Jumid

Jumid
A sales problem

He lost her hard but all he can think is that sales are wonderful but filthy things. They are the public’s gaze made concrete. It’s getting to the sales channels that involves the grubbiness.

We are all battling for the market and battling with the stall holders and the licensors for a chance to put a For Sale sign up on a pitch, and then close it. Closing it is the game, he considers, for the artist, the car salesman, the video game maker… but not for the lover. The lover, not the fucker or the seducer. The lover.

 

Now, he’s given up drinking and smoking. He also appears to have given up any form of structure that could count. Where is the car? He should have remembered to pick the car up from the garage, which would have enabled him to do the grocery shopping, which would have allowed him the chance of a happy relationship. He didn’t want to go out into the humidity and the people. It’s too hot. 32 degrees or somewhere around it, and his forehead is peeling, ripping into raw shreds with the humidity.

That’s not to say that he’s not happy. He was. He is. It’s all very jolly Рand he awards himself a point for not swearing at this point. This is something else that he’s given myself: the chance to be happy by awarding himself points for easily achieved goals.

He should have picked up the car. If for nothing other than the fact that it would have got him out of the house for a few hours and he need the exercise. He see all these other people beavering around the place, getting on with things and whether or not they seem happy, at least they seem attached, or engaged or not bothered.

Their feet seem connected to the ground, their hands grip the bannisters of the stairs leading to public squares where they sit eating sandwiches and reading the papers.

Time was when this would make him feel very paranoid, as if they were doing all of that purely in order, in order to show that he wasn’t. For him, easting a sandwich in a public place was a performance. Was he eating the correct sandwich? Was he in the appropriate public place? Would the combination of food and situation look attractive enough to ensure at least one passing look that passed with a significant enough pause to mean positive contact? Or would he have got the mixture wrong, ensuring that the looks were simple, half-covered guffaws?

That was when he was earning enough money to afford the time and the sandwich let alone the vanity and the eye contact.

Now he doesn‚Äôt bother to attempt the concoction. Watching other people simply having lunch hours or park picnics doesn’t make him hate them with envy and pain. He rather likes it in fact, or at least the idea of it.

Not having to get drunk is also worth 10 points, even in the heat. Not waking up hungover and slack jawed definitely has its advantages.

He are, is, are, am, going to join a gym next week in fact, when he can get out of the house. Jemma wants him to, despite the cost… to her earnings. She’s learnt that not only will it make him feel better, it will also make him feel. She’s been through a lot coping with him coping. HIs little black dog, his trophy of specialiness has become a yappy thing to her. She should really have left him on more than one occasion. Certainly the time that he declared that he should hold on to his depression because that was him when she thought it was fast becoming the thing to have for a modern western professional. At least now that ‚ÄòStress‚Äô got fewer column inches.

People nod a great deal when you watch them through glass windows, eating outside. But he digresses.

The other time she should have walked was when, drunkenly, he threw away both the wedding bands, and “invested” their savings in yet another new computer, scanner and high-speed Internet connection in order to set-up his own design company.

This had come from visiting the MCA during some exhibition or other on some designer or other. Of course, at that particular upswing, he knew that he could do better. How diffficult could it be?

Extremely bloody hard if you have no colour sense, no contacts and only a rudimentary idea about connecting lines. Nevertheless, there was more expenditure.

He created more design theories in a three day high than any actual designs in the three month period up to and including the time that Jem sold the kit and recouped about 60 per cent of the outlay.

Theoretically he was brilliant. Practice however, meant judgement of solid creativity.

Now he’s got a cheap handheld, and the occasional job writing ad copy from the remainder or his friends.

But, yes, he digresses.

HIs weekend had been poor. Drunk on the Friday, through Saturday punctuating the slurs and falls with love cries and fights with Jemma. All of this in the house that she was trying to turn into a home.

He didn’t want to go out, and he didn’t want to stay in. He wanted to smoke dope and drink his way into a good idea or a fab

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