---------------------------
The lights of the street lamps threw shadows on the ground and I watched them dance on the pavement. As usual
there was so much tension in his voice as he spoke:
- People are assholes. Every single one of us is a fucking egoist and tries to be something more than what he actually is. I hate people. They make me feel bad.
- You don’t hate people – I sighed – You mostly hate yourself and you’re afraid of them. Bukowski was terrified of his audience and the humankind. That’s why he made such a fool of himself on his readings and he could only go out on stage if he was completely drunk…
- Don’t start again with your literary bullshit.
I stopped talking. It was after midnight and we were walking around the neighbourhood - no point, no destination. It dawned on me that after all these talks I’ve had with him, I have also started talking with great effort. I just smiled but I wasn’t happy.
- Why’d you shut up? – his nervous laughter echoed in the silence of the cold night. – Come on - talk!
- What do you want me to talk about?! I am listening to you. I tried to say something and you started complaining. Make up your mind!
- You know what I’m like. I thought you’ve already picked up on my idiosyncrasies and my extremely witty phrases.
I smiled. I couldn’t resist the way he started explaining himself which was his own kinda way of ‘apologizing’ and saying sorry.
- I don’t wanna stay here. I get all strung up by all these pretentious people who think they are something more because they’ve read a hundred books, or they go to classes or do some extremely interesting shit. I mean.. why are you doing it, you fucking asshole?! You’re not smarter or greater or something more than me. And everyone’s the same – laughing at dumb jokes; listening to lame music; doing the same crap every day. People without sense of humor exhaust me so much. I can’t communicate with them. I really don’t want to stay here. I think I’m going back to my hometown tomorrow. It’s nicer there. I don’t spend money on food. I see my parents. I go out with people I know for so long and we know everything about each other. They don’t judge me. People from small towns are simpler and better. If your town was closer you’d go back more often, right? And you don’t want to go back because all your friends are here, right? Aah, you don’t understand me, do you? Because your friends are here and you like it here and you feel good here…
All of our talks passed this way. It was a blizzard of conversational stream of consciousness: we talked about everything but sometimes it was hard to keep up with his fast thoughts. Usually he started explaining something, then he made some conclusions about what I thought and then there were some more ramblings. He enjoyed telling me what I think before I even had the chance of opening my mouth. He was clever that way.
- You don’t talk again. If I stop talking there’ll be nothing else to talk about. Because you don’t talk. Ever. I know nothing about you. What is this?! Okay. Start talking. You can’t talk but you can write and I can talk while not being able to write a word. You should write my memoirs someday. I’ll talk and you’ll type.
- People are assholes. Every single one of us is a fucking egoist and tries to be something more than what he actually is. I hate people. They make me feel bad.
- You don’t hate people – I sighed – You mostly hate yourself and you’re afraid of them. Bukowski was terrified of his audience and the humankind. That’s why he made such a fool of himself on his readings and he could only go out on stage if he was completely drunk…
- Don’t start again with your literary bullshit.
I stopped talking. It was after midnight and we were walking around the neighbourhood - no point, no destination. It dawned on me that after all these talks I’ve had with him, I have also started talking with great effort. I just smiled but I wasn’t happy.
- Why’d you shut up? – his nervous laughter echoed in the silence of the cold night. – Come on - talk!
- What do you want me to talk about?! I am listening to you. I tried to say something and you started complaining. Make up your mind!
- You know what I’m like. I thought you’ve already picked up on my idiosyncrasies and my extremely witty phrases.
I smiled. I couldn’t resist the way he started explaining himself which was his own kinda way of ‘apologizing’ and saying sorry.
- I don’t wanna stay here. I get all strung up by all these pretentious people who think they are something more because they’ve read a hundred books, or they go to classes or do some extremely interesting shit. I mean.. why are you doing it, you fucking asshole?! You’re not smarter or greater or something more than me. And everyone’s the same – laughing at dumb jokes; listening to lame music; doing the same crap every day. People without sense of humor exhaust me so much. I can’t communicate with them. I really don’t want to stay here. I think I’m going back to my hometown tomorrow. It’s nicer there. I don’t spend money on food. I see my parents. I go out with people I know for so long and we know everything about each other. They don’t judge me. People from small towns are simpler and better. If your town was closer you’d go back more often, right? And you don’t want to go back because all your friends are here, right? Aah, you don’t understand me, do you? Because your friends are here and you like it here and you feel good here…
All of our talks passed this way. It was a blizzard of conversational stream of consciousness: we talked about everything but sometimes it was hard to keep up with his fast thoughts. Usually he started explaining something, then he made some conclusions about what I thought and then there were some more ramblings. He enjoyed telling me what I think before I even had the chance of opening my mouth. He was clever that way.
- You don’t talk again. If I stop talking there’ll be nothing else to talk about. Because you don’t talk. Ever. I know nothing about you. What is this?! Okay. Start talking. You can’t talk but you can write and I can talk while not being able to write a word. You should write my memoirs someday. I’ll talk and you’ll type.
Oh, yes, using jokes and funny remarks as a defense
mechanism was probably his favourite way of dealing with people. He was so
extremely terrified of humans in general that he had no other choice but to
tell stories and entertain them. Make them laugh and they will not ask
questions. If they don't ask questions, they will not get to know you. And last
but not least: if they don't get to know you, they won't figure out how fucked
up and scared shitless you actually are. Push them back and they won't come closer.
Sometimes I got very angry at him but the funny thing is all I did was stare
blankly with the thumbing pain inside my head and wonder if I should slap him,
light up another cigarette or myself on fire.
- You’re quite the perfectionist, you know that? – I said as I was rolling my cigarette while we stopped to sit on the benches in the park. – You have these tremendous expectations of life that make you feel bad because nothing ever happens the way you thought it would. You’re running in a vicious circle. And I don’t know what or who you are waiting for. Some perfect creature that’ll make your life complete. But you know what, my darling boy, nobody’s perfect: not me, not you, neither would be the one you’re waiting for. Learn to accept people for what they are or lower your expectations. What pisses me off the most is that whenever you tell me ‘jump’ I’ll just ask you ‘how high’. And this here is my own lame representation of saying that I’ll do anything you need. Because that’s what friends are for. I care for you a great deal. And believe me, I say this with the whole love in the world, I do not want to care for you. I wish I’d never met you, I wish I didn’t know you existed. I wish you were just a stranger on the street I pass by unknowingly of you being alive. But I do know you. I know a lot of things about you already. And I didn’t make you tell me these things. I didn’t drag you here or all the other times and force you to pour your mind in front of me. You needed someone who listens and I was there. And I will be there. I don’t know why. I just know. But you have to remember that I’m not perfect and I will probably fuck up somewhere along the road.
- I’m usually the one who fucks up and scares people. I don’t understand why everyone expects certain things from me. I usually tell them right away – I am not a good person, I’m a bad human being and I am a completely selfish. And still all these people go on and demand from me. It’s their fault actually and then they hate me because of that.
- No one hates you. It’s easier for you to think people hate you.
- I cannot take responsibilities. Understand that, people. I am awful. I hurt everyone without the intentions of hurting them.
- The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Stop apologizing and making excuses and for the last time… stop talking to me as if I am ‘everyone’. I know too much about you already, you asshole.
- You don’t have to shout.
- Well, it seems that’s the only way to put something I say in that big head of yours.
- Look – now you hate me too.
- I don’t hate you, you just make me fucking angry.
- Why?
- Because I am your friend and I will always find an excuse for every fucked up thing you do. You don’t have to worry to live up to my expectations because I don’t expect anything from you. No matter if it’s 3 in the morning and you call me up to bury a body or you just need someone to talk to – I’m there. Simple as that.
- What if I kill the President and I need you to take the blame?
- You’re such a jerk…
- I know. Do you want to get some beers?
- I thought you’ll never ask!
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V.
other dialogues:
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