Dear Oktay,
So the smile. It happened when we played out a repeat of our second meeting: me walking in, him offering to move his stuff from the desk behind his, me saying, oh you don’t need to, seriously, I’m going to sit there –pointing at my usual workspace. I’m not sure if it was bashful or sympathetic, but it reeked of home.
Smiles don’t come easily to the faces of Turks. Normally, the initial expressions you are met with on first meeting someone here is contempt or curiosity. Lonesome then, for the British practice to express amicability in generous quantities, I confess I may have been more moved by it than was warranted. And being moved thus, I may have given John Anal more thought than was warranted over the weekend. The fantasies played out as me Mata Harrying him into spilling occupational secrets and national intelligence of the most dangerous kind. But what happens on the weekend, stays in the weekend.
Come Tuesday I stride into the broom closet with my novel on my mind and inspiration dogging at my heels, when slap bang, John Anal instigates an exchange. It involves him offering me the desk behind his AGAIN; the desk covered with his books and papers AS ALWAYS. Needless to say I am surprised. I’d never once expressed interest in that desk. Not to mention, the space between the two seats is so narrow, who in their right mind would choose to sit ass to ass with some dude, when there’s a roomier option? Was John Anal making excuses to speak to me? Maybe. So what did I do about it? I declined the offer of course. Politely. But did I stop there? No. I went further to explain that I liked to have a shelf behind me, which came out sounding barmy since there was no chance of elaborating my Feng-Shui inspired compulsion for having my back to a solid object; nor of explaining that being a creature of habit, once I’ve taken to a place, I will prefer it always. A most excellent start to the morning.
One hour and a series of frustrations over the lack of opening-chapter-breakthroughs later, and John Anal coming and going and coming and going way too much for a man working on a thesis, there was a second exchange. A tragicomedy of epic proportions. Instigated by yours truly. It went like this:
“You have tea!” says I, aching at this point for a cigarette or a cuppa or both. John Anal turns around in surprise. “I’m sorry… I mean… where did you-” indicating his mug.
“Oh I get it from upstairs,” says he, by upstairs meaning the staff room. “Because I work here.”
“Ah!” says I. He works here –a possibility I had not considered.
“I’m sure you could have some if you asked,” says he while I’m still processing how his new identity as a member of staff fits in with my spy theory. And then his hand catches my eye. Lo and behold: a ring. On the ring finger. So much for the sneezy, sniffly, unkempt bachelor act with threadbare t-shirt under the same jumper every frikkin’ day.
“Oh errr. Well. I… asked when I first came here… and they said I had to go out for refreshments,” manages I, my capacity for tenses spontaneously reduced to simple past, like some damn a kindergartener. Believe me Oktay, it was so laborious driving that one, fragmented sentence to its conclusion with my mind doing a double take on that ring, and my mongrel accent grating at my own ears with every bastard word that came out. “…So errr… probably not.” I was dying inside.
“Oh. Sorry,” says he “Actually I probably shouldn’t be drinking down here, but no one has said anything so-” A sneaky, conspiratorial smile. My memory goes hazy at this juncture. I’m sure I wasn’t even listening any more. I do recall him apologising a few times and me saying there was really no need for an apology then in my mind, kicking myself in the head repeatedly for saying it, and him saying I could maybe still try asking for tea upstairs, and me thinking I don’t fucking care about the damn tea, you fool! while actually saying, with one final chocked effort to retain dignity: “Nah I won’t push it.”
Dignity. Pish. Scrambling for an escape, I’d already sunk into my chair by the time that final sentence came out. So John Anal heard it from behind the divider between my desk and the one behind his. He probably thinks I’m some moody psycho.
Idiot, says I to me in my mind. Bloody. Stupid. Idiot.
So the smile. It happened when we played out a repeat of our second meeting: me walking in, him offering to move his stuff from the desk behind his, me saying, oh you don’t need to, seriously, I’m going to sit there –pointing at my usual workspace. I’m not sure if it was bashful or sympathetic, but it reeked of home.
Smiles don’t come easily to the faces of Turks. Normally, the initial expressions you are met with on first meeting someone here is contempt or curiosity. Lonesome then, for the British practice to express amicability in generous quantities, I confess I may have been more moved by it than was warranted. And being moved thus, I may have given John Anal more thought than was warranted over the weekend. The fantasies played out as me Mata Harrying him into spilling occupational secrets and national intelligence of the most dangerous kind. But what happens on the weekend, stays in the weekend.
Come Tuesday I stride into the broom closet with my novel on my mind and inspiration dogging at my heels, when slap bang, John Anal instigates an exchange. It involves him offering me the desk behind his AGAIN; the desk covered with his books and papers AS ALWAYS. Needless to say I am surprised. I’d never once expressed interest in that desk. Not to mention, the space between the two seats is so narrow, who in their right mind would choose to sit ass to ass with some dude, when there’s a roomier option? Was John Anal making excuses to speak to me? Maybe. So what did I do about it? I declined the offer of course. Politely. But did I stop there? No. I went further to explain that I liked to have a shelf behind me, which came out sounding barmy since there was no chance of elaborating my Feng-Shui inspired compulsion for having my back to a solid object; nor of explaining that being a creature of habit, once I’ve taken to a place, I will prefer it always. A most excellent start to the morning.
One hour and a series of frustrations over the lack of opening-chapter-breakthroughs later, and John Anal coming and going and coming and going way too much for a man working on a thesis, there was a second exchange. A tragicomedy of epic proportions. Instigated by yours truly. It went like this:
“You have tea!” says I, aching at this point for a cigarette or a cuppa or both. John Anal turns around in surprise. “I’m sorry… I mean… where did you-” indicating his mug.
“Oh I get it from upstairs,” says he, by upstairs meaning the staff room. “Because I work here.”
“Ah!” says I. He works here –a possibility I had not considered.
“I’m sure you could have some if you asked,” says he while I’m still processing how his new identity as a member of staff fits in with my spy theory. And then his hand catches my eye. Lo and behold: a ring. On the ring finger. So much for the sneezy, sniffly, unkempt bachelor act with threadbare t-shirt under the same jumper every frikkin’ day.
“Oh errr. Well. I… asked when I first came here… and they said I had to go out for refreshments,” manages I, my capacity for tenses spontaneously reduced to simple past, like some damn a kindergartener. Believe me Oktay, it was so laborious driving that one, fragmented sentence to its conclusion with my mind doing a double take on that ring, and my mongrel accent grating at my own ears with every bastard word that came out. “…So errr… probably not.” I was dying inside.
“Oh. Sorry,” says he “Actually I probably shouldn’t be drinking down here, but no one has said anything so-” A sneaky, conspiratorial smile. My memory goes hazy at this juncture. I’m sure I wasn’t even listening any more. I do recall him apologising a few times and me saying there was really no need for an apology then in my mind, kicking myself in the head repeatedly for saying it, and him saying I could maybe still try asking for tea upstairs, and me thinking I don’t fucking care about the damn tea, you fool! while actually saying, with one final chocked effort to retain dignity: “Nah I won’t push it.”
Dignity. Pish. Scrambling for an escape, I’d already sunk into my chair by the time that final sentence came out. So John Anal heard it from behind the divider between my desk and the one behind his. He probably thinks I’m some moody psycho.
Idiot, says I to me in my mind. Bloody. Stupid. Idiot.
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