Life Without Gilbert

I wept for about an hour the day I drove my friend Gilbert to the airport. It was one of the saddest days of my life. Seeing him wave goodbye to me hurt more than a stubbed toe.

His departure marked the end of an era. I knew my comfortable bachelor life would never be the same again. I was now alone, friendless, and unloved. I would need to tackle the house chores on my own. I would have to learn how to iron, how to use the trouser press, and work out where he kept the vacuum cleaner. For the first time in my life, I would have to wear a pair of Marigold rubber gloves and tackle the dirty dishes.

Life without Gilbert was not something I had considered. It was not the life I cared to know.

We had lodged together for several years in a poky apartment just off Charing Cross--a street in the heart of Norwich city center, rather than the one in the heart of London. Our ramshackle building was once a prison for women and beggars, back in the sixteenth century. Now it was home to some of Norfolk’s most miserly lowlifes.

Naturally, I was ill-suited to the building. I am a solicitor. I drive a BMW convertible. I am also one of the most beautiful and best-dressed men in Norwich. It was wrong of me to be seen in such a frightfully unfashionable setting.

When you command the sort of income I do, you can afford to be selective about where you reside and the company you keep. The trouble is, the more impressive my annual income, the more loath I am to spend any of it.

The apartment was a short stumble from the epicenter of the city’s entertainment district. My total rent for the year was less than the cost of my suit. I found I just couldn’t pass up on the apartment.

And then came Gilbert.

I was waiting in line at a bakery, having a tuna fish and guacamole sandwich prepared for me. He was standing behind me, breathing down my neck.

He caught my attention by saying to the server, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Tuna fish and guacamole?” the server responded, eyebrows rising with surprise.

“Yes,” he said, delving into his pockets for change. “And add some grated cheese to it.”

I could hardly believe my ears. His order sounded disgusting.

My mother rang me on my cell just as I was about to pay the cashier. I struggled with my sandwich and my wallet and my cell phone. Eventually, I managed to answer my phone and pay the cashier, but only after I’d dropped my sandwich.

Although my lunch break had gotten off to a disappointing start, it would mark a very special hour in my life. My mother had phoned to brag about the wonderful time she was having on holiday in Greece. I told her what a wonderful time I was having in Norwich. I guess I was a little envious of her. She wasn’t at all envious of me.

During our conversation, I mentioned that I was thinking about renting out the spare room in my apartment. I figured that I could do with the company, and it would also enable me to halve my rent. Ever since purchasing my BMW I was desperate to restore my savings account to its former glory. At my rate of earning, I expected that in five or ten years I would have accumulated sufficient wealth to buy a place of my own. By halving my rent I would be that much closer to my dream.

Halfway through my mother’s diatribe about my untidy habits, and how she couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to share a hotel room with me, let alone an apartment, Gilbert tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Did I hear you say you are about to advertise for a flatmate?”

I stared at the small, grubby figure of Gilbert for a few seconds before mouthing the words, “I’m on the phone.”

He nodded. “I can see that. So tell me, where’s your apartment?”

“Hang on, mother,” I said.

“I’m looking for an apartment right now,” he said. “My sweetheart, Henrietta, left me a few weeks ago. She packed all her belongings and left without even leaving a note--on Valentine’s Day, in fact. As her belongings amounted to everything in the apartment, I was mortified when she left. I still haven’t gotten over it. At first, my heart ached. Now my back aches, as well. I sleep on the floor with a blanket over me. And I can’t afford the rent now. I used to leave the bills up to her. So where’s this apartment of yours? How much are you asking for rent?”

I was annoyed that he had interrupted me while I was on the phone. I was also annoyed that he had given me his life story without my having asked for it.

However, when he handed me half of his tuna fish and guacamole sandwich I softened towards him. It tasted pretty good with the grated cheese.

“Mother, I’ll call you back,” I said, hanging up my phone.

Of course, there was little chance of that happening. She was calling from a payphone in Greece.

“Perhaps I can show you the apartment now,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I still have thirty minutes before I’m due back at the office.”

And that was the start of our wonderful relationship. Within a week, Gilbert had moved into the apartment. My untidy habits didn’t bother him in the least. As a matter of fact, he was untidier than me.

My evenings with Gilbert consisted of lengthy conversations about why his relationship with Henrietta had failed. He told me all the things he would like to have done with Henrietta, and then all the things he would like to have done differently. And always late into the evenings he would tell me about a man with six-inch thick glasses and halitosis named Dave, who was a pigeon fancier. Henrietta was now sharing a ground-floor apartment with Dave. Gilbert knew this because he had stalked Henrietta for weeks and tracked her to this man’s apartment building. Dave, who Gilbert insisted was a loser, was dating Henrietta. Gilbert had proof of this. He had seen the two of them kissing on the couch in their lounge. He had seen love in their eyes, he claimed. With the aid of a pair of binoculars he had seen a lot more, but he was always too depressed to tell me about these things.

Often Gilbert would while away his time lolling on the couch composing poetry, while I watched television. He would sometimes read me what he had written and I would critique his work. We had many heated debates over his work, and also many spats. But we almost always managed to put aside our differences within a few hours. I don’t think Gilbert could stay mad at me for long. And if he did sulk for more than a day, I was able to smooth things over by hinting that I might prefer not to share my apartment with anyone. That usually brought him round, and often with his rent check in hand.

The good times can only last so long. When they end, it is always too soon. One bleak October evening, Gilbert announced he was moving out. My happy way of life suddenly spun off the road and flipped into a ditch.

“Was it something I said?” I asked, wishing I hadn’t commented on his ill-fitting shirt.

“I’ve had enough of England,” he replied, self-consciously adjusting his shirt to conceal his paunch.

“Enough of England, or enough of me?” I pressed.

“I’m sick of everything,” he said, throwing himself onto the sofa.

“So it is me,” I concluded.

He caught me gazing at his protruding belly and quickly covered it with a sofa cushion.

“I’m getting old and fat, Humphrey. I’ve done nothing with my life. I’m thirty years old, single and unloved, sharing a squalid bedsit with a forty-year-old man.”

I felt a painful tugging sensation in my stomach. If I didn’t know better I’d swear that Gilbert’s shadow had just punched me.

“I’m thirty-three!” I said, taking umbrage.

“Let’s not quibble over it,” he replied. “At any rate, I’ve nothing to brag about. My career is in tatters, my love life is non-existent, and my stomach is expanding before your very eyes. If I continue living like this people are going to ask me when the baby is due. Naturally they will assume that you are the father.”

“Leaving the country is hardly the solution,” I told him.

“There’s little keeping me here, Humphrey. What have I got to lose?”

I wish I had said to him: “You have a roof over your head, you have a job as a journalist for a newspaper, you have a friend.” But I didn’t. I didn’t respond, and then the moment was lost.

“It’s time for me to start a new life. There’s nothing holding me back. I ought to go out and do something new and exciting and…well, different.”

“What about a new haircut?” I helpfully suggested. “That’ll cheer you up.”

“Canada,” he responded. “That’s a place I’ve never been to, and I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“A holiday. Great! We’ll both go.”

He shook his head. “You’d miss your car too much. Besides, I have to do this alone. First thing tomorrow I’m applying for a work visa.”

There was no talking him out of it by then. And what I’d thought would take several months, in fact took only several weeks.

And then, so soon, Gilbert was gone.

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