DAVE

 

“This is DAVE,” says S____. “He eats too many crisps.” “I only eat two packets a day,” says DAVE. “And he likes to play chess.” “Oh right,” says DAVE, “so I’m the crisp-eating chess guy.” Everyone laughs.

“Is that it?” says DAVE later. “Am I just the crisp-eating chess guy? Is that what they’re going to see me as now? An old guy who eats crisps and plays chess. And did she say ‘too many’?” “Yeah,” I say. “I think she did.” “I mean, what she’s playing at?” “It was a bit...” “Am I just a joke to her?”

“It’s funny the way,” I say, looking at S____, “you’re kind of giving a little summary of everyone.” S____ laughs politely and then I swear she flashes me a look that says “I hate you and everything you represent to me which is slow-talking, open-minded, soft-headed liberalism.” “And this is A___,” she says. “He’s written a book, though I can’t quite remember the title...” “That’s OK,” I say. “I prefer to remain anonymous these days.”

You see DAVE and I aren’t like normal people. We aren’t really even people. We’re characters. Each day we just make ourselves up. 

“I can’t believe K___ said that I only make friends with men,” says DAVE. “Yeah, I know, but you did say that men and women can’t be friends,” I say. “Well, have you seen When Harry Met Sally?” “I think so. But I can’t really remember it, I have to say.” “I love that film.” Yeah, I don’t know. It didn’t really make much of an impression on me.” “But, is that OK, to say that? I just don’t know if it’s OK to say that?” “Does it really matter?” “They just think I’m a joke.” “Who cares?” I say. “I do,” says DAVE. “I just want everyone to like me.”

“Are you coming tomorrow?” I say. “I don’t know,” says DAVE. “Why not?” I say. “I just don’t want people to think I’m only doing it because you’re doing it. I just don’t want to be that guy,” says DAVE. “Would you rather be the guy who doesn’t do it because he doesn’t want people to think he’s that guy?” I say. “Yes,” says DAVE. “I would.”

I don’t give up. I’m not giving up on DAVE. He’s a project. I leave a note on his car. It says, “See you tomorrow!” I reckon it’s 50/50. But if you press me, I’ll probably say I don’t think he’s coming.

A note about our cars. Both DAVE and I drive cars that didn’t initially belong to us, and in which the driver’s window is broken so when we have to present our ID card to enter the car park we have to open our doors. We both use our boots for storage. We have much in common. We are quite a sight.

It took a few months of role modelling and gentle persuasion and piss taking, but I finally prevailed on DAVE to stop wearing a tie to work. He doesn’t wear a tie any more. He used to. For all the twenty-seven years of his working life, DAVE wore a tie. But not any more. Not any more.