How I Came to Know Tanztraums — Part III.
III. (…and Gear)
“Whatdoyouthinkhappenswhenyouknowwhataretheycalledthosemugsthatarelike‘bestdadintheuniverse’youknowtheonesthatpeoplegetforlikefather’sdayorforChristmasorwhateverthoseonesyouknowtheonesthatImeandon’tyouwhatdoyouthinkrightwellimaginerighttwodadsbothgettingoneofthosemugseachandthemugssaytheexactsamethingbutbothdadshaveonehahaimaginethemgoingmadinacarparkorwhatevernonotacarparksomethingthepubmaybeIdon’tknowsomewheretwodadsrightkickingoffbecausetheyvebothgotamugthatsaysthatyouknow‘bestdadintheworld’hahaandtheycantobviouslybethebestdadintheuniverseorworldrightimeanbothofthematthesametimeimagineiftheygotintoafightoverthathhaha.”
That’s an exact quote. It’s from the first time I met Paul Traum in the flesh.
It had been a little under 3 years since I spent my January afternoon speaking to the strange man. I’d forgotten the name ‘Tantztraum’ and most of what was barked at me that day. But when I first came across Paul’s name on that little parcel it all came back to me. Trickling, at first, but then much quicker. It didn’t take long for the dots to join up.
It was apparent that Mr. Tantztraum (and his son, with the slightly-adjusted surname) had made a little den in my subconscious. Just waiting for the right moment to bubble up back to the surface. I suppose, looking back, it was stupid of me to think that that afternoon with the stranger didn’t make some impression.
For the past 4 months I’d been working in one of the large financial buildings in the city. My role was somewhere between a cleaner and a porter, and the hours were pretty awkward. One set of cleaning staff would begin at the end of the conventional working day, sorting out the day’s mess.
The cleaning team I was part of would start early in the morning — I was usually in the building by about 4:30–5:15. Us early morning cleaners would sort whatever mess had occurred after the evening cleaners had clocked off. There were a lot of staff that would return to the building late in the evening to carry on their own private parties, and we’d have to sort those out once they’d ended. I’d do other little things, like making sure the towels were fresh and warmed slightly for the staff who cycled in and then showered at work. Me and two others were also responsible for receiving parcels before the reception staff came in at around 8:00. It sounds dreadful, I know, but it was actually fine.
Once the receptionists arrived we’d still have to move loads of parcels around the building. I can’t overstate how much shite people with decent disposable incomes order, especially with ‘next day delivery’, or couriers that would work rough hours.
The unwritten rule was that you’d drop the relevant chunk of mail off at the receptionist on a specific floor (never at the main reception and never beyond the receptionist assigned to a floor). It would then be the receptionist’s job to either drop the mail off at the relevant desks nearby or to notify the recipients that they had something to collect.
My manager, Yarek, repeatedly stressed that the reason we never went to main reception nor beyond the receptionist on each floor was because it would be confusing and just wouldn’t work. After all, what would be the point in skulking around the 15th floor looking for ‘Mr. XYZ’ when we didn't know them from sight? It was obvious that wasn’t the actual reason. The real reason was that we looked absolutely dreadful, and people didn’t liked to be reminded of our existence.
Scrubbing sick or cum off bathroom walls. Hoovering up 5kg of soil from the latest plant pot that ‘accidentally’ slung across a hallway. Pushing faulty-wheeled trolleys of towels whilst at the same time avoiding all the expensive pushbikes. Do this from 4:30 in the morning and you’re going to look like death, or at least look unenviable. I sympathised with Yarek, really.
But, to reiterate, the job was fine. I was often finished not long after midday and didn’t mind getting up in the pitch-black. I very rarely did anything with my evenings. At the same time I felt a bit like a ghost in the building. Per Yarek’s instruction I was never glimpsed. This meant that I was never recognised by the office workers when I was having a pint after clocking off.
The end of my working day coincided with the majority of other staff member’s lager-fuelled lunches. Yarek, bless him, would have gone mental had he known that I drank near the much-feared ‘higher-ups’ (I use that term loosely, basically everyone was higher-up, even Biniam, the poor Eritrean doorman who last week received a disciplinary for watching porn in the bike storage). Anyway, the point being I was able to slip by fairly unnoticed. I’d even been bought a drink or two in the past by being confused with a party member. It’s the little victories.
About a month in I’d started noticing the name ‘Paul Traum’ on parcels. You might not believe me that the name stuck out enough to be noticed. Like I said earlier, if you had any idea how many things these idiots ordered, you might be a bit more forgiving. From the stranger’s chat those years ago I knew Mr. Tantzraum had worked with ‘capital’ (as he put it), so it didn’t surprise me to find this son (with the ‘castrated’ surname) working in the financial district.
Yes, I enjoyed the job, and yes, I enjoyed slipping by. But part of me did want to get the measure of Paul — or at least to see him in the flesh. The question immediately became ‘how’ this could happen. I’d started divvying up the parcel delivery so that I ended up with Paul’s parcels and therefore had to go to Paul’s respective receptionist. I’d even started giving that floor a quick once-over two or three times during the early morning, just in case anyone was asleep with a lanyard on.
Though I never got any closer. After dropping the parcels off to the receptionist I’d try and hover around a bit. But this was pretty out of character for me. I — in fact all of us, doing the role I was doing — were nameless, faceless, and supremely efficient. Drop the parcels off, then leave.
The rate Paul clicked ‘buy’ was to work in my favour. After about 3 weeks of dropping things off at Paul’s floor, sometimes twice or even three times a day, the receptionist, as I was handing over the latest haul of parcels, softly shouted (you know what I mean) ‘Paul!’. And that was it. I knew what he looked like. In fact I recognised him easily from the local boozers.
But I was left unsatisfied. The loafers on his feet were absolutely awful. The dismissive hand wave he gave the receptionist also gave me the impression he was a bit of a pig when it came to women. But the shoes and the beige misogyny didn’t make him any different from a chunk of the others who worked here. I wondered whether the stranger had any real reason to detest Paul Traum. The next day I endeavoured to see him outside of the office.
After clocking off a bit earlier than usual (about 11:30) I went across the road to the nearest pub. Due to being the nearest, it was also the most popular with our building. I took a stool near the front left corner. Sitting here, I could see what direction Paul would head in if he didn’t come in but walk by instead. He didn’t come in. I saw a group of five or six stand outside the pub for a moment, finishing cigarettes or vaping, before doing a right and moving to, I predicted, a smaller spot a little bit further along. I finished up and headed there. It took me a moment because the place was fairly busy, but I was relieved to find him here. My relief made me question what on earth I was doing.
I always brought a change of clothes to work. I didn’t want to get hassled by some peacocking moron because I was in overalls. Today was no exception — if anything, today it was doubly important that I could pass by unnoticed. An anthropologist in sheep’s clothing. Or cotton and polyester mix.
“You having one?” I said, whilst pushing towards the bar and tapping Paul twice on the shoulder. I thought it would be more natural if I didn’t look at him as I said this. He spun round and then I did. As we locked eyes I raised my eyebrows and made a pint drinking gesture with one hand whilst the other hand rested on the bar.
“Yeah! Go on then mate.” he said, protruding his bottom lip and pointing towards his branded pint glass to show his preference.
After repeating the process for the two others he was now with I joined the group. It was very unlikely that he had any idea who I was, but that didn’t stop him acting with empty familiarity.
“How’s tricks then mate?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah, good yeah. You know how it is. Been a nightmare with Seltzo.”
“Fucking hell, you’re telling me.”
It carried on like this for several hours. And from these hours I have absolutely nothing to relay to you. The talk remained exactly that hollow. Any time I tried to (cautiously) probe into Paul’s life the question was dodged by responses that were only engaging on the surface. And, at the same time, he never really asked me anything about myself.
But then something happened. Finally, we had a development. A small number decided not to return to the office that afternoon but instead changed venues. We moved along to a bar only a stone’s throw away. Though with a similar breed of people, the atmosphere was markedly different. The low winter sun had properly dipped and we now had music, coming from low quality speakers. Within under 10 minutes Paul was different too.
“ThissongreallyremindsmeoiyoulotyoulotthissonghonestlyremindsmeofmeyouknowwhatImean.”
Ah I thought to myself. This idiot’s coked up.
Maybe we were now dealing with a new animal. His jaw swinging and fingers dancing I watched Paul become even more remote. As he chain-smoked outside I caught glimpses of someone who, for reasons other than my own, didn’t really exist.
“Yeahexactlythat’swhatIsaidtohim!Thetaxiwasgoingtocostanextra40forthedropoffathisandbesidesIwasalreadywithTrishanywayhecansorthisownfuckingliftoutnexttimeit’snotmyproblemI’mnotsurewhyhekeepsbringingitupwhendidhesayittoyouthisweek?
I began to understand more where the stranger was coming from, at least a bit. I also started to appreciate how this specimen might be a disappointment to much-praised (but still unknown) Mr. Tantztraum.
I was usually on my way home long before the office workers started on the hard drugs. However I had, on plenty of occasions, seen what they were like when the sun went down. Empty, cocksure, pointless. Paul ticked the right boxes. But was he really that bad? Was he really that different from the others?
Stood, pretending to be using my phone, I caught other brief glimpses of him.
“Youhaven’tgotacluematehahaha.”
“Maaaaaate.”
“When’sthat?I’mattheracesonthe17thohhhhitwaslastweek.”
I was a little bit pissed. I forgave myself. I had to keep drinking just so I could stick it out with the group. Just so I could stick it out with Paul. On the one hand I was convinced he — Paul Traum — was utterly unremarkable. On the other, I worried that he was obsession-worthy. Did the stranger start out life like me? Would I end up latching onto people I didn’t know, just to tell them about Paul’s faults, or, worse (for my sanity plea) Mr. Tantztraum’s many, many merits?
As I stared into my nearly empty glass this last thought tickled me.
As Paul came back from the toilet he placed a small plastic vial into my hand and deliberately rubbed the tip of his nose. I understood his direction.
“Cheers mate.” I said.
“Niceonesonalwaysgoodtoseeyoumine’sadoublewhenyoufinallygetyoursdownyouhaha.”
I went off to the bathroom and then inside one of the cubicles. The door didn’t lock so I leant with my back against it to stop it opening. I unfurled my clenched fist and got a better look at the vial. It was a fiddly little thing and it took me a second to work out how the lid unscrewed. I tapped it and emptied a small amount onto one of my keys.
People who do this a lot have a strange, animal intuitive sense of how much is missing after someone else (in this case, me) has handled it. But I thought about how fucked up Paul looked a moment ago, and concluded that I wouldn’t be burning any bridges by using up some more of his resource.
I dipped my key back in and, with a bit of jiggling, pulled out about half the vial’s contents. I then turned my key 90 degrees and emptied the little while mound directly into the toilet. I didn’t bother flushing. It just dissolved anyway.
Someone had scribbled in Sharpie “whoever likes solitude is either a beast or a god” and I felt hollow because my solitude left me feeling like neither.
I pulled out my cock and began to piss on the grave of the cocaine. It was cold down here and water vapour floated up from this act. It reminded me of my hot tap at home. Then the kitchen sink more generally. Why do none of my tea-towels work anymore? They never seem to dry anything.
After a quick check of the translation on my phone I smiled to myself. For two reasons, really. The first being that Paul had abbreviated his name to essentially mean ‘Dream’ in his father’s mother tongue. It struck me as funny. Surely a man who lives like this is anything but dreaming. Or, maybe they are. Dreaming more than a good chunk.
The second, and probably more important reason for my smiling, was that I — me, personally — could now start to engender Paul Traum’s, Paul Dream’s nightmare.
As I ascended not one of the following images entered my head: a Killdeer bird performing a broken-wing display, feigning maim, young nearby; Mercury (element); four schoolboys sat greedymouthed around a Vervet Monkey, dead, roasting on an open flame; cramping muscles; lover’s breath in the morning; lotus unfurling on timelapse; a man fumbling with the split between two low-quality binbags; a signal, BBC Radio 4 shipping broadcast, dipping in and out; a miracle which, although I am not thinking of it, I cannot reveal; someone riding a bike awkwardly, legs too far out, ajar, feet slipping from pedals.
