Starbucks

I’ve been seeing a bunch of this Canadian girl lately – not romantically, of course: she’s got a boyfriend (though away), and, as everyone knows, I’m not interested in that sort of thing (so much easier without all the weirdness that comes once two people have rubbed their naked bodies together) – but we hang out and go for walks round San Miguel and on a Saturday morning she insists I accompany her to Starbucks so she can read the papers and drink her one latté of the week and I get to sit there thinking about how the other half live while hitting up baristas for free hot water so I can drink my very own green jasmine loose leaf tea that I brought all the way from England and – hey! it’s Mexico: nobody cares – and probably one day I’ll drop someone a tip for their trouble; they can always say no.

She’s cool, this Canadian girl – in fact, you’d never know she was Canadian at all, what with all her opinions and forthrightness and not caring about saying the controversial thing.

I know, right? You thought everyone in Canada was bland – but this is like the fifth or sixth Canadian I’ve met who had something of a personality, so it’s probably about time you knocked that old urban myth on the head, you generalising, narrow-thinking xenophobe, you.

Anyway, we were out Friday night walking the streets and digging the crowds and the trumpets and everyone milling and, not that anything was really happening, but the milling was good, and it gives the night a focal point if you call it ‘The Festival of Something or Other’ ‘cos there’s always the sense then that something might happen, other than milling, and even though it never does, by the time everyone’s realised that, the milling’s done, and been thoroughly enjoyed, and it’s time to go home and: who cares anyway? Milling’s kind of the way of the world, one way or another, and jolly pleasant it is too.

But you don’t have a clue what I’m on about, do you? All you really want is some sort of sex scene – which would imply you weren’t paying attention during that first paragraph – or, worse, doubting my veracity – in which case: tut tut; shame on you; drop and give me fifty; and go beg Mary for forgiveness.

You really think I make this stuff up? You really think I’d hook up with a girl who had a boyfriend? Imagine his heart! Imagine his pain! I tells you what: some of you reading this think of nothing but your own peckers and fannies; that’s the God’s honest truth. And I shake my head and weep for it.

Yes, she stayed over at mine. Yes, we watched a bit of porn together. Yes, we might have turned out the lights and, in our separate beds, made one another aware of various things, but – there ain’t no crime in that. It’s the nineties, baby: get with it!

And then, like I say, we went this morning over to Starbucks and grabbed the comfiest chairs and sat there with our hot beverages and a stack of papers telling all the latest bad things that have happened in the world, which was of no interest to me, but sure gave my friend lots to huff and puff about.

By the way, I paid for her drink, if that’s what you’re wondering, ‘cos I can’t help it – daddy taught me well – and ‘cos it makes me feel better about asking for that pot of hot water so I can drink my own delicious tea.

Plus, the girl who served me was so brown and sweet and smiley I swear I came this close – THIS CLOSE [indicates a very short distance between thumb and forefinger] – to dropping a tip in her cup – and I would’ve done, if I’d had something suitable in my pocket.

But back to the chair and to her there tutting and scowling, and me wishing I’d brought something to write with so I could do a sudoku or plan out my life on a napkin or just doodle some swirls, having exhausted the sports pages in about thirteen seconds, forgetting of course that there wouldn’t be any real sports, just American sports.

I needn’t have worried: of course my chum would soon find something to vent her spleen about – she always does, and usually before my thirteen seconds are up – and it only took ever-so-slightly longer this beautiful lovely sunny Saturday morning in Mexico where all is well and everybody is chill and all the world’s troubles are at least 500 miles to the north.

“Will you look at that?” she said, keeping her hands and stare on the paper and giving me absolutely nothing to look at at all.

“Tut,” she said. “Fuckin’ hell,” she said.

“What?” I said, kind of wishing I didn’t have to, but knowing that was part of the game.

“This Rose McGowan story,” she said. “I mean, God knows, it’s fuckin’ horrible, and I’m glad that pig’s getting what he deserves – I hope they all do; I hope every single story that ever was comes out and they all do their time in jail, and get their own asses jerked off into – but…don’t you see? There’s an elephant in the room here.”

She raised her eyes from the paper and looked up at me. I looked around the room, feeling it only right to make the obligatory joke.

“What?” I said. “You mean her?”

I nodded my eyes at a fabulously wobbly American woman in a truly preposterous pair of tourist sunglasses: you could tell she was American by the loudness and content of the words which staggered and lurched out of her mouth.

“Bit mean,” I said, “to call her an elephant.”

“Elephants are like two hundred pounds at birth,” she said. “She’s at least three hundred. That’d be mean to elephants, if anything.”

“Shame on you,” I said. “She’s probably got a thyroid problem.”

“You mean she can’t stop eating them?”

“Nice one,” I said, giggling, glancing, shaking my head, hoping no one was hearing, wishing she’d talk just a little quieter.

Then the American woman turned and dragged herself past us, attempted to say “grassy-arse” but gave up half way through, and squeezed herself out the door.

“Imagine that ass riding on your face,” my friend said. “Thighs round your neck. Big hairy muff rubbing roast beef flaps all on your chops –”

She stopped. She stopped ‘cos I puked. I’d eaten a whole 900 gram pot of yoghurt for breakfast, and three bananas, and a bag of raisins, and a packet of Ritz crackers – no fridge, you see – which only accounts for the yoghurt, I know, but everything else kind of logically follows on from that – and it was just too much.

If there’s one thing I can’t stomach in this world it’s –

“Blurk,” I said again, and a shot-glass full of creamy white gunk and – I swear – a couple of whole entire raisins came dribbling down my chin.

My friend laughed till she cried. I scooped it up with the napkin I might otherwise have planned my life on and then, eyes watering, joined in the laughter too.

I took a sip of my tea. I looked down and in the cup there was a small swirl of something white that had once been on the inside of a cow, and – would you believe it? – a small bobbing half-digested raisin.

I lifted the cup and showed it to my friend. She laughed so hard a raisin shot out of her own nose and hit me on the side of my face.

It was uproarious. It was ridiculous. Raisins shooting everywhere. Yoghurty breakfasts coming back to haunt us. Bits of sick in our drinks.

She rubbed her nose and giggled and tittered. Shook her head and then threatened to break out once more.

I looked round the room. People were looking, sure enough, but with big wide smiles, enjoying the show. Some had got the giggles themselves. Others were whispering and making jokes, and setting their partners off.

Probably enough, I thought, before the whole place goes up in hysterical flames – and, more importantly, before –

Oh. Too late. Here comes some American tourist fellow thinking he can start a conversation with us just because we’ve been laughing and we’re white and he thinks we’re probably from where he’s from and that gives him the right. First he’ll ask us where we’re from – and then he’ll either: a) immediately tell us where he’s from and go on some long, boring monologue that begins with what he’s doing here and ends God knows where, but certainly nowhere related to where it started; or b) tell us some equally tedious anecdote related to either Canada or England – some relation he has over there, some workmate he once had maybe twenty or thirty years ago – and then from there via non-sequiturs and tangents find himself at the same place Route A would’ve taken us, and will it ever end? Probably not – or at least not before about forty-five minutes of our lives have shrivelled up and died and –

“You from the States?” she says, before he even has a chance to speak, all gleefully bounding up but now taken aback by the weird, twisted, sadistic expression on her face.

“Yup,” he says, “Ga–”

He doesn’t even get the word out. She’s on him. She’s up from her seat and ushering him out the door. Whispering hurriedly in his ear. Almost shoving him. And the poor guy’s so bamboozled and perplexed he just becomes completely compliant and is in the street before he even knows what’s happened to him.

“What did you say to him?” I asked, shocked.

“I just told him you were a massive racist. That you hate white Americans. That he’d better get out of here before things turned nasty. That it was for his own good ‘cos you’re a complete psycho and you’ve got a knife in your bag.”

“What bag?”

“He didn’t know that.”

I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. I hated the thought of that guy thinking I was bonkers. What if he saw me in the street later? It’s a small town: there’s only so many streets to walk down.

What if he got a bunch of his friends to jump me? Figured he needed to be some sort of hero? Was a psycho himself – despite coming across as a picture of your typical fearful, insecure, airheaded, chubby, foolishly-attired American abroad?

But he passed us at the window, looking dazed and afraid, and I thought the best thing would be to make some fierce face at him and raise myself from my seat, as though I wanted to go flying through the window to get at him.

B read my cue – let’s stop calling her ‘my friend’; let’s give her at least an initial – and got up too, as if to restrain me, and the fella went shuffling down the calle and that was that.

What a bunch of excitement! And the day hadn’t even begun.

I needed a cup of tea after all that. I took a sip. I accidentally hoovered up yet another raisin and then spat it out. Then I picked it up and looked it over. It was once eaten, part-digested, vomited up in a goop of yoghurt, bobbing in tea – but a raisin is a raisin.

I popped it in my mouth and gave it a chew. It was succulent and delicious. It reminded me of this other amazing raisin I’d eaten several years previous.

“Did I ever tell you,” I said, “the time I –”

“I don’t think so,” she said, smacking me with the paper. “And I haven’t even got to telling you what I wanted to say.”

“You weren’t saying anything,” I said.

She whacked me again.

“Enough whacking,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The elephant,” she said. “The elephant in the room.”

I glanced around. One more whack.

“Not that again,” she said.

“But she’s gone,” I said.

“For fuck’s sake,” she said. “I wasn’t even talking about her to begin with.”

“Who?” I said.

“The elephant!” she said. And then she whacked me like three times in quick succession, but only playfully, and we rolled back in our chairs and giggled.

“I need some more tea,” I said. I got up and walked to the counter with my pot and asked the delightful barista if it’s possible I can have a little more agua caliente, por favor. She smiled and didn’t bat an eye. She turned and filled my pot. She handed it to me with her lovely brown hands and I really wished I had something to give her in return.

“Okay,” said B, “here’s the eleph – don’t you dare – here’s the elephant in the room. Rose McGowan, right? In the papers again ‘cos she’ talking about how for twenty years she’s ‘been silenced’ and I’m just, like – hello? Whaddya mean ‘you’ve been silenced’? You sold your silence. You got a big ass chunk of money for it. You chose that, made the decision, nobody had a gun to your head while you signed some non-disclosure contract – and now you’re here adding this whole other layer of victimhood to the whole thing. Take some responsibility! Be like: maybe it was wrong. Maybe I regret it. But I thought it was for the best at the time, and that’s what I decided. And: not just that but – no one’s talking about it. All these stories – and nothing. That’s the elephant in the room. And it’s driving me nuts!”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it’s horrible, you know, it’s…terrible, right? I think that’s the real issue here. It just…”

“What? It breaks your heart?”

“It does. Of course it does. It’s fuckin’ –”

“I know,” she said. “I get that. I feel it. I totally agree. But I’m talking about a whole other thing here – and I don’t think it’s doing anyone any favours to maintain this – this pretence. It’s not honest. It’s not…strong or empowered. And…right, tell me this: do you see yourself as a feminist?”

“Er,” I said, “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t even know what that means.”

“‘Course you do: don’t play dumb. Someone who supports women’s rights. Someone who believes in gender equality.”

“That’s just describing a normal person,” I said. “That would be like having a word for a non-Nazi in Hitlerized Germany. Like having a word for someone who didn’t think we should exterminate gypsies or Jews.”

She thought about this for a moment. I thought about it too. I’d never thought about any of this before, it’d just come out – but it seemed kind of right.

“You’re an idiot,” she said. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about – as usual.”

But she said it with a half-smile, and I let my initial flash of indignation dissolve and relaxed into it. I figured this was just her enjoying giving me a hard time and what the hell. It was time for the show, I guessed, and settled in, switched my gaze on, and attention set to ‘max’.

“The thing is,” she said, “this Rose McGowan – yes, she’s suffered, and I can totally understand why she didn’t speak out – ‘cos what could have come from it, right? She thought she was all on her own. No evidence. A thousand other things to consider, and all the bullshit of Hollywood, and that career carrot dangling, which must feel like the most precious and sacred thing in the world, when you’re in the midst of it, and right at the beginning of it, and it must be terrifying to think that might be taken away – so it’s totally understandable she took the money and ran – that’s what most of us do anyway, without having to think about careers and whole lives and having a big fat bag of cash to compensate us – but then it happened again. He offered her a mil. And she said, ‘gimme six and you’ve got a deal’. Six mil! Where’s the integrity and outrage there? Where’s the desire for truth and openness and not putting up with this bullshit any more? I mean, it was only when he said no to the six mil that she talked – but nobody’s talking about that, and how moneygrubbing she was being, right?”

I looked round again, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention. I had no clue what to say so I just sat there. I’m a man talking to a woman and it doesn’t seem my place to have any sort of opinion on this, other than that these guys are shits and they deserve everything they’ve got coming to them, and more, and the whole thing’s a crying shame, this fuckin’ world and all the assholes in it. But I’m not even sure I’m allowed to say that, ‘cos who knows what’s right or wrong when you’re the one in the position of privilege? So I say nothing.

“The point is,” she says, “not that she took the cash, or not that she asked for more, but that she’s not taking responsibility for it, and still seeing herself as this ‘victim’ who ‘was silenced’, and it just perpetuates the idea of this passive figure having things done to it. But if she took some responsibility for it…well, that’s empowering. It was her choice, and maybe it was a choice that was made under duress, but it was still a freely made decision. Okay, probably there’s some shame around it, that makes it difficult to acknowledge. Maybe she’s not there yet, and maybe in some sort of denial, and that’s okay too – but I find it weird that nobody else is mentioning it, even though the words are right there, clear as day, and nobody else is wondering what would have happened if he’d agreed to pay her the six million bucks.”

“It’s just respect,” I said. “Right? And it’s not the point of the story and the issue. It’s not the time to be talking about these things.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, “I get it. But – so what do I do, then? Is it just me thinking these things? I doubt I’m unique: there must be others out there having these thoughts. Maybe journalists. Maybe newspaper editors. Maybe –”

“Fuckin’ hell,” I said. “You have to give these things time.”

She squinted her eyes at me. She looked at me hard for like eight or nine seconds.

“Thing about you is,” she said, “I know you’re a nice guy. And I know you don’t know what to say, and you’re caught in this inbetween position of thinking you’re supposed to say something, and knowing you can’t say what you’re really thinking, but mostly just wishing you didn’t have to say or think anything at all. You’re like a guy at a funeral racking his brains for words plucked from movies ‘cos that’s all he really knows when put in these uncomfortable, unfamiliar situations – when all he really wants is to be left alone, for the whole thing to be over, and mainly to make sure he gets his fair share of potato chips and tunafish sandwiches and sausage rolls.”

I laughed. I thought about protesting but what was the point? It was hilarious – and I knew her well enough by now to know there was no stopping this river once it was in flow.

“You know me so well,” I smiled, pouring out some more tea.

“Better than you know yourself,” she said. “I wonder…I wonder if you’re one of those guys who is feeling just that extra little bit heartbroken ‘cos this Weinstein asshole was such a hideous, odious cunt. ‘Cos he was fugly and flabby and clearly a complete prick, and the women were all gorgeous. You there all semi-good looking and lovely and respectful, and knowing you’ll never even for a second get to speak to a woman like –”

“Sh,” I said. “Can we just talk a little quieter? I feel like…we’re in Mexico, you know? It’s a nice sunny day. People are –”

“Oh? You want to quiet me? To bully me into submission? To mansplain to me how I’m supposed to behave?”

“For fuck’s sake,” I said – and then I noticed she was laughing at me.

“I got you, didn’t I?”

“You got me,” I said. “I shoulda known better but – yes, you got me. Fuck. I honestly don’t know what to do anymore. Just keep quiet and sit in my room farting and watch the footy. Is it any reason we just want a quiet, simple life? World’s got too complex and crazy and – yes, you’re right – even going to a funeral or a wedding or – hell, even this – going out for a cup of tea on a Saturday morning is fraught with –”

“Ooh,” she said, “check this out: there’s a new season of that Flowers TV show coming out soon.”

She looked at me over the top of her phone and gave me the most mischievous grin imaginable. She does this to me every week, of course. Goes off on one. Gets all riled up. Carries on and on while I sit trying to remain detached and objective – but never objectifying: oh no no no – and then, just when I finally crack and start to say something myself, she breaks it off, switches tack, loses all inclination to seriousness, and makes it very clear that we’re totally done and it’s back to levity and brevity once more, and makes like nothing ever happened.

I fall for it every week. I sit there now thinking over all these things, and feeling like I’ve got this giant build up of thoughts and emotions, and there’s just no way to get it out because, I know for a fact, she won’t go there.

This is her game and she always wins. But I’ll keep coming back until I can make it through without being drawn: just breathing and smiling and letting the whole thing slide by me.

I’d thought today would be the day but I guess not. Though not too late to at least try to improve on last week’s showing.

“You know,” I said – and then I stopped myself, ‘cos this is all part of the game too. Cutting me off. Getting me riled. Baiting me with the possibility of expression and then shutting me down – then teasing me into saying something she’ll get to be offended by, that I’ll immediately regret, that she’ll needle me with later, that I’ll feel bad for for days.

“What?” she said. “I’m listening. What is it?”

Big brown eyes. Looking right into me. Slight curl on the edges of those lips. Anticipatory and eager.

What was that thing I was saying earlier? About how the headaches only come once bodies have been frotted?

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking…”

I gulped. I decided not to say it. But the words were repeating and I didn’t know any other way to stop them. And she was just staring at me.

“Just that, you know – and I’m sure you agree with this – that women can be assholes too. But in different w–”

“Oh my God,” she said, “are you really going there, after what we’ve just been talking about?”

And there we go again. Got me once more. Or, rather, I got myself, ‘cos I knew what was coming and I still had to say it.

There’s no winning that argument. The mountain of evidence is too high. There’s nothing I can say to make any of this right.

I just couldn’t keep my big mouth shut, huh? Even when it should be the easiest thing in the world. And word unsaid, that feel so big in the moment, are soon forgotten, even impossible to recall - but words spoken, let out loud, placed into the ears of others and responsible for birthing whole other conversations and feelings...those things stay with us - stay with me - and stir again in the dead of night and fill us with pangs of guilt and regret and wishings for the clock to be turned back.

Is that why Lao Tzu said ‘don’t do anything’? Is that why Oscar Wilde said ‘keep schtum, and just be a dick on the inside, rather than letting everyone else know’?

But how to learn that you’re a dick and therefore move beyond it, if you just keep all your dickiness rattling around and around in your own head, and never let it see the light of day?

Sometimes you learn what not to say by saying it. Sometimes those thoughts can rattle for years, having convinced you that they’re true - but it’s only once they’re given voice that you realise what a swindle they’ve performed, and let them go.

Who knows with this girl? Maybe she’s there to get these thoughts out, and in her own way is helping me to improve, whether she knows it or not. There’s something that pulls me to her, that keeps me coming back these Saturday mornings, frustrating though it is.

Or maybe it’s just the game I need to try and win: complete this level and learn how not to be sucked in, by feminine wiles and charm and nuttiness, and progress to the next.

Been on this level a while, now. It might be even harder than completing Manic Miner.

Well, there’s always next week. What is it the footballers always say these days? “We go again”?

Yes, we go again. One step forward, nought point nine nine steps back.

‘C’est la vie,’ I thought, as I shrunk down in my chair and resigned myself to not feeling great for the next few days, and all because of a mouth that just couldn’t stay shut.