Meatspace. Nikesh Shukla
ditching my uniform of jeans and t-shirt for something more transient, like espadrilles. This is all wrong and it’s too late. Because if I back out now, I’ve got the start etching of an unfinished tattoo and if there is one thing I’m consistent at, it’s seeing shit through to the bitter end, even if I’ve decided it’s a stupid idea since. What a complete tool. The scratching on the arm is constant until he has to move to a new area, which hurts because these new parts of skin have to get used to the procedure that’s taking place. He never looks up at me. It seems like he’s rushing. Is he rushing? I don’t think he’s rushing. Probably. How do you know? What is an appropriate amount of time to spend on a lowercase ‘v’?
When Sick Charlie finishes, he gives me some saline solution to use to keep the tattoo clean. He wraps it in cling film and says to me, ‘Leave that on overnight, while the skin is still inflamed.’
‘Okay, thanks, man. Good job, etc,’ I mumble, trying not to focus on the irritated burn on my arm.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’ll pass. You slept through the worst of it.’
‘This isn’t the worst of it?’
‘I could have done anything while you were asleep.’
I can see the letters exactly as I printed them out and I think, yes. Okay, that’s dope. I like that a lot. I think I look amazing. I shake his hand, rather limply, because my newly tattooed arm is attached to the hand that shakes. And I say my goodbyes, struggle with getting my coat on, which is a shame because I’m hypnotised by the ink. All I want to do is look at it and get drunk. I open the door and I feel it coming. This is it now. My life is about to change. Oh yes. Tomorrow I will show strangers and loved ones and I will say, oh yes, it’s because I write. It’s an aide memoire to always be thinking about literature. It’s a kick in the teeth reminder that I am a writer. And it’s a good tune, I will say. People will inevitably ask, do you like that song by Elvis Costello and I will say it’s one of my favourites. It’s not. I like it. But it’s not one of my favourites. Depending who they are, I’ll say it was my mum’s favourite.
I leave the tattoo studio and phone Aziz. It goes straight to voicemail. The same stupid message he’s had since we were kids. I leave him a breathless message saying how amazing my arm looks. I feel bloody alive, I think to myself. I was sceptical at first but now it’s here and it’s done and it’s indelible, I feel like a fucking rock star, and I’m already a writer. What more could I want? This is definitely going to make my life change, I think to myself. There’s no way it cannot.
aZiZWILLKILLYOU episode 4 Aziz vs Teddy [posted 10 September, 14:02]
Tomorrow I leave for New York, people. I leave to go find the man who inspired this image here.
You know? My last holiday was never, right? When does a man like Aziz have time for a holiday? Answer: everyday should be a holiday. So … time to hit the road, innit. Time for adventure.
I got a bow tie tattooed on my neck and now I’m off to go find the boy with the bow tie tattoo. Know why? If I think I’m an individual and the internet thinks we’re all alike, I’m going to go find my doppelgangers. All of them. I’ve found one and I need to see exactly how he fits the Aziz profile.
Does he like sandwiches?
Does he think life is for the living?
Does he eat everything with his hands?
Has he had a threesome?
Will he have a threesome with me and some girl, so we can create some sort of infinity pool effect on a spitroast?
Is that disgusting?
If it is, is that okay, because we all know why you visit this blog, right?
Will the world implode if 2 doppelgangers have a threesome?
All these things need answering. I’m off to find my doppelganger with the cool-ass tattoo, find out exactly how that tattoo came to pass and I am going to show you the world, shining, shimmering, shameless.
Stick with me kid. We’ll go far.
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History:
I wake up from a dream where Aziz follows me around a shopping centre with a toothbrush and toothpaste, telling me it’s time to brush my teeth because my breath smells of chutney.
I listen to Aziz singing to himself from bedroom to shower to kitchen to bedroom. I walk into the kitchen and switch the kettle on. I open the fridge. There’s no milk.
I sneak a look at the communal iPad, left on the kitchen table. He’s left his browser open on Teddy Baker’s Facebook profile.
Teddy Baker’s profile avatar is a close-up of his face, which, sans shit-eating grin and sunglasses doesn’t look so much like Aziz. There’s no obvious reason for why this brown guy has a white name. Bow tie aside, he looks ordinary, solid, just like one of the guys.
He lists his likes as ‘vigilante justice, weapons, Megadeth, PVC, abattoir politics’ but that’s it. The rest of his profile is sparse to the public. He has ‘liked’ Taylor Swift and the NRA. I hope ironically.
Aziz catches me from the doorway peering at his laptop. ‘You fraping me, bro?’ he asks.
‘Frape … what a lovely reappropriation of the word “rape”. Because outside of Facebook, making it look as if your friend is saying weird stuff is pretty much exactly what rape is.’
‘Mate, it’s just LOLZ.’
Aziz started off saying LOLZ in conversation because he thought it was funny – I had told him about Cara once Skyping me, me making a joke and her saying wearily, ‘Oh … LOL, etc.’ Aziz said she was a linguistics genius. Now it’s become a grating habit. I’ve long since given up trying to get him to stop.
‘Yeah … tell that to a rape victim,’ I say and leave the room to brush my teeth.
‘If I blog about the trip, do you promise to read it?’ Aziz asks me over breakfast. ‘So you can follow my adventures?’
‘You’re still going away then?’
‘I’ve called the tag “The Boy with the Bow Tie Tattoo”. You know I have to go.’
‘Catchy,’ I say dismissively. If he goes, who’ll look after me?
‘Will you tweet about it?’
‘You hate Twitter.’
‘I don’t hate Twitter. I’ve just got too much game for Twitter. Who cares about breakfasts and live-tweeting reality television. I just want people to read my blog. This is a writing thing. I want your respected followers, the writers and editors and whatnot, to know what I’m up to.’
‘Why would those ponces care?’
‘What? Don’t all your illustrious boring literati peeps like laughing?’
‘Not if it’s over some tattooed hooligan stalking a stranger off the internet. I’m a serious novelist now. Only serious novelist tweets.’
‘You’re right. I’ll use lots of metaphors,’ Aziz says, thumping the table.
‘Who cares what they think?’ I say, knowing in my heart