Who Am I?
I call Joanne. I kind of hate myself as I listen to the rings. Total desperado. Pestering her when it’s blatant she’s had enough and doesn’t want to know.
I mean, why would she?
Holding the old school phone to my ear, I wait for the cut to voicemail, knowing I’ll sound weak and pathetic if I leave a message and that I should hang up, but I probably will say something dumb like, Jo, how’s it going? I was wondering how you’re getting on and if you fancied a chat. No probs if you’re busy. Maybe email me a good time to call. Be nice to hear from you.
And I won’t recognise myself as I’m talking.
It won’t sound like me.
Hello, a voice says.
I’m kiting with my thoughts.
Who’s this?
Joanne, it’s me, Mike.
All these emotions bob and weave from deep inside. She’s the only one who’s ever made me feel like that.
Mike, she says.
Before she can ask me anything about being locked up, I say, Hey, good to hear you at last. What you been up to? How’s university?
Mike, she says again and there’s a delay before she goes, Uni’s going good.
I leave it a couple of seconds, waiting for her to carry on, but that’s all I’m getting.
In the background, I can hear voices and a guitar.
Where are you? In a pub?
We’re having a little Sunday afternoon house party. It’s Bethany’s birthday … My housemate … We went for a bottomless brunch. Now we’ve some friends over and one of them is playing some songs he wrote.
Quietly, she adds, They’re not very good.
Right, I say, realising she’s a bit mashed. I have to turn round and stick a finger in my ear because the lad next to me is shouting into the phone, Lying bitch.
You been home at all? I say.
Not really, no. Mum and dad came up and visited the other weekend. They took me out for a couple of meals. Oh, and they bought a week’s worth of shopping too, so my housemates love them, like, forever.
That’s decent of them. Your parents are alright.
She doesn’t answer. Her dad thinks I’m damaged goods, wanting her to keep well away. I kind of feel the clock counting down for me to say something that will break through the layer of tension on the call and for us to have a laugh, but I don’t have much in the way of light-hearted bants at the moment. There’s all this history between us. It leaks out of the gaps when we’re not speaking.
So I say, Have a guess what I’ve been doing?
I don’t know.
Course you don’t. It’s a stupid thing to ask. But yeah, I’m in classes to be a Barber.
You’re what?
Cutting hair.
Hairdressing?
Fuck’s sake.
Why are you swearing?
Nothing – it’s not hairdressing, it’s barbering. Cutting blokes’ hair.
Oh, she says and there’s an almighty gap before she adds, I can’t imagine you doing that.
I realise I shouldn’t have told her. Yeah, I go.
But that’s good, she says.
Except for it being the exact opposite. I can feel her looking down on me. Barely a minute in and the call is a stone-cold disaster. I’m like one of those comedians you see dying on stage in crappy pubs. I’m going to get heckled any second. I’m drowning in a putrid sea of not knowing what to say. I can’t get my head around how it’s come to this. We’ve been friends since we were kids. Growing up on the estate. Long before we started seeing each other. All we’ve ever done is talk and have a laugh. I know all her secrets and she knows most of mine. And here we are. Acting like strangers. Miles apart in more ways than one.
Jo, I should be getting out soon, I say.
But they gave you a longer sentence.
You want me to stay in?
Don’t be silly. I just didn’t know it was allowed.
Well, I say, I’ve been well behaved, you know, and there’s this issue with overcrowding.
Overcrowding?
Yeah, I say. So, it looks as if I’m getting released.
That’s great news. I still can’t imagine you in there.
Maybe I could come and see you when I’m out?
There’s another one of those gaps. I can feel my breathing slalom.
Oh, Mike. I don’t know if …
What? And I hear myself say, What is it? Do you not want to see me now?
Please don’t shout, she says.
I’m not shouting.
It sounds like you are.
Sorry if I raised my voice. I didn’t mean to. I just … I’d like to catch up if I could. I know things are different. Of course they … I get that a lot’s gone on since before … Fuck … It’s not like how it was.
She goes, I’m not saying I don’t want to see you.
Alright.
I’m still trying to understand what happened … It’s difficult to talk.
What do you mean, what happened?
It doesn’t matter.
I guess she’s on about what I did to get myself locked up. Beating up that suit at the bus stop.
It’s noisy here, she says.
The ropey guitar playing has stopped but I can hear voices shout, Let’s play, Who Am I? I’ve played it a few times thanks to Joanne. It’s one of her favourite drinking games. What you do is, you write the name of someone on one of those sticky yellow notes, a famous actor, football player, whoever, and they slap it on your forehead and you have to stand there firing questions, asking for clues to guess who you’re supposed to be.
I go to speak and stop myself. I never used to mind phones, but now I hate them with a passion. My nan never had a phone. It drove mum loopy. It was because nan used to work as a lady of the night – that’s what mum called it – for years and couldn’t stand the sound of ringing after she retired. It reminded nan of punters calling her up to book in some action. I guess hating phones runs in the family. I can’t deal with them since coming to this hole. Making calls only stirs up this feeling of being caged in. As for videocalls, forget it. I know lads who have gone batshit after trying to do a videocall, especially as the internet in here is always conking out.
How are you doing? she asks.
It’s the dumbest question of the lot. Everyone asks it. Mum. The Counsellor. Governor. I dish up my stock answer, Yeah, you know getting by. One day at a time and all that.
I hear a bloke’s voice.
Jo-Jo, who are you talking to? Come here.
No, she says. I’ll be there in a second.
It’s a lad with a posh accent. I can guarantee the twat has a polo neck top. I realise he’s trying to grab hold of her as she talks on her phone.
No, leave me, she says sharply.
Who’s that? I ask.
She says to the bloke, Hey, fill my glass, will you? I’ll be there in a second.
Prosecco? he says.
The rosé, she replies. Sparkling. To me, she says, Mike, I have to go.
Unbelievably, I hear myself say, Can’t you talk a bit more?
Not really.
What’s the fancy rosé about?
Sorry?
You’re drinking rosé now.
Bethany brought some back from her parents.
Very bourgeois.
Do pints have more integrity?
Lager’s honest. Working class.
I thought that was ale, she says, sort of laughing.
I’ve made a mini breakthrough. Straight off, I go and ruin it by saying, Who’s the fella?
What?
The bloke calling you Jo-Jo.
A friend, she says. Mike, I have to go.
Very friendly.
It’s so noisy. What did you say?
Posh voices are calling her name.
I’ll see you, then.
I’m glad you’re getting out soon. It’s great news. Take care of yourself.
Yeah. See you soon.
Bye, Mike.
Later.
She ends the call.
I replace the phone.
Jo-Jo.
Quaffing fucking rosé with housemates at uni.
Her accent’s changed. She talks like one of them now.
All I wanted her to say was, Yes, I’ll see you soon.
Come and visit.
Stay with me.
Instead, nothing.
A measly, Sure.
Back to her house party. Playing games and singing songs.
Some guy’s soft posh hands all over her fit body, whispering, Oh, Jo-Jo.
The lad who was waiting next in line for the phone strides over and takes it off the hook, kissing his teeth loudly. He thinks I shouldn’t be hanging around and wants me to move along. I stare at him and he stares at me.
What’s the attitude for? I say.
Who you talking to?
You, you stroppy cunt. What you gunna do about it?
He comes up real close, angling his head at me, all eyeballs.
Say that again, he says.
I smell his cabbage breath. See gunk in the corners of his eyes and blackheads on his nose.
Keeping it slow-mo, I say, Y-o-u c-u-n-t.
Hesitating little prick. If he had any self-respect, he’d’ve done me there and then. He’s all mouth. He knows he’ll be getting more than he can handle if he comes at me.
Lucky for him, a guard spots us and shouts, Pack it in, the pair of you.
We stand there, squaring off like cats hissing.
Step away, the guard orders.
You best watch, says the lad.
Enough, says the guard.
I walk off.
I’m watching you, the guard says to me.
I keep going. They can watch all they want. As if I care what the guard says. I couldn’t give two fucks. He’s one of the dodgy bastards letting gear in for lads to get spaced out on. Taking his cut. Criminals can wear uniforms. That’s something they don’t teach at school. It’s all part of the merry-go-round of fakery and double-standards.
They should play Who Am I? in here, but writing down for real what we are, not film stars, athletes and pop idols.
No one is who they pretend to be. Not even me.
Flight of the dragonfly 