Drum: FICTION
really really tired – of people asking how he was the
whole time, of people telling him that they were there for
him should he want to talk. Words, he had said to
James, are not for things like this. He had said that
words are for placing an order at the bar, making a sale,
having a laugh or an argument or discussion. Words had
stopped working for Peter and in New York – other than
the non - words which accompany everyday transactions
– he spoke to no one. He had told James that there was
something peaceful about being amidst but unengaged
with other people. Your thoughts, he had said obliquely,
are unfiltered.
James carefully tilted his head from side to side to check
whether the hammer had stopped banging nails into his
skull. A dull thud remained. He walked back to Times
Square intending to take a subway uptown. He reconsidered when he saw that the entrance to the subway
was blocked by tourists each taking it in turn to
photograph the others pointing at a stationary police car.
Statue Man had packed up leaving his impersonator to
entertain a disinterested clump of onlookers. They left,
struggling perhaps to make sense of a man pretending to
be a man pretending to be a statue. A black guy wearing
what appeared to be curtains harangued a passer by
about the legacy of slavery and shook a small book in
his face. James walked past him in a wide arc.
He had a good four hours before his meeting with Peter
so he decided on a circuitous route taking in Madison
Avenue. Stopping off at Gap he chose some boxers, a
pair of jeans and a t-shirt and paid for them without
trying them on. He thanked the shop assistant. She told
him he was welcome. He went into a Swedish shop and
bought a moulded plastic device which had a multiplicity
of uses: it could be stacked; you could put (very) small
things in it or if you bought the matching plastic spoon
it could be used for condiments at table. He bought it
together with the matching spoon. »
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