The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 10

Dublin city transport is a law unto itself. Time tables are about as accurate as a blindfolded person tossing darts. Some days you wait for half an hour, huddled under the glass shelter as the rain pelts down, then three buses arrive at once. Other times the bus arrives five minutes early, giving you a tantalizing glimpse of its rear as you chase forlornly around the corner, lungs burning in your chest. Roley has a system where he sparks a cigarette, as—in his words—the minute you take a drag, the bleeding thing is bound to appear. I don't smoke. Though sometimes I wonder if the potential damage to my respiratory organs might be worth it.

On the rare occasion my bus arrives at the stop somewhere near its stated time, we avoid the morning traffic and I'll find myself in the city centre with forty-five minutes to kill before school starts. These are the mornings I wander around the book store leafing through magazines I'll rarely buy. Usually, I station myself by the shelves containing the music and film mags.

I spotted a glossy on the top shelf with a picture of Stephen Dorff on the cover, shaggy bleached blonde hair, sleepy-eyed, stubble chinned and subtle pout. Sexy! An empowering rush of adrenaline surged through my being. It felt liberating admitting it to myself.

Underneath the bold-lettered title were the words, A lifestyle magazine for the gay man. A tingle of giddy excitement hurtled up my spinal column.

I threw surreptitious glances about me several times before working up my nerve to open the pages.

Midway through poring over the sultry photographs of the actor, my sixth sense kicked in. I could feel eyes boring into the back of my skull. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a navy uniformed store security guard hovering nearby. My earlier squirrelly behaviour had given him the impression that I intended to acquire the item by way of the old five-finger discount.

I tried to concentrate on reading the article, but couldn't fight the urge to peek around. Only to be confronted by the guard's fixed stare. Sweaty thumbs slipped over the smooth cover, and I almost dropped the magazine. Heart-rate rocketing, I peeked over the pages. He was still there, watching. In situ.

I swivelled around, mag in hand, having concluded it was better to buy the bloody thing. Easy to envisage how innocent people could confess to a crime they haven't committed under prolonged police pressure.

With the magazine clutched close to my chest, cover facing inward, I approached the tills. I opted for the one with the older lady. The girl on the opposite till barely looked out of school and I didn't fancy the embarrassment. Not this early in the morning.

I silently congratulated myself on my wiles as I lay the mag on the counter. The mature blonde with a face of experience maintained a pleasant smile until she flipped it over. The cashier picked it up, scrutinised the cover, shooting me daggers.

"Shouldn't be allowed sell this kinda thing to kids," she declared as she scanned the bar-code.

In my head, I said, "One, lady, I'm not a kid. Two; who appointed you the guardian of morality?" In reality, I stood there mute, warm blood flooding through my cheeks.

"You'll be wanting a paper bag for that." Said with enough mockery and malice to scour clean the walls of the greasiest restaurant kitchen.

Amidst the burning shame, I felt an almighty sense of injustice. I remembered Keith telling me how he came here every month to amplify his extensive skin mag collection. I failed to recall him ever mentioning receiving static of the staff for his choice in reading material.

As soon as I passed through the sliding glass doors, I unzipped my canvas school bag, hunched down and secreted the blue and green striped paper bag among my textbooks.

I spent the rest of the day casting nervous glances at my backpack during class, as though it contained explosive properties that might detonate at any moment.

Once home, I raced upstairs and buried the magazine at the bottom of the stack of movie mags on the floor of my closet. People who possessed a copy of The Anarchists Handbook were probably less paranoid about being caught with it than I was with a bloody lifestyle mag.

When I got around to reading later that night, my fragile young mind remained uncorrupted. After all my CIA style covert tactics, I had half-anticipated finding all manner of salacious, subversive material housed between the glossy covers. Aside from a few photos of buff, bare-chested muscular men, it was your standard-issue lifestyle mag; tips for staying fit, losing weight, health issues, and countless cosmetic and cologne ads. Altogether as bland and innocuous as the copies of Cosmopolitan I'd perused at the local hairdressers, awaiting my turn, as the ladies got their chemical perms touched up.

I gave the muscle-men photos the once over, with no discernible reaction, inspiring a weird sense of relief, tinged with disappointment. Which left me more confused than ever. Perhaps this whole gay business was all in my head, a figment of my over-active imagination?

I looked at the wall of Johnny Depp posters. Sure, I admired his beautiful face. I also respected his acting ability and was blown away by his innate sense of cool and spent a good deal of my wages slavishly copying his fashion choices. Moreover, when I watched his movies, I always wanted Johnny's character to get the girl.

Had I confused idol worship with something else entirely?

All that misplaced angst. Whatever happened to just worrying about pimples?

I got down to reading the interview with Stephen Dorff, frequently finding my eyes wandering across the print to stare transfixed at his photograph. Admiration of his cool pose? Maybe. His acting ability? I hadn't seen any of his movies. Though, I'd be renting Backbeat when it came out on video.

More soul-destroying bewilderment.

It was almost midnight, and sleep was as unattainable as nirvana for me. Time to reach for the red hard-backed notebook out and jot down some esoteric verse. The panacea for all my pain.

Despite being left with more questions than answers, one positive arose from reading the magazine. I'd read a critique of Suede's new single. On the strength of that effusive review, I picked up a copy of their first album.

From the cover of an androgynous couple locking lips to their ambiguous, murky lyrics about sex and depression, everything about this band screamed, different.

The second the swirling electric guitar swept through the silence of my bedroom, I knew I had found something I'd been missing. It was love at first listen. Songs like The Drowners, where lead singer Brett Anderson sang about kissing a guy in his room, were unlike anything I had heard before. In a world where Skid Row frontman Sebastian Bach wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the slogan 'Aids kills fags', here was a band not just singing about alternative lifestyles but celebrating them. Wildly. In joyful, willful defiance.

After years of wearing my brother's hand-me-down musical influences, I had discovered a glittering new outfit. Found the right suit for me.