The Evening That Changed Everything

It had been a long day, one of those punishing schedules that crushes the spirit, drains your mental faculties until the only speech you’re able to emit sounds like an unintelligible foreigner trying to teach you the Theory of Relativity.
Just one of those days.
The sun was dripping into the horizon, traffic was light on the streets but the bars and restaurants were full of people starting their weekends early. I wanted to hit the sack, get my head down and recover.
I climbed the 15 steps to my apartment, key in the lock. Then I noticed it, the paper pushed under my door. It said in a hurried scrawl:

“Listen to your answer machine.”

I got into my apartment, let the door swing shut with a thud, the lock clicking back into place. I held the paper in my hand, trying to place the writing – whose hand was responsible. I thought of many people – the kid who hangs around outside and says hello to anyone that comes in or goes out the apartment block; the deaf old lady from number 6; the grocery store manager. It didn’t look like any of them.

What intrigued me most was the suggestion of listening to my answer machine. I glanced over, the red light was flashing. I didn’t know who or what was waiting for me on the magnetic tape spooled to catch callers’ messages, details, needs and wants. I pressed play. A female voice crackled through. She said:

“1) Post rules before you give your facts
2) List 8 random facts about yourself
3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) 8 people and list their names, linking to them
4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they've been tagged
then the facts.”

I tried to ignore it. Days and days I left it, not looking at the note (even though I’d taped it to the refrigerator) and I wiped the message from my machine. But each day, on returning to my apartment, the same message was always waiting for me, a new note pushed under my door.

I took to hiding out in my room, listening for the shrill ring of the phone, the sound of footsteps on the parquet flooring, but there was nothing.
Still the notes arrived. And if I ventured outside, I’d always come back to another message, as if someone was watching me, waiting until I left the apartment before calling.
If I hung about outside my own door, trying to catch the phone ringing, it never happened. Still there would be a message for me, the red light blinking an announcement. So, in the hope that these will stop once I follow the instructions, here are eight things about me.

One: I lost my hair at age 22. Early. I was still at University, finishing my finals. Previously, I’d had hair I could sit on, then nipple-length dreadlocks. So, I began to shave it, with a disposable razor, so that only skin would be visible. I grew a small beard so my face wouldn’t look so circular. That was 1995.

Two: I have suffered from an eating disorder for about 10 years. I have it under some sort of control and I self-medicate, mainly because doctors assume it’s about thinking I look fat. It’s not. It’s as far from that as it could be.

Three: I like an occasional smoke of the herb. Enough said.

Four: I love fashion and have, in the past, spent huge sums of money on clothing, shoes and bags. This has led to people questioning my sexuality. Idiots.

Five: I have been arrested once in my entire life: about six weeks ago, I stepped off the train and someone walked into me. I held up my hands in an apologetic way and he said, “Oh, you’re one of those.” Upon asking what “one of those” was, he preceded to abuse me with homophobic statements. I phoned the police, they arrested me. Go figure. The case was dropped after reviewing CCTV evidence.

Six: All the stories I write have an element of the truth within them; either a personal experience or one that has been related to me through a friend or a newspaper article. This one has eight truths and they are easier to spot.

Seven: I once spent two months of my life living in a tree as part of a road protest. It’s not recommended, but we did save some trees and sites of scientific interest. For my sins I appeared in several documentaries and one Coldcut music video. I also attended several public demonstrations, most notably the Criminal Justice Bill and the Poll Tax demonstrations. I was probably classed as a rioter, even though I never broke anything.

Eight: I don’t know eight people that I can link to who would have the time (or inclination) to do this.

I only hope and pray that this will be the end of the messages, the notes under my door, the intrusion into my life. Please, I beg you. Stop.