ANSWERS TO A FRIEND'S TWO QUESTIONS or Portraits of the Artist as Old Man and Young Twat

My friend, Parkstreet, has a project going at the moment. He’s asking people to conduct two interviews – one with their eighteen year-old self, one with themself at eighty.

To participate, go to:

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/2013/10/two-question-interview-1.html

Here’s my effort.

I

Answering the first question involves two trips back in time. Or, more precisely, one trip, two different locations.

            One on one, eighteen year old me is attentive and philosophical. He doesn’t tell me what he thinks of me. Instead, he listens. He lets me talk about myself and asks thoughtful questions. He likes to help people feel good about themselves, but also to see themselves – the better to make their own decisions. Besides, he doubts his ability to say anything intelligent or useful.

So he talks in clichés. The closest he comes to actual advice, or judgement, is, “Do you know what you’re good at? Are you doing it? Then keep it up. The rest will sort itself out.”

             I’m tempted to offer some advice of my own; to nudge him in a direction conducive to my own well-being. He’s a sweet-natured kid and, given what he’s been through already, I’d like to spare him some of what’s coming.

I resist the urge. Sure, if he thinks I’m his friend I could get him to do just about anything – others have and will – but it wouldn’t stick, and later he’d resent it. Beneath the gentle acquiescence he’s a stubborn, rebellious creature; telling him what to do is a sure way to get him to do the opposite. He learns best when he learns for himself, even if he has to repeat the experiment a few times to be certain.

            That’s the private interview. If we meet in company, things go a little differently. For a start, he’s probably drinking. He still asks questions and listens to the answers, but he’s not being helpful. He’s scanning me for weakness. Petulantly chain-smoking, gazing out half-face and heavy-lids from behind a wall of dark hair, he waits for the chance to cut me off at the knees in front of an audience. That, to him, is being clever.

            He doesn’t know why he dislikes me, he just does. It’s instinctive. Maybe I remind him too much of the guy described above. Anyway, he’s surprised we’re still alive at my age and for some reason holds it against me.

He already makes more money than I do. That’s not important to him right now, but in a year or two he’ll think it is. I want to tell him, just to see the look on his face, how much time he’s about to spend in sales and marketing. To this half-baked idealist – who, on a camp-bed on the building site where he labours, fills candle-lit notebooks with bad poetry – that constitutes a monstrous sell-out.

He’s mildly surprised that we married, and so young, though not surprised the marriage broke down. That’s what marriages do.

My mobile phone on the table elicits a sneer. So does the news that I’m on speaking terms again with our father. He’s disappointed we didn’t do more with music. He’s pleased we’re still writing, but doesn’t think I’m doing it right; still believes art should turn the world upside-down. I think art reflects the world or turns it inside-out.

The conversation doesn’t go very far. Eventually, he abandons trying to make me look like an idiot. Instead, when I respond to some bit of pseudo-Nietzschean twaddle with the observation that Nietzsche was a great writer, but also a syphilitic loon, he just loses it and takes a swing at me with his chair. A bouncer and a barman wrestle him out the door.

In the end, who cares what this asshole thinks? Not me.

II

The old man opens the door and ushers me inside. We could have met at a cafe – or in the abstract for that matter – but he wanted me to see where he lives.

            He’s still nearly as tall as me; not at all stooped (I’ve already been thanked for taking better care of myself, especially our teeth). And he still has his hair.

            He doesn’t say if he owns the apartment, but whoever does obviously looks after it. There is no mould or broken fittings. His furniture’s nicer than mine. Not new, but well made.

            From the corner of my eye, in one of the rooms off the hallway, I think I see a woman. I can’t tell if she’s real or only the shadow of a ghost of a memory. I don’t ask – for the same reason I don’t look for photos of a wife, kids or grandchildren.

             “This is where I work,” he says, showing me in to his study. I recognise from my own library some of the books lining the walls, and he’s added two- or three-times as many again. Some, on a little shelf near the desk, are his own. The desk faces away from the window. He indicates two armchairs and we sit.

            “I’ll be as brief as I can,” he begins. “Since you’re short on time.”

            “I am?”

            “Yes, you are. Where are you now, exactly? Thirty-eight? Okay. You’ve arrived at an important point. You’ve done some hard work in the last eighteen months, but now you’re flailing.

            “You’ve gotten clean and done a lot to straighten your head out. Congratulations. But you’ve fallen in to your old familiar trap – trying to do what you feel you should do, at the same time as what you think others think you should do. And, surprise, surprise, you’re fucking them both up.”

            While speaking he’s been looking over my shoulder at nothing in particular. Now, for the first time, he fixes me from under a raised eyebrow. “You’re really not as stupid as all that,” he jabs. “You know that leads right back to the hole you’ve just tunnelled out of.

            “You’re new to doing what’s good for you, so let me help. The people you care about only want to see you do well, whatever it is you do, so choose a road.

            “That angry smart-arse you still carry inside had one thing going for him – once he made a decision he sure as hell got things done. You don’t need to like him, just use him.

            “You know you can live on almost nothing. Do it for another six months and work at something you can be proud of. You’ve got the beginning and the end of a decent novel; write the middle. You’ll either succeed or you won’t – you can always whore yourself later. Demand for proofreaders and content-hacks won’t dry up any time soon.

            “You’re fantastic in a crisis and fuck-all use any time else, so pretend you don’t have any option. Because you don’t. It’s either self respect, or making just enough lucre to destroy yourself. Make your crises worthwhile.”

            He stands and curtly guides me back up the hall.

            “What else can I say? Don’t spend too much time alone – You don’t notice so much, but others notice it on you. Be kind to your family. Make time for your friends.

            “And, oh,” he winks as he closes the door. “Try to keep me in mind.”