Chapter 2: Think Too Much

I bent over the toilet bowl retching violently, though nothing issued from between my lips. Nothing except groans, anyway. I had no desire to taste a strange mixture of Coco Pops, blueberry jam, coffee and the leftover curry I'd found in the fridge at work. In fact, I'd blamed my rapid departure from the office on this.
How could I be a player? That just wasn't me. At school I'd been the lanky, spotty kid around whom the girls had taken a wide birth. I once read in the newspaper (well, I'd read it on the online version of the newspaper - who actually reads newspapers nowadays?) that teachers played games to fight off boredom during exam invigilation by walking around the room and standing next to the ugliest kid. It was then that I realised why all the teachers had looked over my shoulder while I tried to figure out what to do with simultaneous equations. It wasn't because I was particularly bright and they were hopeful that my answers might shine with brilliance in a school of dunces. It was because I was unattractive. I'd never really believed they'd had hope in me anyway, one particularly attractive science teacher had actually laughed while watching me try to work out a physics problem in my advanced highers exam. A player? Surely not.
And yet, I had tried, hadn't I? Even before my secondary days, in fact. At primary school a young ginger haired girl had received a biscuit in the shape of a heart on Valentine's Day. It hadn't been from me and yet, for some reason, she suspected that it was. Did I have a reputation even then? And had I denied it? I had not. I claimed that the biscuit was from me and tried for a kiss.
I retched again, feeling a hot, acrid burning at the very back of my throat. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My skin was pale and clammy. How could I be a player? How could I have been a player since primary school? The ginger haired girl (had she been called Jessica?) had had much more modesty than I. She'd been flattered by my "gift", yet she denied me the kiss. Indeed, she avoided coming anywhere near me after that. And they say that Fife girls are harlots.
But she had only been one, hadn't she? Taking advantage, no, taking advantage is the wrong way of putting it, making the most of an opportunity that arises with one girl isn't being a player, it's making the most of life.
I stood up, filled a glass with water from the tap and went to sit in an armchair, sipping from the glass and looking out at Morningside. I wasn't a player.
And yet, I felt a definite sense of unease as I looked at the Apple website and felt the desire for the latest slimline macbook. Here I was on one mac coveting another. A player even in the realm of computers! I'd never been content with just one Apple product, I always wanted another. I was a player to the core!
In fact, even at Sunday School, at the age of what? Four? Five? I'd chased women. I'd sat in the back of the car after Church as Mum was chatting to someone from her hat knitting club and confided to Dad that I liked the Sunday School teacher, hadn't I? Yes! Clear as day! I'd undone my seatbelt, leant forward between the front seats and said "Dad, don't tell anyone, but I like Miss Walton." Dad had just chuckled and said, "Henry, we'll get you a pie for your door!" I don't really know what he meant by that.
In fact, I'd later sounded out the youth worker's wife at an auction of promises by telling her that my friend fancied her that my friend fancied her. He hadn't, of course he hadn't. If this 30-odd year old wife of one and mother of three had seemed interested in the possibility of a relationship with a pre-pubescent 11-year old I'd been planning to subtly put myself forward as an alternative candidate for her affections. A player through and through even as a child! I was born that way! It was in my blood, my very being. My sinews oozed the tendencies of a player.
The acrid feeling arose in my throat again.