Second Sight: When Matt[y] Met [Anna in the] Alley

He sees the girl, for the first time, in his alleyway; the place where he comes to think when no one’s home: Raef out, Sasha out, Mike out.

The few people he has left on his side.

He likes this alleyway because even though alleyways are supposed to be scary, this one is slightly lit up and you can see all the way down it once you turn the corner. Raef thinks he’s crazy but that’s because she’s crazy too, worrying about werewolves and bloodletting her issues. He shakes his head a little, thinking about Raefon, and rounds the corner…and that’s when he sees her. Anna.

Caught between the citric dazzle of streetlights and headlights and the glare from the pub window, he freezes. All he wanted was to sit on his crate and wait for Sasha to come home from work but now there’s this girl and he feels both wary and pissed off.

Why couldn’t she find her own alleyway?

And she’s standing on his crate to see into the pub, which means there’ll be footprints, maybe mud, so if he sits on his crate today there’ll be mud on his jeans and this tangled state of emotion reminds him of the man who thought it was funny to piss on him, remember that, sitting there minding his own business and some guy from the bar flops out his dick and pisses on him like he’s nothing…

Matt takes a deep breath because his head is speeding too fast, like when he drinks too much and sits on the toilet with his eyes closed, feeling motion, flying on the experience – what it’s like to be a car on a highway – until he starts to feel sick.
He used to think this was his own special drunken power, but Raefon has said it happens to her too.

Maybe it’ll be ok. This girl isn’t going to piss on him.
She hasn’t noticed him yet though, plugged into oblivion via headphones, and if he doesn’t make himself known he could scare her. Worse, she might figure him for an attacker and go for him; there are a lot of spikes jutting out from her belt and jewellery…he doesn’t fancy feeling like a porcupine’s rape-victim.
It’s kind of Sasha’s fault, this situation. If she’d been home, he could have swapped his skills for some whisky and wouldn’t be stuck in this alley dilemma. That’s Sasha’s term for it, ‘swapping his skills’ and he likes it, feels awash with relief each time he hears it, because it’s a phrase that suggests he has a place in this world, a use, a purpose…skills, dammit. Once the world felt like a burden around his neck, and lately there’s been a role reversal – he’s been reduced to the burden around everyone else’s neck.

Not with Sasha though.
She’s his journalist friend, whose grammar leaves a lot to be desired; he’s the bloodhound on her trail, scenting typos and comma-holes, marking his territory with semi-colons. Matt likes typos, they’re a real comfort in this deteriorating world, something to show it’s still possible to be human and make mistakes. On the other hand, Sasha’s airy disdain for language is further proof of the degeneration and people’s disrespect for all that is worthy of protection.

Sometimes he gets headaches and doesn’t finish to Sasha’s deadline. Those are bad days, knowing that an article is heading outside still in need of corrections. The glossy magazine she works for doesn’t seem to give a shit, and this is one of many reasons why Matt doesn’t like magazines.

He can only see a slice of the girl’s profile, gaze fixed intently on the pub’s interior. She’s wearing a lot of eye liner, which gives off a vibe of either evil or sarcastic wit…Matt can’t tell which. He’s met plenty of people who look like that; sometimes he likes them and sometimes he doesn’t – same as with the rest of the world. Suddenly, she ducks her head from the window like she’s hiding.

Cover blown. She’s seen him.

Hurried tugging of earphones. “Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s a good question. Not a rapist, killer or mugger.” He pauses. “Or werewolf.”

She’s still cautious, but it’s more the caution reserved for tattered ‘weirdos’ who insist on regaling you with their life story on the bus than for a life-threatening situation.
“Crazy guy?” she asks, like he’s missed one off the list.

“Crazy guy,” he agrees. This was supposed to break the ice, coax a laugh, but she just watches him, poised at a slanted angle, wanting to look back to the window but he can tell that she isn’t prepared to turn her back on him yet. “So what’s on your Walkman?” he asks.

“Walkman?” she echoes incredulously.

He shrugs. “Discman, ipod, whatever it’s called. I don’t like them.”

“Why not?” she drops her guard, seems genuinely curious.

“Well, Discmans are ok. But haven’t you noticed a gradual degeneration in music standards since downloading music got more popular?”

“Pop music’s always been shit,” she near-spits.

“Sure. But the borders are blurring; rock and metal are falling into the ‘pop’ genre and becoming just as bland as boy bands ever were. Hell, they are boy bands.”

Is that respect in her eyes or just his imagination?
“So, what are you listening to?”

“Guess,” she challenges, still sounding unfriendly.

“Slayer feat. N’Sync: The World Sucks And Nobody Loves Me So Let’s Drink Blood.”
Teasing – is it too soon for teasing? He’s never been good at this stuff, although he wanted to be.

“You really are crazy. The fucking Clash, man.”

“OK. Cool.”

“Can you go away now, ‘cause I’m kind of busy here?”

“Not really. I wanted to hang out here to wait for my friend Sasha. I can’t go home because I’m not even supposed to be out and if I go home people will realise I’m not in my room zonked out on Olanzapine.”

“Are you schizophrenic?”

“No, but they think I am. I just can’t handle my head is all. I never -”

NEVER NEVERRrrr…land…ahoy…there sailor…seaman…semen…see man, you are crazy…

“Shut up,” Matt mutters, not even caring if it breaks the atmosphere; once the orchestra gets started, they don’t let up. “I never take the meds,” he continues calmly. “They fuck me up.”

Deep breath, inhale irony.

“So, what is it you’re busy doing here, anyhow?”