Regret / No Regrets
He carried regret like an over-laden backpacker squeezing onto a packed train of judgmental stares. He never liked himself as a young man. Although he mourned the child he used to be, he didn’t have any time for the person that child grew into. The way his voice would rise as he pummelled the listener with his black and white opinion. All he could see was an abrasive and angry person – and he was angry about a lot. If he couldn’t take himself seriously it was no wonder nobody else did.
He’d always seen a misshapen, unappealing reflection. Limping against his will towards old age, he could admit to himself that he always viewed himself through a dysmorphic prism. This feeling of deformity had been with him all his life. The remarks which pin-pointed his poor posture or ungainly stride. The backhanded compliments such as “You’re better looking in person than your staff photo.”
He stood out, but didn’t want to. He envied those that did, and how it came so easy to them. Yet as he sifted through old school photos, he saw a boy with bright eyes, and struggled to understand. If only that boy could see himself now. If he considered himself ugly at twelve, then sixty seven was positively grotesque.
He would frequently look back through old cinema tickets. He had collected every single one since the age of fifteen, when he first blagged his way into an 18-rated film. Recently, he had taken to compiling a list of films he had seen at the cinema, and who he went with. Mostly friends or awkward dates. People who were no longer in his life. He had to remember them through fear of forgetting, because that was all he had left.
He had to remember the things that once meant something to him.
He missed talking. He was never a deep thinker and occasionally used the wrong word in conversation, but he missed short-hand conversation, that connection of not needing to speak because he knew what his friends were thinking.
He was now at an age where there was nothing left to say. Nothing to add that would make any difference.
Trapped in a loop of exorcising his thoughts on social media, only to delete the post because he didn’t want the aggravation of some twenty-something pointing out what a moron he was. He had last spoken out loud four days ago, when a delivery man required a signature.
‘Thank you’, he rasped, barely audible. His vocal chords creaked with surprise at having to perform. He cleared his throat, and closed the door.
In some ways, we were both deeply insecure.
The difference between us was his self-righteousness. His ego never ceased to amaze. He viewed himself as the most desirable man, wherever we were. It was like watching a performance. I couldn’t stand it. But he possessed the edginess of a go-getting entrepreneur, like there was a sense that he might just pull it off. And if he could get away with realising all of his dreams, then maybe some of that lucky rabbit’s foot could come my way?
He had an air about him which suggested that fame and glory was only a matter of time. He carried himself as if he knew better than the rest of us. There was a glint in his eye of a man surveying his father’s kingdom, and was waiting for the old man to die. Maybe he already was a millionaire, and was simply pretending to have no money to buy a round at the bar?
That was the thing: It’s one thing to pretend a contented outlook, but what must he have been like on the inside? Like duck’s feet furiously paddling to stay afloat, I’d suggest. He would stumble from one business proposition to another money-spinner. Chairman of an exclusive drinking club, a freelance columnist. He even dabbled in wine-making, yet had never been to a vineyard. With each new venture, another stone would sink in my stomach.
Determined not to be dragged to the bottom of the sea, I jumped ship at the last minute. But that doesn’t stop me from gazing out at the ocean, wondering where the old wreck is.
© Andrew Wright 2023
(Photo courtesy of Charles Deluvio)
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