Meeting a Journalist

Our conversation clunked on the brakes and took a sharp turn downhill after I asked him about his career. “I’ve got my own column in the Guardian sweety, I’m a media celebrity” he gloated, sweeping his thinning hair from his face and gulping down his wine; the toxic fuel that furthered his irritatingly incessant bragging. I met Liam one lethargic summer evening when casual chatter and Coronas seemed to cuddle you into a warm embrace. In fact on this particular night I felt like those arms could hold me forever.

A friend of a friend, Liam was a confident guy. A cool yet casual centre of attention and from a distance seemed no different to the rest of the artsy crowd who, like the half-finished bottles of beer, seemed to spill out on to the warm weathered pavement.

As soon as we were introduced, Liam spoke at me for most of the evening - the subject- his enviable career in journalism. His words darted out at me from all angles, propelled so sharply by his yellowed tongue they would catapult their way into my ear canals causing my brain to swell with an overload of sickening syntax.

This ‘encounter’ as I liked to describe it, was so one sided that my communication limited itself to a selection of infrequent nods or the occasional raising of eyebrows, which of course gave Liam the idea I was thoroughly impressed with what he had to say. I couldn’t work out if my sudden inability to speak was due to the tightening sensation in my brain or simply down to the fact I’d persuaded myself life was no longer worth living and therefore dialogue was subsequently a futile activity.

Liam’s movements were exaggerated. Every word was accompanied by a flamboyant gesture whether it was the stamping of his pointed shoe or the backward rotation of his spindly wrist that seemed to suffer from the weight of his watch. These manoeuvres were so unnecessarily energetic that at times he was in danger of knocking the Chardonnay out of his own hand and shattering the glass all over the floor. I have to admit, I did find myself wishing he would, so like a crafty crab I could scurry off sideways into a darkened backstreet- only after having pinced out his tongue.

Trying to ignore the alarming pain in my head and Liam’s smuggish snarl I couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, and I stood rooted to the pavement, despite all efforts to indeed shift sideways. Perhaps it was his unkempt complexion that gave him away. It certainly lacked the pizzazz of his so called ‘glamorous’ lifestyle. Or maybe it was his pale skin that despite his five star stay in St Tropez this week, clearly hadn’t seen the sun for years.

With this exciting evidence I began to realise this neurotic nincompoop was flawed. He was nervous - edgy- even. The closer I looked, the more I began to see. Beads of sweat crept tentatively onto his oily brow and as he interrupted his own conversation to accost his others around him, I watched intently, as they clutched onto their drinks like the bottle was a life line, whilst edging backwards ever so slightly.

For the first time that night, a smile crept up on my face. I was revelling. Revelling in the idea that Liam wasn’t perfect. He was fraying at the edges, more like the pages of a newspaper than its successful columnist.

As I placed my hands upon my cheeks to stop my grin from expanding to my hairline I wondered which one of us was in the wrong. Was it me, the jealous intern, desperate to spot imperfections in industry rivals, or was it Liam, the big ol’ faker? Either way I certainly pitied him and not just for that thinning hair.

When last orders were over my friends and I headed back to my car, pausing on the hearing of staggered footsteps and a light pitter patter. We turned around, and there was Liam, swaying himself toward the bus stop, his stash of business cards following him as they floated gently into the gutter.