Tinsel

 

Thursday, March 27, 10:58 PM

I snapped at her, then headed for the restroom aimlessly. Staring at the dirty mirror, I thought about how I was behaving, what I was getting at, and why the hell I was dragging this out. I left with the irreversible intention of pouring out all my regrets and worries to her, to unburden myself of the burden of filthy and dirty thoughts. Then I reversed my irreversible intention and whispered only softly, "Screw you." Ania responded with a light snoring, or rather, she responded to the wall, as her pretty face was turned toward her. This could only mean that she was asleep and uninterested in my outpourings. I automatically felt I wouldn't be needed for anything today, so I threw on my outerwear and left this den of debauchery richly seasoned with hatred; I left without even slamming the door, though I was incredibly tempted to do so.

That day, we began arguing more on principle than for any clear reason. The lack of sufficient living space, our own private space, was so acute that any excuse could spark long-lasting arguments. It didn't matter what it was about—as long as it hurt; it didn't matter why—as long as it did. I left the house aimlessly. Of course, I'd like to say: I went out to forget, I went out to clear my stale mind, I went out to gain some perspective on myself and my life, or finally, I went out to get flowers, which I'll hold in my hands, kneeling before the love of my life and apologizing for everything I've done; for what I've said, for what I've thought, and for being who I am: an insolent, brutal, and cynical bastard. I'd like to say that, but I won't, because it would be a gigantic lie; I left the house with no purpose and nothing will change that.

First, I circled the nearest murderhouses, but I didn't manage to find anyone I wanted to spend any time with. Having had a beer or two and intending to continue my visits to pubs both large and small, I sat down for a second at the number four tram stop, right by Teatralny Square. I looked up and saw the starry sky; I wanted to admire it, but that was simply too cliché, so I spat on the sidewalk in an act of spontaneous disapproval and immersed myself in unfamiliar thoughts: thoughts of Anka, whom I didn't love, and with whom I was only there because I was afraid of what would happen once I left her. Yes, that seemed to be what was going through my mind when I saw someone I never expected to see at that moment. In fact, at first, it was just a fantasy, and a brief moment had to pass before I was certain it wasn't just a fantasy, but an indisputable fact. There she stood before me: a goddess in human form, the one for whom I would move mountains and leap into fire. Simply she, the one I dreamed of.

And I was about to approach; and I was about to strike up a conversation; and I was about to show off my innate charm when an irresistible obstacle stood in my way: I'd forgotten this one's exact name. To be fair, I couldn't recall her name, not only precisely, but even a slight approximation. I remembered her face, I remembered her hair, I remembered her voice, her scent, her nickname from high school, but for God's sake, folk China and a peanut bar, I couldn't recall this one's exact name, what that inscription was on her ID card between her charming photo and her PESEL number.

Fate plays strange tricks, winking at us with an ironic smile at the most inopportune moment—that's what I should have thought at the time, but I was tempted to reflect on something more general: "Fuck, his damned mother!" Fortunately, a divine being rescued me from my predicament. As a woman always does, she took the initiative at the most opportune moment. She looked at me with joyful eyes, plastered a charming smile on her face, and blurted out in her voice as resonant as the most resonant sound: "Bird, what's wrong with you, man? Don't you recognize people? It's me, Justyna." Exactly, little one, that's what I needed: "Justyna." I should have realized then that I needed to work on my concentration immediately, but I failed to concentrate sufficiently, as I immediately launched into a torrent of uncontrolled exchanges, thoughts, and various gestures with my old friend, whom, by a strange twist of fate, I met at the number four tram stop about two hours after my argument with Anka.

Friday, March 28, 1:25 AM

At the next table, some cleavage-wearing guys were sitting, chatting about the kinds of things guys might talk about in a bar. They looked at me for a moment like I was an alien, but then immediately went back to what they were doing; which was just as well, because I wasn't in the mood for any fights with losers who were utterly outnumbered. The unexpected encounter with Justyna prompted me to reflect freely on my high school years. For the first time, I think, I found myself recalling them with a touching sense of joy, with that subtle but perfectly noticeable hint of sentimental excitement you can sense in people reminiscing about past moments in their lives. Was this a sign that I was getting old? And even if I were, would it even matter? They called her Loszka, but who knows where that nickname came from. I was head over heels for her throughout high school, although the word "head over heels" might be a bit of an exaggeration. I simply felt she would be the mother of my children, and although she paid me no attention at the time, I knew she couldn't escape her destiny, because it was precisely for it that she was predestined.

Loszka's emotionality was on par with that of a ten-year-old, and the only thing that set her apart from the rest of the women was her incredible dramatic talent. To put it bluntly, she lied until her ears perked. But she did it so beautifully that it was impossible not to admire her. Her artistry was evident in the plot itself—multi-threaded, incredibly vivid, and practically devoid of any weak points. But only

when it came time for her to present her ideas to a wide audience did the only possible reaction seem to be a modest pick-up of the jaw and salute this great queen of lies. As far as I remember, that's what attracted me most to her. We all lie, every minute, in every gesture and word. We lie to other people, but no less to ourselves. The gilt has perfected what we all do so clumsily; how can anyone not admire her?

"Seven zloty," the bartender, his face so pleasant and accommodating I felt like punching him in the face, snapped me out of my reverie.

"And an ashtray," I added, just out of habit, to bring me back to reality. I politely paid the required amount.

I returned to the table and set down two beers; Loszka was staring at the embarrassing photos hanging on the wall, but as soon as I appeared, she immediately turned her attention to me. It's a rather pleasant feeling when someone pays their full attention to you. I returned the favor, and we began the standard small talk that friends have when they meet after a long time. First, a little about ourselves, a two-sentence summary of what we'd worked for over the years; then a brief introduction to our current, ever-dragging "transitional state" in this vale of tears. Immediately afterward, there was a virtually imperceptible transition to talk about people we once knew together: who had met whom recently, who was marrying whom, who was getting married, who was getting married, who was having a second child, who was getting married, who wanted to but wasn't; who had gone abroad, who was in Ciechocinek; who hadn't seen whom in years; who had found a job, who was going downhill; who was drinking every day; Who died or had a brush with death; who started taking drugs, and who had just quit... a conversation like any other, and like any other, probably boring me as much as she. Over time, however, we began to delve into increasingly specific topics, where I had the opportunity to shine, and with that shine, to cover up (like a cardboard model) the shallowness of my own eloquence.

"We're wallowing in sordid debauchery, participating in the shameful process of corrupting the remnants of our own personalities," I began to get excited.

"You're getting pretty excited," she began to notice.

And it was then, seemingly fleetingly, seemingly barely perceptibly, as if in a casual gesture, that our hands touched; it was then that I began to wonder what to do next, because it was clear that now it was my turn to make a move. I was thinking about this when a man sat down next to us whose appearance brought to mind (without needing to harness an imagination worthy of the Brothers Grimm) clear associations with the parliamentary group of the Self-Defense of the Republic of Poland.

"Well, Bird, Bird, what are you up to with the girls?" he mumbled as if we'd known each other for years, though for my taste, I was seeing this miserable shell for the first time in my life. "Just for a moment," he added soothingly.

"Any problem?" I asked aimlessly, or perhaps to express my lack of sympathy.

"You know," he said, and when he was sure I didn't know, he grabbed my beer and took a long swig. "I'm from the sanitary-epidemiological station... I had to take a sample for inspection... you understand, bro?"

"Sure, it was nice meeting you," I replied. "So, goodbye."

"Okay, I'm sensing a hint," the guy said, looking as if he was desperately trying to deny his own words. Then he stood up and, heading for the exit, added, "Just don't make any children out of this, Bird. You don't skimp on tires. Remember!

Sunday, March 30, 3:18 PM."

A rickety young man with a dull, unremarkable appearance entered the room. He began by greeting us, then sat down on the sofa and began a conversation with us about some utterly irrelevant topic. This insignificance seemed incomprehensible to the strange newcomer, and his features were constantly covered with a smile as vague and indeterminate as he himself. This smile clearly indicated that I would be unable to forge any kind of understanding with this rickety young man, even on a level as uninhibited as a purely social one. Nevertheless, to conceal my identity, I also assumed an optimistic expression, occasionally allowing myself slight sighs and even—what an incredible boldness of hypocrisy on my part—to interject a sentence or two into the conversation. And so we sat, the three of us, each passing minute enveloping the purpose of my visit in a thicker fog of oblivion. I discreetly glanced at my watch, then wiped the smile from my face for a moment and solemnly declared, "It's late, oh my god."

I left Justyna's filled with rage. And it wasn't just any rage, but one driven by a certain vile feeling we always experience when we fail to do something we've longed to do. It wasn't even about missing out on an opportunity, but rather the complete absence of one. Worse still, this is usually compounded by a complete inability to imagine it in the future, no matter how vaguely, but in some way. That's exactly how I felt then, leaving the apartment of the woman who was the first I'd slept with since meeting Anka; the first with whom I'd cheated on Anka, and the first to spark a genuine interest in me. To be clear: I had no remorse whatsoever. That inner slave driver hadn't yet awakened within me: the most passionate and persistent, painfully lashing the backs of those trained in the spirit of traditional morality. I still managed to treat conscience as an empty word, one that could be used (if necessary) in contacts with others, but whose meaning always remained vague. Therefore, the only thing that occupied me as I stepped out onto the street from Loszka's apartment was the question of our mutual relationship: what I was supposed to think of her, and what she was supposed to think of me.

For the past two days, we hadn't given each other any sign of life. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and decided to come over. I don't know what exactly I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I experienced at her place. We chatted about this and that, as if nothing significant had happened. The way she spoke to me meant absolutely nothing: every time I was inclined to think she was treating me with a moderate degree of coldness, something in her demeanor changed. It was terribly elusive, yet at the same time striking with its unshakable certainty; a specific mixture of tenderness and wild lust that any tough macho would describe with the words, "That little girl is wet at the sight of you." And then the coldness would return: a long period of cold, another moment of wetness, another coldness, wetness, coldness, until the rickety guy came, sat down on the couch, and that was it.

One of my main vices has always been treating everything as a last resort. "If not now, then never"—the more I fight such thoughts, the harder it is to banish them. I may not have shown any specific initiative, but it's hard to say she's given me any real chance. So what now? The end? And what about old fantasies, and what about fate? As I mentioned, I have no idea what I expected when I went to see Loszka: that she would throw herself into my arms? That she would invite me to take a bath together? Or maybe she would offer me pancakes with chocolate icing, which I'm craving right now because I'm passing that dingy little restaurant I used to frequent with Anka so often? Well, yes, Anka. Tomorrow she'll be back from the weekend, and we'll have to meet up anyway. I haven't seen her since the argument, but it's hard to imagine that the temporary suspension of our relationship can last forever. Someday, it won't be possible to pretend that not communicating with each other was a coincidence, and that will most likely happen tomorrow. And it's precisely until then that I'll have to make some concrete decisions.

Monday, March 31st, 1:13 AM

Hey, Maybe It's A Little Stupid That Way, But You're Not Okay Too.

I Took The Brat Test And It Came Out What Shouldn't Come Out Until Tomorrow, And

Now I'm Going To Break Down.

Ania Wednesday, April 1st, 1:02 PM

And so, I found myself face to face with a unique opportunity to see my life completely shattered into tiny pieces. What drama! What pathetic elation! A WHOLE LIFE. This is all that still awaits me! EVERYTHING! It's even funny how, in an instant, all my previous desires become nothing more than an unrealistic pipe dream, and the vision of my previous problems, undergoing a drastic metamorphosis, appears as a collection of insignificant trinkets.

I try to gain some distance, to escape into generalization. I repeat to myself that a mistake made in the past will affect the future. This mildly enlightening observation is meant to serve as a guide for the future; I'm still trying to salvage the scraps from a hopeless situation; I'm still struggling. Another formula: what doesn't kill, strengthens. Strength should return, but the illusion is so clear that even I notice it. This isn't Nietzsche; where, old man, is the superman? But distance, there was supposed to be distance! I try to assume the position of an observer, to generalize on a different level, to distance myself from it. Thinking in images—that's the easiest way. A cockroach crawls along the wall, and I don't even have the strength to do anything about it. A bug. A generalization. Another level. The stinking bug called the present crawls along the thin line of time; still marked by the past, it charts the paths of the future. Nice, poetic trash, isn't it? That's what I was thinking then, completely unnoticed, descending to the level of cheap metaphysics, straight out of the ramblings of Wharton or another Coelho. And thinking this way, for a moment I even concluded that my life, so easily crossing the lines of absurdity and grotesque, couldn't possibly be taken seriously; I couldn't take it seriously, or I'd go mad. And I was almost solving the problem, almost happy, escaping into a glorified generalization, immersing myself in the problems of a universe from whose perspective my worries and concerns were so trivial and blatantly insignificant that there was nothing to discuss. And I was almost achieving my goal, except that after a moment I'd start taking myself damn seriously again. I'd fall to the ground, banging my head on the concrete. I'd crack my skull on the hard pavement of everyday life. And so on, and so on.

Pregnancy appeared to me as a total phenomenon. I was facing something so overwhelming that I had no illusions about the effectiveness of my resistance. Despite this, I applied that resistance. It was the resistance of a small child, stamping its feet and stubbornly defiant; the child I had always been. Now I was crossing the line into adulthood, doing the inevitable, and rebelling against it was as ridiculous as a horse pulling a cart on the highway; it was an anachronism that, at best, might evoke pity, at worse, only irritation. But as I said, despite all this, I rebelled like a foolish brat. I based my struggle on one, single foundation: hope. Perhaps Anka would call soon and say it was just a silly joke? Perhaps she would say she finally got her period? Because tests can be wrong! Hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, to use a cliched metaphor. Perhaps she would call soon and...

...as if on cue, the phone started ringing. I shook myself out of my idle thoughts, returning to my socially useful state. I got out of bed and threw myself on the receiver, and of course, Justyna's voice was waiting for me there. But she did. It would have been a shocking and overwhelming experience, if I hadn't been forced to brush her off. I didn't bother being polite. It had to come out as it did: dry and cynical. She had every right to be offended, and she probably wouldn't have failed to feel offended. But that interested me no more than last year's snow. The initially cheerful voice on the other end of the line was unaware of the dangers posed by constant movement through time and space. This wasn't the time for the Loska to choose; this wasn't the time for her long legs and the antics of a lying viper; it was already the time of her growing belly.

Monday, April 6, 5:54 PM

In crisis situations, I always try to adopt a silly, relaxed approach. Then, too, I felt a terrible urge to laugh, even though the situation didn't exactly encourage it. Anka and I were staring at the vial, or more precisely, at some ridiculously small piece of paper immersed in it. What color would the stripe be? Just blue, or perhaps a hint of pink? I had to admit, the vial was quite tasteful; its streamlined shape didn't offend my standards of good taste, unlike, say, a glass. If my future life depended on an ordinary glass, I think I might have been slowly breaking down by now; but this vial? So pretty, it was a pleasure to look at. I felt genuine affection for it, ambivalent, of course, but are there any other feelings? After all, when we love, there's always some element of hatred involved. I loved that vial with all my heart. I adored her for her amazing figure, hated her for the fact that she could ruin my life.

Anka and I stared at each other like two idiots. I won't exaggerate, sweat wasn't dripping down my forehead, but I was still close to pissing my pants. I wanted to laugh like hell. I don't know what at, probably just for the fact. Despite this, I tried to remain deadly serious, because I knew that if I snorted, Anka would punch me in the face. She reacts to stress differently: with aggression, not laughter.

"How much longer?" Her voice was teasing, impatient, and aggressive.

"Minute forty," I replied matter-of-factly, though I'd long since forgotten what time we'd started this test.

"Jesus..." I don't know why she said that; did she want to keep the conversation going or was she suddenly feeling a little more self-conscious.

I sighed quietly and glanced at my watch. So, according to my rough calculations, there was still one minute and forty seconds left until the nightmare of unconsciousness ended. Then, at least, everything would be clear. Anka had taken her first pregnancy test a week earlier, and as the leaflet included in the package had stated, "If the result is positive, repeat the test after seven days." Throughout the entire time that had to pass, we were utterly devastated. Occasionally, however, we tempered this state with short breaks of confident belief that "everything would work out." The illusion of hope, that nasty feeling you always cling to, even if it meant saving just a few minutes of illusion, returned like a boomerang. But now it seemed to be over. And that was a good thing, because I wanted to finally be crushed by the weight of certainty, so I could devote my time in peace to the activity I enjoy most: permanent self-pity. I preferred to know where I stood, even if it meant we could finally buy sleepsuits. One minute. The nerves were slowly killing me. Her too. They were killing me, and killing her, but I would never have dared say they were killing us. Because we were already gone. Of course, I hadn't told her about the Loska. Why would I? Despite everything, I didn't want to hurt her. Forty seconds. Wild screams drifted from outside the open window. It was the screeching progeny of my neighbors, the result of twenty-five years of practicing Vatican roulette. I was slowly starting to grow disenchanted with the vial; its shape no longer delighted me; now the awareness of its existence was tightening around my neck. She wanted my spiritual death, and the murder weapon was supposed to be the color pink. Twenty seconds.

"Fuck..." I muttered, completely aimlessly.

She looked at me emotionlessly. She said nothing; she clearly hadn't considered my initiation a good conversation starter. Or perhaps she simply had nothing to say. We froze in anticipation.

Monday, April 6, 6:20 PM

Relaxed, we were recovering. Out of boredom, I lit a cigarette, and Anka started getting dressed. This time we got away with it again. She was slowly disappearing into the depths of unconsciousness, pregnant with its blasphemous staleness, with the thought of enslavement. Of enslavement by the little monster that was about to emerge from her belly. It got away with it. In fact, I don't even know why we fell into each other's arms. Probably because we wanted to. And why did we want to? Probably out of euphoria, because then you usually want a lot of things; for a moment. We wanted to jump up to the ceiling anyway, but we were a bit out of shape. We also wanted to open champagne, but we lacked the necessary prop. We wanted to finally fall into each other's arms, and for that, you only need two people—and we happened to have them. We had two complete strangers, but that didn't matter in the slightest. And just like that, we fell into each other's arms, and then it just happened. On its own; without any unnecessary calculation. I don't know about her, but I felt great. It's always great when you know it's the last time. Because it was the last time.

Then I went out to my usual place and chatted about the always-irrelevant things; with the same people who always meant as much to me as ever, which is nothing. And just like always, I took my technical breaks in the outhouse, where I traditionally resumed my old routine. I stared into the broken mirror, mentally exposing my shallowness, and the utter meaninglessness of my every move. The sweet, charming years of my youth—vomit tainted by the illusory vision of better times. Once again, I managed to escape the sticky clutches of adulthood; once again, I was given the chance to remain who I was, a miserable little whiz struggling between the powerful forces of a mature world. It was then, in a burst of alcoholic enthusiasm, that I decided to call Loszka; That I would clarify the matter, that I would start living anew in a completely less stale atmosphere, that I had decided many other "thats" for myself, but I had completely forgotten their content. That's how it is: this alcoholic enthusiasm often pushes us into a whirlwind of cosmically irrational actions, doomed to failure from the start by our fatal incompetence. And I was precisely stabbed in this insidious way; stabbed in the back by the knife of an illusory sense of self-worth. However, looking back on the whole event with hindsight, I can't blame myself. The disgusting degradation of what remained of my honor is a high price, but nevertheless a just one. It was the price for avoiding the awareness that I hadn't tried to seize my last chance; the chance to win over a woman who filled my thoughts in such a significant and unusual way that I would have been willing to admit to something akin to love for her.

Tuesday, April 14, 6:23 PM

Alongside my permanent denial of Christianity, there always lurked a hypocritical urge to succumb to its influence. At least superficially. Although the awareness of having renounced any manifestations of altruism kept me from succumbing to the illusions of religious worship, in some manifestations of my emotionality I came dangerously close to the ideal of the teachings of the cross and mercy. I mean love, to use a word as grand as it is cliched, and my approach to her. The love I bestowed upon my woman was Christian love in the strict sense, for I always directed her toward a weaker and inferior being, whom my radiance was meant to illuminate. I was the more perfect one—though this perfection was not imperfect; the more beautiful—in the physical dimension, though understood, of course, relatively (for how can a man's hairy body compare to a woman's beauty); wiser—no matter how foolish a woman I had to look for to prevail in this respect. Here I was, always pitying my neighbor, jumping off the pedestal, reaching out to them, and pulling them up to my own level. What was this, then, if not praise of Christianity in its most significant aspect?

Of course, it was sordid praise. After all, the motives behind one's actions are also important, and these usually differed greatly from Christian ones. I did so, probably unconsciously, not out of a sense of pity, but for purely selfish, or, shall we say, therapeutic, purposes. To put it succinctly: I used women's flaws to cure my complexes. Freud would have a laugh.

Now, however, the situation had changed, to say the least, diametrically. The girl wasn't someone I could sense any advantage over; I was the one who ran after her with my tongue hanging out for half of high school; she was the more perfect, more beautiful, and wiser being. And perhaps that's why she seemed so important to me; worthy of the effort I would otherwise never have made. Thinking about her, I was lost in ambivalence. On the one hand, I hated her as a stronger being, trying to dominate me; on the other, I couldn't help but feel that through contact with her, I could finally shake off the state of enslavement to my complexes. I hoped to reach a higher level, from which I would no longer be "some insignificant thing" but "someone who mattered." So much for my theoretical fantasies.

Dealing with them in practice was, unfortunately, quite painful. The girl didn't respond to my messages for a long time, until I finally managed to inject the appropriate note of desperation into one of them; that's when she arranged to meet me:

"wDesperadoOeighteenZeroZeroJustyna."

Once again, the sickening magic of text messages struck me. I didn't dare call her; after our last conversation, it would have been hard to explain myself. My throat would have gone dry immediately, and I would have looked like an idiot. I think I overdid it a bit, but I can't blame myself. It was a different perspective. Now, sunk in the abyss of oblivion, the awareness of the end of the world as we knew it was over.

At 6 PM, Desperado was empty. I sat at a table by the window, realizing these were the last moments. She wouldn't come. There was no point in undoing anything, because I hadn't screwed anything up. It just happened that way. I followed the illusory passion, trusting in hope, which always disappoints. A woman walked across the street. I fixed my gaze on her, more to pass the time than out of curiosity. Then I looked ahead, at a guy who, like me, was sitting alone with a mug of beer. And it was then that I felt for the first time what would accompany me every day from then on: the suffocating fear of loneliness.