DIARY OF AN OXYGEN THIEF By Anonymous (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) (15 page)

             
Sharon chatted for a while and when I said I was a friend of Aisling, Brazilian Shirt said, "Oh, another one?". I felt odd immediately and he seemed overly unfriendly. Unfriendly for the sake of it. So this went on for a while, me not saying much and him trying to be unfriendly with someone who was agreeing with him.

             
Then she turned up. She looked great. I think she'd had a few drinks. Maybe even something else, the way her eyes sparkled. Maybe it was just the anticipation. They all seemed to have a heightened sense of something about them. If my theory is right, they were enjoying the thrill of the pre-kill. Or maybe they were just looking forward to a good night out. Aisling hardly looked at me, barely acknowledged me.

             
Again I was very hurt by this but moved into autopilot. I told myself, smile politely and whatever you do don't let them know. If I'd left right then I'd have had a much nicer evening and wouldn't be sitting here writing this. But I was curious to see if I might get laid. I knew she'd be getting fairly drunk and afterall, I had nothing else to do.

             
My options were; be tortured by a beautiful blonde girl who looked like the Virgin Mary with at least the distant hint of sex or; go to another AA meeting.

             
Actually that's not fair, because the Soho meeting of New York AA has some of the sexiest women I've ever seen. I was there last week. But here I was, being ignored by the only girl in the world I gave a shit about and getting far too much attention from Brazilian Shirt. After about my third pint of Coke with ice I began to get really bored. Then I got that fuzzy feeling in my head. Numb would be more accurate. Like there was pain, but something in front of it.

             
Brazilian Shirt leaned in very close to her. Too close. Close enough to be kissing her. He wasn't kissing her, but it wouldn't have seemed strange if he had. At one point, he was standing between her legs and bending toward her as she leaned back against the counter from her barstool.

             
It was unreal, her looking over his shoulder, at me as if to say, "Look at what I'm doing. Look at what he’s doing. Doesn't it make you angry?" It did. It also made me feel foolish. But that was open to interpretation. He might have been trying it on. She was attractive, after all, or she might have been exercising her right as a young chick to flirt on a Friday night in a bar in downtown New York. Sure. But what happened next elevated events to an altogether different level.

             
Here's what happened. If you can imagine standing in a bar with the counter on

your right with a big mirror behind it. The girl you love is on your right between the bar and yourself. The guy you hate in the Brazilian shirt is standing with his back to you and talking to another friend of She. The girl you love makes a gesture with her hands that can only mean one thing. She holds both hands in front of her as if describing the length of a small fish. Small fish? She’s sniggering and looking at you as she does this.You're not really aware of what she means.You look at her quizzically. You're grateful that she's looking at you at all. She glances at you again and as she's making this gesture for Brazilian Shirt, he gazes down at her hands. And then at you. And then he smirks, embarrassed for you.

             
Almost sympathetic.

             
She leans forward and whispers something to him. His smirk widens. Her face beams now. She seems happier than you've ever seen her. She’s beautiful, but she doesn't want you to look at her like that. She can see how enamored you are. She leans forward again and he stoops to allow her access to his ear. She could be kissing the side of his head. She does the "fish" thing with her hands again. This time it's even smaller. She looks you up and down. So does he. They laugh together. So as not to be totally excluded, so do you.

             
Awkwardly. Then he says loudly, as if talking to the other girl. "I'd tell him he's dead and buried and that there are four others buried over him. How many...?"

             
With this he turned to Her to check. She was counting on her fingers. Overacting, intentionally resting a finger on her lips, pretending to think and then count another finger. He continues,

             
"I'm buried over him... I'd like to be buried over him...or buried in you."

             
She shoots back with,

             
"No, I'd be on top."

             
That clinches it. He's eyeing her like they're going to do it right there and then. You're getting the idea. The only merciful thing you've got going for you is that they

have not done the whole performance to your face, which allows you to pretend that you don't understand. So you move as gracefully as you can to the other girl and open up a polite conversation. You need time. You are dazed. If what you think is happening, is

in fact happening, then you'd better get the fuck out of there because this is some

seriously evil shit.

             
But you can't be sure. At least not that quickly. What if you're wrong and you make a run for it? It'd be the second time you'd done it. These are her friends, what will they think of you? Or her. If they're laughing at you now what will they do if you go? So you stay. The other friend is giving you nothing. She virtually looks over to Her as if to say, "He's your problem, you deal with him."

             She does.

             
You're leaning on the counter talking to yet another of her friends, some dickhead from Galway. By the way, the whole reason you've been invited is because there are a couple friends who are just in town for the weekend whom you have to meet. These, you later realize, are the publishing students from Harvard. One of them, the girl, is Irish, and

so there you go. Old school buddies, no doubt about it. And they're about five yards

away; with Her.

             
Then it happens. Slowly. Or maybe it just seems slow like you remember it in slow-motion. Brazilian Shirt putting on a green combat jacket as he picks up a canvas bag.

             
He comes over to you and places the bag on the ground next to your feet. He pushes both arms out of the sleeves like a pianist before a performance. You feel relief because you think he's about to leave. Now he’s standing in front of you, sizing you up and down. He’s holding a light meter which you know is used by photographers to measure the amount of light bouncing off a subject, and takes a reading from it. The thing is pointing at you. He gestures some numbers back to what now looks suspiciously like a small audience consisting of the girl you love and her confederates. They chat amongst themselves but look over at you and your new friend with unconcealed smirks and the occasional guffaw. You ask Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket if he's about to take a shot. He doesn't answer. Because you're an art director, you know the gestures he's making, telling the photographer what shutter speed and f-stop to set on the camera. You feel uneasy. There's something not quite right about this.

             
There's a professionalism about this guy that's starting to unnerve you. It's Friday night, shouldn't everyone be more relaxed? Why's he taking such a serious stance? Then you see that the light meter is gone. Back in the bag? And he's holding a camera lens. Holding it away from him. Squinting with one eye shut tight, he's looking firstly upwards through it against the light, then down. He's overacting. His movements are clown-like and grotesque. As if he's performing the actions for the pleasure of others. What pleasure, though? He's only looking at a camera lens. He picks some dust out of it to see through it more clearly.

             
It hits you.

             
At first you think you're being paranoid because, let’s face it, you are. But then you realize it's the only solution to this whole escapade. Cushioning it in a creative distraction, you say to him:

             
"You could make it look like I've got a small dick."

             
The lens he's holding has been pointing down directly at your groin. His squint becomes more pronounced when it's pointing there. You laugh. You don't like it but you laugh. Laughing along is better than being laughed at. You think. You see him react as if to say how-did-you-know-that. He looks over at the audience for directions. He makes shoulder-shrugging gestures. He points to you and then his own temple and mouths the words "he knows" or at least that's how it seems to you in retrospect. He eyes you, perplexed. You smile. You think you've given him the idea. He does it again.

             
This time openly.

             
And here's where I'd like to make a suggestion for the film version of the

book you’re reading. The screen goes black after the introductory credits. We hear the Dante Symphony by Franz Liszt, the customary pretentious quotation in white lettering on

black reads:

 
             
Through me you enter the city of sorrow

             
Through me you pass to eternal pain

             
Through me you reach the people that are lost

             
All hope abandon ye who enter here.

             
Maybe Dante’s warning should be written over the door of the Cat and Mouse Bar on Elizabeth Street. By this time, Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket is pointing the lens at your dick and openly grimacing with the supposed effort involved in trying to see your little thing. He picks at an imaginary speck of dust that must surely be hiding your minuscule member. He looks at you in mock-sympathy.

             
You're not enjoying this. But you can't let him know it. You laugh as if you think he's very witty. So does the audience. You know what's going on now, you think. They're making a fool of you. You're the entertainment. It's Friday night in the pub and you, my friend, are it. You risk a look at the girl you love.

             
She’s lovely. Even if she's laughing at you. And she is. You've always liked her laugh. You laugh along. Her laughter increases. She's laughing at the fact that you are laughing. Now she's pointing at Brazilian-Shirt-Now-With-Combat-Jacket.You follow her laughing eyes. You turn your head towards him. He's handing you the lens. He's offering it to you. It occurs to you that if you have it, then at least there will be an end to the whole ordeal. So you take it. It feels warm. But hang on, I forgot to say, how could I have forgotten this? Earlier you tried to go to the toilet, you thought to yourself, "Fuck this. I don't have to stand here and take this." And you make a move for the toilet with the intention of gathering your thoughts and maybe even your bag and coat and getting the fuck out of there. But no.

             
Two guys, one of them about six foot five and very aristocratic-looking puts their hands on your shoulders too firmly and stops you. "Hold on," they say smiling, "Let's see this," pointing to the lens. You say, "I'll be back in a second," also smiling. But now you're beyond hurt or even angry. Now you're frightened. They're pleasant enough, but they're holding you back from going to the toilet. What the fuck is that? You stand still. You need to think. The guy with the lens gives you a wink. The audience laughs. You think you might try and barge your way through them, but you don't. You turn around and ask the bartender to call the cops. You're smiling as you do it, but you do it.

             
He looks at you strangely, but not strangely enough. Could he be in on this little parlour game? He doesn't seem to be astounded enough. He asks you why. You tell him you're being harassed by these guys, jabbing a thumb against your chest. He seems to be complying, but he goes over in the direction of the audience instead of towards the phone and leans into conversation with them. Now you’re very worried.

             
So you've taken the lens, thinking that maybe your idea of calling the cops has shown Brazilian shirt that continuing this humiliating fiasco is pointless. But you can't resist trying it out. You hold the lens at the same angle that he was subjecting you to. You point it at his groin and squint. You feel slightly avenged. You do it again. This is more like it. But it takes you a couple of beats to realize that he now has another lens pointing at your already ridiculed rod.

             
This time, it's a huge telephoto lens. This should be where you hit him. Where enough meets enough. But somehow, you're ok. You can take it. So much so, that you

smile at him. Smile at him?

             
Yes. And it's a genuine smile.

             
For some reason you suddenly find it all sort of flattering. Flattering that these urbane, cosmopolitan people have gone to such trouble to humiliate you. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, but that's honestly how you feel. He winks at you again. The kind of wink that is the last gesture before two people start fighting. I've seen that wink before. I've been in a lot of bar fights. Correction. I've been beaten up in a lot of bar fights. That wink means the exact opposite of what it normally means. It's the kind of wink that a man uses to another man when it's been revealed that he's had illicit sex with his wife. It says in a mocking friendly way, "I've fucked your wife, and therefore you." It's as intimate as the fight that follows. But you don't feel like getting to know this guy any better than you do. You’re smiling. Your smile is saying the very opposite of what it would normally say, too. It's saying, "I'm not going to be drawn into a fight with a fuck like you. I'm not stupid." He's still holding the telephoto lens.