A note to my Substack readers
This post, number 16, takes us almost to the half-way mark in the story of Janus. I will now pause the weekly posts at least until the new year, one reason being that one of the characters has decided to take a short detour and I need to make small adjustments to the plot. As many of you will know, plot development can lead the writer to places unforeseen, and that’s not a bad thing. It means that the story is a living, evolving entity. I’m also debating whether serializing Janus, in short weekly posts, serves the story and the reader best. Something for me to think about over the break. Any helpful advice on this point from readers is welcome. Feel free to write me a comment/suggestion on Substack. I will reply.
Although I have been writing fiction for ever, this is my first foray in the world of online blogging. It has given me a lot of pleasure and improved my work discipline. Thank you so much to those who have continued to read Janus. I will keep you posted. I wish you all a happy and creative 2025.
Antonio
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JANUS 16
I spent weeks alone, not wanting to see anyone socially. Fortunately, I was still able to manage the pharmacy, although I left it to the staff to deal with the customers, while I kept myself in the lab, mixing, compounding, keeping myself busy and only emerging occasionally to consult with a colleague or see a patient who requested my specific advice. Thank God for work.
During this period I was prone to breaking out in tears unexpectedly. The trigger could be anything: a sunset, a couple on the screen declaring undying love, a mother pushing a pram, a fresh flowers stall, a piece of music on the radio, a person selling copies of the Big Issue on the street corner. Yes, I admit that self-pity figured large in this painful phase of my life.
Dejection and feelings of loss did their corrosive work. I looked in the mirror of my identity and saw it changed. I did not like who I was becoming. I was no longer a husband and father. I watched people pass by, busy trying to get somewhere. I envied and resented them in equal measure; knowing full well that I was utterly aimless, surviving on the edge.
I started projecting my feelings onto the world. Those people who ran around looking full of purpose… it was all a pretence, an illusion, a cover-up. I knew it, and I - at least that part of me that had sunk in a murky mud of resentment- derived weird satisfaction in the knowledge that humanity was in deep shit, out of control, and on the road to self-destruction.
At night I lurched around the streets, not wanting to speak anyone, nor to be seen. It now appalls me to think that during that dark period there was no one person I wanted to open up to. I was incubating my hurt deep inside the core of my being.
I have never been much of a drinker, so the alcohol fix was not for me. I did go to the pub on occasions, always alone. Have you noticed how people tend to give you a wide berth when they sense that you are unhappy? On this particular night I noticed another man drinking alone at the bar, seemingly engrossed in a game of tennis between Federer and Roddick, sparring it out on the TV screen. Suddenly he sidled towards me and made eye contact. This unexpected move made me jump.
‘It’s OK,’ he smiled and flung his arms up in the air, ‘Look, no gun.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, suddenly glad to hear a human voice addressed to me, ‘I was out with the fairies there for a moment.’
He gave me a quick glance.
‘You look as if you’re carryin’ the weight of the world on your shoulders.’
‘Not quite,’ I said looking at the floor, his empathy was bound to bring on tears of self-pity.
‘I’m OK,’ I added.
‘You married?’
Again, his directness took me by surprise.
‘I was.’
I could feel my eyes swell, so I rushed for the door without saying goodbye. Outside a cloudless sky, suffused in a halo of city lights, looked strangely tame, in contrast to the turmoil inside me. Then, as if on cue, bolts of laser light shot up from the far side of the city and exploded high in the sky in a spray cascading of lights. So, elsewhere, in another world, folk found reasons to celebrate. I couldn’t even imagine what that was. I was not of that world, nor did I want to be. The whole noisy, psychedelic spectacle seemed to me like the manifestation of a collective madness.
I hurried towards the station when I heard a voice behind me.
‘You didn’t finish your beer.’
I looked around and there was my drinking companion. My first reaction was annoyance. How long had he been there? Was he stalking me? His voice though, sounded reassuring, like someone I used to know and liked.
‘Is it that bad?’
‘It’s bad,’ I admitted.
‘Are there children involved?’
‘Not any more…’
He paused, waiting for me to elaborate, but that was the last place I wanted to go to at that point.
‘Well anyhow, if it’s any help, I’ve been there.’
He rested his hand on my shoulder, a big hand that matched the sonority of his voice. My head fell back instinctively.
‘Come on,’ again, that familiar tone in his voice, that I found reassuring, ‘I’ll drive you home. As you can see I’ve got plenty of room.’ He pointed to a white van, parked on the roadside that looked as if it was due a good wash.
At first it felt a bit discomfiting sitting next to a stranger who’d been given a glimpse into my personal turmoil. To his credit though, the man kept to neutral chitchat.
‘‘Excuse the mess, I use it to drive small groups to excursions. My other car’s a Lamborghini.’
He chuckled, pleased with his little joke.
‘Remember when people used to put that sign on the rear window of their old bombs. That was years ago, before your time probably. They don’t do it anymore, the joke’s worn off through overuse. Or maybe we’re losing our sense of humour. Can’t say I’m surprised, given all the shit that’s going on in the world at present.’
I wondered how old he was. Not as old as he sounded. Early fifties, I guessed, but he talked like an old timer, with a ready supply of anecdotes and jokes to keep a conversation going. During the short journey to my place he filled up the silences and smoothed the tension. His speaking voice, gravelly and unhurried carried you to a zone of ease. And I found myself happy to just listen.
I noticed that his forearm on the steering wheel, revealed in flashes from the street lights, was sinuous and sun-burnt. My memory flashed back to the truck driver of my boyhood and before I could ponder that one I realized that we had arrived.
‘We’re here, just up ahead. Thanks for dropping me off.’
‘My pleasure. It’ll work out for you, you’ll see. It always does, one way or another.’
‘You want to come in?’ I fought a tautness in my throat. ‘I’m making coffee.’
He considered it for a moment, looking away, as if waiting for a signal of advice from the dark outside. Then, without looking up he said,
‘Not tonight. I’d like to catch up again, though. You’ll find me at the Norseman, Fridays around six, when I pop in for a drink on the way home.’
I waved as he drove off and realized that we hadn’t exchanged names.
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Comments
Cynic2
It sounds to me like you’ve got yourself a buddy.
Sushilover
He’s old and possibly impotent. Not much use to anyone. Probably explains why he did not accept your offer of ‘coffee’.
Lady S.
This is touching in its way. Two lonely men finding a moment’s solace and companionship in each other.
Lizzie 86
As I said, we’re only getting his side of the story.
Airies (and Proud of it)
I don’t like the direction this is taking. Don’t like it at all. I’m dipping out of this blog.
Sushilover
Well, good riddance, Airies, I for one, won’t be missing you.
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