041: The gutter.

He walked, and once he had started walking, it became difficult to stop. The desire to stop was intense; bars and the pubs beckoned him in. A couple of places actually had men positioned on the doors, hustling people inside, but he pushed on, kept walking still, because the walk was in him, the momentum was just about enough to keep him moving forwards.

A few hours ago the city had seemed strange and new. Climbing down from the first train, everything was bright and clean, fresh air blowing in from the sea. The edges of the buildings were sharp and distinct, the dew still on the grass, innocent and perfectly defined in the morning light. Only after the sun set had it become clear to him that it was just a mask, a cheap suit the city wore to make itself presentable in the daylight hours. As the shadows lengthened and the neon lights flickered, the walls became jagged and cracked. Gutters and alleys took shape; wrinkles and fissures that could swallow a man whole.

A taxi pulled up to the curb and four men got out, sprawling and weaving. He dodged as they staggered from the kerb, but he was forced to stop so that they could pass. A door opened and they were sucked inside, swallowed into the cheering, singing, gurgling, bawling bowels of a pub. Every door was a pub here, and in a second they were gone, just four more heads added to the swaying, surging monster. The door swung shut again, belching a rancid cloud of cigarettes and stale beer.

The door seemed paper thin, no more than a veil. It would only take a step, a little push, through the membrane, and he’d be inside. He felt the pull, the gravity of it held him, tugged at his thin coat.

Another taxi pulled up, splashing filth from the overflowing gutter onto his shoes, and whatever it was that had glued his feet to the pavement dissolved, and the spell was broken. He cursed softly and kept walking, quickly at first but then easing back into his slow, loping stride. One step, then another.

A procession of girls queued along Harcourt Street, squealing and laughing, waiting to get into a basement club. Girls half his age. Younger. Life was here, and it called to him. His pace slowed even further, the soles of his shoes barely lifting above the surface of the pavement.

He wrestled with it, fought against it, against himself. All the old arguments were here, as strong as ever. Just one, they said, nudging him in the ribs. Just one drink. Quickly. Just to see what it’s like. Just for an hour.

And he couldn’t give an answer. Of all the versions of himself, of all the people he had been or might be, the one down at the bar was the one he felt most comfortable with, the one he knew best, the one he could act out with the least effort, could perform to perfection. And in the back of his mind, a dark voice said, come on. Why not?

The voices went back and forth as he walked, over and over, until he found he’d walked clear through the city, out along the promenade, and he was at the hotel.

It was a cheap hotel, it had none of the allure of the pub and not really any attraction as a place to sleep, but it was here, he’d made it. A set of shabby stone steps flanked by iron handrails, painted over with black to hide the worst of the rust. All he had to do was to keep walking, keep going, up the steps and into the lobby. Through the open door, he could see an older woman sat in a little booth by the stairs, reading a paperback book by the light of a desk lamp. He put his hand out and held the cold iron railing as if to steady himself.

It was then that he really had to fight. The desire for company, the urge to drown himself in the noise of a crowd and the cold solace of the drink gnawed at him. The quiet of the hotel seemed a punishment. And why, after all? Why should he miss out? What had he done wrong? The city was alive, and it wanted him. Why was it him and him alone condemned to this lousy tomb while the world danced and drank and spilled out onto the streets in raucous, messy, carefree puddles?

Anger rose, bitter, like bile in his throat. He let go of the iron railing and took a step backwards towards the street. In doing so, the heel of his shoe caught the edge of a paving slab and he fell, quickly and heavily into the gutter.

His anger fizzled, like a poker in a bucket, replaced by a burning shame. Sprawled in the street, the future appeared like a memory before him, the whole night in an instant. The greasy steps, the sticky bar. The beer, warm, expensive, too fizzy, the music too loud to enjoy. Piss on his trousers and wine down his shirt front. Tomorrow morning, the nausea, the guilt.

With obvious effort, he pulled himself up. First to all fours, then, stepping clumsily on his long coat, he grabbed at the railings and hauled himself upright, water running down his sleeves. He looked back along the promenade, at the bars and the crowds, the singing and the jeering. He looked, and he paused, but only for a second, and then he turned his back on it all and hauled himself up the steps and into the hotel.

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You can now show me how much you care and support my dangerous caffeine addiction AT THE SAME TIME! THANK YOU! x

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Tom Cornfoot is a writer, designer, and illustrator. He’s spent over 30 years carefully developing a style of handwriting that’s almost illegible, doodling and failing to learn to play the guitar.

These stories are plucked from the air, like everything else. There’s no consistent link or thread, unless of course you find one, in which case, it was entirely planned that way.

Words and pictures © 2024 Tom Cornfoot

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