Wasteman

Julie leaned over and tapped me on the shoulder, stage whispering “a moth’s been at that”. The rest of my colleagues looked around to watch as she poked her little finger through one of the holes on my sleeve. “Oh, really? That’s a shame,” I said, pretending I hadn’t realised, pretending it wasn’t the least moth-ridden jumper I owned. “You should darn that,” she suggested, then reconsidered. “Or maybe throw it away, it’s falling apart.” I thanked her and went back to staring at my email inbox, my face reddening and hot. I didn’t know how to darn. I thought about throwing it away but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. The jumper had once belonged to my dad and still smelled like his aftershave, bitter and smoky. It smelled like autumnal walks in my village and the gathering hint of frost. It smelled like bonfires and decaying leaf mulch. It smelled like home. Julie smelled like mothballs.

Payday wasn’t for another three weeks, but I had some Christmas money left over. Money from family friends that really should have stopped giving me presents by now, but what age is it appropriate to stop? At which point does a child become an adult? I still got a stocking from my parents and the odd £20 note in a belated birthday card. It felt ungrateful to tell them to stop. And perhaps I wasn’t ready for adulthood anyway. Perhaps I could hang on to the last dregs of childhood for a little longer.

I walked to the high street after work. Christmas tree corpses littered the pavement and gave the air a sweet, heady scent. I found a grey turtleneck jumper in the sales that brought out my eyes, or at least the shop assistant said so. I thought it covered most of my body except for my eyes, but her sales tactic worked and she folded it neatly into a paper bag at the tills. Before I cashed up, I saw some hand soap by the counter. We’d run out at home and I had been using dandruff shampoo to wash my hands, my housemate and I refusing to back down first and go to the corner shop for a new bar. I picked up the bottle and read the label, raising the pump to my nose and inhaling. The label said it was fig leaf, but it smelled more like my dad’s aftershave. I bought the soap, a matching body spray and hand cream and the shop assistant wrapped them and the jumper in the bag. I imagined a trio of figs nestled in the soft grey sleeves, held gently while they ripened and released their sweet perfume.

It had started to drizzle while I’d been in the shop. A thin, pathetic stream that fogged up the passing bus windows and made everyone’s coats smell like wet dog. I ducked under a shop awning to look up my bus stop on my phone, because I’d walked further into Covent Garden than my normal route home. The little compass spun wildly as it tried to track my location amongst all the tall buildings. I tried to swivel it round and zoom into the map, but rain kept splashing onto the screen from my hair. I gave up and walked down the street, dodging umbrella spokes and tourists, trying to keep my paper bag tucked under my arm. Eventually, I took a shortcut down an alleyway that I knew would take me towards Holborn. It was quieter and more sheltered than the main street and passed several restaurant kitchens, where front of house and kitchen staff were sharing cigarettes and umbrellas in the gloom.

A hand caught mine and I hesitated, confused. I tried to keep walking but it gripped tighter. “Hey. Where are you living?”
“What?”
“I said, where are you living?” He was tall and dressed smartly, in a dark coat and jeans. He wore a lopsided smile that was designed to be attractive. Expensive trainers and a cool haircut completed the look. He smelled like rain. “I don’t understand what you mean,” I said. I tried to stand further away from him but my back hit the wall. He was still holding onto my hand. “You speak English?” I nodded. “Yeah.” He eyed my work ID card and lanyard, trying to catch a glimpse of my name but I tucked it inside my coat. He tried again with renewed energy. “So where are you from, where are you working, where are you living… Tell me about yourself.” I tried to remove my hand from his grip. My palm was starting to sweat. He dragged his thumb over my knuckles, perhaps trying to soothe me, perhaps reminding me I couldn’t move. “I don’t know why you’re...” I tried to make my voice louder, to sound like I wasn’t scared. “What do you want?” He didn’t answer, or perhaps he didn’t hear. He just kept slowly stroking my hand. “Where are you working, a clothing shop, retail?” I shook my head and tried again to back away from him. He stepped with me, an absurd waltz. We were blocking the alleyway, and disgruntled commuters pushed past us. He turned up the wattage on his slow, lazy smile and laughed to himself. “Why are you playing hard to get, being so secretive?” He shook his head like I was a temptress. The movement of his thumb over my hand kept up its rhythm. I felt his touch burn my skin.
“I’m not, I just don’t understand why you’re talking to me,” My voice had started to shake and crack, and I could tell he was enjoying it.

The streetlights on the main road ticked on, one by one. I watched them over his shoulder, at the opening of the alleyway. I wondered when the Christmas lights in the square would be taken down. By the weekend, after the 6th of January, it would be bad luck. London would shake off its golden trimmings, and return to its usual grey. I wondered if my family had already taken down Christmas lights at home. For the first time, they’d put them up without me. Perhaps that was the line between childhood and adulthood.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly. Checking if I was legal. I could see the cogs working in his brain, thinking about his next move. “22,” I said. I wondered what he would have done if I’d said I was 16. I saw his eyes light up. “So. Take my number,” he said with a raised eyebrow. Like it was a gift, like it was a prize. I answered with a firm “No, thank you”, regretting the way I sounded polite or even grateful. He didn’t waste another second speaking to me. He released my hand, flinging it away, and walked towards the station. My back was still pressed against the alleyway wall, and I felt my hand grow cold without his grasp. Over his shoulder, he yelled “Well, fuck you for wasting my time.”

At my flat, my housemate asked me about my day. I told her it had been fine, that I was just a bit tired. I snipped the tags from my new jumper and folded it away while she made me a cup of tea. Before I sat down with her on the sofa, I went to the bathroom and washed my hands over and over again, the smell of figs thick and overpowering. The fig leaf; a classical icon of covering up something distasteful, something obscene. I held my hands under the hot water until they were red raw and cracking, until the skin around my knuckles split into tiny threads of blood. My tea had gone cold when I tried to sip it. I sat in the living room, slowly pulling the threads from my dad’s old jumper.

No, fuck you for wasting mine.