Meatspace. Nikesh Shukla
fine because half of it he wouldn’t be interested in (emails about things that don’t emerge; short stories for magazines he’ll never read, that I never read; ideas for self-promotion) and the other half is not for his ears (my lack of earnings, my lack of social or sex life, my lack of consistent happy mental state). Whenever I used to talk to him about my sadness about my mum, he used to tell me I had no right to grieve as much as him because I’ve only lost a mother, whereas he’s lost a life partner. I argued that a life partner was replaceable while a mother wasn’t. He would say, ‘Wait till I introduce you to your new stepmother.’ Since the last time, we don’t talk about my mum anymore because I don’t want him to know about my grief and he doesn’t want me to think he’s a depressed alcoholic anymore. He drinks a lot. And not just quantity of booze, but quality too. I worried for years he was a functioning alcoholic. Able to go to work hung-over and not able to enjoy an evening till the first whisky and soda had been downed. Every night sat listening to his iPod of sad Bollywood songs, a bottle of vodka next to him. He told me once, ‘I try to drink enough so I don’t dream. Because my family is in my dreams all the time. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to see what I’ve lost.’ He lived on vodka and whisky, and takeaway food. Along with the various medicines for his ailments, every morning, he’d take 2 ibuprofen for his hangover. My concern led me, in the darkest part of our grief, to take him to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and depressed by the stories from people indistinguishable from him, he laminated a card that said ‘Remember to no longer drown your sorrows in a bottle’ and stuck it on his liquor cabinet. Which was effective because it got him to go out more. Which pleased me no end because I had bought him the laminating machine as a Christmas present 7 years ago and he’d finally found a use for it.
I laughed to Aziz that what I’d done was effectively said: getting drunk every single night and crying is not good; going out and getting drunk every single night, on the other hand … well, that’s just the rest of the country, mate. Aziz’s attitude was, ‘Leeeeeave it, bruv. Let papa have fun. He worked 7 days a week for 50 years.’
‘This one girl,’ Dad says, laughing. ‘She is violent. I tell you. I said to her, if you want us to go out again, maybe lose some weight, eh?’
I can see chunks of naan in his teeth.
‘Dad, you can’t say that, it’s horrible. It’s sexist.’
‘It’s true. She asks to share a garlic naan with me then eats all of it? No way, kiddo. No more sharing for me.’ Dad shoves a large piece of garlic naan into his mouth to illustrate his point.
‘Maybe she was being romantic.’ Dad laughs with his mouth open.
‘Why did she punch me in the stomach for calling her a fatty then, Kitab-san?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look her up on the Face Book. Her name is Pinky Marjail …’
I am part disgusted and part intrigued. What if my balding-fatter-older-version-of-me dad is North West London’s premier player, swimming in 60-something gash. What a guy.
‘Should I be on Tinder?’ Dad says, looking around. I don’t answer him.
I swig from my undrunk glass of red wine. Dad insists that a dinner isn’t complete without an accompanying glass of red wine – we never drink it, neither of us is partial. But damn, do we look classy eating.
I go home that night, feeling something nervy and burning in the pit of my stomach. I assume it’s a mixture of eating hot spicy food quickly and my nausea at my dad’s singledom. I’m glad he has someone he can talk to freely and easily. I wish it wasn’t me.
A bus goes past. My head turns when I think I see someone I know on the top deck. Except it’s just some Indian guy and I’m not sure where I recognise him from.
I walk into the flat. Music starts up and Aziz is on the kitchen table bellowing at me, using a banana as a microphone.
‘I’m giving you a loooooong look,
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book.’
I wake up the next day and check my emails – only notifications. I tweet: ‘2 nights ago we found my bro’s doppelganger online. I’m still creeped out.’
I get no interactions. I click onto a Tumblr. Someone I follow on Twitter is taking a photo of the nape of her neck for 365 days, documenting it from normal to love-bitten and so on. The photos, all fleshy white nondescript stretches of skin, are hypnotic and the day-by-day nature of the Tumblr gives me a forward-thrust in my own inertia. She gets a lot of love-bites.
I’m making breakfast and staring out of the window at the bathroom of the house at the bottom of our garden, hoping to glance someone, anyone in the shower, opaque pixels of pink flesh, and listlessly stirring porridge when Aziz comes bounding in. He fills the room with his energy and he moves around the kitchen in loaded silence. He smirks audibly. He hovers over me. He leans back against the counter. He reaches over me for things, breathing quickly.
I unenthusiastically ask him what’s up, knowing that whatever he tells me won’t wake me from my hangover – Aziz and I finished off my Budvars when I came back in last night, and then moved on to rum, and my head’s pounding. He and I have mutually exclusive moods this morning. But thankfully he has work to go to and I have an inheritance to burn through while pretending to work on my second, all-important novel. I’ll probably go back to bed with my laptop and a pre-downloaded cache of illegally acquired American sitcoms and dramas to keep me company till I fall asleep for my mid-morning thinking nap. Or look at videos of American college girl parties and feel sad about male pack mentality whilst tugging at myself.
‘How was Dad?’ he asks.
‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘Same. Exactly the same.’
‘He ask about me?’
‘He’s only interested in his own life,’ I say, and Aziz nods. He looks around the room for something to distract us. He sticks his finger up.
‘I wanted to tell you last night but you fucked off to bed. I’ve found him. His name’s Teddy Baker, like the suit makers and he lives in Brooklyn, and I need to get out of the flat more, man. I’ve babysat you enough. Time for Aziz to get back on the adventure train. So, guess what? I booked a trip out to go find him. I’m going to surprise him. I’m going to New York. The dream, Kit. The dream is happening. I’m going to bloody New York.’
‘What are you talking about, Aziz?’ I ask, my mouth full of cereal.
‘The bow tie tattoo man. I did some Googling when I got in last night. I found another copy of the same photo, but this time with his name as the file name and that led me to his Facebook page and his Twitter stream. Sorted. The guy sounds wicked. He likes dubstep, he LOVES The Wire. I like dubstep and The Wire. Peas in a pod, Kit. Peas in a motherfucking pod.’
‘Why are you going to visit him?’
‘I need to populate my blog with content. I did that one post and then nothing for months. I’m stagnant before I start. I just need something to write about. A proper adventure. And tracking my doppelganger down might be it. I mean, it’s better than what I was thinking of doing … I was considering doing a photoblog of my manscaping everyday for a year.’
‘Sounds like a dumb idea. He’s just some guy off the internet. He could be a weirdo. He’s probably a weirdo,’ I say, gripping my temples. My stomach churns at the thought of Aziz leaving.
‘This isn’t 2001, when only weirdos and perverts and Dungeons and Dragons were online. Everyone’s online now. Normal people. Secretaries and estate agents. And quantity surveyors. Who’s more normal than a quantity surveyor?’
‘And people want to read about that?’
‘Yeah, but it’s about the journey to find him, about tracking him down … that’s the entertainment.’
‘Google destroyed