The Information Junkie (2 page)

It was a lean burn. Take my meaning?

I keyed:
How will I know you?

She keyed:
I'll be reading Proust.

Wow! The only thing he ever did for me was support a broken bed.

Hey, folks, and when I did meet her, guess what? Go on... Yeah, you're right: she was reading Marcel in
Portuguese!!!

We'd arranged the eyeball at a pub near Piccadilly Circus and when I spotted her she was drinking a palish liquid.

'Hi,' I said. 'What's in the glass?'

'Designer water with a twist of raspberry.'

Loved that
twist.
I told you this girl was fiery—now, stick with me:

'Do you want a drink?' she said.

I felt a bit out of my depth and didn't want to appear silly by ordering a lager so asked for the same as her. Phew! I've tasted stronger tap tears, know what I mean? I watched her watching me drink it and she knew I knew it was a dog. She said I looked like a lager lad, why didn't I come off my pedestal and be real, be myself?

Transparent, or what?

We talked for nearly an hour before she said:

'Let me chill for a few days.'

We swapped telephone numbers. She said;

'One of us will give the other an Alex. Okay?'

So, she was driving right from the start. But that was cool. I liked assertive chicks.

Now then, lads, the fantasy comes true. Oh yes.
She
gives
me
the Alex. I decide to play it ultracool, having been dumped by the Electrobabe, so for several days after the meet I just tinker with my keyboard, clean my screen with anti-static and shuffle my mouse mats. I'm out when she calls but she leaves her imprint on the iron oxide:

Charlie, it's Fiery. Have you passed out? Are you dead? If you're still interested give me a Graham
.

Now, I'm not very good at hiding my feelings and tried to wait at least an hour before calling back but couldn't. Kept seeing her orangey-red hair, her steel-rimmed specs and her delightful, medium-sized breasts. She said she'd like to cook for me. She mentioned a day; I said okay. How about eight? My favourite number.

Now, then, cyberdoodlers, I flossed and swilled, showered and shaved, shampooed and (was) set.

When she answered the door she looked at me as if I were a stranger and she had a thin memory. As if she'd been given a small electric shock and needed a few moments to come to. However she recovered quickly and swept an arm inwards. Pale nails, freckly arms, fine reddish down. This chick was a
woman
, know what I mean?

'Hope you like garlic,' she said.

'I can't get enough,' I lied.

She took my jacket and with her other arm—also freckled with fine reddish down and, on her hand, pale, pale, nails—she indicated the violet sofa. Violet?
Violet??
VIOLET???

She had all the windows open so the city sounds and air could percolate. We talked for a while about the drought, and Proust and alcohol. She said:

'There are a few bottles in the fridge. Why don't you pour us one?'

Electrodiddlers! There were twelve—I counted them—different types of lager, not just from Europe but
all
major continents, and a few minor ones. Did you know that there was a Falkland Islands Prize Lager? Yeah: South Atlantic Drift, they call it. Well, she'd gone for the most abstruse selection. She must have heard me thinking because she glides into the kitchen and says:

'My brother's in the business.' She leaves a silence then says, 'See anything you fancy?' and stands very close. There's the hum of the fridge, the delicate smell of talc and the more vigorous antiperspirant. I can see, because she wears a sleeveless top, the film of the deodorant around her armpits. We stand for a moment just...well, just smelling each other. And above her lip a whisper of moisture.

Anyway, I chose a Canadian and she had the Japanese. I poured them skilfully—sparkling heads—and we talked some more.

Then for some reason I began to think about how Cyberbabe had come to leave me. If Fierychick was interested, and could apparently see right through me, surely I couldn't be that bad? Could I? But she'd gone, hence me here.

Fieryface sipped her beer slowly. She had her hair down this evening: it was naturally wavy and cascaded beyond the shoulder. There were all shades of red, orange, even yellow mixed in; there was the occasional darker cluster as in a pinch of saffron and when she drank she penetrated me with her blue (yes,
cerulean
) eyes.

Her eyelashes and eyebrows were very faint, like a watercolour wash.

'Hungry, Charlie?' she said looking at her watch, and her tone promised something ineffable.

 I nodded: 'Always ready to eat.'

'Always?'

We started with steamed asparagus; there was just a hint of lemon juice, and an oil I couldn't place. The juices ran down our chins.

This was followed by a teeny salad of mixed leaves of differing colours, miniature tomatoes, sliced small gherkins, baby beetroots and toasted pine kernels, all drizzled with a
very
expensive olive oil. (Perhaps she had another brother—in the oil business.) As I ate she watched me as if the foods contained embedded codes which once eaten would reveal themselves, or me...

The third course consisted of medallions of pork braised in a garlicky sauce in which tomatoes, mushrooms, and herbs commingled. French? Italian? Iberian? That was served with crusty bread and Normandy butter.

She slipped in
another
salad here. None of your lettuce, cucumber and tomato; no, this was all
chilled
parcooked vegetables. The dessert was Mille Feuilles. As well as the lagers which I had poured we drank two bottles of Muscadet which she opened. After coffee, marshmallows and mints we staggered from the table.

She sat next to me this time on the velvet couch. I looked into her blue eyes, noted the delicate reddish eyelashes and as I looked down saw the finest golden tinge above her lip. Her face, which would never need make-up, was freckly. When I removed her glasses, she gave the tiniest questioning look and for only a moment appeared to miss her specs. My eyes couldn't help dropping lower and noting the tops of the soft freckled breasts which showed above her cotton top.

Our first kiss took me back to Eden. All technology dissolved as we were whisked back millions of years. We greeted parents, grandparents, great-grandparents until time speeded up and there we were: primal, elemental and free. She took me by the hand through to the other room where clothes were peeled off. As her skirt fell to the floor I saw the golden hair sprouting from her pants and when I took off her knickers—wow! The sun caught her tufts and set the sheets alight.

Then we set the room ablaze. We took fire from each other until we melted into the sunset with a quivering finish. The afterglow supported us like a hovercraft until the sun itself set, and darkness delivered us to sleep.

*

About two a.m. she asked me to leave: preferred to sleep alone, and could I please drop the latch on the way out? I walked home in the dark as the lights went out on the end of the world.

Next day I gave her a Bell: just got the looooong tone so I rearranged the particles on her chromium dioxide. I waited. I eed her. I waited. Tried her mobile but just got its looooong tone so I left some ones and zeros on Rovafone's mainframe. I waited. Tried the quill and parchment. I waited. Knocked on her door and waited.

I waited.

I hate rejection. Don't you?

Of course, now I'm beginning to want her more. Was this part of the chick's technique? Play so hard to get that the guy falls in love
in
desperation?
Girls, why do you pull these stunts? Fellas, why do they do it? Why can't you just have a
nice
relationship without all these
games?

But by now the message is beginning to sink in: I am OUTSIDE the game. Perhaps there's something not quite right about me. But me and my mates go out for a few jars and they assure me I'm okay. It's the chick who's at fault.

'Play it cool. Always play it cool with a woman. You'll never understand them, mate.'

But, surely, if you a game of sorts. Aren't you? You are
play
it cool then you're playing
participating
. Perhaps that's an intentional part of the courtship process. Then I meditate on
intentional
. Darwin? God? Altruism? Indifferent gene? Random gene?

'Come on, Charlie. Drink up. It's your round.'

So I paid my share and we staggered to the Star of Ceylon where the
violet
décor reminded me of HER. Wow, guys! I had it bad.

'Forget her, Charlie. She's only a bird. Think about the next one.'

I didn't want to think about the next one. I wanted
this
one. Oh, Fiery, why are you doing this to me? Why can't things just be NICE all the time?

Well, the drink made me feel worse and the meal didn't cheer me as it should have done.

'Play the field, Charlie. Go out with lots of chicks.'

Oops, cyberdiddlers! Got a bit
low
there. Let's lift it again—

Something one of my lager buddies had said kept going round in my mind:
Think of the next one
. Well, I thought backwards first: of Cybernurse who'd been a blackhead (!); fiery Ffion who'd been a redhead; which left only—yes, folks, you've guessed it: the BLONDE. She's the subject of section three. But before we get to her you'll be wanting a resolution for section two. That's a reasonable request. Okay, here goes:

 Woke up one morning and amongst the post was a hand-delivered note. It was a one-sheeter: good quality, cream, A4 folded twice. The writing was elegant. I scanned it for good news, positive phrases. Caught the words
sorry
and
goodbye
. She'd had to think carefully since our meal, had had to go away to chill out at a friend's house in Romney Marsh. (Pictured her there: saw all the flat land, saw Dungeness Power Station, saw the pylons, looping their wires across the fields. Hoped the microwaves hadn't corrupted her data.)

She said I was a
great guy
. (Oh, yes.) I had made her laugh. (Laugh?
Laugh??
) And she had enjoyed cooking for me. She thought our lovemaking had been astounding. But—and there always is a but in these things—we were temperamentally unsuited. She needed her
freedom
but thought I was looking for a permanent mate, to settle down. Aren't we all, electrodoodlers? She had a free spirit and could I please respect that? Could I also please take this as goodbye, and thanks? Hated that
thanks.
I'd rather not have met her, I'd rather not have made the bloody effort. I'd rather not have been born. I
hate
being rejected. I HATE it.

Hey, it's getting me down again. Mustn't let it. Chew on this for an upper:

You said you wanted an introduction. You've got it. You said you wanted a development. You've had it. You said you wanted a conclusion. Well, you've had sections one and two, so what does that leave? Hands up, now. No calling out. Yes, you at the back. Mm? Section three? Well done. One, two, three: the magic sequence.

Keep your powder dry, cyberbuddies. Keep your software clear of strong magnets and don't hold your head too close to a mobile phone.

I gave you a few clues in section one: I was getting older and wiser, beginning to learn from my mistakes. Well, we're now two-thirds of the way into my tale. I thought perhaps it was time to hose down my act. Perhaps time to get REAL. Now, there's a word to meditate on.

No: I won't forget Ffion. I always want to remember that, when she did the V with her legs, she torched the bed. And that, my cyberlovelies, is something that no one can take from me.

Hope you see lots more sunsets and that your
vita
remains
dolce
.

3

Wow! It's a
tri
logy!!!

So, the fire fizzled as Ffion faded and Fleance fled, and I'd learned I was a great guy.(!) How old do you have to be to get wise...? I'll tell you:

Happiness doesn't impress the vellum, it doesn't leave an imprint on the papyrus. But the opposites do. Was wondering how to handle it when Blondie tripped into my life.

But, first: my lagermates were beginning to thin. No, not on top, although some of them were. No, they were shacking up and marrying, stuff like that. Our outings became less regular and the size of the group diminished.

I woke up one morning wondering what the pain was. Here I was, once again with a heavy head, a bilious belly and a mouth like the inside of a Sumo wrestler's loincloth. Phew! Chew on
that!
And
I was having a bad time on the pan.

This was
new.

It started with a little nipping sensation while I was harvesting the (faecal) crop. Then started to get PAINFUL. So much so that I had to
walk
slowly or sometimes stop just to let it pass. Too tense to tease out my toxins. Too painful to propel my plop-plops. Too pensive to pass my pooh. Too prissy to pebbledash the pan. Not brave enough to drop my brownies. Insufficiently nimble to liberate my number-twos.

Went to the doc who jerked a digit up my crack:

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!

'Take deep breaths, Mr Smith.'

Bloody
haemorrhoids!!!

'Here,' he said, writing on his prescription pad
,
'insert [insert?
insert??
INSERT???] one of these and smear on some of this.' He said, 'Go for the Stone Age Diet. And plenty of liquids. Oh, and ALCOHOL can worsen the condition.' And curries? 'No,' he said, 'curries are okay. As such.' [
As such
?] 'Plenty of FIBRE, Mr Brown.'

'Doc, why
now
? For years I've...'

'As you get older, bits of you don't work so well.'

He's
paid
to deliver lines like that.