I AM ALWAYS on the left in the photographs. This has always been my way. As if I am always drifing into shot, just shading my presence on the scene. I am always the quotation mark at the begining of the quote, never quite sure as to how that quote is going to end, not quite sure as to what is about to be said. My mouth is always slightly open — perhaps laughing, maybe having just spoken, possibly having just picked something from my teeth, but all the same I am caught in the middle of something. Caught in the act. And, from the photographs — that something that I may have just done — it can often look as if it may be of import. God, that it were so. I have more than likely just picked something from my teeth.

I am the “unidentified man”.

There are many women, and many other men who are equally without identity. Who have merely had the luck to have been caught in an unguarded moment with those fortunate enough to have names, to have stories behind them and stories in front of them that will make sure that their names will live forever — but spare a moment, spare a thought for those of us who create the bulk of these photographs that you devour and think, for a moment, of yourself.

You, my friend — if I may call you that — are the voyeur.

Do you think that it is luck that I am photographed with the famous? That I have slicked back my hair, and put on a tuxedo and cologned my cheeks and attended to my toilette on the off-chance? Examine the photograph. Do I look that fucking stupid? You have to know this — I want to be there, I really want to be there. This moment defines me. And the many other moments like it. In the midst of the glamour and the starlets, the capped teeth and the hairpieces, the cosmetic surgery and the psychaitric bills — this is where I belong. This is what I do.

Of course it wasn’t always this way.

Once, I had thought, there was a better way.

For argument’s sake, let us call them my “unidentified friends”. That is, when all’s said and done, all that they are. Unidentified friends. But what friends — I would be nothing without them. Let me put it another way, they would be nothing without me. There, I’ve said it and I will say it again — they would be nothing without me. I am more important to them than they can ever admit. It’s the truth! Think of a name, any name, think of a singer or an actor or a model or an artist or a film director. Think of anyone whose work you admire. An architect, a playwright, a designer, a sportsman. Then think of them alone. Go on, try. Try to think of them by themselves, at home perhaps, eating a sandwich in front of the televison. Watching an old variety show, or a news programme, or an advertisement. The mustard dripping from the ham sandwich onto their shorts while their dog yaps for attention. It’s not the image you want, is it? And I’ll tell you why, because you are missing me — the unidentified man.

Their crutch.

Laughing at their jokes. Patting them on the back. Guiding them through a crowded room. Kissing them on the cheek. Blocking a punch thrown in their direction. Fetching them a drink. Smoothing their way. Always making sure their way is smooth.

They know me, of course. They know me as Jack, or Jim, or John, or James. They know me as a stand-up guy. Someone to rely on. Part of the circle, part of the crew. A squeeze on the shoulder; a nudge in the ribs; a playful cuff to the back of my head. Of course they know me. And why not? What’s not to know?

Apart from my name. Apart from the dreams I once had. Apart from the fact that I know I am better than them.

There, once again, I’ve said it. And I will say it again — I am better than them.

Why am I better than them? Because I laugh at their jokes. I pat them on the back. I guide them through a crowded room. I kiss them on the cheek. I block a punch thrown in their direction. I fetch them a drink. I smooth their way. I always make sure their way is smooth. And they would not do the same for me. Not in a million of your Earth years would they do this for me. And this is not how I thought it would be. This is not how it was meant to be. For me.

But, and you have to realise this, I am not angry. This does not make me bitter. It does not make me sad. I have not missed my boat, it is more that I have missed a connection — and at some point, I am sure, I will make that connection. I will be riding the same train as they are. High on the hog. Pals together. Chums. Us against the world.

For the time being, though, I am the unidentified man.

This was not always the way. I was the man that we all were at one time or another. The man of promise, the man who made the jokes and was the butt of jokes, the man who was cruel and vain and capricious, the man who had a ticket out of town and knew that he would never be coming back. There’s no need to tell you the name of the town, nor the name of the country — not even the continent. For my story is not uncommon. My story crosses rivers and ravines, it climbs mountains and leapfrogs skyscrapers, it traverses deserts and forests, my story is not tied down by geography or culture, by neither time nor place. It is eternal.

Songs have been written about me — some classic melodies, some forgettable tunes — and books and plays and poems. The forgotten man, the everyman. Films have featured me. Anecdotes have been spun around me. Even then, back in my home town, stories sprang up around me; they clung to me and they suffocated me and I had to get out. I had to cash in my ticket out of town. The ticket that we all posess at some point in our lives, our chance to shake the shackles of what created us, to free ourselves of our past. Re-invention, it’s the modern way — it’s the only way of fulfilling dreams. It’s the only way.

So, I left where I came from — I left what I had once been and found myself.

In another time, another place.

Martinis and margaritas, pitchers of them. Cartons of Lucky Strikes, handed around like marshmallows at a picnic. Swimming pools and casinos. Parties, stag films and showgirls. Hangovers and cold showers. Memories and laughs were there to be shared, both of them false. Loves and lust to be shared, both of them false. It was a movie lot of a life — the scenery was shifted by the hired hands, but the players remained the same. Their names a blur, their faces a blur, but everyone had their part to play. And it soon became apparent that I was to play the part of the unidentified man.

Clean-cut and with a strong jaw, I was perfect. Straight teeth and a full head of hair, I fitted the bill. An even tan, a good wardrobe and an easy smile, I was straight from Central Casting. Which I was — direct from Central Casting, they took one look at me and cast me in my part. in my role.

– Do you have a tuxedo? The girl had asked me, as if it were a requirement for the job. A downpayment on my future. Which it was.

A bit part, a walk-on in a party scene, and it was as if I had arrived. They were all there — the factotums and the flunkeys, the yes-men and the easy girls, the pimps and the dealers. They were all there, carving off their slice of the action — making sure there was enough gravy to go with it, enough for them to grease their wheels and line their pockets. They were like the moths to the flame, flying ever closer until some of them had their wings singed and fell to the ground. Until some of them were left lying in the dirt, to be trodden on — thoughtlessly — and forgotten. Or never even to have been remembered. Not a name, nor a face, just the sound of something unpleasant on the sole of a shoe. And gone. In an instant.

And the instant was what they all craved. It was what we all craved. It was what I craved. An instant of recognition. God, how I craved for that moment. For that instant. Of recognition.

You have to understand that I had come from nowhere to somewhere. I had come from nothing and I was close to something. Yet at the same time I was surrounded by other nothings from nowhere, looking to be something in somewhere. An easy smile and a full head of hair were not going to be enough here. I had to have more to offer.

Once, I had thought, there had been more to offer.

Look at these photographs, look at them as I leaf through them — through the boxes of them, the albums of them, the loose-leaf folders full of them. And what do you see? Do you see me? No. You do not. You will recognise a blonde girl, who used to be someone. Or was married to someone. Or had once had an affair with someone — which was hushed up and kept out of the newspapers. And now is just forgotten. Or you will recognise her. Her, you cannot fail to recognise. She was married to someone, yes. But she had a fame that was particular, that was her very own, and that she has never lost. She is properly and for-ever famous. May God have room for her in His Heaven.

(I have her telephone number, if you’re interested, but she doesn’t take calls anymore. A bit of a recluse, if you know what I mean. Some people say slightly mad. A bit cuckoo. But what do they know? What the fuck do they know?)

And this bunch? A crazy gang, to be sure. Hell-raisers, rebels without a pause, liquor-sodden hoodlums on the fast-track of the highway to oblivion. Hellzapoppin’? Pillsapoppin’, more like. Pharmaceutical warlords whose names are now inscribed on tombstones from Cardiff to Hoboken. What a bunch, what a bunch of deadbeats. Mean-spirited, tight-fisted deadbeats. You know what? I spit of their graves. May they rest in peace.

Of course, I don’t have their telephone numbers.

And the queer who could never admit it. At least, not to his adoring public — his adoring female public. And the firebrand who walked tall and proud with Martin Luther King, but whose cold, dead hand could never be prised from the stock of his rifle. The same rifle that niggers now use to shoot niggers with. And the young kitten who set all of our hearts aflame with desire, who turned into the big cat that we would most like to tame, and who is now a mangy beast living in a cage of her own making. And the rest of them, all dead. Well, if not dead, then living the life of the living dead. Their names are now little but scratches on concrete pillars, less than a memory. But their faces — their faces — will live forever. I come from the same breed. I am of the same stock. I laughed at their jokes. I patted them on the back. I guided them through a crowded room. I kissed them on the cheek. I blocked a punch thrown in their direction. I fetched them a drink. I smoothed their way. I always made sure their way was smooth.

And this picture? This picture here?

This is my wife.

That was my wife.

It was on a jet, a private jet that was flying to a resort. It was just another resort where there would be gambling and girls and parties and liquor and bad behaviour. It was just another flight. It was just another party. Her face was crumpled, it was as if she had been to one resort too many, as if she had been to one party too many — as if she had seen all the gambling and girls and liquor and bad behaviour that she needed to. As if she didn’t need this midnight flight, over rocky mountain tops and through air pockets that sent the weak-stomached to vomit in the toilets. She had seen it all before. And so had I.

Our eyes had met. My eyebrows were raised. It is within such seconds that corporations strike deals. It is within such seconds that signatures are scrawled onto contracts, that lives are lost, that men are killed, that countries are overthrown, that babies are created, that rings are slipped onto fingers. It took a second. It was forever. And it was without words.

She was mine forever.

And the plane touched down and the party started. And we had no time to search each other out. But we knew, we knew what had happened in the private jet that had reeked of petrol and whisky and vomit, that had had the stain of travel and escape and was full of the empty, shallow smell of freedom. We had crossed a Rubicon, we knew who each other were — and what we were to each other. The dozen passengers on the plane had been strangers, and still were. Although each one was known to the other. Strangers, though. Still strangers, in their cocoon of celebrity. And the only two strangers in their midst, the only two who were not known to them, were the unidentified man — and the unidentified woman.

We were married. We lived well. We were happy. Still, we fulfilled our roles. We were always on the left of the photographs — never together in the photographs, but still in the same room, in the photographs. Still together outside of the photographs. I have photographs of us together, where it mattered — when it mattered.

I can find them here. Somewhere in the boxes and albums and loose-leaf folders. She is in here, I promise you. Somewhere.

She is dead now.

She is as good as dead to me.

I live in what they call a bungalow. Full of memories, but those memories don’t belong here. They belong in a different place. In a place where we danced, where she was the most beautiful woamn on the planet, where I was her squire and the world was ours. After we were married she lost that tired look in her eyes, she shook off the damaged air of the victim — of the hunted. She shone instead, she was posessed by a zest for the life we found ourselves on the periphery of — it was no matter that we were the unidentified man and the unidentified woman. We had each other. We had everything. The pills in the bathroom cabinet gathered dust; the liquor on the drinks trolley lasted us more than a single night; our clothes were not heavy with a scent that would mask the odours of the previous evening. We had a lustre. Everyone said so. It was commented upon. It was noticed.

She was older than me, by a mere five years. An age gap that made no difference, it had no bearing on our lives — she was twenty five years-old, and I was twenty years-old. We had our lifetimes ahead of us.

And the parties continued.

And we were photographed — for your benefit.

Yes, I shall tell you something about yourself. It is your appetite, your voracious appetite for a fleeting taste of what the lives we lead might be like that make you complicit. That, to a certain extent, makes you to blame. You, of course, also have a role to play. But it is clear-cut, there is a demarcation, by definition you are the consumer. These are the rules. That is what you are supposed to do. Consume. Films are shot, songs are recorded, books are written and televison is made for you — and ready-meals are created for you to eat in front of the televison set. Meals eaten from your lap that recently held a well-thumbed glossy magazine. This is your lot. You may feel that this is not enough. You may feel that you have invested enough in the act of consumption to be privy to the lives lived behind it. And you will gorge yourself on the details. And we hate you for it.

You do not want to see signs of age tarnish us — the beautiful people; and I use that phrase advisedly. You do not want to see the decay and infirmity that creeps up on us all, that is our lot, that is our shared future. You do not want to be reminded of this. Youth can play at being aged beautifully, but age can never play beautiful youth. That — you know, and we know — is the way of this world.

You want us to be young and lithe — which we were.

You want us to be able to make you forget your existence behind the check-out counter, or at a desk in the tax office, or behind the wheel of a taxi cab.

And we always do — whether we are identified or not — and you are comforted by the knowledge that there is a brighter, smarter, better world out there. And that you are somehow connected to that world. Which makes your world somehow more acceptable — more explicable.

And the parties continued.

After a while the parties become one. It was a job of work for us — to swell the ranks, to keep the make-believe afloat, to keep the dream alive. And we worked at it, we did what was expected of us and I waited for the call that never came. There had been many calls — I’m not begining to suggest that I was out of the loop — but they were the cinematic equivalent of the theatre’s “third spear carrier from left”. The televisual equivalent of the theatrical “exit, pursued by bear”. Those calls were not the call. The call that would identify me, that would put a name to my face, that would put my name in the credits. The agent’s were hired and fired — like changing deckchairs on the Titanic, my wife quipped — money came in and money went out — like the tide, my wife said — and I waited for the call.

And time passed.

She was thirty years-old. I was twenty five years-old. We were still in love. Still happy with our lot. We had each other.

Now, she is as good as dead — to me.

We both knew that we had histories, that lives had been led before we had met each other. Let me tell you something, marriage is like a freshly laundered shirt on a summer’s evening. You have been hot and sticky, then you have showered and you’re fresh and ready for anything. The shirt has been worn before — a spaghetti sauce may have been spilt on it, it has been sweated in — but on that summer’s evening, as the creases fall from the sleeves and the cufflinks are popped into the cuffs, it is the most perfect feeling in the world. Cool, refreshing — but with a hint of previous use. It posesses its own memory. There’s no need to ask the shirt its history. Just accept the fact that it fits. That, in my opinion, is marriage. So there had been no need to question each other about what had gone before — lives had been lived, and we accepted it.

History, as we are so often reminded, has a way of repeating itself.

One day the call came — but it wasn’t for me.

And that shirt is suddenly ruined. Stained. Beyond the care of the laundry or the washing machine. Nothing to be done to save it. Ruined. Still, though, still you try to hang on to it. Because it is your favourite shirt. The one shirt that makes you feel good. That makes you feel right. You try to convince yourself that there must be some way of saving it.

I handed the telephone across to her, I told her who it was — still, to this day, I cannot bring myself to say his name, nor, come to that, her name — and I left the room. In our bungalow. And I stood in the garden. Pretending to admire the view. To this day I cannot tell you what I was looking at.

Some time later I went back into the bungalow and everything had changed.

Suddenly life was soured.

It was like a long-forgotten marker for a bet had been called in. A bad debt had come back to haunt us, and it needed paying — it needed honouring. We sat in front of the television that was not turned on. Next to the record player that was playing no tunes. Beside the drinks trolley that remained untouched. And we didn’t speak. We both knew that there was nothing to say. We had lived the dream at someone else’s expense, and now we were being called to account for the chit.

Suddenly life was all ashes.

The photographs stop there. There are no more photographs. Well, of course there are more photographs — hundreds of them, thousands of them. But no more photographs with any meaning.

She went to her second marriage. I went to my second career.

Neither would exist without the man who had made the call. Who had put the call through that I had been waiting for. Who had waited until he was ready for what he wanted. For my wife. Who would take care of him in his old age. And then he had paid me off. Like a street whore. And I had accepted the thirty pieces of silver — the fame that I had been waiting for.

We are both famous now. You will recognise the both of us. You can put names to our faces. We have everything that we had ever dreamed of.

Except each other.

To each other, we are both dead.

I am no longer the unidentified man. Nor she the unidentified woman.

We are just whores.