Noodles

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Noodles

MondayI wake up with a hangover, as I always do. A bitter, vengeful, mercilesshangover. Always on Monday. And yet I can’t understand it. I admit it: Iindulge in the vice of drinking—in fact, I drink myself to sleep every god damnnight of the week or else I can’t sleep! But I don’t get a headache anymore; notnow. I’m used to it. But every Monday I wake up with a splitting headache anda strong urge to vomit, to expel the mostly absorbed remains of the poison that Ihave

not

consumed from my body.I get out of bed with a groan and quickly make my way to the bathroom. Myface is pale: big black circles under my eyes give me the resemblance of a panda, but the red veins give my white eyeballs a yellow tinge, and tell even thedensest observers that this panda is troubled. I smile to myself and give in tomy body’s urges. I lean over the toilet and vomit. And yet there’s rarelyanything in my stomach, just white acid, saliva, and, if I’m lucky, a little blood.I sigh as I realise how hungry I am, then flush.Breakfast is no better. All I can eat is selfish, dry toast. Everything else in thefridge just reminds me that the urge to vomit hasn’t followed the bile from my body. Still, the tasteless—but bitter—dry toast soothes my headache and settlesmy stomach, but just a little. I wipe the crumbs from my pyjamas and realise— as I do every Monday!—that I’m wearing a suit. Every time it frightens me— especially as I never seem to notice it in the mirror.I walk over to the old blue cupboard and open it. Inside is a large array of medicine, some of it illicit, some prescribed, and some bought over the counter.I’ve forgotten what it all is, except for the paracetamol. The only one that hasany effect on me anymore. I squeeze a couple of the small white tablets fromtheir plastic prisons and swallow them without water. It’s at this point—as thetablets cut my throat—that I realise my mouth is completely dry. I swallow afew times as I walk over to the fridge. I open the door and it emits itsmechanical groan—a personal greeting it saves until the morning. I reach intothe bright arctic tundra and pull out one of the many bottles of orange juice. Iunscrew the cap and smile at the sparkling orange liquid for a few seconds. Mysmile fades as I see the pieces of orange flesh floating around. They make theclear bright orange liquid look dirty, and make me seriously consider notdrinking it. After the long debate I drink. I gulp the liquid down—at first it’s painful, but finally the smooth cold liquid has done its job and my mouth is wetagain. I gasp for air then wipe the liquid from my chin. I drop the empty bottleinto the rubbish bin then make my way back into my bedroom.I can’t have slept well: the bedclothes are wrinkled and two of the blankets lieon the floor next to the bed. The sheets sparkle, even in the dusty light of my

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bedroom, as if they’re wet. I lay the palm of my hand against the soft sheets andthey are wet. A warm transparent liquid. I lean forward and sniff. Sweat. I wipemy hand on my trousers and turn to my wardrobe. The mirrors on the doors arecovered in fingerprints and smears of something white that can only be caused by the touch of a human. I see my clothes, properly, for the first time. A whitesuit—always white—the jacket open, revealing a shirt with the top few buttonsundone. There’s a large yellow sweat stain in the front and under the arm pits,and sometimes, if I’m lucky, a urine stain around the undone zipper. Todaythere isn’t. I tear them off angrily and look at my naked body: my skin iswrinkled and my armpits scarred: tiny, little, sharp scars. I know what theymust be but I don’t believe it. I tried scratching them once but the pain wasunbearable and I thought I might bleed to death. My hair is matted and oncewas covered in vomit—surely not my own! I realise I need a shower and I headinto the bathroom.There’s no hot water. It’s always cold, depressingly cold. But I like it thatway. It wakes me up, it stings my arm pits, but it reassures me. I can still feel.Cold water isn’t much but it’s something. I resist the temptation to dig into myarmpits again and turn the taps off. I wait for a second as I feel the water dripping from my body. I dry myself and then walk back outside and confrontthe mirror.My hair is still matted but I’m a new man. My skin has regained some colour —perhaps burnt by the cold water. I open the drawers to a large puff of dust.Some of it sticks to my moist skin and I cough. I pull out a set of comfortable, baggy clothes. I put them on and sit down on my bed. The final surpriseconfronts me. My shoes are gone. They’re always gone. I open the cupboardand take out a pair of shit five dollar sneakers. They’re white and chunky, andas I pull them on they’re as uncomfortable as they are ugly. I tie the laces andthen stand up.I exit my apartment but I don’t lock the door behind me. Sometimes I don’teven close it. My shoes aren’t the only shit things I own; everything in myapartment is shit. From the filthy orange juice to the dry toast. But so is theapartment block. A dirty wooden hallway that’s always empty, and an evendirtier lift that’s only used for fornication. Naturally I take the stairs—aseveryone else does—but in the mornings these are lifeless too. The only timethere’s any life is at night: when the drug dealers and prostitutes crawl fromtheir hiding places.And then on the street it’s always cold. Sometimes it snows, but even the thick white flakes quickly begin to melt and the true colour of the city is revealed. Agrey, compassionless, concrete hell. Twisted mountains of metal and concretereach up into their sky, trying to climb their way to heaven—from hell. Allaround me is an ocean of asphalt. Buoyant, noisy, and polluting: cars moveslower than walking pace across the black streets. On my way to work I almostalways get pushed and shoved. Once I was even hit by a cyclist.

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I always smell work from a mile off. The smell of sharp metal being cut andthe intoxicating, sickening, smell of oil. As I begin to smell it now, I can see theclean grey floors stained by motor oil, and the sparks from metal being cut.Somehow I find it compelling. It’s small solace in a pitiless world, but it’s stillsolace no matter how small. A group of people wait outside. All wear greyoveralls and hats. All talk cheerfully. I’m always the last to arrive and the firstto leave. It may be solace—but not when they’re involved.“Hailey.” I greet my girlfriend with a kiss. Her lips are soft but every time Itouch them with my own they taste more and more bitter. I take her warm butfirm hand and she smiles at me. I do my best to smile back, but I am physicallyrepulsed by that insincere and sickly sweet smile. Her bright blue eyes seem tosay something entirely different to the smile. Hatred, sadness, or fear? I can’tdecipher it. I have enough trouble telling them apart.We walk silently into the huge grey factory of creation. Lines and lines of orange machines creating dull silver metal objects commonly used in cars. Ikiss my girlfriend goodbye again, but this time passionately, as we won’t seeeach other until lunch. I try not to gag on her tongue and I pray to god (and if there is a god he’s most certainly in this big house of creation) that we won’tsee each other for a long time.I walk to my station and smile. I’m home. I watch the metal effortlessly liftfive hundred pound pieces of metal and then slice through them like butter. Iwatch the beautiful orange sparks fly up in the air then disappear and die asquickly as they’d been born, and what a violent magnificent birth it is. I watchthe conveyer belts carry these newly created life forms to the next station for another tier of creation.Each organ is alive; a vital piece of something bigger. But they haven’t foundtheir destination yet. My smile fades. Perhaps some of them never will? Is thissadness? No, this is a wistful happiness. Nothing in the world is perfect. Noteven creation.Then all too quickly the machines stop. How can the life of something so beautiful be extinguished so easily? By the simple, effortless press of a smallorange button, and a twist of a silver key? Could mine? Could another human being’s? Or would I need a third party to do it? Would I need someone else totwist a small silver key—perhaps a silver blade—into my flesh?I make my way back outside to company and bitterly take my spot next to mygirlfriend. She snuggles up next to me and I only just manage to stop myself from flinching. I smile back at her then look down at the sandwich I am to eatfor lunch. Dry bread and stale peanut butter. I eat the tasteless bread and wishthat the stale peanut butter was tasteless too. I listen to the pointless discussionof sport and politics, and even take part, but my mind is elsewhere. Tryingdesperately to block out their patronising and meaningless voices. I smileopenly when the whistle blows again and I’m granted my final opportunity of the day to be part of something meaningful. Part of something that matters.