It could be said that one of the greatest ‘crimes’ against the self is self-delusion – the deliberate denial of one’s own true nature. This is especially pertinent if that denial leads a person to delegate all consequence or responsibility for their actions to a mental aberration or ‘condition'. An ego of this persuasion could exist beyond the confines societal morality and become a law unto themselves; untroubled by conscience or regret. Although such a person might superficially exhibit unorthodox behaviour, does it always follow that there is anything acutely wrong with them? Could it be they’re so captivated by their unfettered existence that they’ll stop at nothing to convince themselves, and the world, that they’re incurable?
I believe that I’ve met such a person and I would like to explain why. However, you can draw your own conclusions as I guide you through the toe-curling, gruesome and occasionally hilarious events that unfolded during my cohabitation with this individual.
Welcome to the world of Riley…
The life of Riley
The following is my account of events, although names have been changed for privacy reasons. Please don’t read any further if you’re of gentle birth or have a delicate disposition. Note: I’ve opted to write this as a vague pastiche of a gothic horror – well, it seemed appropriate somehow…
1. A DATE WITH FATE
Riley appeared delighted at the idea of having a reliable ‘flat-sitter’ (since he was now living with his mother) and assured me that his visits would only be occasional - at most, overnight stays. Having met him, my first impressions were that he was an affable person, somewhat shy, but well-intended. The kind of person who might linger in the background of a social function and be infinitely grateful for even a passing exchange of platitudes. Briefly, we traded backgrounds.
Riley had been brought over to the
2. GRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY.
The apartment was situated in a 1930s style, three story block – social housing intended for the poor of that era. Although unlovely in appearance, it was well-tended and recessed from an airy, tree-lined street. In fact, my first impressions of the surroundings were favourable.
In stark contrast, my crushing sense of chagrin at the condition of the apartment was matched only by an overwhelming urge to gag. There was a pervading smell; one of damp and mouldering. In fact, walls that hadn’t already divested themselves of their wallpaper were, in places, blackened by mould. Riley had already instructed me not to open windows in order to guard against stray gusts of wind and a perceived threat of intruders. I surmised that the windows had not been opened for months, if not years. In fact, many of them were sealed with duck tape and blanked-out by refuse bags.
As I ventured warily along the hallway, I found myself wading through discarded fast-food packaging (some containing rotting food), crumpled pages of longhand, used tissues, dirty laundry and a brick-a-brack of miscellany such as astronomy journals, condom packets and chocolate wrappers. (Ferrero Rocher being a clear favourite although I fear that famed ambassador from the commercials might have found the setting less than convivial for one of his opulent soirees.)
My intended (spare) bedroom contained one single mattress almost lost to a deluge of assorted rubbish and dust. Short of hiring a snow plough, I was perplexed as to how I might shift all the crap and begin utilising such a festering garbage heap as my boudoir. To my horror, I discovered that it was inhabited by a species of arachnid called ‘Opiliones’. This species dart around on long, spindly legs and survive by eating fungi, animal remains and also by sucking the juices from their prey. (I would later discover that these creatures shared this latter mode of predation with the owner of the property…)
Greatly disheartened, I lurched toward the kitchen, girding my loins for what other horrors may await. I discovered it thick with grease on work surfaces and walls. Evidently, this had tar-like quality which had ensnared legions of hapless insects. Surely all but the most steadfast etymologist would have quailed in terror? Those creepy-crawlies that had survived this peril were rewarded with a bounty of rotting cereal, flour and spices, etc. In fact, the kitchen represented an entire ecosystem all feasting greedily in a living, seething carpet of compost. The infestation had spread throughout the cupboards, shelves and drawers. It was, in short, vile.
The sitting room was in a similar state to the bedroom excepting that there was a preponderance of discarded cell phone numbers and hastily scrawled mantras such as ‘…must build muscles. IMPORTANT: either have to build them or touch them…’ Initially, I didn’t interpret any sinister connotations in such notes. (I use similar, apparently nonsensical, jottings in my own writing - phrases that, to a casual browser, might appear ludicrous.) At that point, I assumed that Riley shared my passion for composing skits and poems. This supposition was compounded when I perused dusty bookshelves which were brimming over with poetry anthologies, manuals on creative writing and various esoteric publications concerning the healing power of crystals and evangelist teachings.
The walls of the bathroom were glistening with condensation and the porcelain discoloured with limescale. The bath itself was clearly blocked and exhibited a tidemark of scum and pubic hair[?] that had evidently bubbled up from a blockage in the drains. Ever practical, I decided that this would be my first point of attack in my stratagem to wage war on grime.
The toilet was unlike anything on earth (or, I suspect, in the known universe). The pan was encrusted with russet-coloured limescale up to the waterline and bore testimony to countless ill-considered evacuations. In fact, in the course of my life, I’ve witnessed crack-houses that were less squalid. It was at this point that I began to wonder if Dante’s inferno might have been slightly more hospitable…?
Needless to say, I spent the next two weeks scrubbing, disinfecting, sweeping and polishing the festering mountain of grime, filth and decay. I was fortunate in the discovery of some rusted tools in my bedroom since it required a chisel to remove the near-fossilised crud from the toilet pan.
At last, satisfied with my Herculean accomplishments, I resumed my writing in an environment finally fit for human habitation. This period of my life heralded a peculiar odyssey into the psyche of a self-deluded mind.
3. TEA AND SYPMPATHY
I consider myself a compassionate human being; a good listener and generally pretty tolerant. Tales of injustice or illiberal attitudes are vexatious to me. I was therefore moved by what I came to regard as Riley’s tortured existence (or ‘condition’ as he preferred to call it).
As a child, his parents had forced him to attend a ‘church’ that abounded with theories of demonology and damnation. To my mind, this represents an abhorrent and inverted perspective of the human condition that ignores its more sublime and transcendent qualities. Doubtless, such scaremongering took its toll on poor Riley’s young mind. His father also regarded beating to be the mainstay of good parenting practices. Riley attributed much of his ‘condition’ to his brutal father.
When Riley first visited me at his flat, he was thrilled by its transformation from a hovel into home. He wasted no time in explaining that his various childhood traumas had rendered him incapable of performing even the most basic housewifery tasks. ‘Really…?’ I remember commenting with a wry grin. However, moved by his plight, I told him that I was more than happy to maintain the place, pay rent and even prepare (vegetarian) food for him should he stay over. Compassion, in hindsight, isn’t always the best policy.
Within a month, Riley had moved in to the apartment and ensconced himself in his old bedroom. Although I’d had no forewarning of this change of living arrangements, he proved to be amiable (if eccentric) company. At this point, I was fortunate in finding an offer of employment.
Things settled down into a kind of domestic ‘normality’ - although I found Riley’s insatiable curiosity about work, friends and past relations disconcerting at times. There were other matters of concern too; he rarely ventured out of the flat, he still insisted (vehemently) on windows remaining closed and obsessed over washing his hands (around 40 times a day, I learned). There was also the matter of him asking to massage my chest and arms - to which I consented since he claimed this was ‘therapeutic’ for his condition. Initially, these idiosyncrasies didn’t worry me unduly. So I indulged, humoured and entertained his whims.
I decided to help Riley apply for a higher rate of state benefits, encourage him to socialise and generally persuade him to forgo his daily diet of TV chat shows and Ferrero Rocher. I even organised an introductory consultation with a psychotherapist in the hope that it might help him to overcome his ‘condition’ and bolster confidence.
The meeting itself was a startling revelation for all concerned parties. As well as covering Riley’s obsessive-compulsive disorders, the psychiatrist went on to pry into sexual behaviour (well, what more could one possibly expect from your average kwack?). It transpired that Riley was often consumed by a desire to grope and fondle and had already done so in public on several previous occasions. Of more concern was the blithe and jocular manner with which he described these lapses of judgement. The victims of these unwelcome trysts had tended to be men of muscular build who were, understandably, enraged by his amorous advances. I speculated that Riley was lucky not to have been afforded a sturdy punch on the nose. Naturally, the psychiatrist suggested that he voluntarily signed the Sex Offenders Register. Riley refused, became agitated, and requested that the session be terminated. Latterly, he did attend further appointments after much cajoling on my part. However, after only a few sessions, he opted to end the treatment since it was ‘unhelpful to the condition’. Inevitably, I began to wonder if he either wanted to be helped or desired to change. That said, he did agree to take a mild course of sedatives to alleviate ‘agoraphobia’ (his term - not the analyst’s).
4. THRILLS AND SPILLS
Some months into my cohabitation with Riley, further unsavoury details came to light – some trivial, others less so. In many ways, both categories delineated a manifestly odious bedside manner.
Bathing time for Riley entailed frantic and repetitive scrubbing followed by several hours of basting in his own juices. The resultant layer of scum around the bathtub was only removable with bleach. The copious quantities of ‘healing oils’ poured into his bath water also resulted in repeated blockages due to congealed fat. Consequently, much of the effluent water from flats above us gurgled straight up through the hand basin and bath in a mottled plume of foam and foul-smelling water. I suggested that he might start using bathing salts instead but the idea was resoundingly rejected.
If this wasn’t gross enough, then Riley’s toiletry functions were even more repugnant. (I include this simply to illustrate the increasingly fraught situation I found myself in.) Riley had already mentioned that he avoided foodstuffs containing fibre since he detested ‘letting go’ as he called it. Due to some extraordinary carbuncle in his mental landscape, he took great pains to avoid a regular defecation. A daily intake of raw eggs (and other binding foods like white bread and chicken) coupled with, doubtless, sheer grit-determination allowed him to evade normal bowel function for days on end. However, when that moment of doom finally arrived and the floodgates opened - dear God - all hell broke lose! To this day, I’m astonished that the man didn’t self-asphyxiate in those palls of sulphurous fumes whilst perched on his porcelain throne. I remember being woken up, gasping for air, as a putrefying stench enveloped me like a cloud of mustard gas. I was forced to retreat under my duvet, praying I might be spared suffocation, or worse, a severe decimation of brain cells.
As time went by, Riley stopped taking his medication and became predominantly nocturnal. He began to suffer mood swings and was, at times, churlish. He roused himself by late afternoon and then went about his rigid daily regime of feverish ablutions, feeding and then lounging in front of the TV whilst making notes. Occasionally, he might venture to the shops but was mostly housebound. By evening he was still fastened to the sofa savouring the delights of reality television, soap operas and ‘documentaries’ about extreme medical conditions that were - to all intents and purposes - latter day freak shows. Sometimes he would ‘converse’ with the characters on these programmes. I attributed this to him seeing them as some kind of surrogate social network[?]. He conducted all his viewings at high volume which began to cause me sleep deprivation. There were numerous occasions when I had to ask him to lower the volume during the early hours of morning.
On one occasion I decided to take him out for a beer and an informal chat regarding noise levels. It was a quiet local bar that I hoped he might not find too daunting. Unlike myself, he didn’t drink a great deal so by the time I’d meandered back home with him, he was still relatively compos mentis. I, on the other hand, was sozzled. He tailed me into my bedroom and we chatted about the usual silly things that tipsy people discuss. I guess I must have drifted off to sleep. When I finally stirred, to my absolute horror, I realised that I was under attack; there was a hand up my shirt and someone was performing fellatio on me. Was it was some monstrous succubus from the nether regions gorging rapaciously at my very own nether regions? Terror-stricken, I opened my eyes...but it was worse than I imagined! The assailant was none other than my predatory flatmate who busied himself bobbing up and down at my waist...
Even if Riley was my type (which he’s not), I’m still old fashioned enough to subscribe to the idea of ‘consent’. After challenging him, he responded by saying ‘Well…I didn’t think you’d mind…?’ I explained (as evenly as I could) that yes actually, I kind of did mind and he should kindly remove his paw and jaw. Judging by his reaction, my rejection was not well received and regarded as something of a snub. In the course of the next few days he became somewhat distant towards me - which was actually a welcome respite. It also gave me some spare time to fit bolt locks to my bedroom door.
5. PULLING A FAST ONE.
Throughout my stay, Riley was employing the services of rentboys (a vernacular term for male hookers). Initially, this was hardly a concern to me and, moreover, I hoped it might keep him off my back (as it were) and provide the titillation that his life so obviously lacked. The only inconvenience was that I’d be obliged to work late on occasion, while he entertained a ‘guest’ (as he euphemistically referred to these commercial liaisons).
However, there was one such occasion that still confounds me. I’d arrived home late from dinner with a friend and was unnerved to discover a recumbent body on my bed. As you might expect, I asked of the intruder to identify themself which was countered by: ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I provided my name and began to explain that it was in fact my bedroom and I’d be much obliged if he kindly remove his person forthwith. After hurling a tirade of expletives at me, the trespasser managed to rouse himself, gather up his accoutrements and stagger towards Riley’s room.
It was then that Riley entered the fray and enquired why I’d upset his ‘friend’. I explained in no uncertain terms that my status as a tenant bestowed certain privileges, namely, a basic level of privacy and respect. Although Riley found this remark amusing his associate clearly didn’t. With all the dazzling wit and repartee of a true raconteur he informed me that I was a ‘fucking cunt’. As you might imagine, in the ensuing days relations were rather frosty.
I recall a distant friend of Riley’s once dropped by to see how he was faring. He was a very pleasant Frenchman and I’m still in touch with him. He knew Riley from years back – even though Riley never bothered to contact him. Having enquired of Riley’s exploits, the friend was promptly treated to a ‘blow-by-blow’ account of a variety of tawdry encounters.
‘Oh my God Riley,’ the friend laughed, ‘all you seem to do is eat, sleep and fuck…?’
After pondering this, Riley said (without a trace of irony), ‘Yeah…well… it’s not such a bad life though, is it?’
…hardy the sentiments of a poor, tortured soul with a ‘condition’…I conjectured.
6. I CAN’T HELP IT – IT’S THE ‘CONDITION’.
An outside observer might ask why I lingered in such a place given that it brought me such anguish. The truth is that was convenient for work, a nice part of
Nevertheless, as a conciliatory gesture, I decided to try to attain better understanding of Riley’s condition and thereby rekindle some sympathy for him. We chatted one evening to the less than dulcet tones of Big Brother. He went on to explain that he suffered from ‘graphomania’, which he described as an overwhelming compulsion to write. ‘Is that such a terrible thing for an aspiring poet…or writer?’ said I, ‘surely there’s worse conditions that can afflict a person?’ The remark prompted Riley to explain that he was ‘polymaniacal’ (in possession of a variety of manias affecting differing mental faculties). He then went on to detail some of his more troublesome bugbears:
Anemophobia; fear of air drafts or wind, automysophobia; fear of being dirty, coprophobia; fear of faeces, ablutomania; obsession with being clean, clinomania; excessive desire to stay in bed (or, in the common tongue, 'lazy').
‘There’s others too,’ Riley explained, ‘I discovered them all from my self-help books…’
‘Heavens!’ I exclaimed, ‘…what other ailments could a poor fellow possibly endure…?’
‘peotillomania,’ he explained casually, ‘it’s an abnormal compulsion for pulling on one’s penis…’
‘I…um…see…’ I stuttered, ‘but is that really such a bad thing? I mean we all indulge in the odd spot of that once in a while…surely? Where’s the harm…y’know?’
It was at this point that he revealed that he’d been placing his ear against my bedroom door late at night to ascertain whether I was masturbating.
‘Would it actually matter if I was?’ I blushed.
‘Yes,’ he insisted, ‘because it disturbs my condition...’
I began to speculate that he’d studied and collected manias and phobias in the same way others might collect postage stamps. These concepts were then enmeshed into a shroud of self-delusion that both justified his idleness and exonerated him from all accusations of wrongdoing. Thus, he could live the life of a libertine, be financed by the state benefits system and be free to transgress all parameters of decency and friendship without fear of guilt or reprisal. But underlying this dark tangled web, I suspected, was ‘hypengyophobia’ i.e. a fear of responsibility…
7. THE LAST STRAW
Gee was an American poet that I’d met at a bar. He’d captivated me with spellbinding verse. He was confident, charming and handsome. It was a joy to share his company. Yes, there were complications; he was out of work and also still dealing with emotional fallout from a previous relationship but overall, I had high hopes for the two of us. I think we both sought something uncomplicated so we were taking things slowly. Kisses, hugs, flirting; still wondering which one of us would be brave enough to take things to the next level…
Gee loaned me some music CDs and mentioned that he might collect them a few days later. He lived nearby so it was easily done. I asked Riley if he would mind passing on the CDs if Gee happened to drop by. Riley assured me it was ‘no problem’ and ‘I’ll handle it…’. Later on that week Riley informed me that Gee had indeed collected his CDs and passed on his regards. Great. By this time, I’d arranged to see Gee at the weekend.
‘Something happened,’ was the ominous remark when I next met Gee and thanked him for the loan of his music.
‘Eh?’ I quizzed anxiously, ‘what d’you mean?’
‘With Riley,’ he said, ‘but I needed the dough…’
‘Hang on Gee, I’m lost. What are you trying to tell me?’
Gee gazed at me searchingly. ‘It just freakin’ happened okay? First he offered fifty but I said “no fuckin’ way man!”. Shit, what does he take me for? But then the deal kept gettin’ higher ‘n’ higher. Hell, I ain’t workin’...and three hundred y'know? That's a lotta dough when you ain’t got nothin’…’
‘You mean...you…with Riley…?’
‘Yeah, that’s the deal. But don’t trip on it. I ain’t into his shit. It's you I'm into - I swear. So we’re still tight, yeah?
‘Gee, I’m going home.’
Despite Gee’s protestations, I headed back utterly crestfallen. Yes, he’d been incredibly candid with me (should I have been more forgiving?) but…the thought of him with Riley…? Euch! I was confused, distressed, messed up… I couldn’t think straight and lacked the moral fibre to discuss the matter further. What was done was done. I chose not to confront Riley about his actions that evening since my mind was in turmoil.
The next morning, I had a more rational perspective. It struck me as richly ironic that Riley would never have been able to make such a tempting financial offer to Gee had I not helped him to obtain extra state benefit. I confess that I found his actions treacherous, amoral and insufferably loathsome. As for Gee, well at least he’d only done it for the money! Despite this partial justification, regretfully, I opted not to see him again.
My thoughts turned to Riley. Did he, in some perverse way, illicit pleasure from my torment or were his actions simply down to an insatiable lust for anything in trousers? To this day, I’m still unsure. I have a theory, however, that he was so fascinated by my ‘normal’ life that he desired to live it by proxy. Indeed, he did his utmost to wheedle out every turn of events from me, every observation and insight to the extent that some evenings it was exasperating. Did he covet this perceived fulfilment, this richness and seek to share in those associated sensations, experiences, pleasures…boyfriends?
I don’t especially relish indecorous displays but sometimes I suppose they're inevitable. It all began in a gentlemanly enough fashion. I began to quiz Riley on his views about transgressions against friendship and personal ethics. Then I mentioned that I was aware of his seduction of Gee and asked him about his motives. I asserted that some might find his actions abhorrent, disloyal and even amoral. Predictably, Riley blamed the ‘condition’ for his behaviour. I argued that a ‘condition’ implies a spontaneous or involuntary act - not a calculated, considered and skilfully executed haggle over payment for sex. Moreover, striking a bargain like that required a reasonable degree of mental lucidity, cunning and even forethought. I demanded to know if he’d planned to reveal this despicable deed. Things got heated.
‘Things happen sometimes…’ he grinned smugly, ‘it is what it is…’
‘But what it actually is,’ I reasoned back, ‘…is testimony to your character.’
‘Yeah…well…welcome to the real world Edwin…’ came the sardonic reposte.
What, I thought, would you know of the real world? ...The sheer, towering conceit of the man was beyond human comprehension!
It was at that point I realised that neither explanation nor apology would be forthcoming. After all, in order to apologise one must first acknowledge wrongdoing. Riley’s propensity for self-delusion denied him this awareness. After all, Riley’s not responsible, is he? He might be patronising, evasive, even calculating…but accountable? No, impossible – responsibility lays squarely with his ‘condition' right?
The upshot of this argument was Riley placing a ban on all visitors of mine to his little tin pot dictatorship of a flat. In some ways, this was a relief since my sister was planning to stay over (and I subsequently discovered that Riley had occasional bisexual tendencies). I’m damn sure that my sibling would never have forgiven me if she’d been grappled by this degenerate. Oh yes - a narrow escape from the jaws of disaster.
It was all becoming an unfathomable mess, a mire…a theatre of the absurd. I realised one thing though – if I stayed at Riley’s place any longer, I’d end up nuttier than a squirrel poo. It was too high a price to pay. I’d had enough of the intrusions, the abuses, the betrayals and all those hackneyed excuses that inevitably followed in their wake. Time to move on…get the hell out...
To this day, Riley remains an enigma to me. Was he insane…? Was he a chameleon, a charlatan…a consummate actor striking the pose of a madman?
Ultimately, I shall never know.
