Yvann the Terrible

Yvann buzzed me. He wanted more money. I gave him a cherry brandy instead. He was fulminating against Rodger’s racism and being taken for an Arab whenever he was with his Moslem mother when he was as prejudiced against Moslems as any Englishman. “Not all Moslems.” No, not all. He tends to agree eg he said he’d watched Murray play, beating Nadal. I remembered it was Lopez. So he agreed with that. I don’t take any statement of his as necessarily true. “Is this because Rodger checked Owen the other day?” “Yes!” I got a whole mix-up including Rodger’s calling the wall his wall. “But every time I use the compositor, he knows it’s not his garden,” I relished the idea of Rodger’s discomfiture. Yvann said he was going to murder Rodger. He never does. I didn’t mind Rodger being killed though drawing the line at eating his kidneys which should be fed to the cat and didn’t want to think of sex with him as Yvann was suggesting he’d do. The murder’d get him into trouble. More trouble. With the police. He was off Owen. “You go through more friends in five minutes!” I pointed out that only the other day he’d been delighted to see Owen. “But that was before. I’m vulnerable,” he explained his continual being taken advantage off. I didn’t think I would; I don’t fancy him as slice in the sandwich in which I’m the filling, with John the other slice. “I can’t talk. I took in my assailant. Let me get this straight: Owen stole a bike, was arrested, and dragged you into it.” “I did give him the screw driver.” “It wasn’t mine, was it?” And he’d been riding the bike when Owen was arrested so far as I could make out.

“I’m bisexual,” Yvann said, having just been sucked off by a man. “I hope he didn’t have gonorrhoea at the back of his throat,” I responded. In my specs he looked intellectually presentable or, as he put it, gay. He liked homosexuals. “They’re forthcoming,” I explained their goodness. “Yes!”

We popped downstairs for his tobacco where I wiped off his kitchen wall engrained cobwebs with a damp cloth and washing up liquid.

He said he could read but wrote like a six year old. I was to write down his spoken rap poetry. I write fast in longhand but not that fast, particularly when hearing a word I don’t recognise nor knowing the one it’s supposed to be, the which gave me pause.

He’s never been happy. I admitted I always have been but had a friend who was never happy.

I offered a roller and tray for him to do his own room painting and would look for the scart lead he wanted but couldn’t find that last which I think I gave away to another friend. He likes me. I make him laugh. I like him too. He’s going to pay me back Tuesday, he says.


About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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