One
He stepped out his car, reaching for the keys to lock it, vaguely noting the dull metallic echo of the concrete jungle as he shut the door. Then he walked down seven flights of stairs, swigging the beer in his hand. He often came to this place when he needed to get away from things: it was his sanctuary. He dare not think what might happen if it did not exist.
A light drizzle was falling outside. It made the seaside clubbers universally neutral. They became one with the night and rain, and had nothing of value to offer him beyond the usual self-important drunken statements: their pub bravado appeared and disappeared as quickly as the smoke portending from the chip shop. Although the rain intensified and forced the streets into a vague resemblance of mini-canals, he trudged onwards towards the pier.
It wasn't the falsified, superficial lure of neon lights which attracted him so. It wasn't a desire to be in close proximity to a large group of people, although loneliness likes company. Actually, the reason why sitting directly under the pier was his favourite spot ever was simple: nobody ever came down there, and yet he could still overhear snippets of conversation ten metres above, in between the carousel music. He wondered briefly if this made him a voyeur and decided it didn't matter. He considered labels to be unhelpful, and were only valuable in the same sort of way as judging a book: they helped you make a snap decision that was ultimately of no consequence.
From his vantage point, he stared out at the sea. The waves were black, highly choppy and looked about five foot high. The skyline was mauve and the point at which the two met was almost impossible to tell. His inner jacket pocket contained a Walkman: he turned it on and closed his eyes, resting his back against one of the pier's supports. The low evening temperature helped maintain the beer's coolness, which was pleasing to him, and he took another swig. Lately, he just felt so tired, even with ample amounts of sleep. It was as though every muscle in his body was preset at age fifty, although of course physically he was still a youth.
'Nice Guys Finish Last' came on. He thought about a time several years ago when he had decided there was indeed some truth in this: for a week or so he made up his mind to act like one of those idiots who seems to know nothing, and yet get most of life's great rewards for the privilege. Naturally, this was of no consequence. Whilst friends told him that this was all very well, the bigger message was 'you shouldn't be something you're not. Be yourself.' Problem: He is a nice guy. He doesn't want to finish last. He wants to matter, and be relevant to someone. Isn't that what most people spend their entire adult lives dreaming of finding?
That's why he did that thing for a week. Then he remembered a classic situation at college: the nice guy ends up the shoulder to cry on, the agony uncle figure. In short, it's a recipe for platonicism. It's so much more interesting, he thought, when one can experience both sides of the coin and see what happens.
He tried to switch off mentally for the next hour or so. Just the Walkman going, no thoughts, no distractions, no calls. When the disc finished, he gulped down the remaining beer and crushed the empty can in his hand. With his spare hand, he picked up a few loose stones and tossed them one by one into the pitch black water. The tide appeared to be coming in, which mysteriously made him hungry: he found something to eat along the seafront, and with a heavy heart set off towards his car to go home.
He stepped out his car, reaching for the keys to lock it, vaguely noting the dull metallic echo of the concrete jungle as he shut the door. Then he walked down seven flights of stairs, swigging the beer in his hand. He often came to this place when he needed to get away from things: it was his sanctuary. He dare not think what might happen if it did not exist.
A light drizzle was falling outside. It made the seaside clubbers universally neutral. They became one with the night and rain, and had nothing of value to offer him beyond the usual self-important drunken statements: their pub bravado appeared and disappeared as quickly as the smoke portending from the chip shop. Although the rain intensified and forced the streets into a vague resemblance of mini-canals, he trudged onwards towards the pier.
It wasn't the falsified, superficial lure of neon lights which attracted him so. It wasn't a desire to be in close proximity to a large group of people, although loneliness likes company. Actually, the reason why sitting directly under the pier was his favourite spot ever was simple: nobody ever came down there, and yet he could still overhear snippets of conversation ten metres above, in between the carousel music. He wondered briefly if this made him a voyeur and decided it didn't matter. He considered labels to be unhelpful, and were only valuable in the same sort of way as judging a book: they helped you make a snap decision that was ultimately of no consequence.
From his vantage point, he stared out at the sea. The waves were black, highly choppy and looked about five foot high. The skyline was mauve and the point at which the two met was almost impossible to tell. His inner jacket pocket contained a Walkman: he turned it on and closed his eyes, resting his back against one of the pier's supports. The low evening temperature helped maintain the beer's coolness, which was pleasing to him, and he took another swig. Lately, he just felt so tired, even with ample amounts of sleep. It was as though every muscle in his body was preset at age fifty, although of course physically he was still a youth.
'Nice Guys Finish Last' came on. He thought about a time several years ago when he had decided there was indeed some truth in this: for a week or so he made up his mind to act like one of those idiots who seems to know nothing, and yet get most of life's great rewards for the privilege. Naturally, this was of no consequence. Whilst friends told him that this was all very well, the bigger message was 'you shouldn't be something you're not. Be yourself.' Problem: He is a nice guy. He doesn't want to finish last. He wants to matter, and be relevant to someone. Isn't that what most people spend their entire adult lives dreaming of finding?
That's why he did that thing for a week. Then he remembered a classic situation at college: the nice guy ends up the shoulder to cry on, the agony uncle figure. In short, it's a recipe for platonicism. It's so much more interesting, he thought, when one can experience both sides of the coin and see what happens.
He tried to switch off mentally for the next hour or so. Just the Walkman going, no thoughts, no distractions, no calls. When the disc finished, he gulped down the remaining beer and crushed the empty can in his hand. With his spare hand, he picked up a few loose stones and tossed them one by one into the pitch black water. The tide appeared to be coming in, which mysteriously made him hungry: he found something to eat along the seafront, and with a heavy heart set off towards his car to go home.
