get lost in a Fury of Sensation. You dance in the Chaos until it overwhelms you. Then you cry. Then nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I cooked him breakfast, came home at lunchtime to check on him, and spent all my evenings with him until, one afternoon, I came home and found him in the garden. There was a smell of gas. He had
turned the cooker on and gone out to enjoy the afternoon sun. I hadn’t a clue what to do except to give him more of myself, and we persevered together for another few weeks. I came home more
often during the day and took days off to be with him. Then he left the gas on a second and a third time. I clung on without hope until whatever it was holding us together snapped and I told
him:
—Granddad, you’re going to a lovely home a short distance away where there’s some cracking-looking nurses, so if you play your cards right, you never know.
Nothing. Not even a smile. Then:
—Had some artist mates come round yesterday. Salvador Dalí was one of them. We sat for hours painting the garden fence. Don’t know who the rest of them were. Think one of them
was bald. Not sure what happened to the paintings after they left. Have you seen them? Might be worth some money.
I visited him most days in the home. It was a decent place but he was out of context and he was dead within a month. The last time I saw him, I thought he didn’t recognise me, until he
pulled his head out of whatever mincer it was in and said:
—Never forget who you are.
But that’s exactly what I do. I forget who I am. People pay to watch me sniff and snort and shag until I pass out before their eyes and I become what they see. I play a part and I’ve
played it so well, I
am
it. I’m a freak show, a circus act that makes the admission fee worth paying. You want a high-wire act, that’s me. A clown? That’s me, too. The
audience, on the other hand, always watches from a safe distance, immunised against what they see. If the wire-walker falls, they gasp and pretend to cover their eyes, but they will be looking,
waiting, hoping, because they paid the admission fee to see someone fall. When they tell and re-tell the story of that fall, they will exaggerate it each time, because
they
become more in
the telling. First:
—It was awful.
Then:
—I couldn’t look. All the broken bones and screams.
Then:
—It was the worst thing imaginable, to watch a man fall and break like glass on the ground. There was blood everywhere.
So if I tell my audience I drink a gallon of whisky every morning before having senseless sex with a thousand Wraps and a smattering of Grannies, they will say:
—That’s Lincoln!
But if I tell them I am an Artist and I’ve painted over a hundred canvasses they will say:
—That’s not Lincoln!
And although I could take them to see every one of those paintings, they are right. That’s not Lincoln because Lincoln forgets. He forgets who he is. He forgets to be kind. He forgets to
love. He forgets to create. He forgets everything that matters because he has become a spectacle, and his act is to destroy anything and anyone who stands between him and his Hunger.
As I finish the painting, Esurio walks in. He looks at the canvas.
—Ah,
A Stag at Sharkey’s
. A fine painting and a
very
fine copy.
—Thank you.
—It’s also reassuring to see that you are connecting with an underworld, Lincoln. I was fearful I might find you copying Monet’s
Women in the Garden
but to see fists and
fighting and dimly lit basements makes my heart sing.
—It’s not the fighting. You know that, don’t you? It’s not the fighting.
—What do you mean ‘it’s not the fighting’?
—The fighting isn’t why I like it. It’s the people-watching, waiting for one of the fighters to get hurt. Really hurt. Even if they lose their bet, the hurt makes it all
worthwhile. They make me sick.
You
make me sick.
—I see we’ve been ruminating again. Does you no good, Lincoln. Here . . .
Esurio passes me a glass
I cooked him breakfast, came home at lunchtime to check on him, and spent all my evenings with him until, one afternoon, I came home and found him in the garden. There was a smell of gas. He had
turned the cooker on and gone out to enjoy the afternoon sun. I hadn’t a clue what to do except to give him more of myself, and we persevered together for another few weeks. I came home more
often during the day and took days off to be with him. Then he left the gas on a second and a third time. I clung on without hope until whatever it was holding us together snapped and I told
him:
—Granddad, you’re going to a lovely home a short distance away where there’s some cracking-looking nurses, so if you play your cards right, you never know.
Nothing. Not even a smile. Then:
—Had some artist mates come round yesterday. Salvador Dalí was one of them. We sat for hours painting the garden fence. Don’t know who the rest of them were. Think one of them
was bald. Not sure what happened to the paintings after they left. Have you seen them? Might be worth some money.
I visited him most days in the home. It was a decent place but he was out of context and he was dead within a month. The last time I saw him, I thought he didn’t recognise me, until he
pulled his head out of whatever mincer it was in and said:
—Never forget who you are.
But that’s exactly what I do. I forget who I am. People pay to watch me sniff and snort and shag until I pass out before their eyes and I become what they see. I play a part and I’ve
played it so well, I
am
it. I’m a freak show, a circus act that makes the admission fee worth paying. You want a high-wire act, that’s me. A clown? That’s me, too. The
audience, on the other hand, always watches from a safe distance, immunised against what they see. If the wire-walker falls, they gasp and pretend to cover their eyes, but they will be looking,
waiting, hoping, because they paid the admission fee to see someone fall. When they tell and re-tell the story of that fall, they will exaggerate it each time, because
they
become more in
the telling. First:
—It was awful.
Then:
—I couldn’t look. All the broken bones and screams.
Then:
—It was the worst thing imaginable, to watch a man fall and break like glass on the ground. There was blood everywhere.
So if I tell my audience I drink a gallon of whisky every morning before having senseless sex with a thousand Wraps and a smattering of Grannies, they will say:
—That’s Lincoln!
But if I tell them I am an Artist and I’ve painted over a hundred canvasses they will say:
—That’s not Lincoln!
And although I could take them to see every one of those paintings, they are right. That’s not Lincoln because Lincoln forgets. He forgets who he is. He forgets to be kind. He forgets to
love. He forgets to create. He forgets everything that matters because he has become a spectacle, and his act is to destroy anything and anyone who stands between him and his Hunger.
As I finish the painting, Esurio walks in. He looks at the canvas.
—Ah,
A Stag at Sharkey’s
. A fine painting and a
very
fine copy.
—Thank you.
—It’s also reassuring to see that you are connecting with an underworld, Lincoln. I was fearful I might find you copying Monet’s
Women in the Garden
but to see fists and
fighting and dimly lit basements makes my heart sing.
—It’s not the fighting. You know that, don’t you? It’s not the fighting.
—What do you mean ‘it’s not the fighting’?
—The fighting isn’t why I like it. It’s the people-watching, waiting for one of the fighters to get hurt. Really hurt. Even if they lose their bet, the hurt makes it all
worthwhile. They make me sick.
You
make me sick.
—I see we’ve been ruminating again. Does you no good, Lincoln. Here . . .
Esurio passes me a glass
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