Back to Oakwood

I used to be a much more troubled man than I am now. Not that I’ve got it all sorted. But it was only three years ago that I let such a good thing fall apart, and everything had to be built back up from scratch.

It was the week after I’d spiralled again, except that time I really didn’t go back. Instead I’d found this place not too far out from work, and they were letting me stay for pennies. Oakwood Apartments was the name. It’s funny how they decided on that. I’m sure the whole thing came out the arse end of a cement mixer.

The landlord left me, and a few hours later I’d unpacked the very little I owned and ordered in pizza. I had plenty of time to waste being on my own, and so I chose to switch off and turn on the TV. The delivery guy showed up eventually and when I got to the door, he handed over the box. I thanked him, but couldn’t help staring at his patches of beard and the ugly way it reached far down his neck. I tried to forget, but in the kitchen I could feel my stubble growing all over and suddenly it was like his beard was mine. I remember abandoning the fresh pizza on the counter and making for the bathroom to get my razor.

I passed the razor over my face, starting from my sideburns and working my way to the centre. With only a smooth jaw left, I tossed the blade and looked back at the mirror. My eyes were shot and my cheeks sagged. Everything I’d been fighting back still lingered in the reflection, exposed under the yellow hue of ceiling light. I could even see a hint of the delivery guy somewhere.

On a Sunday maybe a month later, I was riding the tube back to Oakwood. At the next stop the tube slowed and I wiggled in place. Two women rose from their seats and left the carriage. I sat down, so now I was between a short stocky man and another man who had just got on. The one who wasn’t short or stocky looked like more of a lizard than anything human to me.

Across from me sat a man with one arm but two phones. He had one in his solitary hand, the other resting on his lap. Every few minutes I watched as he switched between the two. What was up with that? The men either side of me didn’t seem bothered. I wanted to say something, but that’s just not what you do. So all the way back I let my mind run away with stories of this guy with one arm and two phones. Maybe one just wasn’t enough these days. One for scrolling, the other for swiping. The thought of needing two phones for each of my arms crossed my mind. I’d need more eyes in that case too.

Anyway, the point is I saw that man again today. He reminded me of three years ago at Oakwood, when I’d started over and was only just getting by. This time he had both arms attached and a different face to cover everything packed underneath, but for sure it was him.