I met Damien yesterday over dinner, although not really since it was just drinks downed so quickly neither of us recalled it going down our throats, and an unsatisfying pizza slapped onto our table by a wide-eyed waitress who looked like she would have had a lot to say if we asked her anything.
He spoke in a whirlwind, pronouncing things in a forgiveable off-ness, about seeing all the things you were meant to and going to places that could not wait. He'd stir in you that urge to run, make you remember that lump in your throat you forgot you had, and made your mind's eyes dart. He sat at the edge of his seat, but only so he was closer and he didn't have to scream to tell you all the stories he had. But he ended up shouting anyway, like the fire inside him was dialling up his volume (also because the shitty live music got cranked up a notch and there was suddenly a commotion worth the attention of a fire engine, a Red Rhino, and a very vocal siren).
For someone who seemed fiercely unsentimental, he loved ruthlessly. Maybe he picked his affairs, but he talked about people, places, and moments that made him feel 110%, bursting at the seams with a happiness he couldn't explain. He actually couldn't explain a lot of things. He could talk about them, but he lacked the ability to verbally articulate the way it exactly made him feel (don't we all?).
He was obsessed with all things disastrous, things that made a lot of other people frown or squirm. He drew a crazed kind of pleasure from the scum of society, dysfunctional families, and anything that made a mainstream audience uncomfortable. It was an acquired taste, a brand of humour not a lot of people could buy into or understand. There was no excitement in pretty, polished things. You could see it in the way his eyes glazed over and dulled if you brought it up. But have him go on about ugly, awful things, and he'll sit up a bit more and lean towards you, the corners of his mouth in a bit of a smile as he proves to you that he understands the necessity of everything bad. For all the things people prayed to go away, he plead them to say so he could appreciate the contrast.
Ask for the bill, say you want a cigarette. Walk out, settle on a curb, smoke up.
Notice him get lighter when he sits next to you and you ask him what his favourite film is. He'll gush about cinematic geniuses and type in titles you "have to watch" into your phone. His favourite movie is Sofia Coppola's Virgin Suicides, and as soon as he says this, he gets higher and higher. You didn't think it was possible, but here he is, smiling more thsn he was and feeling like he could tell you anything.
And he did. He said a lot of things about a lot of things that night, all in the same passionate tongue. Never forceful though, never making you feel like you had an inferior opinion. So that when the night ended, you felt so, so good.
"There are only two things I hate. Hypocrites and people who see a problem but don't do anything about it. Problem is, I'm kind of the second person, which makes me the first. I guess that's why I hate myself a little."
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