BEING NORMAL

by
Stephen Shieber

My father was a painter and decorator. An artisan, he called himself, in his rare effusive moments. He slapped up posh wallpapers in houses he quietly lusted after.

A man of modest ambition.

Towards the end of their marriage, my mother struggled to conceal her contempt. Sometimes, she spat in his tea and stirred it in with a spoon.

‘Think that milk’s off, Maureen. Me tea’s all frothy.’

She moved out the day I began puberty. I heard the door click shut, but was mesmerised by the ugly bumps on my balls. I didn’t get out of the bath, didn’t see where she’d gone. She left a note, but it only said that she was off in search of a less normal life.

I knew exactly what she meant.

Now there was no one to supervise me while Dad was at work. He scratched his head at the problem, hoping the answer might fall into his hands amongst flakes of dandruff.

‘I’ll stay here. I promise not to burn the house down.’

He grinned, pleased at his plodding brain. For once, it did not let him down.

‘You can come with me. My son. My assistant.’

‘I could just stay here…’

My plans for the school holidays included dyeing my hair, experimenting with mascara and memorising The Sisters of Mercy’s lyrics. Helping my father hang the florid wallpapers of snooty suburbanites featured exactly nowhere.

‘No. We’ll spend some time together lad. Just you and me.’

He winked. I scowled. The matter was settled.

The job was at a hateful red brick villa, up by the park. When the owner saw my hair, she wrinkled her nose.

This took me three hours, Bitch. Unlike your demi-wave.

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair…

‘This is my son, Mrs Goldblatt. My assistant.’

Dad nudged my elbow. I offered my hand, beaming with pride at my ebony fingernails. Mrs Goldblatt declined.

I grunted hello. She showed us into the dining room.

‘Maybe tomorrow, Son, you’ll…tone it down a bit.’

‘Maybe.’

Mrs Goldblatt’s gilded wheatsheaf chandelier would have sparkled surrounded by blood red walls, but the old trout had chosen a grey paper, foaming with the impossible fractals of monstrous ferns.

Dad complemented her on her excellent taste. Sycophant!

An assistant’s job is to clear, to fetch and to carry. All the while Dad, the artisan, slapped glue onto roughly measured lengths of paper.

‘You see, Son, this paper has a huge repeat. Even a small error means we waste a lot. This stuff isn’t cheap.’

I stifled a yawn. Was I bothered? Me? The unpaid skivvy? The numb adolescent?

‘Pass me them razor-blades, Son.’

I passed them.

‘Another brew?’

I made it.

‘Bag that paper up. A messy workplace equals a messy job.’

I bit my lip, wanting to punch him, for Mum’s sake.

On our last day at Mrs Goldblatt’s, Dad ran out of razor blades.

‘They’re essential, my lad, if you want a nice clean edge to the paper.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Make sure you get my usual brand. Nothing else will do.’

Oh yeah? Every time my father shaved, he ran his hand over his cheeks and stubble rasped his calluses.

But the errand was a trip out. The sun was bright and I wanted to bask in it, much to the shame of my fledgling depressive self. I needed heat on my skin, to know that the essential me (whatever that was) was still alive. That I was not just a test-tube of fizzing hormones.

I trudged through the park, sun colouring my white face. Every bench I passed I scanned for signs of Mum. I expected her to jump out from behind a tree, to ask me how I was, how my Dad was coping without her, to tell me about her fabulous new life.

Nothing. No one – not even a suicidal squirrel. Disappointed? Of course. Hope is devilishly hard to kill.

In the chemists, I got lost among the sanitary towels and other women’s things. The assistant watched me from behind a large display of condoms. Their bright flashy logos accused me.

‘A packet of razor blades, please.’

‘Which ones?’ She managed to free the question before it suffocated in her bubble-gum.

I pointed to Dad’s brand and she smiled, reaching for them with black talons like my own. As she turned back to me, I admired her silver eye shadow and black lipstick. Although I thought the floral alice-band restraining her raven locks jarred.

‘N-n-nice look.’

She looked down. ‘Thanks.’

I handed her a coin. She handed me change. For some reason, the back of my neck and my armpits were drowned in boy-sweat. I hummed, sweet and stale. Get me out of here, I told my legs.

Go. Go. Go.

I got to the door.

‘You’re not going to do yourself in, are you?’

‘Pardon?’ I looked at her as if she’d asked me to gawp at a road traffic accident.

‘The razor blades.’ Chemist Girl smiled. Another jet of perspiration squirted down my back.

‘They’re for my dad. He decorates houses. Gives a nice clean edge to the paper, apparently.’

‘Oh.’

She blew a huge pink bubble. I waited until it popped and then left.

All the way back to Mrs Goldblatt’s, our conversation replayed in my head. It dawned on me that my Goth Princess had been teasing. Two years older, perhaps, and she played the superiority card.

Get used to it, I told myself. You’re alone in the world. No one understands you. No one knows you. No one ever will. Everyone else is too busy being normal.

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Getting these.’ I threw the box at Dad and took pleasure as he fumbled the catch.

‘Never mind. Get that mess cleared up. Mrs G’ll be back soon.’

I didn’t answer. I was a capitalist slave, a robot-of-all-work. For a moment, back there, when I thought Chemist Girl liked me, I’d felt human. Dad put me right. Come the revolution, though, the meek and the geek might inherit the earth.

Hands full of scraps, I winced at a sharp, sudden, pain in my thumb. I dropped the rubbish into the black sack and examined my offending digit.

Watching the bleed was beautiful and exhilarating. A ruby split in my ghostly skin. A clean slice. Not deep, but satisfying. It woke me up.

‘What the bugger have you done?’ Dad’s concern robbed me of my moment. I scowled.

‘Bloody hell, Son. Why didn’t you check for blades?’

Self-defence wasn’t worth it. Dad’s negligence had gifted me with tranquillity.

After plastering my wound, I redoubled my efforts, blinded by my revelation. When Mrs Goldblatt returned she paid the fee and gave us a tip. Dad bought us a fish supper and I deigned to eat it with him.

‘We make a good team.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m proud of you, Son.’ He hugged me. I froze.

Later, when Dad had drunk enough Special Brew to conk out, I found the razor blades amongst his kit and withdrew one of the unopened packets. Peeling back the waxy paper, I shivered with anticipation. Off came my plaster. An angry line incised my thumb, just below the joint. It looked so bright and perfect. It was, quite simply, beautiful.

And it was me.

I knew Chemist Girl was laughing at me. I could hear her describe me to her mates, laughing over shots of 20/20, listening to bands I wasn’t cool enough to know about, let alone enjoy.

At the other end of this summer’s evening, my mother was laughing also, grateful she’d escaped the drudgery of family life. Laughing because she’d fooled me so long that she cared.

The steel edge was cold against my arm. But it bit cleanly and my flesh quickly wept. One, two, three bloody teardrops. Then a trickle. Then a flow. I lay my head back against the chair and watched, transfixed and transformed.

At last, I was home.

I never worked for Dad again. There wasn’t time. I was my work, now. My own work of art. Trouble was, being beautiful was an expensive business.

‘I’m giving you nowt for that stuff. You look like a girl. Where’s my son gone?’

‘I’ll get a job. I’ll pay my way.’

‘Good luck. Who’s going to employ you, looking like that?’

Dad had a point. But, taking my cue from West Side Story, (shameful, I know, but teen angst cannot live by The Cure alone) I believed there was a place for me.

Somewhere.

Traipsing round the fag ends of town, I found my place in a record shop. So saying, ‘Stigmata Martyr’ wasn’t much of a record shop. There was more dust than vinyl. But Ian wanted an assistant and I needed a job. For this fortuitous coincidence, I thanked the goddess.

‘I don’t pay as much as HMV, ‘ said Ian.

‘I need enough to keep me in mascara, hair dye and fishnets.’ Fishnets that I hacked into sleeves, my scars camouflaged by their weave.

‘Can you start Saturday?’

I could have kissed him. Instead, I decided to buy some new blades.

‘See you at nine?’

Ian yawned. ‘Do you think I’m uncivilised?’

I laughed and went home to break the news. Dad examined his hands and muttered something about how proud he was of me.

Saturday came and I appeared at the door of ‘Stigmata Martyr’ in full Geisha make-up. Eyebrows severely plucked, corpse-white mask and crimson lips – a mixture of Boots No 7 and my own blood. I tapped on the glass. After Ian’s initial shock, he smiled and opened the door.

‘You look amazing.’

‘You think so?’

‘Beautiful. Cool, little brother.’

For the first time in months, I smiled and meant it.

That first shift passed slowly, but soon word got around that ‘Stigmata Martyr’ had a new attraction. Me. Customers wandered in and, even if they found nothing to buy amongst our paltry stock, they stayed to gaze at Geisha Boy. My scars burned beneath my sleeves, but I was happy.

Ian was happy too. ‘Sales have gone up since I took you on,’ he told me over a cup of rosehip tea one evening.

‘By how much?’ My vanity was curious.

Ian shivered. ‘Ugh, maths and things. They’ve gone up, that’s all.’

It was enough to know that I was admired.

One Saturday, Chemist Girl appeared with two mates. By then, Geisha Boy was back in the make-up bag. My fans needed more than just one look.

So that Saturday I was Struwwelpeter. Edward Scissorhands crossed with Robert Smith. I’d risen at five to blow-dry and set my hair.

‘Can I help you, Madam?’

She didn’t recognise me. She handed over her copy of ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ and a fiver. One of her friends – a mousy creature with too little make-up on to disguise a face like hers – spoke up.

‘I love your look.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I really like boys in make-up.’

She licked her lips. My stomach lurched and I gripped the counter for support. She was so, so, ordinary. The girl opened her purse and fished out a piece of paper, which she scribbled on and then handed to me.

‘My phone number – in case you ever want to go out.’

I coughed.

Never in a million years. What could I possibly want with you?

‘That’s one ninety-nine,’ I said to Chemist Girl, looking her up and down, to discourage her mousy friend. Chemist Girl folded her arms across her crocheted top. The huge silver ankh around her neck jangled on its chain and glinted.

As I handed over her bagged single, she grabbed my right arm and pushed back the fishnet.

‘How’s Dad’s decorating business?’

Tears pricked my eyes. The dusty racks of ‘Stigmata Martyr’ blurred.

She dropped my arm and turned to go, laughing with her friends. Mousy girl sighed. ‘They’re always screwed up, boys like that.’

Thankfully, the shop was empty. I pushed my way through the bright strips of plastic that curtained off Ian’s den. Through there, I let go.

‘Hey, what’s the matter?’

Ian appeared from nowhere and, before I knew it, his arms braced my back. His shoulder was convenient for my head. My whole body vibrated. Snot dripped onto his shirt.

‘Come on. It can’t be that bad. I’ll change the tape. Joy Division does this to some people.’

I looked up at him. Then I tore the fishnet from my arms and held them up for his inspection.

‘Oh. Oh Jesus, ‘ he said, drifting into babble mode. ‘This is heavy shit. Seriously heavy shit. But cool, man. Cool, little brother.’

I reached around to the pocket of my black, skinny-fit Levis. But I’d left my blades at home. It was all I could do not to scream.

‘Sit down. I’ll make you some Chamomile.’

It tasted of old ladies’ perfume, and possibly their wee, but I sipped it anyway, rather than refuse his kindness.

The mirror on the table reflected a tragic creature. Below my ‘panda eyes’, great wet drops of mascara dried on my cheeks. My lips were faded to dun. I ran my tongue over them, tasting the faint metallic tang of my blood. Broken, the mirror would cut me more deeply than I usually dared. It was the obvious way out of my misery, the walking disaster that was my life.

‘Why?’

I shrugged. No one had asked me this before, because I’d told no one. They wouldn’t understand. It was power, beauty, release.

‘It helps.’

Ian took my hand in his. I should have been surprised, threatened, or worried. Instead, I was grateful.

‘There are other ways, you know.’

Tell me them. I sat there, daring him to preach at me, to tell me everything would get better, that one day I wouldn’t do this.

Do it and watch me open my throat. Do it and hear me release the scream clogging my throat.

‘Look at you. You’re marvellous. You’re beautiful.’

I laughed. The mirror told a different story.

‘Okay, not at the moment, perhaps. But you are. Wait here a minute.’

I didn’t want to be left, but desperation deadened my tongue. Ian disappeared through a beaded curtain, leaping up the stairs two at a time. I stared the mirror out, listening to its dares.

Smash me. Take my broken edges and stab them beneath your skin.

I wanted to. I burned with desire. And yet something stopped me. I sat in that cramped little kitchen, with its Formica table and stale dope smell and thanked the goddess for Ian’s kindness. I could hardly repay him with a trip to Casualty. If I took the mirror now, I wouldn’t be able to stop cutting. Not until I’d carved all the pain out of my skin.

Ian stood in the doorway watching me. I turned to face him and he flashed me a brilliant smile. It didn’t work a miracle, but it fucking well helped.

He looked at his watch. ‘No point in opening up again today.’

‘Isn’t there?’

‘Fancy some fish and chips? Go for a walk, stretch our legs?’

I looked at myself through my father’s eyes, through my mother’s, through Chemist Girl’s eyes and shook my head.

‘Not like this.’

‘Here. Use these.’

I watched as he squeezed a white dot of cleanser onto a cotton wool pad. His hands were smooth, his fingers long and deft. Pianist’s hands, my mother would have said.

Ian touched the cotton wool to my face. Cool lotion on fevered skin. Slowly, he stripped off my make-up, pausing to change pads. I watched him in the mirror, delighted by his tenderness.

‘What you looking at,’ Ian asked, eyes avoiding mine.

‘You.’

‘Why?’

Why indeed? He was an ordinary bloke, with a plain face, a crooked nose, thin lips and huge almond-shaped black eyes. Kind eyes. His clothes were black as well, adorned only with safety pins and paste brooches to hold together the holes. He wasn’t wearing anything but a trace of mascara. He hadn’t blow-dried and backcombed his sandy hair. But here he was. Kind. Content. Ordinary. Perhaps it was okay to be ordinary. Perhaps it helped you to be happy.

Perhaps.

‘You’re nice, Ian. That’s all.’

He didn’t answer. I leaned my face out further, so that he didn’t have to stretch to finish the job.

‘There. You’re done. Let’s go.’

I held out my arms again.

‘Oh, of course. I’ll get you a jumper.’

He bounded off once more. My saviour. My rescuer.

I waited, full of something that might be mistaken for excitement. Fish and chips. Nice. Normal. What my squeezed and desiccated heart had always wanted.

© Stephen Shieber
Reproduced with permission

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