October 15, 1989 & 2012

Guitar feedback screeches over a thumping Tom Tom drumbeat...

“The Living End” by The Jesus And Mary Chain explodes and echoes around an unfinished bathroom.
Stacks of tiles in the shower.

Exposed piping under the sink.

A toilet bowl not hooked up to the plumbing.
The song's vocals punch in over the guitar's velvet haze.
“I get ahead on my motorbike
I feel so quick in my leather boots
My mood is black...” *
The music level drops and a young Irish man's voice echoes off the walls.
“Hey, you awake?” says 16-year-old Kevin.

He stands over his 39-year-old self, who's sprawled on the bathroom floor.
16 looks good: long, curly fringe covering one eye, draped in the black of late '80s indie postpunk cool…

Jesus And Mary Chain T-Shirt, ripped jeans, army surplus boots.
Life Experience Level 5…

Bravado: 95.
39 doesn't look so good.

Ruddy and bloated, stained hoody, baggy sweatpants, fluffy slipper socks.
Life Experience Level: 70…

Bravado: 30
39 cracks open his swollen eyes.

16 stands over him like an angel with acne.
“Am I dead?” asks 39, not unreasonably, as he stares into the eyes of his younger self.
“You damn well should be, state of you,” says 16, and kicks 39's foot for emphasis.
“The hell, man? I'll get you for--”
Clunk!
39 cracks his forehead on the toilet bowl as he tries to sit up. He slumps back down.
“The hell is that doing there?” asks 39 as he kicks the toilet bowl.
“It's a bathroom. It's supposed to be here. The hell you doing down there?” asks 16, leaning in for a closer look at 39 as if examining an ugly but fascinating bug.
“You're the angel, you tell me,” says 39, still rubbing his forehead.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” says 16. He tugs on 39's sagging sweatpants. “The hell are these things? What you hiding under there?”
“Listen you little shit, my head is broken here. Can you keep it down?” croaks 39, covering his eyes from the light streaming in the door. “How did you get in anyway?”
“You left the front door open again, dick,” says 16, and turns up the invisible volume knob.
The music drowns out 39's anger, and he and 16 smile their crooked smiles and nod their heads as the beat leads up to the next verse and they both sing...
“I get so wild on my motorbike
I'm breaking loose on this moonlit night
I cut the road like a sharpened knife...”
They grin at each other as the song drives towards the bridge...
“And I'm in love with myself...” continues 16, but 39's voice trails off before he finishes the line.
16 turns down the volume. 39 covers his eyes from the glaring light.
16 fidgets. 39 has got used to long silences. 16 hates them.
“So what is this? Whisky? Dope?” asks 16. “What should I avoid?”
“Red wine,” says 39 as he swallows to keep the sick down.
“Oh look at you with your fancy red wine,” says 16 cocking his head like he imagines a fancy person would.
“Better than that shitty cider you guzzle in the bus shelters,” says 39, attempting to lift himself onto his elbows.
“You're welcome to drop me some cash if you want me to drink fancier,” says 16.
“Can't afford it,” says 39.
“Living in this house? Come on,” says 16.
“I didn't build it. Dad did,” says 39.
“For who? It's huge! You married? Did you have kids?”
“Just me,” says 39.
“Shit, man,” says 16. “What happened?”
“That crushing indecisiveness you have, that doesn't go away. Nor does the inability to speak up for yourself. Nor does the never-ending desire to push those you love away just when you need them the most,” continues 39.
16 is lost in thought. “What about the Big Blue?” he eventually asks.
“Fuck knows where that is, or if it even exists. Either way, I haven't found it,” says 39.
“Look harder, you dick,” says 16, and he looks away as his eyes well up.
39 shakes his head. Sighs. Tears fill his eyes.
“Every morning I wake up feeling like this, man. And every morning I make a bargain with myself. “Not tonight,” I tell myself. “Just not tonight.” And most of the day, I hold up my end. By three, I'm even proud of myself.”
“You drink during the day?” asks 16, screwing up his nose in disgust.
“No, never. It's not that. It's the resolve to not drink that night that I fight so hard to hold onto. I make it to three, and I'm holding firm. No way. Go straight from work to the gym, sweat it out in the sauna, don't stop at the supermarket on the way home, eat whatever's in the fridge, and just go to bed.”
“So what happens?” asks 16, the disgust giving way to concern.
“Come five o'clock, I'm so damn proud of my resolve to not drink that I stop at the supermarket to get some Dairy Milk Whole Nut chocolate as a reward, which of course is right by the wine section, and next thing I'm walking out with two bottles of Rioja Gran Reserva and fuck-all Whole Nut.”
16 and 39 hold each other's gaze for the longest time since they met.

39 looks away first and rubs his squelching belly.
“Bargain with me that you won't drink tonight,” says 16 with a hopeful smile.
39 smiles back. “Arsenal are playing Real Madrid tonight. Champions League quarter-finals. Going over to Dave's. Can't show up empty-handed. Tomorrow, though. Definitely.”
16's smile fades. He looks away. His shoulders slump.
“Hey!” says 39, but 16 stares at the floor and cranks up the music even louder than before.
“There's nothing else but me,
And an empty road...” *
“Kevin! Turn down that noise and finish your homework,” yells their Mum from somewhere else in the house.
16 turns down the music. “I'd better go,” says 16.
“Run along, Mummy's boy,” says 39 as he massages his eyeballs with his knuckles to distract from the pain in his temples.
“Will you be okay?” asks 16 as he stands.
39 shrugs. 16 offers a hand. 39 waves it away. 16 shuffles towards the bright light.
“Hey, you know the last lines of “The Living End?” he asks before he reaches the door. He hates leaving conversations unresolved.
“Something about “Heather shoots” or some damn thing? Can never make it out,” 16 continues. “That is, if you haven't drunk it out of your damn head,”
39 flicks him the F-You V-sign. “Turn it up again,” he growls.

16 cranks the volume.
39 crumples his brow, jumps onto the beat, and sings along with his eyes closed...
“I'm moving too fast, I'm moving too fast,
I'm moving so fast that I can't control the wheels,
Yeah I'm going for a tree, yeah it's going for me, yeah
My head is dripping into my leather boots.” *
39 smiles as the song fades out in a shriek of feedback. He opens his eyes.
16 has gone.
39's smile fades.
He pulls his aching body upright.

His head feels like there's a bowling ball inside it.

He grips the wall to avoid toppling over.
He dares himself to peer into the toilet bowl.

He clamps his hand over his mouth in disgust.

He turns away before we can see what's inside.
39 stares into the bright light flooding the doorway.

He takes a deep breath, and staggers towards it.
He grabs hold of the door frame.

Steadies his throbbing head.
He looks back at the unfinished, dusty bathroom and the caked vomit on the floor by the toilet.
He takes the key from the lock on the inside of the door.

He steps outside into the blinding light.

39 closes the door and locks it from the outside.

* Lyrics by William Adam Reid, James Mcleish Reid