lab rat

Lab Rat (chapter eighteen)

medical
The following is an extract from a semi-fictional novel I’m working on. It is based on my experience of taking part in medical trials as a lifestyle and tells the tale of a disenfranchised young man living on the edge of society and finding his place in the world while meeting fellow drifters along the way. It is still a work in progress and one that will keep being developed as I continue living this way and collecting more material for the book, but for now I will post extracts on here. Previous instalments can be found here.

Chapter Eighteen

Two weeks later and a life box had been ticked. My book was published and people were ordering it. I felt like a real person; I felt like I could even call myself an author. Life was good and I imagined the books arriving through random letterboxes. I imagined them sitting on the shelves of old living rooms and bedside tables. I imagined little children picking up the books in a few decades and flicking through them, wondering who this great writer was. Yes, yes, yes. It brought joy to my heart. I was a man on the path to his destiny and there was no greater thrill. Well, I had only sold a few dozen books so far, but it was a start. I saw that money come in from the sales, not even a hundred quid, but still, it was something. It was the first time I had made any money from my writing. Even during my journalism degree, I hadn’t made a single dime. I was a victim of the ‘free work experience’ culture in which companies exploited students and graduates to work for free work so they could have something to put on their CV. Yes, it was now a world where you had to study for twenty years, then work for free for a year or two, just to have a chance of getting a job that wasn’t minimum wage. Anyway, I digress. No one becomes a writer to get rich, but it was priceless knowing that the things in your head – things you thought they’d put you in a mental asylum or on the guillotine for thinking – were of value to some other people out there under the ether.

I sat back and enjoyed the fact I was now a writer who could sell books. Even if it was self-published online through Amazon, it was good enough for now. At twenty-seven, I had done what Steven hadn’t done by thirty-three – I had actually finished and published a book. ‘The Thoughts From The Wild’ was out there in some shape and form. Hopefully it would eventually be out in top book stores. It was a romantic feeling and when I was in the city centre, I would walk into those book stores and imagine my creations sitting there one day. It hurt to see the Rupi Kaurs of the world take up the space on the shelves that should have been mine, but I knew one day true justice would be served. The Thoughts From The Wild and my future novel would be hailed as modern classics. Yes, yes, yes. My will and delusion was as strong as ever. I was nearing the age of thirty and still clinging onto my dream. I hadn’t given up and I wouldn’t accept anything else. My role was to write. My mission was to write.

One day I was at the house chatting to the landlady. I was telling her about my book for the first time while she informed me of the past tenants who also claimed to be writers. It seemed her house had attracted people of a similar ilk. She even got featured in a book a woman who had walked across the country had written. It was a total bore of a book and I hoped my book wasn’t being pulled out one day by people and mocked by future tenants. Nothing was certain. Maybe I was a hack like the others. Although Thea knew my creative passion was writing, she was always trying to get me to learn to play the guitar. She regularly hosted her folk music lessons and wanted to teach me too. With reluctance I started on the ukulele, learning two chords before giving up. It was true that music had been my first artistic awakening. At the age of thirteen I listened to alternative rock bands like The Verve and Radiohead and imagined myself being in a band. I always imagined myself as the front man – the one who would pour out their heart into lyrics and have the crowd in the palm of their hand. I wanted to be on that stage and have the same power that those people had over me. Sadly, this dream was cut short by the inconvenient fact that my voice sounded like a cat being drowned. My rock star destiny was not to be. But as I started writing, I realised I could get onto that stage in another way. With my instruments of syntax, metaphor and simile, I was able to jam out and create in another way. I can’t remember who said it, but poets and writers are frustrated singers. There is a truth to that, I think.

Anyway, I was living the retired life with Thea as usual, jamming out and sipping wine, when her son came barging in the house. “Mum? Are you there!? I need something.” Since I had started living there, I had quickly realised her son was abusive, manipulative, and downright insane. At almost the age of forty, he was the classic man-child. He regularly got kicked out by whatever girl he was living with and then came to scrounge off his mum. He would come steal her food and wine, even her car, and almost always some money. This time he wasn’t stealing her car, but asking for it. “I’ll just need it for this afternoon. You’ll have it back by this evening.” This was, of course, total bullshit. He was a master bullshitter, even trumping outrageous Lee, without the humour of course. Thea knew it was bullshit too but would convince herself that he was, for the first time in his life, being sincere and honest. I think the truth that her son was a scumbag was too much for her to face. After he had taken the car, it dawned on her she wasn’t getting it back any time soon. The last time he had taken it, it had ended up in a pound and she had to fork out £200 to get it back.

“What can I do?” she would ask, frustrated.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Get a restraining order?”

“I’ve tried that before, but it’s no use. And I can’t just cut him off. I won’t be able to see my grandson Henry.”

“He’s emotionally blackmailing and manipulating you,” I would tell her. “He does things like steal your car and money off of you, then he’s nice to you for a few days and you think he’s changed. Then the same process repeats itself.” I could see her sitting there, reflecting on those home truths. Of course, somewhere inside she knew this, but she had blocked it out.

“One thing is for sure,” she said. “He’s going to be in for a nasty shock when he sees I’ve left him nothing in my will. I’m leaving it all to Henry.” It was good to hear that, although I knew the son would try and find a way to weasel the money to himself. I was later to find out that he had already stolen over £100,000 off her over the years. Half of that he put into a house, which got repossessed during his time as a heroin addict. This was the same time in which he would regularly break into her house during the night to steal money off her for his next fix. The more I learned about the story, the more my mind was blown. That someone’s son could be so despicable to their mum, and then for the mother to keep on putting up with it. It was a strange world and once again my decision never to have kids was strengthened. This was an extreme case and really highlighted how detached from money rich people could be. Thea was a bohemian, but a rich one. She had been born into money and got even wealthier after renting out the house she bought for a mere £10,000 for over forty years. Every year she made that same amount of money through our rent and she no doubt had hundreds of thousands in the bank. Her son had been born into her money too, but he had ended up as a thoroughly screwed-up individual. It reminded me of all the rich kids I had met on my travels. Being born into wealth was no way to insure good character. People who are born with everything handed to them on a silver platter was an easy way for a person to get fucked up. I recalled one Jewish guy from L.A in a hostel in Cambodia, bragging about all the countries he had visited, how much drugs he was buying and taking on a daily basis, and how he hadn’t been home or worked for five years. Being the tender age of twenty-four, I wasn’t sure how much he had worked for his funds. Moments like that made me think that I never wanted to get rich. I wanted to struggle in a way, to have some humility and perspective on life. I didn’t want to idolise being poor either, but I felt relieved to see at a young age that money wasn’t the answer. Whatever the good life was, it came from doing whatever it was that set your soul on fire. That’s exactly what I kept doing while writing and dreaming of literary glory.

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