A walk in Dalston, July 6, 2012

I go out ‘cos I can never sleep when I’ve been in the house all day.

I’m not drinking so I get a bottle of beer from the shop, just one. I don’t flick the lid, but wait until the bucket by a front door and flick it in there, it goes in really easy.

Then I walk up the street. I can’t afford to drink in any bars, and don’t want to go in them anyway. I want to stand outside, even though it’s not warm, just want to stand outside with a group and drink a beer. Then I’ll go home.  Two girls outside the Haggerston, smoking. Nah.

Powerlunches is empty. A single launch. I’ll never have a single launch. I’ll never launch anything. Keep walking. There’s a gang of black guys laughing, some hipsters sitting out the half closed front of one of those posh breakfast places.

I’m feeling calm, completely at ease. This is unusual for me, I’m usually thinking about something, worrying about something, thinking about what need to get done. But no, I’m completely relaxed walking. I can taste the beer, every last bit, its nice; it lingers at the back of my tongue.

Nothing for a while until Dalston Junction. A woman asks me where Stoke Newington is, I tell her the way and tell her to get a bus. She says she’s going to. Up and up Kingsland road to the Alibi, to the cinema, to Shacklewell Lane.

I cross, get another beer out the shop, the guy behind the counter is friendly. I drop the cap in the gutter. Walking down the street there’s lots of people on their way to places, looking trendy. Not really looking sexy, but all nearly laughing, leading their friends, leading their groups, going somewhere. Alibi, Superstore, whatever, it makes me feel nice, good, that they’re going somewhere.

I carry on down the opposite side from walking up until Junction then cross again. The police are talking to a boy and a girl. The girl is really small and walks off, one of the policemen with her, she’s saying something, sounds pissed off. The boy is by the car with the other policeman. A guy interrupts me watching to see if I want any ‘ecstasy’, or other ‘drugs’. I bet. No. Still calm, uninterrupted. I carry on walking.

I get back to where I bought the first beer and hand over £1.20 for another. This cap gets flicked indiscriminately. I’m not drinking. Only bottles. Bottles are so much better. And I walk home, and I rub my eyes. At least I left the house. 

My day on top

I got into the big building, eventually. After waiting a long time and working for years, here I finally was.

The receptionist didn’t want me to come in. She was about four years younger than me and particularly snotty. But I was here to see someone, with an appointment.

Eventually, she grudgingly gave me a pass.

Over I went to the lifts, headed to the 21^st floor. The 21^st! I was used to one level with a broken kitchen and a dilapidated desk. The toilet was upstairs, if that counted?

Workers glided through the Perspex barriers, with a swish and a beep of their hard plastic cards, but the security guard scrutinised my temporary paper pass, and I held everyone up.

I noted the people in the lift around me. They all had great hair, were dressed in good, fashionable clothes, and looked a little like the magazines they represented. Or rather guessed they did, I couldn’t say for sure.

And today, I was one of them. 

Nobody else got off at the 21^st floor. I walked one way and came across a locked glass door. I looked through it and could see people ignoring me.

Suddenly, I felt like a buffoon. My striped top was old (worn more for comfort and luck than cool), my hair hadn’t been cut in months. My mouth was dry, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I looked like an intern. A 28-year-old idiot. I fumbled in my pocket. Don’t panic.

I went back to the lift. I’d tried turning left out of the doors, so now I figured I’d go right. Another locked door. I motioned a little but nobody saw me. Best to go and get help.

As I approached the next person to come out of the lift, a voice called my name from behind. I spun around to see a kindly looking man wearing a top similar to mine, more chic, but of the same style. I gave him a smile and followed him into the office. He was busy. Everybody was busy. Busy in a cool way.

I was given a computer and talked through writing the stories. This was the easy bit. I’d done my homework and came up with ideas, and wrote the fastest I could.

I didn’t breathe until dinner. Then went back down the lift and out of the skyscraper. I’d been to(ward) the top of it. I had conquered the concrete monolith. Me! I was like the other people in there, was going to be wearing cool clothes and eating sushi for lunch and talking loudly soon. Suddenly the building didn’t seem so big anymore. It was easy! It was just a normal building.

Eight years, eight years I’d worked as hard and as many hours as possible and now it was finally culminating. I couldn’t eat. I didn’t need to eat.

Afternoon. I wrote more, faster and faster, with even better ideas than before. My prose was perfect, delicate, pointed, beautiful, how could they fail to love me?

The man who let me in remained indifferent and busy. The lady working with me appeared encouraging, but busy. Some of the people were younger than me. That didn’t matter. I had so many things to say. I was going to be great here.

The day ended, they were happy! I left the concrete and glass fortress with a spring in my step. I sent more ideas immediately. And more after that. I phoned the lady who was encouraging. Then phoned her again. I could hear her making excuses when the person who answered thought he’d covered the receiver.

I kept trying, but the responses and my voice became fainter.

The superstructure had defeated me. It was bigger than ever now. Everybody had been so nice. Like a movie, where everything’s clean and well presented. But really the gigantic obelisk was just waiting for me to leave. Waiting for me to give that paper ticket back at the end of the day.

The gates closed with a neat swoosh behind me. The omnipotent receptionist took her pass back with a cool smile. She knew.

I went back to my shabby office and my shabby life. But for one day I had been the diamond dog.

Footnote:

Lifts have long been a source of humiliation for me. There was an oft recounted incident where I went for a trial day at university. I turned up in my suit (first mistake), but nearly missed the lift full of people going up to the examination.

I raced over and wedged the doors open, then introduced myself to the lady with the clipboard, giving my full name, in front of everybody. I remember that day. My teeth chattering before and not being able to eat, and the same afterward. Me and dad drove a 400-mile round trip. I’d forgotten the incident by the time term started. But not for long.