keep going in the rain.  What it feels like in sunset, high noon, grey lowering clouds and winter darkness.  You learn when to walk, when to run, when to fly like the wind.  

 

And also, what pure joy feels like.  The satisfaction of a pass well made, a job well done, the win.  And the bitterness of mistakes, loss and blame, what it feels like to let the team down.  To crash, despairing, and pick yourself up again.  

 

You learn to appreciate the length of an hour and what you can accomplish in a second.  Of the passage of time and the way it can fly by in a blink, or pull and spin a moment into an iconic memory forever.  You learn to use the time to repeat, train, focus and practice.  You learn the value of rehearsal and imagination.

 

And let’s not forget your strength, your muscle memory, the learning of skills, balance and coordination between limbs, brain, eyes. Strategy, planning and playing out the permutations and combinations of all possibilities as you practice  and play and think in complex patterns.

 

You learn to appreciate others’ skills, your own skill and your pride and courage in the face of adversity.  You learn to hang on.  To prepare to reset and recover and feed your energy and your resilience, learn to be resilient and strong. 

 

And do you learn about us?  About the sacrifices of time and the joys of being a good parent? About money and cost, value and waste? About cherishing your youth and the pain of age? Of loss?

 

You learn to speed, to slow.  To be efficient in movement and thought.  To be organised and tidy, to keep your equipment ready for battle.  To keep your mind clean and clear, to be ruthless.  To be fierce and unafraid of monstrous charges towards you.  Learn how to fall, to get up hurt and limping, and how to lie still when you need to.

 

When you walk towards the car at the end of the hour, you will move slowly.  The smell of sweat and wind and rain will enter the car with you, and I will triumphantly carry you home.