As the train approached, Billy couldn’t help but notice a peculiar old man on the opposite platform. He was dishevelled, scrawny and bashed about, a few wisps of tangled white hair on the sides of his bald head, and seemed to be weeping, tears rolling down his bony face. Billy boarded the train and found a window seat that allowed him to look again at the man, but he couldn’t pick him out on the crowded platform and the train pulled away. Probably mentally ill or senile, thought Billy, how sad.
Billy forgot all about him. Then, some weeks later, he was having an early evening pint in a pub in town when he spotted him again, standing alone on the pavement outside. Billy now had time to look closely. He was small and wiry, wearing dirty plimsolls, baggy trousers held up by a makeshift belt of knotted string and a grubby hoodie over a threadbare jumper. His chin was covered in stubble, his skin was deeply lined and blotchy and most of his teeth appeared to be missing – yet Billy perceived quality in the aquiline nose, the large forehead and the piercing blue-green eyes. As he stared, Billy realised that those eyes were again moist and weepy. Feeling unfamiliar pangs of empathy and protectiveness, Billy gulped back his pint and left the pub, determined to have a word with this distressed fellow and ask if he needed any help. But when he got outside the man was nowhere to be seen. Billy scanned the street and side roads in all directions to no avail. Trudging home, he was overcome with a strange longing to make contact, get to know him and maybe even alleviate his misery.
Months passed by. Like everybody, Billy was busy with life’s usual preoccupations: work, family, friends, money, health and so on. The old man faded into the past – yet, every now and then, he would pop unexpectedly into his thoughts before being instantly banished to the litany of forgotten ships that pass in the night. Then, one cold day in winter, Billy was wrapped up warm sitting on a bus gazing blankly out of the window when, out of the blue, he saw the man again, this time hunched up in a doorway looking even more skeletal and bereft than before, a woolly bobble hat perched on his outsize skull and eyes red and puffy from evident crying. Without thinking, Billy immediately pressed the bell to get off at the next stop. However, there was quite a distance to go. As soon as the bus reached it, Billy jumped off and sprinted back the half mile to the doorway. And the man was not there. In icy sleet driven by biting north-easterly winds, Billy wandered round the immediate vicinity and even asked a couple of people if they had seen a bedraggled old man in a bobble hat a bit like the one he was wearing – but no luck; once more he had disappeared into thin air.
Time ticked on remorselessly. Billy’s life got tougher and tougher as the state of the world and fears for the future only compounded his general unhappiness. There were no more sightings of that poor little man.
***
Over the years, when asleep at night, alone in his bed, Billy often had bizarre feverish dreams about the enigmatic stranger. Sometimes the two of them were tightly entwined completely naked, lost in a vast dark forest and encircled by glinting eyes, rustling leaves and distant howls. Sometimes they were swimming side by side in ocean swells, helplessly being sucked further and further and deeper and deeper out to sea. Sometimes they were locked in a prison cell together, besieged by brutal guards, violent psychopaths and sick madmen with only each other to provide trust, comfort and a shoulder to cry on. So it went on, the scenarios getting ever more extreme, ever more fantastic, ever more nightmarish and, paradoxically, ever more pleasurable. Every morning he would wake up with his penis and sheets caked in dried semen from multiple ejaculations. It got to the point that the highlight of Billy’s day would be going to sleep, entering the dreamworld and having outlandish, orgasmic adventures with his best friend again.
Billy realised this had to stop; it was affecting his work, his real friendships and his social life. Moreover, he felt there was something very unhealthy, neurotic and disturbed about what amounted to a twisted, obsessive compulsive love affair with a pretty repulsive, filthy vagrant he had glimpsed three times and never met. Billy knew a bit about psychology. He tried to understand the underlying drives. Was it a Messiah Complex, saving a hopeless case with the transforming intensity of his love? Was it an Attachment Disorder, hitherto buried in some childhood trauma? Was it a Displacement Activity, manufacturing a faultless relationship to avoid the facts of his repeated relationship failures? Was it Narcissism, selecting someone who would always worship him? Was it repressed Homosexuality? Was it repressed Gerontophilia? Or was he simply just a depressed onanist?
Billy needed to know. Although he couldn’t really afford it, he found a well-regarded, accredited cognitive behavioural therapist in the locality and booked an appointment.
Graham was a pleasant, slim man in his fifties, very friendly, relaxed and reassuring. In the one hour appointment he carefully listened, occasionally scribbling on his notepad, as Billy honestly went through his story, leaving no detail out. When the hour ended, Graham told Billy he would think about the issues, do some research, take soundings from other therapists he respected and hopefully come to a definitive explanation. Then, in due course, he would contact Billy to make a new, free appointment, give him the answers he was looking for and suggest possible treatments. As Billy left Graham’s clinic he was surprised to taste salty tears on his lips. It made no sense, but he felt guilty that he had betrayed the companion of his dreams.
***
For the next few weeks Billy continued his dream life with renewed enthusiasm, figuring that it would soon be over so he might as well maximise and enjoy it. Then one day Graham phoned and, giving no hints of what he was thinking, fixed an appointment for the following week.
“Well Billy,” said Graham, “I think I’m able to unravel this puzzle”. Billy inched to the edge of his chair in burning anticipation.
“When you told me, with such clarity, about the three occasions you saw the old man, I was struck by one telling aspect of these random encounters,” Graham began in his mellow, soothing tones with Billy hanging on his every word. “They all had one thing in common: each time there was a barrier between you and he. At the station your train was pulling in and you were therefore seeing him through two layers of moving glass. In the pub you were seeing him through the thick, double-glazed glass of a typical pub window. And likewise, on the bus you saw him through the dirty, steamed-up glass familiar on all public transport”. Graham paused as he considered his next words. Billy furrowed his brow, unsure of where this was going.
“There is something else that is a feature of such perspectives,” continued Graham in the same steady rhythm, “Glass is reflective – and particularly when the background is darkened, even slightly, it can act as a mirror”. Graham paused and looked closely at Billy. He saw confusion and then a penny dropping, and carried on. “Your description of the man could actually be a description of yourself Billy. You too are getting on in years, you too are bald, you too are skinny and wiry, you too are scruffy, you too have teeth missing, you too have a large head, a striking bone structure and big blue-green eyes. You were simply seeing your own reflection. That man you became fascinated with is yourself”. Graham sat back to wait for Billy’s reaction.
“But, but…so what you are saying is, is…” stuttered Billy, trying to compute the implications. “Yes Billy,” intervened Graham to help him out, “What I’m saying is that you have, at long last, learned to shake off your low self-esteem and fancy yourself. Little wonder you are incessantly masturbating! And might I add, I’m sure there are plenty of other people who don’t care about superficial manufactured appearance who would also be attracted to a fit, handsome, horny, intelligent bloke in his sixties.”
Billy blushed and gave Graham a spontaneous gap-toothed grin. Graham hadn’t finished. “You have been crying in public, probably without realising it, and perhaps these sightings of yourself are an unconscious attempt to come to terms with your sorrow. Please remember this Billy: there is something seriously wrong with anyone who isn’t grieving about the destruction of other species, the trashing of the natural world, the rise of neo-fascism, the ruination of the climate, the spread of infantile ignorance and the horrors of belligerent warmongering. The world needs more people like you. Your mental health is excellent, and although your sensitivity to what is happening does mean isolation and solitude, that can open up other options as you are beginning to discover. I wish you all the best”.
Billy got up off his seat, a new determination and strength coursing through his veins. “Thank you so much, Graham, I can’t express how grateful I am for your wisdom and your counselling,” he said with heartfelt passion, his eyes starting to moisten.
Graham smiled and called after Billy as he opened the door to leave: “By the way Billy boy, if ever you fancy some company, you’ve got my number”.