The Quiet Man

Erosion

“I’m worried about my hair getting thin. I wash it very, very carefully in the shower for fear of it falling out.” It echoes back at me in my own voice; I sound like a whiny git.

The audience starts to giggle. I have never felt so humiliated in my life.

“I haven’t had sex with my girlfriend in nearly six months.” The microphone screeches a little; feedback. It stings my ears. “The last time we had sex, neither of us had an orgasm.” The word orgasm echoes through the room twice, for emphasis.

There’s a guffaw in the audience. Mary, standing next to me, covers her mouth. She’s laughing too, she’s laughing at me. Why? This is horrifying. I want to turn the page, but I can’t; my sticky hands are glued to the sides of the podium. I have no choice, no choice at all. If I don’t finish, they’ll kill me. I can’t stop because my mouth won’t. I’m helpless.

“I’ve killed people. I have an illegal gun I won’t part with. The only person who knows how many people I’ve killed is dead.” I can see a reporter from The Daily Mail writing notes; will I get arrested for this?

“I wet myself at school once rather than ask to go to the toilet because I had a crush on the girl next to me.” I squeeze my eyes shut; I don’t want to watch them watching me. But I can see them through my eyelids. They’ve turned transparent.

It can’t be that bad. Just get through it; this is what the people paid for. They’re only words. It doesn’t matter. Just finish.

“I have an engagement ring hidden in a drawer with my gun. I’m terrified Mary will find it and ask me about it, because I have no idea if I’ll ever give it to her.” More laughter. I can hear women’s laughter now, as if this is especially funny to them. They like to see me like this, splayed open for them. They don’t care about my book; they only like to see people humiliated. Why did I agree to this? Why didn’t my agent explain what was going to happen? Why didn’t Mary tell me?

Isn’t this unethical?

“I fantasize about unzipping my flatmate’s fly, getting down on my knees and taking his cock in my mouth. But I’m not gay.” The whole room is laughing now. They’re laughing so hard they’re crying. And I can’t stop reading. My legs are stuck in concrete, I can’t ever move again. I have to read until I get to the end of the page. That’s what I agreed to do. They’ll sue me if I don’t do it. I signed a contract. They’ll kill me.

“I’m afraid it’s my fault he’s dead.” They’re still laughing. They’re laughing so hard they’re holding their sides. Why is that secret so funny? What’s wrong with these people?

“I like to imagine that he wanted me. I want to believe that. But he probably didn’t.” They’re rolling on the floor laughing now. I guess this was worth the hours of waiting. All my secrets.

I really should have read the fine print on the contract. How much are they paying me for this? Never again: I’m never agreeing to do a book talk again.

It’s not a glass of water on the podium after all. It’s poison.

“That was great, John,” Mary says. “Fantastic.”

“Was it?” How can she possibly think that? The applause is thunderous.

“Definitely. Your best reading yet.” Really? Bizarre. Well: give the people what they want, I suppose.

They’re all lined up; they want me to sign copies of their books. There are tears in their eyes.

*

Triple-milled soap. That chemical undertone that always hovers around him. The faint smell of burning hair. His dry cleaning. The smell of his skin that I’d recognize anywhere: Sherlock.