Not Me, No Sir-Ree
by Digby Beaumont © 2006
When he returns to the park the next morning, he can’t believe his luck. She is there again, sitting on the same bench as before. This time he takes a deep breath, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and walks over to her.
“Hello,” he says. “Mind if I join you?”
She looks up from her book. ”No,” she says, and she moves along the bench to make more room.
As he sits, he can feel his heart pounding. She is even more beautiful up close. Perfect, in fact. Her hair is redder, and her skin paler set against her black dress.
Yesterday he spied on her from behind a tree. When she got up to leave, he followed, but outside the park gates, she was nowhere to be seen. Standing there, he heard a screech of tyres and turned to see a black Mercedes van with smoked windows pull away from the kerb and speed off down the street. All last night, he lay awake in his room, thinking of her.
He gazes up at the cloudless sky. “Fabulous morning,” he says.
“Yes,” she says before returning to her book.
Opening his arms, he lets out a breath. “Makes you glad to be alive,” he tells her, almost singing the words. Then he says, “I’m not bothering you, am I?”
“No, that’s all right,” she says.
Silence follows. He leans towards her, smiling. “The name’s Duggie, by the way.”
“Oh, hello.”
“May I ask yours?”
“Tanya.”
“Tanya? Oh, I love that name. Tanya. Russian, isn’t it?” He peers over at her book. “What’s that you’re reading, Tanya?”
She shows him the cover. “Virginia Woolf," she says. "To the Lighthouse.”
He slaps his thigh. “Virginia Woolf. Ha, I knew it. The classics. As soon as I saw you, I said to myself, Duggie, I said, there is a woman of culture, a woman of taste. So,” he says, “you like that ‘Stream of Consciousness’ approach?"
She raises her eyebrows.
“Ha,” he says, “you didn’t see that one coming. Didn’t think old Duggie Boy would be conversant with the literary jargon, did you? He taps the side of his head. “Hey, there’s oceans in here.”
“Tell me,” he says, crossing his arms, “which school interests you most, would you say? The modernists? Post-modernists? Realists? Dirty realists? You name it. You want a discussion? I’m your man.”
He sees her staring at his trainers. He lifts one off the ground. “Adidas,” he tells her. “Brand new.” He wiggles it about, regarding it from different angles. “The very latest. Just in. You like them?”
“Very nice,” she says.
“And you?” he says, looking down at her black patent leather heels, “Jimmy Choo’s if I’m not very much mistaken? Super choice of footwear, Tanya. The pinnacle of style.”
She smiles. “Thank you.”
“Mm,” he says, “I must say you have a wonderful smile. Perfect teeth and gums. In fact, you know, you’re an attractive woman all round.”
She looks away for a few seconds then turns back.
He inhales. “Yes, you have a very trim figure. If I might be so bold. Very trim indeed. You’ve really got the legs to carry a short dress. Most women would die for a figure like yours.”
Leaning forward, she covers her knees with her hands.
“You work out, Tanya? No, I’m betting you don’t. You’re a natural.” He holds her gaze. “But you don’t see it, do you?”
She straightens her back. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugs. “Insight? Call it what you will. I can read people. You’re a self-loather, am I right?” He nods to himself. “I am, aren’t I? How do I know that? We’ve only just met, right? It’s a gift I have, that’s how.”
Glancing at her watch, she goes to stand.
”What is it?” he says. “Not leaving, are you? We’ve only just met. Listen, I was wondering. Would you care to go for a cup of something? My treat. I know this great place. What would you like? Earl Grey? Freshly ground Arabica beans?"
She checks her watch again. She touches the glass.
“Or something stronger? Russian vodka, perhaps?” He laughs.
“No, really,” she says. “Thank you all the same.”
“Maybe you’re hungry? It’s almost lunchtime. Come on, we’ll go for an early lunch. On me. You like that Kentucky Fried Chicken? The Colonel’s Secret Recipe? It’s Finger-Licking Good.” He notices she keeps watching his lips as he speaks.
“No, thank you, Duggie,” she says. “No chicken. I really should be going.”
“But we’d have a chance to talk, really get to know one another. I think you’d like me if you knew me.” He laughs and shakes his head. “This is not me," he says. "Not the real me. No sir-ree."
She points at him. “This is … not you?”
“God, no,” he says. "It's all an act." He lowers his voice. “I mean, tell me, Tanya. Be honest with me now. Is this the real you?”
“Is this me?” she says, and she frowns.
He looks down. He puts his face in his hands. There is a long silence.
“Who am I kidding?” he says, turning to her. “Look at me. What do you see? A short, fat, bald man dressed in a charity shop suit; a long-term unemployed loser who hasn’t dated a woman in over two years. Whatever possessed me to think someone like you could have the slightest interest in me?”
Tilting her head to one side, she studies his face.
“Truth is, Tanya, there are times when I inhabit a black pit of despair. This park is my refuge, my sanctuary.”
”Not real?” she says, and she covers her mouth with her hand.
He gives her a sad smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to burden you.” He takes out a tissue and blows his nose. “You know,” he says. “I feel we’ve started to make a real connection here.”
”Arsehole,” she says. “Arsehole, arsehole,” and her arm starts to twitch.
He gives a nervous laugh then, leaning closer, peers into her eyes. “Tanya? Are you feeling all right? You look a little … unfocused.”
Now her eyes shut tight, her chin drops to her chest and she is motionless. Duggie jumps up. “Oh, my God,” he says, and he touches her shoulder. Her body feels stiff, rigor mortis-like.
“Jesus,” he says, and he feels something give. He looks down. Her arm has disconnected from her torso and he is staring right into her shoulder joint — at a printed circuit board and some kind of metal socket with cables sprouting from it.
At that moment a black Mercedes van with smoked windows pulls up, and three uniformed men get out, each wearing headphones and a mouthpiece. “Thank you, sir,” one of them says, flashing an ID badge at Duggie.
“Android Replicant Research Institute,” it says. “Mobile Unit.”
“Move along now, please,” says the man, prizing Tanya’s arm from Duggie’s grip. “We’ll take over from here.”
Duggie shakes his head as he walks away. Turning, he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and takes a final look at the scene. One of the men is standing by the bench, cradling Tanya’s disembodied head in his arms, while disappearing into the back of the van are the Jimmy Choo shoes, on the end of the longest, most achingly perfect legs he will ever see.The End
Digby Beaumont has worked as a professional writer for more than 20 years, with numerous nonfiction publications. His English language courses and grammar books have been best-sellers in Europe, Latin America and the Far East. Nowadays he writes mainly short fiction. His stories have appeared in Leafing Through, Slingink Magazine, Barfing Frog Press, The Raging Face, Zygote in My Coffee, Static Movement and The Scruffy Dog Review, among others. He lives in Brighton on the south coast of England.