Look at the sky

Look at the sky. Loads of it. Blue. All blue. And the only thing. Between me. And it. Is air. Millions of it. Tons. I only need. A lungful. Or two. Right now. I’d settle. For one. I’m getting. None. But it’s. The stupid. Whistling. Sound. In my. Throat. That’s going. To. Kill me. First.

Above me. Comes Miller. Panting. Actually. Panting. Try. To be. A bit. More subtle. Please.

“Sir,” he shouts. “Fitzpatrick’s dying again, sir.”

Mr Hall’s head, his whistle dangling, down towards me, appears.

“Where is your inhaler, Fitzpatrick? Have you left it back in the dressing room again?”

He bends further, nearer.

“Where. Is. Your. Inhaler?”

He talks, like Dad, on holiday, ordering food. And I just think: if I could answer, I wouldn’t need, the inhaler.

Other boys now. Nudging. Giggling. Imitating. Hands round throat. Choking. Whistling, through their teeth.

“Give us another tune,” says one.

At my side, where Mr Hall can’t see, I extend, my middle finger.

Hall turns, to Miller.

“See if you can find his inhaler. And hurry.” Miller sprints. “But no running in the school building.” His voice rises, filling the space, the air, between Miller, and him.

“You’re supposed to carry your inhaler at all times, Fitzpatrick,” says Mr Hall, giving me a row, for dying. But he’s right. I have special shorts. Mother-bought. With pockets. Marks. And Sparks. And gay. Ouch. Air rushes into my cramped lungs expanding them and stretching them to a size much bigger than they should be somehow giving me some relief but painful and I wonder for a moment if it’ll ever leave me. Then a wheezy whistly whoosh a cough a gasp and it’s gone again. But not for long. It comes back a second time. Less painful and less long and it slowly gets back to a normal rhythm.

I sit up just as Miller returns, running. He’s holding my inhaler with one hand, but keeping the other hand behind his back. He slows when he sees me, and sees I’m breathing again. His face scrunches with disappointment and wasted effort. He lowers his hand holding the inhaler and produces the other hand from behind his back. Ignoring Mr Hall, he shakes loose a ball of heavy white cotton.

“Look what I found in Spastic Fitzpatrick’s kit,” he spits.

Using two fingers of both hands he stretches the elastic of my Marks and Spencer shorts, holding them up for everyone to see. He is careful to show off the waistband too with it’s neatly stitched “Alistair Fitzpatrick” label.

I flop back onto the grass again and try to block out the laughter. Wheezy, breathless laughter. Stomach cramping, side-holding laughter. Bastards.

Sales model

Katey has the gaunt cheeks of a cover girl. She deliberately positions herself so that she can be seen by a lot of people. She poses with one foot in front of the other, the knee bent, and shifts to the opposite leg every ten minutes or so, to relieve the pressure. Her arms get tired too, cradling that bundle all day long. Every so often she rests it on top of the litter bin beside her and tugs at the waist of her skinny-fit jeans, pulling them up to hang on her hip bones again. And even though she has more tattoos than teeth, it’s her smile that helps to sell those magazines.

Supermarket strutter

The supermarket plays Staying Alive. Great music to strut to. Almost unavoidable. John tries hard not to strut. He walks fast, it feels unnatural. Looks it too. He slows, but his feet soon meet the beat. He stops, abruptly, in front of the feminine hygiene products. He walks on, forcing the spring from his step. He picks up two tins of beans, a loaf of bread and some eggs. It would be much easier if he had a basket, but John doesn’t do baskets. Or trolleys. Just as well cos there’s a cute blonde at the frozen meals. He pulls back his shoulders, holds his head up high and goes swaggering by. Huh huh huh huh, swaggering by.

A man alone

Geoff sits alone, away from everyone else, but he’s not lonely. His arm drapes over the chair beside him, his designer trainers stretch into the space of the next table. He talks to a distant someone on the phone in between puffs on his cigarette and sips from his coffee. He tells her, like he always tells her, that he’s different, he’s not like all those other guys. She should believe him, he says. He finishes his coffee, and the dregs mix with the fumes from the last drags on his cigarette. His stomach groans, his guts grumble. He cuts the call, picks up his jacket and newspaper and heads off to be alone for a while.

Bit of rough

Matt draws a hand over his beard, the hair is thick and wild, like he’s been living in a field for the last few months. It looks like he’s been eating nothing but grass seeds in that time, he’s so slim. His tall frame fits the tailored pinstripe outfit perfectly. It suits him, even with the beard and straggly hair. If he had straw sticking out of the jacket cuffs the girls would still be looking. He doesn’t scare them off at all, if anything he brings them flocking.

Skin stripper

Damian slices off a strip of skin, collects it in a white tissue. He chose the knife especially for this purpose. Long ago. The blade folds safely and can be slipped easily out of sight, when necessary. He sharpened it himself. He sharpens it regularly, so that it cuts only slivers, never digs deep, never cuts the flesh. The flesh is the only bit he likes. The skin carries dirt, contaminates. The flesh is pure when skinned correctly. Tiny droplets seep to the surface, as if searching for the one who let them escape. They cause his mouth to water, but he has to wait. All the skin must come off first. Only then can he take a bite. But not too deep, he doesn’t want to penetrate the core. That he leaves till last, then throws it in the bin, along with the skin. After that he sits back, satisfied. He does enjoy a good apple.

Book-loving schoolboy

A dog sniffs at George’s hand, but he hardly notices, he’s so deep into his book. Unlike the other kids shoving and swearing at the back of the bus, George’s uniform still looks brand new. His tie is freshly knotted, not tugged over his head twice a day. He looks up to see how far he has to go, flicks forward a few pages to see how far till the end of the chapter. Three pages in two stops. He’d make it if he skimmed, but he won’t skim. A paragraph ends neatly at the bottom of a page. He takes his bookmark, places it, closes the book and waits. Now he sees the dog.

Demanding man

Trevor stops at the shop, shows the shoes to his girlfriend. The ones he wants to buy for her. Moccasins. She’s not impressed. She’s convinced they’re made of feathers and grass. He was sure she’d appreciate them, especially if he bought them for her. If they were a present, from him. She laughs. He straightens. Uses the example of an engagement ring. She would surely love whatever ring he bought, if he bought it for her.  Yes, she says, but she sounds slightly less certain than she would have yesterday.

Patient shopper

Helen packs the tomatoes, but then two tins of coconut milk come her way. She removes the tomatoes, puts the coconut milk in the bag. As the queue gets longer, it gets more impatient. Helen doesn’t even look up. She only sees the net of oranges rolling towards her. Out come the tomatoes again. In go the oranges. The queue – longer now – tuts, shifts feet. Helen will not be rushed. She finishes packing, looks for her purse. It’s in the bag, under the tomatoes. Under the coconut milk. When she finally retrieves it, it rattles with loose change. The queue groans.

Loud talker

Brad tells his story in a very loud voice. He builds it up, sets the scene. People glance up from their food. His wife puts down her spoon, rests her hand on his, smiles, gives him a look. He knows the look. He’s seen it before. He talks a little quieter. The other diners are spared the details. But as he gets to the punchline, Brad’s’ voice lifts, reaching a crescendo, coming to a climax. His wife looks around, half apologetic, half wondering if he really is so loud. He is. But Brad doesn’t care. He carries on oblivious, finally arrives at the finale and winds up with a booming belly laugh into his lentil soup.

(Wondering what this is about? Look here for an explanation.)