Snippets of a Nihilist, or Conversations With The Guy
I didn’t know much about the Guy. One day, however, I learned a lot about him. We were sitting face-to-face in a nearby café, sipping on scorching black filter coffee as he began to tell me his story.
Torrential rain cleaned the debris from the city-rooftops and into the street’s sewer-holes. The Guy loved the city but the last few weeks had left him drained — he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the sky’s blue sheet. It was like the biggest cloud there ever was absorbed all pigments from the world below and turned it into an ash-filled realm of nightmarish anthracite. He wondered if the sky looked that way under the eyes of the people of Pompeii when the Vesuvius awoke and sprouted its crushing flames onto them.
The Guy was forty-seven years old, closer to forty-eight than forty-six. Closer to death than he’s ever been, and yet he had beaten it more than he could have ever known. More than he should’ve.
He used to work for the police force — Boston PD. After an odd vacation turned sour in the South of France; the Guy was launched in an almost-never-ending chase against a psycho-satanist criminal. Once that was over, he decided to give back the badge; he kept the gun.
Anyway that mission took too much from him. Too much time, too many bullets, too much heart, too much soul. It ended with two lives being lost — his and the criminal. He often wished It had been him that lost it physically. The way he had lost his life — let me tell you — seems to haunt him every-fucking-day. When he goes to sleep and when he wakes up. When he gets the first sight of the dawn’s rays or the last sight of the burning horizon. Ten years — ten fucking years it’s been. Again, theres not a day when he wished it had been his neck that would’ve been pierced by the flaming lead bullet. But it wasn’t.
About a year ago the Guy decided to change course. Change course in the sense of leaving everything that he had ever known behind. Boston, the strip-clubs, the cheap liquor — all that shit, he had to move away from. Staying there would have meant bad for him, real fucking bad. He would’ve been shackled to the traumas and the pains and the constant suffering. He couldn’t do it anymore. Either he left Boston, or he hung myself from a cheap-ass plastic ventilator — one sounded much better than the other. Plus, he would’ve been too heavy to hang.
After his fiasco in France, there was no way the Guy would ever go back. No-fucking-way. That place in the countryside still gave him the creeps; and while it was far from any big cities, its proximity was enough for him to shiver at the thought of it.
He liked Europe though. One of his old friends from the force, Klein, had an apartment to rent in a lively Brussels neighbourhood. It didn’t take a lot of convincing. Actually his argument was — well not really an argument to be honest.
— “Belgium huh?” The Guy asked.
— “Yes sir. It’s cheap, quite nice, people mind their own business. Plus they’ve got good-ass fries and waffles.”
— “…and beers” he added.
— “ And beers.” Klein continued “Well, if you’re interested, give me a shout. We’re moving out in a few months — time to get everything ready and what-not, so let me know by then.”
And like that the Guy had arrived in Brussels. It’s a strange city, Brussels. It’s very European. Part of it is francophone but the rest is Flemish — so most people speak English. Thank goodness. It rained a lot but it did as well in Boston so fuck it. And like Klein had told him, people did mind their own business.
Klein’s studio was a relatively large place — a nice kitchenette, a fridge large-enough for one fat alcoholic, a tempur-pedic coated bed-sofa and a disc player with a wide selection of records ranging from The Doors to experimental Japanese funk. He would be unable to tell you how that sounded but he was open to it. His place almost looked like a college dorm. But alas, he was not in college anymore — the vestiges of youth drained from his mind and skin, left with a decaying carcass whose memories fade away with every passing day.
Forty-seven; almost at the half of his life. He often pondered about this — he surely didn’t think that was true however. There was no way he’d ever make it to a hundred. And if he did, it would be the biggest bullshit anyone would have ever seen. He predicted that around fifty-five he’d suffer his first heart attack — his first and maybe, probably, his last. He drank and smoked like the pipes of a factory since seventeen. The last exercise he had done was fuelled by adrenaline and flashing bullets during a chase, and he ate the cheapest food he could find at the store. Surprise, surprise: that shit was not healthy.
The Guy took humongous bites of an egg and waffle mixture as he stopped talking. For a few seconds there was just one thing on my mind: I figured the Guy didn’t really give a fuck anymore. About anything.
— “The dog just puked on my bed”
I looked at him, then at the bed. A puddle of dog vomit started to spread to every corner. The Guy always found a way to change the topic of conversation. Just today, since the early afternoon, we were speaking about the ongoing war in Ukraine.
— « What do you think about Putin? » I had asked him just before he went on a rant about the dog puke.
I suppose he just decided to ignore the subject. Maybe he hated him, or maybe he was a hardcore Putin follower— I didn’t know, nor did I really care. Either way I now found myself cleaning dog juices from his mattress. Exactly the kind of Friday I was expecting. That was sarcasm by the way if you didn’t get it.
— « Why the fuck are we letting dogs inside the house… » the Guy asked.
— «Not my dog, man. »
It was true. I had the care of the dog for the week but it was my friend’s. What was I supposed to do about it? I had no idea how to take care of a canine, even worst, taking care of a sick one. Why did this have to happen to me? I cursed the heavens, with no use of course. I took the sheet off the mattress and threw it into the washing machine.
The Guy and I met a few months ago — it was March and it was snowing. I was waiting in line at the nearby supermarket when he decided to talk to me.
— « Fuck this, right? »
I was confused.
— « What do you mean? »
— « I’m just saying fuck this, man. Like why are we waiting in line to get food?”
— « Because that’s just how it is…I guess »
— « So you’re conforming to society? »
— « I suppose so… »
— « Sheep. »
And with these words, we became friends. Or close acquaintances, or something. I don’t know. But since then we became close…or closer. I mean we weren’t much to start of with, but hey. It did get me thinking, however. Was I really a sheep? I mean, Im not trying to be one, but maybe he was right. I never wanted to be ‘a sheep’ but I guess I was. All those manifestations and what-not, not my cup of tea. I’ve never been much of an activist. Well, in my defence I did try. Back in my first days of college I had joined student movements, for the climate, for human rights and what not. Anyway today, being 24, I haven’t been into those things as much as I used to, and maybe that was for the best.
I called him the Guy because he never really told me his name. Now that I think about it I never even asked him. I did wonder what his name was, it could have been anything — but at this point I didn’t even want to ask him, I didn’t even care. Whatever his name was, it wouldn’t change anything; anything at all. For me, the Guy was the perfect and only way to refer to him. He was, after all, the Guy — and to me, that’s all he was.
I enjoyed public transport for one perfect reason. The Guy and I entered the tram and took a seat on one of the many leather seats.
— “Is this real leather?!” The Guy exclaimed, surprised out-of-his-mind.
I took a hard look at them then turned my attention to him.
— “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
— “I swear to God if this is real leather, we’re going to have a big problem!”
He became all red; like a well-shaped coeur-de-boeuf tomato from the South of France and continued.
— “If they are putting leather in every tram, metro, and bus of the city, just think of the number of cows that are butchered everyday, every-single-day.”
He paused between each of the last three words. Most likely in the hope to add dramatic effect. This was the first time I heard the Guy care about something. I mean, he was right. Oddly, something within me wanted to create some kind of conflict with him, and so, I took my time and answered.
— “What should they put then?”
— “What?”
He was taken aback from my question.
— “I mean, what should they put at the place of the leather? If it’s so bad, you know.”
He paused and went into deep thought. I seemed to have really gotten to him.
— “I don’t know. What do they put usually? Rubber? Plastic?” He asked, genuinely intrigued.
— “Is that much better?”
— “Yes.”
The Guy was very sure of his answer. I wasn’t so much.
— “I don’t know. Anyway, anything would hurt the planet in the end no?”
I had him. This was one of the rare times I got the Guy to argue with me. This time, I would win. I would beat him at his own game.
— “What do you propose then? Mr. Smartass.”
I found it ironic that he called me that…If anything, he was the smarter ass between both of us.
— “Well, something that won’t hurt the earth I suppose.”
— “Like?”
It took me a few seconds to come up with the most perfectly composed answer.
— “Human flesh.”
The Guy paused and exploded in uncontrollable laughter.
— “What the fuck are you saying?” He continued. “You’re joking right?”
— “No I’m not. There’s too many of us anyway. Lets get rid of a few and use the flesh to build things. Anything, I mean, lets be honest; I would feel like I’m helping the planet being a non-leather tram seat more than I am now.”
The Guy retreated from his laughter and entered a state of silence. I grinned pridefully. For once, I had the last word against him. But more surprisingly, for once, the Guy had cared about something.
