Our conversation clunked on the brakes and took a sharp turn downhill after I asked him about his career. “I’ve got my own column in the Guardian sweety; I’m a media celebrity” he gloated, sweeping his thinning hair from his face and gulping down his wine; the toxic fuel that furthered his irritatingly incessant bragging. I met Liam one lethargic summer evening when colloquialism and Coronas cuddle you into a warm embrace; in fact on this particular night I felt like those arms could cradle me forever.
A friend of a friend, Liam was a confident guy, a cool yet casual centre of attention, and from a distance seemed no different to the rest of the artsy crowd who, like the half-finished bottles of beer, appeared to spill out on to the warmed pavement.
As soon as we were introduced, Liam spoke at me for most of the evening- the subject- his enviable career in journalism. His words and sentences darted out at me from all angles, propelled so sharply by his yellowed tongue that they would catapult their way into my ear canals causing my brain to swell with an overload of sickening syntax.
This ‘encounter’ as I like to describe it, was so one sided that my communication limited itself to a selection of infrequent nods or the occasional raising of both eyebrows, which of course gave Liam the idea that I was thoroughly impressed with every thing he had to say. I couldn’t work out if the former was happening due to aforementioned brain damage or because I’d somehow persuaded myself that life was no longer worth living and therefore dialogue was subsequently a futile activity.
Liam’s movements were exaggerated; every word was accompanied by some new gesture whether it be the stamping of his pointed shoe or the backward rotation of his spindly wrist that seemed to suffer from the weight of his watch. These manoeuvres were so overt and stupidly energetic that at times he was in danger of knocking the Chardonnay out of his own hand and shattering the glass all over the floor. I have to admit, I did find myself wishing he would, so like a crafty crab I could scurry off sideways into a darkened backstreet- only after having pinced out his tongue.
Trying to ignore the rather alarming pain in my head and Liam’s smuggish snarl I couldn’t help but feel drawn to him and I stood, rooted to the pavement, despite all efforts to indeed shift sideways. Perhaps it was the unkempt complexion that gave him away; it certainly lacked the pizzazz of his so called ‘glamorous’ lifestyle or maybe it was his pale skin, that despite his 5 star stay in St Tropez this week, clearly hadn’t seen the sun for years.
With this exciting evidence I began to realise this neurotic nincompoop was flawed, nervous- edgy-even. Beads of sweat crept tentatively onto his oily brow and as he interrupted his own conversation to accost various friends, I watched, as they clutched onto their drink for dear life whilst continuing to dash in the opposite direction.
For the first time that night, a smile crept up on my face. I was revelling, revelling in the idea that Liam wasn’t perfect; he was fraying at the edges, ironically more like the pages of a newspaper than it’s successful columnist.
As I placed my hands upon my cheeks to stop my grin from expanding to my hairline I wondered which one of us was in the wrong. Was it me, the jealous intern, desperate to spot imperfections in industry rivals, or was it Liam; the big ol’ faker? Either way I certainly pitied him, and not just for that thinning hair.
When last orders were over, my friends and I headed back to my car, pausing on the hearing of staggered footsteps and a light pitter patter. We turned around, and there was Liam, swaying himself toward the bus stop his stash of business cards following him as they floated into the gutter.
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