Spare

I drank it all, every drop, and started feeling very bloody good.

I thought: I like these Americans. I like them a lot.

Strange time to be pro-American. Most of the world wasn’t. Certainly not Britain. Many Brits despised the American war in Afghanistan, and resented being dragged into it. With some the anti-American sentiment ran very hot. I was reminded of my childhood, when people warned me all the time about Americans. Too loud, too rich, too happy. Too confident, too direct, too honest.

Nah, I always thought. Yanks didn’t beat about the bush, didn’t fill the air with polite snorts and throat clearings before coming to the point. Whatever was on their mind, they’d spit it out, like a sneeze, and while that could be problematic at times, I usually found it preferable to the alternative:

No one saying what they truly felt.

No one wanting to hear how you felt.

I’d experienced that at twelve years old. I experienced it even more now that I was thirty-one.

I floated through that day on a pink cloud of tequila fumes. No—floated is wrong. I piloted the pink cloud, and after I landed it—textbook landing, by the way—I woke with no hangover. Miracle.

The next day, or the day after, we moved for some reason. We went from the home of Thomas’s girlfriend to the home of Courteney Cox. She was a friend of Thomas’s girlfriend, and had more room. Also, she was traveling, on a job, and didn’t mind if we crashed at her place.

No complaints from me. As a Friends fanatic, the idea of crashing at Monica’s was highly appealing. And amusing. But then…Courteney turned up. I was very confused. Was her job canceled? I didn’t think it was my place to ask. More: Does this mean we have to leave?

She smiled. Of course not, Harry. Plenty of room.

Great. But I was still confused because…she was Monica. And I was a Chandler. I wondered if I’d ever work up the courage to tell her. Was there enough tequila in California to get me that brave?

Soon after arriving home, Courteney invited more people over. Another party began. Among the newcomers was a bloke who looked familiar.

Actor, my mate said.

Yes, I know he’s an actor. What’s his name?

My mate couldn’t remember.

I went over and talked to the actor. He was a friendly sort, and I liked him straightaway. I still couldn’t place his face or call up his name, but his voice was even more vexingly familiar.

I whispered to my mate: Where do I know this guy from?

My mate laughed. Batman.

Sorry?

Batman.

I was into my third or fourth tequila, so I was having trouble understanding and processing this remarkable bit of new information.

Fuck—yes! Batman LEGO movie. I turned back to the actor and asked: Zit true?

Is…what true?

Are you Him?

Am I—?

Batman.

He smiled. Yes.

What a thing to be able to say!

I begged: Do it.

Do what?

The voice.

He shut his eyes. He wanted to say no, but he didn’t want to be impolite. Or else he recognized that I wouldn’t stop. He fixed me with his ice-blue eyes and cleared his throat and in perfect gravelly Batmanese said: Hello, Harry.

Oh, I loved it. Again!

He did it again. I loved it even more.

We shared a big laugh.

Then, maybe to get rid of us, he led my mate and me to the fridge, from which he extracted a soft drink. While the door was open we spotted a huge box of black diamond mushroom chocolates.

Someone behind me said they were for everybody. Help yourself, boys.

My mate and I grabbed several, gobbled them, washed them down with tequila.

We waited for Batman to indulge as well. But he didn’t. Not his thing, or something. Howdya like that? we said. This bloke’s just sent us by ourselves into the fucking Batcave!

We took ourselves outside, sat down by a firepit, and waited.

I remember after a time standing up and wandering back into the house to use the loo.

It was hard to navigate the house, with its angular modern furniture and clean glass surfaces. Also, there weren’t many lights on. But in time I managed to find a loo.

Lovely room, I thought, shutting the door.

I looked all around.

Beautiful hand soaps. Clean white towels. Exposed wood beams.

Mood lighting.

Leave it to the Yanks.

Beside the toilet was a round silver bin, the kind with a foot pedal to open the lid. I stared at the bin. It stared back.

What—staring?

Then it became…a head.

I stepped on the pedal and the head opened its mouth. A huge open grin.

I laughed, turned away, took a piss.

Now the loo became a head too. The bowl was its gaping maw, the hinges of the seat were its piercing silver eyes.

It said: Aaah.

I finished, flushed, closed its mouth.

I turned back to the silver bin, stepped on the pedal, fed it an empty packet of cigarettes from my pocket.

Open wide.

Aaah. Thank you, mate.