A Nice Gesture

In the middle of the pub, his empties casting long shadows as the evening rolls in, sits a man. From just a glance, you see that he’s a man for whom birthday candles have never been precisely placed. A man who has very rarely been asked if he got home safe. A man who, though he might not be conscious of it, remembers every hug he’s ever received. He’s bald in an angry way, not a cool way. He’s red in the British way, not the cute way. His outfit, a baby blue t-shirt with a hole in the back neckline that he hasn’t noticed yet, plus a sweaty pair of too-slim jeans in stonewashed black, was decided upon by spinning a wheel. Probably. He doesn’t look sad – something he has likely aged out of – but he looks like someone who knows sad things. He knows how it feels leave a bathroom and find that everyone has left without telling him. He knows what it feels like to run through the cold night after them. He knows how it feels when they collectively turn at his shout, and offer half-smiles, and maybe an “Oh here he is!”, before going back to their conversations. The walk behind the pack used to be very painful for him, but the invention of phones had somewhat soothed it. He could retreat into the touchscreen. He didn’t want to talk anyway. He was busy on the phone. He was a busy man. And this busyness had made him happy. Or an approximation of it. The pints went down quicker with a phone in the other hand. He worried less about lulls in the conversation where someone might glance to him. This would happen sometimes. He would be offered a ladder into the helicopter that was always seemingly floating just above his head, and he would reach out for it and miss. He would flail, then the ladder would be pulled up, and the helicopter seemed ever so slightly higher than it had been before.
You knew all this, just from looking at him. You knew about his evenings spent at home alone, sometimes on a laptop, usually on his phone. There would be something on the TV too. A film or a show that he’d heard people mention with enthusiasm at work. He’d put it on, and watch five minutes, but then the phone came out. The phone made more sense for him. He knew that he liked what was on the phone, and it was always the same, and it always felt good. On the phone, he was part of a group. Many groups, in fact. There were a lot of different types of groups, but they were all similar in their occupancy. They were all angry, red, men. Some of the men were old, and increasingly some of the men were young, but what they all had in common was the small rage that sat inside them. It would start out small, anyway. Once it had been combined with the rage of the other men, it grew, snowballing into a fury that felt righteous and good, despite its basis in hate, and anger.
               You looked at him and you could feel that it was fixable. You knew the rage to be treatable. You’d seen it before, in other places, in other men. A hard man can turn soft if given the right words, or the right moment. You’d seen the angriest men melt under the sheer weight of a generous hand, outstretched at the perfect time. You’d seen villains become heroes, when finally offered the chance, for once, to wear the cape. You’d done this before. Everything has happened before, and everything will happen again.
               You cross the room at a stroll and sit opposite the man. Expecting a sharp response, you’re surprised when he barely glances up from his phone to regard you. You introduce yourself, and you propose a competition: if he can beat you three times out of five in a game of rock, paper, scissors, you will immediately transfer into his bank a sum of thirty-thousand pounds. He puts his phone down and regards you very seriously. He cracks his knuckles. You know he will go rock on the first turn. He has been planning to go rock on his first turn since the day he was born. You see it in his eyes, and you feel it in your heart.
               You go paper, he goes rock. You win. He half-smiles, shaking his head. He looks redder than before. You know his next move. He will go rock again. You can see the letter R in his eyes. If you broke down the electrical signals travelling across his brain into ones and zeroes, it would spell out ‘ROCK’ in binary. He can’t be seen to lose with rock. He’s lost too many times before.
               You go paper, he goes scissors. He wins. His smile is full now, and the relief on his face is tangible. You should have seen it coming. The R you could see in his eyes was the R at the end of ‘scissor’. That was a mistake anyone could make. You’re okay. Everything is okay.
               You go rock, he goes paper. He wins. You’re sweating. This isn’t okay. Nothing is okay. He must have played this before. You look deep into his face, where a friendly smile now sits. Do you recognise this man? Have you met him before? How does he know your picks?
               You go rock again, he goes scissors. You win. Two-two. This man knows nothing. You’re doing him a favour in allowing him to think he knows something. He needs this. This is the generosity he was crying out for, for all of his life. You’re a hero. He will carry this story in his mind until the next time a conversational ladder is slung his way, and at that point he will grab it, firm, in both hands, one foot already on the bottom rung. He will climb the ladder and he will find himself not only in the helicopter, but in the cockpit, steering the beast. He will think back to you and he will thank you, mentally. He will think about kissing your cheek.
               You go scissors, he goes rock. He wins. Three-two. He’s won. He cheers and bangs the table with a cry of delight. Someone behind the bar asks him what’s happened. You start to apologise. You don’t have the money. You fumble with your phone and open the banking app to show that you’re on your last eighty pounds. You’re crying and there’s tears on your phone and your hands are shaking and you can’t stop saying sorry. You tell him you’re just like him. Just like him. You ask if he’ll have mercy on you and you drop to the floor and begin to cower. You try to kiss his foot, but he stands. Looming over you. He’s so large.
               A woman’s voice. She comes over and holds him by the arm. You look up. She’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. He says her name, and her name is Yasmin. She’s asking if you’re okay, and you realise that he is too. He’s saying don’t worry about the money, that it was just a fun game. He offers to buy you a drink. He says he can’t stay for another because their friends are meeting them at a different pub, but that he’ll buy you a drink. He crouches down and puts a hand on your shoulder. He asks if you’re okay. His touch means that you are. You stand, and he hugs you tight. He whispers to you. He tells you that everything will be okay. Over his shoulder, Yasmin smiles at you with such sincere warmth that you feel childish in a way you don’t mind. You want her to talk to you until you fall asleep. You would really like to fall asleep.
               The man retracts from the hug, and he shakes your hand. You ask him not to tell anyone about what happened, and he smiles. We’ll keep this one between us, he says. He turns to Yasmin and he tells her he’s just booked a table for ten, and that he hopes it will be enough. As they leave, she assures him that it will be, and that Chris never turns up anyway. He says that he hopes he does this time. He really hopes that he does this time.