This one's true, happened about a month ago. Names changed for no particular reason.
____________
Jamie and Margaret had gone on ahead, leaving me to chase up the rear, along dusty tracks of the remote valley towards the last of its four dispersed residences. A short distance past our hosts considerably sized territory, complete with numerous outhouses, huts and barns, the mountain’s incline began and the African wildlife entirely reigned. I arrived to find dinner still comfortably some time away, a Braee burning, steak cooking and beer being served.
I greeted our hosts warmly, nodded to my brief companions, settled, then the lumberingly youthful Jamie and I took a quick browse around the vegetable garden. We dished out generous compliments to the wafer thin Angela about its healthy looking contents. Starry-eyed, always beaming, the wrinkly but trim fifty-something German ate them up gladly.
She then exhibited her own artwork to us: abstract, faintly Picasso like oil paintings of animals which adorned several walls of their small, purpose-built house. She led us through a tight kitchen and living area, both of which wore an array of miscellaneous hippy objects dangling from the ceiling, and into a back room study with more paintings and an unlikely grand piano. How had they got that in here? We admired and nodded as she explained that the paintings could be interpreted however we wanted.
The meal was good and the conversation bland as we drank and became gradually better acquainted through tame jokes and token exchanges. The couple’s dogs brushed all table sitters, lapping up the attention, but no food. Their master and our host was a Lothar, a volatile looking German. The long haired ex rocker betrayed occasionally appropriate glimpses of spontaneous wild eyed abandon during swift quaffing at a cheap boxed Chardonnay.
Once dinner was done and clutter cleared, further drinks were drunk, cigarettes smoked by our hosts, and conversation turned to music. Lothar repetitively baited Margaret to play the guitar, despite her constant rejection and counter that she would if others did. They duly did. Bongo drums were duly produced, the 1960s frozen Angela tapped away, as did Jamie. I was encouraged and had a half arsed attempt, quickly finding that I still hadn’t miraculously developed any rhythm, then passed it back to Al. The guitar was strummed, drums were tapped and a growing atmosphere of cyclical musical rhythm was developed in the full moonlit darkness. Angela began nodding intensely with the sounds, eyes shut, lost in her reverie, occasionally tapping the large bongo wedged tightly between Jamie’s thighs. She’d shown him how to hold the instrument. I found it all slightly eerie, especially given my knowledge of their monastic chanting inclinations. How far was this going? Could it stop now please? Let’s have a boring conversation about where we’re from or our family instead. I was cold and musically inept, therefore peripheral. As well as not quite “feeling” or appreciating the music. And quite uncomfortable anyway.
Lothar took the guitar and drooped his lank long hair over it, spiderishly riffing with the bongos, making a show of being deeply in synch with the developing layer of beats and rhythms. I sat looking at the full moon, feeling cold, mildly spooked, and wanting to go back to our basic house. Our own fiftysomething music schoolteacher was Margaret, a ferret-like and relentlessly annoying woman, peculiarly reminiscent of a non specific Matt Lucas Little Britain character. She took the guitar and played reasonably, but sang horrendously. I squirmed and shivered when she massacred Let It Be, and had to go to the toilet.
The fire provided brief warmth and comfort on my return, but I’d resolved to try and politely make my leave. I grasped for my small backpack, inferring my imminent departure. Margaret, still suffering with potential bronchitus and an undeniably terrible sounding cough, said she would come too. Apparently ingrained and steadily supping alcohol, Jamie was uncaringly unmoved, apparently enjoying the instruments and the company of Angela and Lothar, who was now plying him with large whiskies. When I eventually summoned the braveness to declare I was going at around nine thirty, Angela looked at me in disbelief. “You’re not really going?” she said, like nobody had ever left them at such an early hour, or maybe ever. Perhaps they buried their visitors here. Or left them out for the Leopards to feed on. I thanked them but yes, I wanted to go. The increasingly animated Lothar made his power play. He would not allow us to leave until he had played something else on the guitar. We had to sit down. First I stayed standing, hoping he’d just play while we stood, waiting. Or say he was kidding, it was a joke, bye bye Or hoping he’d become aware that I was tired and cold and not game for this at all. Angela lightly tried pushing me towards a seat. I didn’t move. Lothar laughed at me wanting to go home and being cold in my “skinny body”. It felt like one of those awkwardly tense Tarantino skits, where the next actions of either character are brilliantly paused: on edge, unknowable, potentially violent and dramatic. Only I knew my own actions wouldn’t be any of those, because they were pricked with growing nervousness about his. That madness which flashed through his eyes, his stocky bulk, the likely proximity of dangerous weapons.
It became clear that he really wanted us to sit down and wouldn’t play on until we did. We couldn’t turn our backs and leave by being rude, for Angela’s sake at least. Lothar made a theatrical show of lighting a cigarette, taking his time while cradling the guitar, methodically preparing to play. He paused numerous times, fingers grazing strings. About to start, then stopping. About to start, then stopping. About to..
Eventually, he looked up from his strings and through his dangling fringe, troubled. He brushed his hair from his eyes, flicked a cigarette butt to one side and said that he had made a mistake, sorry, and that we could go. I didn’t know if the joke was on me at that point. If we, or I had been made a fool of, or if he would have objectively and internationally appeared a nutcase. Thanks, I said, still confused by my compassionate release from their warping musical captivity. I affected a strongly controlled politeness, all the whie thinking: you are both totally fucking mental, yet remaining aware that this lunatic could still easily just explode and suddenly kill all of us. Bring his chainsaw out from somewhere, a rifle, some hippy nunchucks.
I shook his hand, and forgivingly slapped his shoulder with my other, just in case his apology was genuine. Then I hugged Angela once more and said a cheery goodbye to everyone, hoping to appear like this was all fine.
Margaret and I left, our feet crunching quickly into the moonlit sandy tracks, hers struggling to keep pace with mine.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Monday, 28 September 2009
Monday, 14 September 2009
S T E W A R D
Stuart signed and printed his name on the list where all the stewards registered themselves, hoping administrator lady wouldn’t snigger at his name’s near match of the column heading. She didn’t. He’d been told to come wearing a white shirt and black trousers, which he had. Now the lady gave him a clip-on tie and a reversible puffer jacket - blue one side, florescent green the other, ‘SAFETY STYLE’ tapered across the back. STYLE? Stuart smiled at the new irony.
He stepped down from the makeshift office and joined a throng of idly waiting others. A few were older than you might imagine, a couple decidedly out of shape and some were women. Some even looked vaguely feminine. Of course you had your typical ones too: hard looking blokes who stood together in a corner grunting at each other, disappointed at the low prospect of fighting at this event. This cluster were distinctly clone-like: white, just under six foot, shaved heads, mean eyes, goatie beards and muscles. Lots of them.
Their attention was gathered by the wiry character who had given Stuart his application form (no space for education but a full page in which to detail previous convictions). Magic, as the man had introduced himself to Stuart - stood in his different coloured T-Shirt (purple, for proper authority), then led his team out onto the field to be divided up. Stuart was pointed in the direction of a corner near the entrance, where he was supposed to look menacing. He stood there trying to push his eyebrows out as far as they could go: this would surely make him look hard and protect his eyes from a dipping but still powerful sun.
As well as not looking at all intimidating, Stuart had never been in a fight in his life and was moderately concerned at the possibility of any trouble. If the worst came to the worst, he had young legs and could run a bit.
The gates opened.
Holding his hands round his back and practicing stern eyebrows, Stuart noticed a man working the field who he’d worked with the previous summer at a call centre. Bob was working for the merchandising people. It was his job to hold glossy over-priced programmes above his head shouting - PROGRAMMES! - To which people would ask how much, Bob would tell them, and he’d be laughed at and walked past. At least he was used to being maltreated by the general public.
The sun blazed down and the well behaved people squirmed in.
Rod Stewart arrived onstage: the crowd rose, clapped, whooped then politely sat back down. The mild, good-feeling buzz passed through Stuart which he tried to dismiss. The last few people spurted through the gate.
Stuart’s team leader, a slightly older clone - the close shaved head wasn’t so much chosen as forced - approached him, looking hard. Once the clone saw that Stuart had noticed him, he beckoned him with an aggressive come-here finger. Stuart followed the clone between the blocks of condensed people. The clone stopped suddenly, put his hands firmly on Stuart’s shoulders and turned him so he was facing away from the stage, looking into a sea of faces.
“You stay there and make sure they don’t stand in the aisles, right?”
Stuart was standing at a Y-shaped junction between blocks. He was relieved he wasn’t on the front line, in the pit between the stage and first block. Several middle-aged women in the row directly in front of him smirked in his direction as the clone disappeared. Stuart ignored them, listened to the pleasantly inoffensive pop music and watched a full moon rise over the heads of several thousand people.
His attention was soon jerked back by a colleague pointing at something in Stuart’s zone.
People dancing in the aisles. He approached two ladies, early thirties, without seats but crammed into the sides of the aisles.
“Can you dance by your seats please?”
“We can’t find them and we’re not moving. So no,” said the blonde, big nostrilled one.
“Please, look, you can dance over there? They look like they’re having a good time,” he said pointing to a flank of the field where dancing was unrestricted.
“We’re not moving.” Her gawky looking brunette friend said nothing.
“Look, I get in trouble if you don’t.”
“I don’t care.”
“Can you just... I-”
“-Look, maybe we should...” The brunette interjected.
“No! We’re not moving.”
“Just stay to the side of the aisle then, yeah?” The blonde looked dreamily at Rod Stewart, ignoring Stuart entirely; the brunette smiled meekly.
Stuart scuttled back to his standing place and congratulated himself for being crap. The moon still looked pretty.
An attractive girl asked Stuart where the toilet was; he told her and stared a little to obviously at her bum as she walked away. Two housewife sorts at the front of block twenty two, all glammed up for the evening, smiled knowingly at Stuart. He met their glance then quickly looked over their heads into the knitted expanse.
A song later a squat, drunken man in a cowboy hat started to dance next to one of the women at the front of block twenty two. His seat was over the aisle in the next block, twenty three, and Stuart was slow on the scene again. The man was grinding himself against the older looking lady. It was painful to watch. A small boy in the seat next to the one vacated by the drunken cowboy studied the floor. Stuart’s felt a sharp surge of pity, then got a grip of himself.
“Sir, can you dance where you’re sitting please?!” Stuart yelled into the cowboy’s ear, battling over a rockier Stewart song.
“Yeah, go on, go back.” The arse-grinding victim told the cowboy; he said nothing, grinned at nobody in particular and went on grinding.
“Sir,” Stuart said with a firm hand on his shoulder and what he hoped was a gruffer tone, “get back to your own seat now!”
“Yeah, c’mon now, off you go.” Probably more under the advice of his victim, the cowboy tottered off across the aisle and into his row next to the boy, a matter of yards away. The victim’s slightly younger friend smiled at Stuart, “Never mind. What’s your name?”
He had hoped nobody would ask that, then pounce on the obvious Stuart-Steward hilarity.
“Erm, Stuart.” Stuart hastily retreated back to his spot. She hadn’t laughed.
Everyone stood for the next track. Stuart saw the girl with the bottom who’d asked where the toilet was being swayed in her boyfriend’s arms. The bloke was thoroughly enjoying himself, singing and smiling, unaware that his beautiful girlfriend looked so bored. Stuart caught the girl’s eye and looked away again.
It’s impossible not to catch eyes when you’re stood facing a few thousand pairs, he reasoned, before dreaming up a scenario whereby he prised the girl from her boyfriend’s grasp, whisked her away... -Stuart’s reverie was broken when he was hit on the back of the head by a football and six sweaty, hairy drunken men piled on top of him.
Clones were quickly there and ordered the men back to their seats; one of them, the proud new owner of a football signed by Rod Stewart and his band. Stuart emerged shocked but unharmed, which was fortunate as he wasn’t asked if he was okay and certainly wasn’t given the option to take a break. His row of friends were still laughing as he resumed his standing position.
Stuart didn’t feel like he was commanding respect very well.
A hippy looking middle-aged woman approached down the middle aisle - which Stuart had long since tried to keep clear. She wore a thick cap and mischievous grin, and stopped short of the two person barrier Stuart had become half of. He could see what was coming but couldn’t do anything. She put her cap on Stuart’s head. He immediately took it off and offered it back to her.
“You look like one of them people who stand outside Buckingham Palace.”
She didn’t accept it back.
“Oh,” he raised his eyebrows, held her cap, looked over her head and tried not to feel stupid.
“Smile! Does it urt?”
“Yeah. I’m a miserable bastard.” She smiled and took her cap back.
“No offence like, but d’you feel like a birruva twat?” She’d said it softly, without malice, it deserved an honest answer.
Stuart took longer to answer than normal and thought properly about it, reassessing everything he’d done since he’d clocked in: denying that warm buzz of humanity, being a general nuisance to people by obstructing their views and not allowing people to dance in certain places; wearing a ridiculous flourescent green puffer jacket and clip-on tie, obeying the clones, having a boss called Magic.
“Completely,” he said.
Rod Stewart’s final track. A popular song, The Popular Song. The crowd rose, hands in the air, “We are sailing… WE ARE SAILING!!” some screeching like they’d never need their voices again. Rippling, intense swells of good feeling like none before. Thousands of people united. Stuart remained apparently untouchable.
Rod Stewart said his goodbyes and left the stage. The lighting on the stage changed and a recorded song by a different artist started playing at lower volume. Disappointed groans joined the applause, which slowly faded into the hubbub of chatter.
He stepped down from the makeshift office and joined a throng of idly waiting others. A few were older than you might imagine, a couple decidedly out of shape and some were women. Some even looked vaguely feminine. Of course you had your typical ones too: hard looking blokes who stood together in a corner grunting at each other, disappointed at the low prospect of fighting at this event. This cluster were distinctly clone-like: white, just under six foot, shaved heads, mean eyes, goatie beards and muscles. Lots of them.
Their attention was gathered by the wiry character who had given Stuart his application form (no space for education but a full page in which to detail previous convictions). Magic, as the man had introduced himself to Stuart - stood in his different coloured T-Shirt (purple, for proper authority), then led his team out onto the field to be divided up. Stuart was pointed in the direction of a corner near the entrance, where he was supposed to look menacing. He stood there trying to push his eyebrows out as far as they could go: this would surely make him look hard and protect his eyes from a dipping but still powerful sun.
As well as not looking at all intimidating, Stuart had never been in a fight in his life and was moderately concerned at the possibility of any trouble. If the worst came to the worst, he had young legs and could run a bit.
The gates opened.
Holding his hands round his back and practicing stern eyebrows, Stuart noticed a man working the field who he’d worked with the previous summer at a call centre. Bob was working for the merchandising people. It was his job to hold glossy over-priced programmes above his head shouting - PROGRAMMES! - To which people would ask how much, Bob would tell them, and he’d be laughed at and walked past. At least he was used to being maltreated by the general public.
The sun blazed down and the well behaved people squirmed in.
Rod Stewart arrived onstage: the crowd rose, clapped, whooped then politely sat back down. The mild, good-feeling buzz passed through Stuart which he tried to dismiss. The last few people spurted through the gate.
Stuart’s team leader, a slightly older clone - the close shaved head wasn’t so much chosen as forced - approached him, looking hard. Once the clone saw that Stuart had noticed him, he beckoned him with an aggressive come-here finger. Stuart followed the clone between the blocks of condensed people. The clone stopped suddenly, put his hands firmly on Stuart’s shoulders and turned him so he was facing away from the stage, looking into a sea of faces.
“You stay there and make sure they don’t stand in the aisles, right?”
Stuart was standing at a Y-shaped junction between blocks. He was relieved he wasn’t on the front line, in the pit between the stage and first block. Several middle-aged women in the row directly in front of him smirked in his direction as the clone disappeared. Stuart ignored them, listened to the pleasantly inoffensive pop music and watched a full moon rise over the heads of several thousand people.
His attention was soon jerked back by a colleague pointing at something in Stuart’s zone.
People dancing in the aisles. He approached two ladies, early thirties, without seats but crammed into the sides of the aisles.
“Can you dance by your seats please?”
“We can’t find them and we’re not moving. So no,” said the blonde, big nostrilled one.
“Please, look, you can dance over there? They look like they’re having a good time,” he said pointing to a flank of the field where dancing was unrestricted.
“We’re not moving.” Her gawky looking brunette friend said nothing.
“Look, I get in trouble if you don’t.”
“I don’t care.”
“Can you just... I-”
“-Look, maybe we should...” The brunette interjected.
“No! We’re not moving.”
“Just stay to the side of the aisle then, yeah?” The blonde looked dreamily at Rod Stewart, ignoring Stuart entirely; the brunette smiled meekly.
Stuart scuttled back to his standing place and congratulated himself for being crap. The moon still looked pretty.
An attractive girl asked Stuart where the toilet was; he told her and stared a little to obviously at her bum as she walked away. Two housewife sorts at the front of block twenty two, all glammed up for the evening, smiled knowingly at Stuart. He met their glance then quickly looked over their heads into the knitted expanse.
A song later a squat, drunken man in a cowboy hat started to dance next to one of the women at the front of block twenty two. His seat was over the aisle in the next block, twenty three, and Stuart was slow on the scene again. The man was grinding himself against the older looking lady. It was painful to watch. A small boy in the seat next to the one vacated by the drunken cowboy studied the floor. Stuart’s felt a sharp surge of pity, then got a grip of himself.
“Sir, can you dance where you’re sitting please?!” Stuart yelled into the cowboy’s ear, battling over a rockier Stewart song.
“Yeah, go on, go back.” The arse-grinding victim told the cowboy; he said nothing, grinned at nobody in particular and went on grinding.
“Sir,” Stuart said with a firm hand on his shoulder and what he hoped was a gruffer tone, “get back to your own seat now!”
“Yeah, c’mon now, off you go.” Probably more under the advice of his victim, the cowboy tottered off across the aisle and into his row next to the boy, a matter of yards away. The victim’s slightly younger friend smiled at Stuart, “Never mind. What’s your name?”
He had hoped nobody would ask that, then pounce on the obvious Stuart-Steward hilarity.
“Erm, Stuart.” Stuart hastily retreated back to his spot. She hadn’t laughed.
Everyone stood for the next track. Stuart saw the girl with the bottom who’d asked where the toilet was being swayed in her boyfriend’s arms. The bloke was thoroughly enjoying himself, singing and smiling, unaware that his beautiful girlfriend looked so bored. Stuart caught the girl’s eye and looked away again.
It’s impossible not to catch eyes when you’re stood facing a few thousand pairs, he reasoned, before dreaming up a scenario whereby he prised the girl from her boyfriend’s grasp, whisked her away... -Stuart’s reverie was broken when he was hit on the back of the head by a football and six sweaty, hairy drunken men piled on top of him.
Clones were quickly there and ordered the men back to their seats; one of them, the proud new owner of a football signed by Rod Stewart and his band. Stuart emerged shocked but unharmed, which was fortunate as he wasn’t asked if he was okay and certainly wasn’t given the option to take a break. His row of friends were still laughing as he resumed his standing position.
Stuart didn’t feel like he was commanding respect very well.
A hippy looking middle-aged woman approached down the middle aisle - which Stuart had long since tried to keep clear. She wore a thick cap and mischievous grin, and stopped short of the two person barrier Stuart had become half of. He could see what was coming but couldn’t do anything. She put her cap on Stuart’s head. He immediately took it off and offered it back to her.
“You look like one of them people who stand outside Buckingham Palace.”
She didn’t accept it back.
“Oh,” he raised his eyebrows, held her cap, looked over her head and tried not to feel stupid.
“Smile! Does it urt?”
“Yeah. I’m a miserable bastard.” She smiled and took her cap back.
“No offence like, but d’you feel like a birruva twat?” She’d said it softly, without malice, it deserved an honest answer.
Stuart took longer to answer than normal and thought properly about it, reassessing everything he’d done since he’d clocked in: denying that warm buzz of humanity, being a general nuisance to people by obstructing their views and not allowing people to dance in certain places; wearing a ridiculous flourescent green puffer jacket and clip-on tie, obeying the clones, having a boss called Magic.
“Completely,” he said.
Rod Stewart’s final track. A popular song, The Popular Song. The crowd rose, hands in the air, “We are sailing… WE ARE SAILING!!” some screeching like they’d never need their voices again. Rippling, intense swells of good feeling like none before. Thousands of people united. Stuart remained apparently untouchable.
Rod Stewart said his goodbyes and left the stage. The lighting on the stage changed and a recorded song by a different artist started playing at lower volume. Disappointed groans joined the applause, which slowly faded into the hubbub of chatter.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Author Idol (1)
As far as we knew, it was only ever advertised on lamp-posts in and around town. No proper advertisements or even trailers on the radio station which it was due to be broadcast on. The notices went something like:
KNOW YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BECOME A WRITER?DON'T WANT TO SACRIFICE THE PRIDE, DIGNITY AND EFFORT TO GET A CONTRACT?
CALL THIS NUMBER...
That number had a pre-recorded message with no option to leave one of your own. A stern female voice ordered you to take a short example of your best work to an office (which turned out to be a portakabin in the park and ride car park) the following Thursday evening.
I arrived to see a queue of about a dozen people filtering out the door. Arty types with unnecessary scarves, frumpy dresses, floppy hair and sniffs. I joined onto the end, a cursory nod to a young chap in front of me, smoking violently. There was a small notice on the door saying the project was part of a new local reality radio show: Author-Idol. I assumed the best, or worst, or both would be subjected to some airplay. The small print said the format was similar to other reality talent show. Small talk kept to a minimum, paper plonked on desk, an extract read and a verdict given. Ten minutes passed and nobody had joined the queue behind me. There probably wouldn't be too many rounds.
I leant against the railings and listened to my personal stereo, clutching loose pages of what I hoped might be passable attempts at fiction. My intense looking companions stopped amusing me and I became bored, looking at the bleak car park, a smattering of ordinary cars and the busy A-road just off it. It was only when the chap in front of me shuffled forward that I realised they'd started taking people in. Me and the chain-smoking chap were left when my battery died and he finished his seventh cigarette. "NEXT!" A haughty voice, similar to that of the answer phone message beckoned. We exchanged raised eyebrows, he entered and I stuffed tangled leads into my inside pocket.
Then I became aware that I hadn't seen any of the previous people come back past us. Were they hoarding them in a room in there? Were they showing them out the back? Was there a back? Were they brutally maiming and killing these poor, hapless people for their futile shows of ambition? Should I cut my losses and run? Should I just take a quick peep round the back? The portakabin wasn't that big - we'd had bigger temporary classrooms in school.
"NEXT!" Wow, I thought, he must have been really good or really shit. He didn't walk back past me. I stepped over the threshold and obeyed a handwritten sign pointing right down a short, narrow corridor. Five paces led me to a door, ajar, with the word PANEL taped on it. I knocked. "COME!" It creaked as I pushed it and I felt my pupils dilate or contract or whichever it is when you're hit by sudden bright light. I narrowed my eyes anyway. Through them I made out a PANEL of three figures sat at one table at the end of a bare, but surprisingly large room. There was a door marked OUT. Phew, relief. Or maybe a dungeon? I looked at the central figure, a teacherly like lady, not unattractive but of the sort that looked like she'd probably eaten men.
"Hello," I said. They all smiled weakly. The other two members of the PANEL: an old man smoking a pipe - in the opposite fashion to the young chap in the queue - he looked like he could smoke it when dead: it just looked effortless and right. He wore a cardigan too of course. The other man flanking the lady was a younger man of around forty: big jumpered, sharp eyed, but not floppy haired. Both of the men looked tired and worn, as if there'd been a queue of hundreds. Not about ten. She, however, was upright, professional, moody,
"Work!" - and apparently not into pleasantries.
I curled my bottom lip and widened my eyes in a -wooh! scary, sort of way, before extracting my work from the back pocked of my jeans, folded once lengthways. I shunted the stapled paper into the air and it floated onto the table between us. The woman sniffed disapprovingly at the delivery, then eyed me like I was a turd to be stepped around. Then she looked down. The old man adjusted his specs and leaned in, as did the other man. The woman had that irritating habit of half whispering every word she read with her mouth with the resulting spspspspspspspspspsp sound. It made me sniff that outward sniff I get when I'm shocked to find something amusing but it’s not worthy of a full laugh. She ignored me. The spspspspspspsp became intermittent - which I didn't know whether to read as a good sign or not. It's normally one of the most paranoia inducing things, having people read your work in front of you and, you in turn, trying to read their reactions. Are they trying not to sneer? Are they just going to be polite and uncommitted? Was that smile genuine or were they laughing AT me?
After a minute they leaned apart and straightened up. The old man fingered his pipe with more tobacco, nodded gently in no particular direction. They glanced at each other but didn't speak, eyes widened and narrowed. I felt something shimmer up my back before she looked at me. She gave me a card with a phone number on it, followed by a pin number.
"Thank you Mr. Milner," she said.
"You’re welcome," I said. She pointed at the OUT door.
"I, I, er, I left my car out the front," I said, lying, and walked back out the way I'd come.
But you can't...!" the younger man trailed off. But I did, glad I'd distinguished myself in some way, if only by not falling into some strangely devised trap.
I walked home fast, annoyed that the battery in my stereo had died.
The next day I shaved across my face with the card she'd given me the next day at work. It was blunt, being cardboard and everything. The time was just gone half four and the half senile geriatric I shared my office with had gone home. Should I carry on with this whole charade? Could it be dangerous? What if they were all lunatics? As far as I knew none of us - assuming that the other contenders were all alive and well - had any proof that they were who they said they were, or at all affiliated with that radio station. Pondering all this, I looked out of the office window and over the train platform. A couple of depressed looking commuters in raincoats curled into themselves.
I picked up my receiver and dialled the number, hesitating slightly before the final digit. One and a half rings, then the message cut in. The woman's recorded voice:
"You should have a pin, dial it."
I dialled it.
"Congratulations Mr. Milner, you have been selected, along with four others to proceed to the next round. Be at our offices again tonight at Seven o clock." Bollocks, why should I? I thought. Signing away work to some group I know absolutely nothing about. I mean, why?
I never managed to answer that question but dawdled towards the 'offices' at the designated time. A small group of about half a dozen stood in the car park looking at their feet, most smoking, looking troubled. Two women; one young studenty, another friendly looking, cuddly, housewifey. Smiled meekly at them, the housewifey lady mirrored the expression, a couple looked up, raised eyebrows, sniffed, exhaled smoke, looked down. I arrived around five minutes late. The last one. The door of the portakabin opened and the severe looking lady appeared. We all looked up at her.
KNOW YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BECOME A WRITER?DON'T WANT TO SACRIFICE THE PRIDE, DIGNITY AND EFFORT TO GET A CONTRACT?
CALL THIS NUMBER...
That number had a pre-recorded message with no option to leave one of your own. A stern female voice ordered you to take a short example of your best work to an office (which turned out to be a portakabin in the park and ride car park) the following Thursday evening.
I arrived to see a queue of about a dozen people filtering out the door. Arty types with unnecessary scarves, frumpy dresses, floppy hair and sniffs. I joined onto the end, a cursory nod to a young chap in front of me, smoking violently. There was a small notice on the door saying the project was part of a new local reality radio show: Author-Idol. I assumed the best, or worst, or both would be subjected to some airplay. The small print said the format was similar to other reality talent show. Small talk kept to a minimum, paper plonked on desk, an extract read and a verdict given. Ten minutes passed and nobody had joined the queue behind me. There probably wouldn't be too many rounds.
I leant against the railings and listened to my personal stereo, clutching loose pages of what I hoped might be passable attempts at fiction. My intense looking companions stopped amusing me and I became bored, looking at the bleak car park, a smattering of ordinary cars and the busy A-road just off it. It was only when the chap in front of me shuffled forward that I realised they'd started taking people in. Me and the chain-smoking chap were left when my battery died and he finished his seventh cigarette. "NEXT!" A haughty voice, similar to that of the answer phone message beckoned. We exchanged raised eyebrows, he entered and I stuffed tangled leads into my inside pocket.
Then I became aware that I hadn't seen any of the previous people come back past us. Were they hoarding them in a room in there? Were they showing them out the back? Was there a back? Were they brutally maiming and killing these poor, hapless people for their futile shows of ambition? Should I cut my losses and run? Should I just take a quick peep round the back? The portakabin wasn't that big - we'd had bigger temporary classrooms in school.
"NEXT!" Wow, I thought, he must have been really good or really shit. He didn't walk back past me. I stepped over the threshold and obeyed a handwritten sign pointing right down a short, narrow corridor. Five paces led me to a door, ajar, with the word PANEL taped on it. I knocked. "COME!" It creaked as I pushed it and I felt my pupils dilate or contract or whichever it is when you're hit by sudden bright light. I narrowed my eyes anyway. Through them I made out a PANEL of three figures sat at one table at the end of a bare, but surprisingly large room. There was a door marked OUT. Phew, relief. Or maybe a dungeon? I looked at the central figure, a teacherly like lady, not unattractive but of the sort that looked like she'd probably eaten men.
"Hello," I said. They all smiled weakly. The other two members of the PANEL: an old man smoking a pipe - in the opposite fashion to the young chap in the queue - he looked like he could smoke it when dead: it just looked effortless and right. He wore a cardigan too of course. The other man flanking the lady was a younger man of around forty: big jumpered, sharp eyed, but not floppy haired. Both of the men looked tired and worn, as if there'd been a queue of hundreds. Not about ten. She, however, was upright, professional, moody,
"Work!" - and apparently not into pleasantries.
I curled my bottom lip and widened my eyes in a -wooh! scary, sort of way, before extracting my work from the back pocked of my jeans, folded once lengthways. I shunted the stapled paper into the air and it floated onto the table between us. The woman sniffed disapprovingly at the delivery, then eyed me like I was a turd to be stepped around. Then she looked down. The old man adjusted his specs and leaned in, as did the other man. The woman had that irritating habit of half whispering every word she read with her mouth with the resulting spspspspspspspspspsp sound. It made me sniff that outward sniff I get when I'm shocked to find something amusing but it’s not worthy of a full laugh. She ignored me. The spspspspspspsp became intermittent - which I didn't know whether to read as a good sign or not. It's normally one of the most paranoia inducing things, having people read your work in front of you and, you in turn, trying to read their reactions. Are they trying not to sneer? Are they just going to be polite and uncommitted? Was that smile genuine or were they laughing AT me?
After a minute they leaned apart and straightened up. The old man fingered his pipe with more tobacco, nodded gently in no particular direction. They glanced at each other but didn't speak, eyes widened and narrowed. I felt something shimmer up my back before she looked at me. She gave me a card with a phone number on it, followed by a pin number.
"Thank you Mr. Milner," she said.
"You’re welcome," I said. She pointed at the OUT door.
"I, I, er, I left my car out the front," I said, lying, and walked back out the way I'd come.
But you can't...!" the younger man trailed off. But I did, glad I'd distinguished myself in some way, if only by not falling into some strangely devised trap.
I walked home fast, annoyed that the battery in my stereo had died.
The next day I shaved across my face with the card she'd given me the next day at work. It was blunt, being cardboard and everything. The time was just gone half four and the half senile geriatric I shared my office with had gone home. Should I carry on with this whole charade? Could it be dangerous? What if they were all lunatics? As far as I knew none of us - assuming that the other contenders were all alive and well - had any proof that they were who they said they were, or at all affiliated with that radio station. Pondering all this, I looked out of the office window and over the train platform. A couple of depressed looking commuters in raincoats curled into themselves.
I picked up my receiver and dialled the number, hesitating slightly before the final digit. One and a half rings, then the message cut in. The woman's recorded voice:
"You should have a pin, dial it."
I dialled it.
"Congratulations Mr. Milner, you have been selected, along with four others to proceed to the next round. Be at our offices again tonight at Seven o clock." Bollocks, why should I? I thought. Signing away work to some group I know absolutely nothing about. I mean, why?
I never managed to answer that question but dawdled towards the 'offices' at the designated time. A small group of about half a dozen stood in the car park looking at their feet, most smoking, looking troubled. Two women; one young studenty, another friendly looking, cuddly, housewifey. Smiled meekly at them, the housewifey lady mirrored the expression, a couple looked up, raised eyebrows, sniffed, exhaled smoke, looked down. I arrived around five minutes late. The last one. The door of the portakabin opened and the severe looking lady appeared. We all looked up at her.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Barry Island
Jeremy felt an overwhelming surge of apathy and walked past his office block. His programming usually just allowed the cruise-control function to take hold, then after an hour's mundane blur of routine he'd feel himself plummet down into his office chair. Today though, there was some kind of system malfunction. The strong apathy surge must have dislodged something. He kept his head down and hoped not to be stopped by any of his colleagues walking in his direction.
Cruise-control must have been contaminated, infected or tampered with in some way, because just as his feet and hands usually did the things that led him to his office swivel chair, today they led him to the train station. Still his mind hadn't seemed to contribute to the decisions his body was making, he just followed where his feet led.
Barry Island, the departures monitor said, two rows down. Five minutes. Never been there before. Why not? he thought. Swathes of office workers were filtering through and out of the station: some zombified, some possessed by a freakish will that made it look like they weren't dreading the day. But most zombified.
Jeremy moved against the tide, expecting to be caught by someone, shouted at. Nervous and excited (excited! Barry Island, what’s wrong with me? Lots, an answer came), he almost expected interrogation from the man on the other side of the counter. - Young Persons day return to Barry Island please, he’d said. How dangerous, how exotic! Surely he'd be caught? - One pound forty five. Very reasonable, Jeremy thought.
The only person in his carriage, Jeremy trundled slowly out of the city and through suburbs and small, pleasant commuter belts he never knew existed. The cruise-control systems must have to be even stronger for people from here, who worked in Cardiff. Especially for those who drove. A stoned-looking old conductor punched Jeremy's ticket without a flicker of acknowledgement of the person it was attached to, then tottered on down the carriage. He thought his apparent incongruence might have caused a glance here or there - wearing a good suit, posh shoes, collar and tie, on a Monday morning just after nine o clock, on his own, on a carriage destined for Barry Island (there couldn't be a lot of offices there) - but even on alighting and stepping onto the beach, dogs didn't so much as sniff.
Why were people who walked with dogs called dog-walkers? Jeremy mused, walking down the beach. It was a pet muse when he walked aimlessly and dog-less. It wasn't like dogs couldn't actually walk without humans. Why the inequality? Why weren't the pairs ever referred to as human-walkers? Why weren't people who jogged with their dogs called dog-joggers or dog-runners? Why are the dogs or humans in the equation at all? They're all just walkers, surely? Unless they run, or jog, or do that walking fast thing that looks ridiculous - what was that called?
His shiny black formal shoes sank into the wet sand, clinging to the soles and making walking an effort. Sucking and splatting sounds as they plunged in and out. Specs and splodges of wet sand flicked up the back of Jeremy's trouser legs. A terrier scampered past, chasing a ball. Its owner - a sprightly looking middle-aged lady - strode past (dog-strider?) without looking at the suspiciously suited man she was sharing the beach with.
Jeremy reached some rocks where the beach ended and began clambering across them. His footwear wasn't well suited and he looked in fear at the gruesomely draped seaweed, beckoning broken ankles or serious injury of some kind. He precariously wobbled his way around it, not the most elegant of climbers. In ensuring utmost care, he clumsily slumped onto his behind to drop onto the next layer of rocks, when a simple bold step was all that was required. He found a large, smooth rock, only pimpled by the odd limpet, and lay down resting his briefcase under his head. The wind blew with constant steady strength, (inspiring an odd kind of respect, Jeremy thought), the sea lapped, seagulls cried and the now far off terrier barked.
He identified a large vehicle reversing inland by its insistently blaring siren. The cruise-control demons were banished. Jeremy pictured his empty desk, monitor off, chair neatly tucked in, and he smiled. Sunshine pierced a cloud and kissed his face. Barry Island wasn't entirely unpleasant, as long as you didn't look inland or mind brown sea. He closed his eyes.
Something jolted him - he was bleeping. Had he finally found the controlling bug inside them all? Was it drawing attention to itself so the malfunction could be corrected? Would he imminently be set upon by a team of government agents who'd pop a needle in his arm? Or, was... no. The briefcase shrilled under Jeremy's head. He opened his eyes and squinted at the bright sunshine. Sitting forward he un-flapped the case and plucked out his phone. OFFICE - Calling... it told him. Jeremy impulsively threw his phone seawards. It bounced once off a rock and bleeped so abnormally highly that Jeremy actually felt a momentary twinge of regret - like he’d just kicked a dog - then it sank satisfyingly into a rock-pool, which was probably against some toxic waste littering law. Phones and all the stuff inside them were particularly bad for the environment, Jeremy remembered hearing once.
He clambered his way over the remaining rocks to the next beach. A bored looking, grey-haired lady sat on a rock, dreaming out to sea. Jeremy was half-tempted to start chatting to her as he passed - unlock the secrets and skeletons of her long and dramatic life. Or say good morning, at least. But he didn't. And she showed no sign of seeing him. Nor did a young couple who he passed walking across the next beach, enveloped in each other. His feet sank more on this sand, and his shoes clearly showed smears of sand and one deep long scratch from a rock, or perhaps a limpet.
Another thing Jeremy considered, watching a young child run past him chasing a ball, was that he was dead. He could go for days, even in the week when he was at work, without speaking to anybody. At times, he thought it might come as more of a shock to learn he was alive. Even in some minor way. A smile from a stranger, a thank-you to a held open door, an acknowledgement from a polite motorist. Either he was dead; people (or at least all the people he ever came into contact with, without any exception) were generally not very perceptive, caring or humane; or he just might be entirely uninteresting: to look at, listen to, share oxygen with. Now there was a thought, Jeremy thought.
He wound his way back around, over the headland in the direction of the station. Marvelling at the constancy of the sounds, he sat on a bench and looked out at the brown sea. The expanse of beach he'd walked on a few minutes ago looked huge. He must have looked like a speck from up here, as those people down there did then. But he was still a speck up there, to them down on the beach. Always a speck. New terriers buzzed round like radio-controlled cars, the lucky fools.
Leaving his briefcase on the bench, he walked to the edge of the cliff at the tip of the headland. Feeling the three pounds fifty five pence change in one pocket, and his keys and wallet in the other, Jeremy idly rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, toes over the edge. The apathy surged once more and combined with an urgently strong gust of wind, forced his balance further forward. Why not? Jeremy thought, without trying to think of a reply, encouraged by the elements. ‘Timber,’ he casually announced to himself. Just before impact, mid-air, feeling the coins in his pocketed left hand, he realised he'd been short-changed. Bastard, Jeremy thought, finally.
Dogs barked, the wind blew gusty, the sea lapped, seagulls cried and Jeremy's head exploded against limpets and rock with a hollow thud.
Cruise-control must have been contaminated, infected or tampered with in some way, because just as his feet and hands usually did the things that led him to his office swivel chair, today they led him to the train station. Still his mind hadn't seemed to contribute to the decisions his body was making, he just followed where his feet led.
Barry Island, the departures monitor said, two rows down. Five minutes. Never been there before. Why not? he thought. Swathes of office workers were filtering through and out of the station: some zombified, some possessed by a freakish will that made it look like they weren't dreading the day. But most zombified.
Jeremy moved against the tide, expecting to be caught by someone, shouted at. Nervous and excited (excited! Barry Island, what’s wrong with me? Lots, an answer came), he almost expected interrogation from the man on the other side of the counter. - Young Persons day return to Barry Island please, he’d said. How dangerous, how exotic! Surely he'd be caught? - One pound forty five. Very reasonable, Jeremy thought.
The only person in his carriage, Jeremy trundled slowly out of the city and through suburbs and small, pleasant commuter belts he never knew existed. The cruise-control systems must have to be even stronger for people from here, who worked in Cardiff. Especially for those who drove. A stoned-looking old conductor punched Jeremy's ticket without a flicker of acknowledgement of the person it was attached to, then tottered on down the carriage. He thought his apparent incongruence might have caused a glance here or there - wearing a good suit, posh shoes, collar and tie, on a Monday morning just after nine o clock, on his own, on a carriage destined for Barry Island (there couldn't be a lot of offices there) - but even on alighting and stepping onto the beach, dogs didn't so much as sniff.
Why were people who walked with dogs called dog-walkers? Jeremy mused, walking down the beach. It was a pet muse when he walked aimlessly and dog-less. It wasn't like dogs couldn't actually walk without humans. Why the inequality? Why weren't the pairs ever referred to as human-walkers? Why weren't people who jogged with their dogs called dog-joggers or dog-runners? Why are the dogs or humans in the equation at all? They're all just walkers, surely? Unless they run, or jog, or do that walking fast thing that looks ridiculous - what was that called?
His shiny black formal shoes sank into the wet sand, clinging to the soles and making walking an effort. Sucking and splatting sounds as they plunged in and out. Specs and splodges of wet sand flicked up the back of Jeremy's trouser legs. A terrier scampered past, chasing a ball. Its owner - a sprightly looking middle-aged lady - strode past (dog-strider?) without looking at the suspiciously suited man she was sharing the beach with.
Jeremy reached some rocks where the beach ended and began clambering across them. His footwear wasn't well suited and he looked in fear at the gruesomely draped seaweed, beckoning broken ankles or serious injury of some kind. He precariously wobbled his way around it, not the most elegant of climbers. In ensuring utmost care, he clumsily slumped onto his behind to drop onto the next layer of rocks, when a simple bold step was all that was required. He found a large, smooth rock, only pimpled by the odd limpet, and lay down resting his briefcase under his head. The wind blew with constant steady strength, (inspiring an odd kind of respect, Jeremy thought), the sea lapped, seagulls cried and the now far off terrier barked.
He identified a large vehicle reversing inland by its insistently blaring siren. The cruise-control demons were banished. Jeremy pictured his empty desk, monitor off, chair neatly tucked in, and he smiled. Sunshine pierced a cloud and kissed his face. Barry Island wasn't entirely unpleasant, as long as you didn't look inland or mind brown sea. He closed his eyes.
Something jolted him - he was bleeping. Had he finally found the controlling bug inside them all? Was it drawing attention to itself so the malfunction could be corrected? Would he imminently be set upon by a team of government agents who'd pop a needle in his arm? Or, was... no. The briefcase shrilled under Jeremy's head. He opened his eyes and squinted at the bright sunshine. Sitting forward he un-flapped the case and plucked out his phone. OFFICE - Calling... it told him. Jeremy impulsively threw his phone seawards. It bounced once off a rock and bleeped so abnormally highly that Jeremy actually felt a momentary twinge of regret - like he’d just kicked a dog - then it sank satisfyingly into a rock-pool, which was probably against some toxic waste littering law. Phones and all the stuff inside them were particularly bad for the environment, Jeremy remembered hearing once.
He clambered his way over the remaining rocks to the next beach. A bored looking, grey-haired lady sat on a rock, dreaming out to sea. Jeremy was half-tempted to start chatting to her as he passed - unlock the secrets and skeletons of her long and dramatic life. Or say good morning, at least. But he didn't. And she showed no sign of seeing him. Nor did a young couple who he passed walking across the next beach, enveloped in each other. His feet sank more on this sand, and his shoes clearly showed smears of sand and one deep long scratch from a rock, or perhaps a limpet.
Another thing Jeremy considered, watching a young child run past him chasing a ball, was that he was dead. He could go for days, even in the week when he was at work, without speaking to anybody. At times, he thought it might come as more of a shock to learn he was alive. Even in some minor way. A smile from a stranger, a thank-you to a held open door, an acknowledgement from a polite motorist. Either he was dead; people (or at least all the people he ever came into contact with, without any exception) were generally not very perceptive, caring or humane; or he just might be entirely uninteresting: to look at, listen to, share oxygen with. Now there was a thought, Jeremy thought.
He wound his way back around, over the headland in the direction of the station. Marvelling at the constancy of the sounds, he sat on a bench and looked out at the brown sea. The expanse of beach he'd walked on a few minutes ago looked huge. He must have looked like a speck from up here, as those people down there did then. But he was still a speck up there, to them down on the beach. Always a speck. New terriers buzzed round like radio-controlled cars, the lucky fools.
Leaving his briefcase on the bench, he walked to the edge of the cliff at the tip of the headland. Feeling the three pounds fifty five pence change in one pocket, and his keys and wallet in the other, Jeremy idly rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, toes over the edge. The apathy surged once more and combined with an urgently strong gust of wind, forced his balance further forward. Why not? Jeremy thought, without trying to think of a reply, encouraged by the elements. ‘Timber,’ he casually announced to himself. Just before impact, mid-air, feeling the coins in his pocketed left hand, he realised he'd been short-changed. Bastard, Jeremy thought, finally.
Dogs barked, the wind blew gusty, the sea lapped, seagulls cried and Jeremy's head exploded against limpets and rock with a hollow thud.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Snooze ripples
You were aware of having to wake up soon and not wanting to. Through your dreamy fuzz you half wondered what the weather was going to be like and whether you could take your bike to school.
You’d been dreaming about holding hands with a nice girl again. You didn’t know who she was but that didn't matter. She showed you attention and affection. Unfortunately she wasn’t with you in bed because she wasn’t actually real.
You woke but you didn’t.
In your bed but not. Hearing wind and rain spatter against your window, you shivered, still without opening your eyes. Then you were awake. Except you weren’t.
Everything seemed familiar and comfortable. But it shouldn’t have been. You’d never been there before in your life, although it all felt normal enough. You were aware of the other people in rooms nearby, people your age but not related. It was pissing down outside. How were you going to get to school? Biking in would be quicker than walking, but you’d get wet. There was the bus, but you hated the bus, the people. The stress of making the decision was too much. Then you got confused.
What time was it? The red LCD display of your clock radio (but not really your clock radio) said one thing, said it was time to get up and begin the day. But surely it was still way too dark outside? It was still very dark, nightime and raining. Was it really just the clouds making it that dark outside? It was a day that wouldn’t inspire the most vivacious, annoyingly cheerful, life-loving person to get up.
You walked across your room and pressed the button to start up your aged television. It clunked, struggled for a second, then revealed the breakfast news. Two people sitting on a sofa, smiling. The time in the bottom corner of the screen was two hours earlier than your clock radio said it was. Why was that? You trusted the television over your clock radio - it was controlled by someone else so it must be right - so you flopped back into bed, surrendering, allowing it to envelop you in all its swallowing glory.
You sank back into an unconsciousness which you’d never actually left. Soon after, too soon after, so soon after that it was surely plain wrong - your clock radio went off, you joined the radio newsreader reading news mid-sentence and involuntarily tried to compute what he was saying. You stopped trying as quickly as you’d started. Aha, reality, you were sure of it this time - although you had been sure last time too.
Now you were amused at how real your dream had felt, surprised to feel disappointed that the horrible, grey wintry weather of the dream was complete fiction. You’re bored by this interminable summer sunshine which everybody is commanded to unconditionally love. It bullies you into being outside, feeling like you should be outside even if you don’t want to be outside.
Still lying there, you wondered, only for a second, how and why you were so convinced this one was your reality. If you’d have pressed the snooze button and turned off your clock radio right then, slunk back into unconsciousness, would you have emerged shortly afterwards, teleported into another alternative, more real feeling reality you were convinced was your own?
Then if that one wasn’t ideal, if you never woke up in a bed flanked by beautiful girls, happy with yourself and your life, then you could just try again.
And again. Until? You found it, you died, you compromised, you gave up? So would you try that, just keep hitting Snooze until..?
No, you decided. Your mum would get pissed off and you’d be late for school.
You’d been dreaming about holding hands with a nice girl again. You didn’t know who she was but that didn't matter. She showed you attention and affection. Unfortunately she wasn’t with you in bed because she wasn’t actually real.
You woke but you didn’t.
In your bed but not. Hearing wind and rain spatter against your window, you shivered, still without opening your eyes. Then you were awake. Except you weren’t.
Everything seemed familiar and comfortable. But it shouldn’t have been. You’d never been there before in your life, although it all felt normal enough. You were aware of the other people in rooms nearby, people your age but not related. It was pissing down outside. How were you going to get to school? Biking in would be quicker than walking, but you’d get wet. There was the bus, but you hated the bus, the people. The stress of making the decision was too much. Then you got confused.
What time was it? The red LCD display of your clock radio (but not really your clock radio) said one thing, said it was time to get up and begin the day. But surely it was still way too dark outside? It was still very dark, nightime and raining. Was it really just the clouds making it that dark outside? It was a day that wouldn’t inspire the most vivacious, annoyingly cheerful, life-loving person to get up.
You walked across your room and pressed the button to start up your aged television. It clunked, struggled for a second, then revealed the breakfast news. Two people sitting on a sofa, smiling. The time in the bottom corner of the screen was two hours earlier than your clock radio said it was. Why was that? You trusted the television over your clock radio - it was controlled by someone else so it must be right - so you flopped back into bed, surrendering, allowing it to envelop you in all its swallowing glory.
You sank back into an unconsciousness which you’d never actually left. Soon after, too soon after, so soon after that it was surely plain wrong - your clock radio went off, you joined the radio newsreader reading news mid-sentence and involuntarily tried to compute what he was saying. You stopped trying as quickly as you’d started. Aha, reality, you were sure of it this time - although you had been sure last time too.
Now you were amused at how real your dream had felt, surprised to feel disappointed that the horrible, grey wintry weather of the dream was complete fiction. You’re bored by this interminable summer sunshine which everybody is commanded to unconditionally love. It bullies you into being outside, feeling like you should be outside even if you don’t want to be outside.
Still lying there, you wondered, only for a second, how and why you were so convinced this one was your reality. If you’d have pressed the snooze button and turned off your clock radio right then, slunk back into unconsciousness, would you have emerged shortly afterwards, teleported into another alternative, more real feeling reality you were convinced was your own?
Then if that one wasn’t ideal, if you never woke up in a bed flanked by beautiful girls, happy with yourself and your life, then you could just try again.
And again. Until? You found it, you died, you compromised, you gave up? So would you try that, just keep hitting Snooze until..?
No, you decided. Your mum would get pissed off and you’d be late for school.
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Celebrity cabs
Half of them don’t believe you, of course. Just think you're mad so they smile politely, younger girls in groups on buses might titter, giggle like. Bored blokes in pubs raise their eyebrows like they couldn’t care less.
Thing is, I think it’s interesting. Didn’t much at the time, but now, looking back, it’s one of the things which stands out in my life, my time spent doing that. It’s the kind of thing I reckon people are likely to have their attention caught by, turn to me, give me a second chance, reassess their judgement about my appearance or whatever. When I tell them that, then they’ll change.
Course it don’t happen like that. Hardly ever, in fact. They giggle or turn away, or are offended by the fact I’ve tried chatting to them. Or they just look bored Whatever. Jog on, grandad. Maybe I don’t sell it in a convincing enough way, or it just doesn’t sound believable. Not when I slur it or mumble, or don’t speak it clearly enough.
What? Well, loads of stuff, since you ask. Drove the taxi away in The Apprentice, didn’t I? Every booted out candidate for three series, right from the start. You never saw me, but I was always there in that cab. With the crew and whatever sorry git had been fired by Sir Alan that week. Sometimes they’d be crying, couldn’t quite believe it, or like they suddenly recognised their own weaknesses like. Others would be angry – they were the funnier ones: convinced Sugar had made a mistake which he’d pay for. Like he gives a stuff.
Never actually watched it. Can’t have realised how popular it was at the time or I’d have blown my trumpet about it more then. The cameras and what-not ‘d pile in first, facing the opposite direction. Then whoever it was would follow, looking a bit shellshocked by it all, trying to look proud and together, like they didn’t really mind all that much. Just a game. I knew them for what they were though.
When the cameras piled out and it was just me and them. I could look in my rear view mirror, see into their eyes – which avoided mine; the hurt. Before I dropped them off somewhere central, one of the big stations, then watched for a moment as they pulled their suitcases off, alone.
Like I tell them, if they’ll listen, it wasn’t the best one anyway. Not much compared to those speedboats, hoiking the losers off them tropical islands. There were several different series for that, never kept track. One was Love something; gobby tossers. Others were for kids, much younger, but still like, “young adults” or whatever they call em. Hardly like they looked innocent, most of em. Time in the sun, driving speedboats between tropical islands a few weeks of the year. Yeah, that was the life.
Always think perhaps somebody might recognise me from those few summers spending Friday nights standing outside the front door where we’re going. Of course, most attention’s on the baboon who’s being evicted - no offence like - when they launch themselves swaggering and slobbering into the press and fans, and Davina. She’s lovely. Just down to earth, like, y’ know? I just stood there, made sure the doors opened and whoever it was had enough brain-cells to walk through the door and down the steps. Some of them even said hello, good bye or whatever: the few with self awareness that they were still a person who could relate to the likes of me. Still, I was on the telly a bit in that one. Nobody recognises me now, from this seat. They’re all looking at you. I prefer it that way.
Cowell’s minder on the X-Factor Pop thingy for a few series too. Yeah, that was fun: always guaranteed a handul of total headcases there. And I played a bit in the Strictly Come Dancing band. The odd bit of percussion when they had a drop-out. Didn’t matter that we rarely got the recognition. The dancing was the point of it, wasn’t it? The whole spectacle. Lovely.
So yeah, you might say I’ve been exposed a few times to the limelight. Just in the background, but there or thereabouts. Enough to get a sense of it. I’ll tell you what, I think you’re best off out of it altogether, to be fair.
But you know, good luck anyway. -Oh, there you go. Sorry love, it’s open now. Knock em dead.
Thing is, I think it’s interesting. Didn’t much at the time, but now, looking back, it’s one of the things which stands out in my life, my time spent doing that. It’s the kind of thing I reckon people are likely to have their attention caught by, turn to me, give me a second chance, reassess their judgement about my appearance or whatever. When I tell them that, then they’ll change.
Course it don’t happen like that. Hardly ever, in fact. They giggle or turn away, or are offended by the fact I’ve tried chatting to them. Or they just look bored Whatever. Jog on, grandad. Maybe I don’t sell it in a convincing enough way, or it just doesn’t sound believable. Not when I slur it or mumble, or don’t speak it clearly enough.
What? Well, loads of stuff, since you ask. Drove the taxi away in The Apprentice, didn’t I? Every booted out candidate for three series, right from the start. You never saw me, but I was always there in that cab. With the crew and whatever sorry git had been fired by Sir Alan that week. Sometimes they’d be crying, couldn’t quite believe it, or like they suddenly recognised their own weaknesses like. Others would be angry – they were the funnier ones: convinced Sugar had made a mistake which he’d pay for. Like he gives a stuff.
Never actually watched it. Can’t have realised how popular it was at the time or I’d have blown my trumpet about it more then. The cameras and what-not ‘d pile in first, facing the opposite direction. Then whoever it was would follow, looking a bit shellshocked by it all, trying to look proud and together, like they didn’t really mind all that much. Just a game. I knew them for what they were though.
When the cameras piled out and it was just me and them. I could look in my rear view mirror, see into their eyes – which avoided mine; the hurt. Before I dropped them off somewhere central, one of the big stations, then watched for a moment as they pulled their suitcases off, alone.
Like I tell them, if they’ll listen, it wasn’t the best one anyway. Not much compared to those speedboats, hoiking the losers off them tropical islands. There were several different series for that, never kept track. One was Love something; gobby tossers. Others were for kids, much younger, but still like, “young adults” or whatever they call em. Hardly like they looked innocent, most of em. Time in the sun, driving speedboats between tropical islands a few weeks of the year. Yeah, that was the life.
Always think perhaps somebody might recognise me from those few summers spending Friday nights standing outside the front door where we’re going. Of course, most attention’s on the baboon who’s being evicted - no offence like - when they launch themselves swaggering and slobbering into the press and fans, and Davina. She’s lovely. Just down to earth, like, y’ know? I just stood there, made sure the doors opened and whoever it was had enough brain-cells to walk through the door and down the steps. Some of them even said hello, good bye or whatever: the few with self awareness that they were still a person who could relate to the likes of me. Still, I was on the telly a bit in that one. Nobody recognises me now, from this seat. They’re all looking at you. I prefer it that way.
Cowell’s minder on the X-Factor Pop thingy for a few series too. Yeah, that was fun: always guaranteed a handul of total headcases there. And I played a bit in the Strictly Come Dancing band. The odd bit of percussion when they had a drop-out. Didn’t matter that we rarely got the recognition. The dancing was the point of it, wasn’t it? The whole spectacle. Lovely.
So yeah, you might say I’ve been exposed a few times to the limelight. Just in the background, but there or thereabouts. Enough to get a sense of it. I’ll tell you what, I think you’re best off out of it altogether, to be fair.
But you know, good luck anyway. -Oh, there you go. Sorry love, it’s open now. Knock em dead.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
First thoughts
You realised slowly that you had in fact dreamt it, that it was just a dream, even though you were still within the dream when you realised. Oh good, it can’t be real, you figured, understanding somehow that it was a dream and that you were still asleep.
Those few horrific moments continued to plague your sleep, returning and replaying. And haunting. Even when you turned over and shook yourself into a momentary consciousness, attempting to finally shake it off - to begin a new, unconnected dream - even after that it returned.
Again and again.
The gunshot. A dangerous fizz, deafening crack, deadening splut.
You’ve never liked her much, your mother’s friend. Every time you meet her you try to like her, but always end up feeling annoyed with her. You think she believes herself magnificently entertaining to everyone who speaks to her, and anyone who disagrees is an idiot. You don’t agree. Still you appease her and wish her no bad feeling because she and her placid husband are good friends to your parents.
So when you saw the bullet enter the side of her head and the blood immediately seep out in ribbons as she slumped over, her head thudding on the desk for good measure, then you were shocked and scared. Possessed by an internal intense terror and punishing responsibility. What were you doing there? In that scene? You never found out, you had no role to play in it, a fly on the wall. And it was just a dream anyway.
So why were you still feeling guilty? Because, what if she was actually dead, somehow? Don’t be ridiculous, you told yourself, knowing you wouldn’t check.
When your day began, when you were eating your toast and brushing your teeth, back the memory poured. Insistently levering its way back into your mind. A harrowing blood-red washing across the freeze-frame.
And at inopportune times throughout the day. When you were in a meeting attempting to form a response (your reply took longer than normal and you knew your colleagues were wondering if you were all right). When you were bored, trying to terminate an unnecessarily detailed phone call.
Fizz-crack-splut.
Part of the shock was that it was unexpected. The scenario wasn’t highly likely. The woman you don’t like who would never be wrong about anything, she had been accused of a motoring offence. In a police interview room with here were two officers and her alleged victim, a quiet young asian man. None were injured.
She believed he was at fault and reacted incredulously towards anyone who couldn’t understand this, shrieking melodramatically. Why they were even in a police station interview room in the first place was never clear. You had no physical place in the scene at all.
The silent young victim nonchalantly pulled out a gun and shot her - FizzCrackSplut - before lying his weapon down on the table and allowing himself to be seized by preposterously calm, unshocked police officers.
A short scene with little, if any intelligible dialogue. Aside from her dramatic remonstrations, the others were sombre, dutifully playing out the scene you orchestrated from a far off place. Then the dramatic climax, and you’re not even sure if it would have sounded like that as you’ve never heard anything like it in reality: simply pieced it together from films.
Then an abrupt cut. You next find yourself chatting to two police officers on a bridge over a motorway. They’re not surprised when you retell the story of what just happened. In fact, they predict what happens before you’ve even reached that part of the story. That happens a lot in your dreams. You can never surprise anybody you speak to.
On the bus to work in the morning, the images were still fresh, replaying themselves with a vile vigour. You couldn’t remember doing anything that would have evoked such a dream. No thriller novels or war films. The back of the woman’s head four seats in front could have been her’s. Except it wasn’t, because she lives hundreds of miles away.
A postscript to the dream shortly afterwards doesn’t remain as vivid but is the last connection before your mind escapes the chain of this dream and sets you free. She is alive. You saw her in another scene where you had no physical presence, on a lush, long grassed hill where she frolicked with children and a dog. It felt like heaven. This is where she went, this is where you sent her after flippantly designing her assassination, you evil person. You left her there and floated away. It’s not that postscript that you remember though, is it?
FizzzzcrACK~splut.
Eventually it slides away from prominence in your mind.
That is, until you settle to sleep again tonight. The newly relaxed state of your body and mind chillingly reacquaints you with your first thoughts of the day. You shiver, turn over, shut your eyes tight, try to pack the images away.
And now you sleep.
Those few horrific moments continued to plague your sleep, returning and replaying. And haunting. Even when you turned over and shook yourself into a momentary consciousness, attempting to finally shake it off - to begin a new, unconnected dream - even after that it returned.
Again and again.
The gunshot. A dangerous fizz, deafening crack, deadening splut.
You’ve never liked her much, your mother’s friend. Every time you meet her you try to like her, but always end up feeling annoyed with her. You think she believes herself magnificently entertaining to everyone who speaks to her, and anyone who disagrees is an idiot. You don’t agree. Still you appease her and wish her no bad feeling because she and her placid husband are good friends to your parents.
So when you saw the bullet enter the side of her head and the blood immediately seep out in ribbons as she slumped over, her head thudding on the desk for good measure, then you were shocked and scared. Possessed by an internal intense terror and punishing responsibility. What were you doing there? In that scene? You never found out, you had no role to play in it, a fly on the wall. And it was just a dream anyway.
So why were you still feeling guilty? Because, what if she was actually dead, somehow? Don’t be ridiculous, you told yourself, knowing you wouldn’t check.
When your day began, when you were eating your toast and brushing your teeth, back the memory poured. Insistently levering its way back into your mind. A harrowing blood-red washing across the freeze-frame.
And at inopportune times throughout the day. When you were in a meeting attempting to form a response (your reply took longer than normal and you knew your colleagues were wondering if you were all right). When you were bored, trying to terminate an unnecessarily detailed phone call.
Fizz-crack-splut.
Part of the shock was that it was unexpected. The scenario wasn’t highly likely. The woman you don’t like who would never be wrong about anything, she had been accused of a motoring offence. In a police interview room with here were two officers and her alleged victim, a quiet young asian man. None were injured.
She believed he was at fault and reacted incredulously towards anyone who couldn’t understand this, shrieking melodramatically. Why they were even in a police station interview room in the first place was never clear. You had no physical place in the scene at all.
The silent young victim nonchalantly pulled out a gun and shot her - FizzCrackSplut - before lying his weapon down on the table and allowing himself to be seized by preposterously calm, unshocked police officers.
A short scene with little, if any intelligible dialogue. Aside from her dramatic remonstrations, the others were sombre, dutifully playing out the scene you orchestrated from a far off place. Then the dramatic climax, and you’re not even sure if it would have sounded like that as you’ve never heard anything like it in reality: simply pieced it together from films.
Then an abrupt cut. You next find yourself chatting to two police officers on a bridge over a motorway. They’re not surprised when you retell the story of what just happened. In fact, they predict what happens before you’ve even reached that part of the story. That happens a lot in your dreams. You can never surprise anybody you speak to.
On the bus to work in the morning, the images were still fresh, replaying themselves with a vile vigour. You couldn’t remember doing anything that would have evoked such a dream. No thriller novels or war films. The back of the woman’s head four seats in front could have been her’s. Except it wasn’t, because she lives hundreds of miles away.
A postscript to the dream shortly afterwards doesn’t remain as vivid but is the last connection before your mind escapes the chain of this dream and sets you free. She is alive. You saw her in another scene where you had no physical presence, on a lush, long grassed hill where she frolicked with children and a dog. It felt like heaven. This is where she went, this is where you sent her after flippantly designing her assassination, you evil person. You left her there and floated away. It’s not that postscript that you remember though, is it?
FizzzzcrACK~splut.
Eventually it slides away from prominence in your mind.
That is, until you settle to sleep again tonight. The newly relaxed state of your body and mind chillingly reacquaints you with your first thoughts of the day. You shiver, turn over, shut your eyes tight, try to pack the images away.
And now you sleep.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
"Monkeys!"
"Monkeys! Monkeys!"
Knock-knock-knock
“Monkeys! -MONKEYS!”
I walk past this chap, a suit, who's just parked a respectable car. He’s screaming “Monkeys!” through the letterbox of an indistinctive terraced house, between fits of knocking. It’s about eleven at night but he doesn’t look dangerous. As I pass, I can’t resist.
“Some kind of password?”
My question takes him by surprise and he checks over his shoulder at me, smiles.
“Top secret, mate.”
I smile back, nod knowingly, don’t break my stride and walk by, chuckling.
Next thing I hear footsteps, quick ones, coming in my direction. I check over my shoulder. It’s him again, he’s panting.
“Here, mate, you gotta help me. It’s.... it’s.....”
“What?”
“My fish.... my fish have died.”
“Not your monkeys?” I say, half smiling, slightly nervous.
“No.”
“Your fish?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
“How many is that?”
“TWO!”
“Two of your pet fish have died?”
“Yes.”
“Am I missing something?”
“You really don't get it do you?”
Despite his words, he’s still not aggressive.
“Er... no. What are your monkeys then?”
“S’what I call them. My little monkeys. They like to know when I'm getting in so they can wake up, come to the surface and greet me.”
“Ahh.”
“So I call through the letter box to let them know I'm coming. See?”
“Right. And you need my help because......?”
“They’re DEAD GODDAMIT!” he screams, then folds in two, hands on knees, weeping.
“Ok,” I try to think on my feet, “calm down. You wait here and I'll go get someone who can help.”
“Thank you,” he sobs at me.
Feeling strangely terrible, I sit him down on the wall of someone’s tiny font garden on the next terraced street to his. I leave him with his head in his hands crying like a baby and set off running, rather fast, up the street.
And I just go home.
I have to work late again the next night and reach a certain point on my walk home before deciding to take a different route, eliminating the road of the previous evening’s event. It only puts two minutes on the journey.
I turn down another, different but similarly indistinctive terraced road to find a woman stooped down to the letterbox of a house, hollering in a very strange pitch:
“Chinchillas! Chinchillas! ChinBLEEDIN’CHILLAS!”
I cross the road, then cross back after I’ve passed her. Before I turn the corner at the end of the street I check back and she’s still there. She looks a little old, stooped but animated. Big, crazy, frizzy hair slopping about everywhere, witchlike.
Madness.
It’s raining so I take the bus home from work the next day. We’re stopped at lights. I stare vacantly out of a window at a house. Someone is at a door shouting into a letterbox. I involuntarily snort at the coincidence, then he turns and meets my eye. He looks cold, tall, and very hard. A shivery fear waves through me before I remember I’m on a bus and he can’t touch me.
I get home and find the three letterbox weirdos on my doorstep.
“Um, hello” - me.
“...”
- No reply, I try to get round them to my door, feeling that same unsteady fear hacking its way through me once again, but pretending it isn’t there. They don’t let me pass. I give up, feeling like a bullied child and turn to the man who was unhealthily attached to his goldfish.
“How are your fish then?”
“DEAD!” he yells back. His eyes incensed, my stomach churns. The mateyness has apparently been extinguished from our relationship.
“Ah, right.” I look down and away, then at the second lady, “Chinchillas, eh?”
“You-diddnt-even-care-to-ask.” She speaks so fast and in such an abnormally high pitch that it takes me a second to work out what she said.
“Ah, no,” I say, smiling appealingly, “I was tired, you see and -”
“Worrabowt me?” the third one asks.
“I...I don’t know. I mean... what about you? I was on a bus. What was I supposed to do!?” I say, a mite too exasperated, instantly regretting my tone. He’s a large chap.
“Just get off the bus,” he says matter-of-factly. His companions nod their heads in agreement, like this was the obvious thing to do.
“But it wasn’t my stop and... - Look, this is just plain silly. Please excuse me.” I try to get to my door again. They’re like a wall and I bounce off.
“Well,” I say, quite exhausted now, “what do you want?”“A question you should ask yourself.” That was the fishman.
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re your, your...,” he stumbled, not the brightest, “-What are we exactly Mildred?”
“Look I’m sorry,” I say, impatient and suddenly feeling brave, “but I’m going to have to call the Police if you don -”
“-Lissen to er.” It’s the really big bloke, and he says it quite nastily so I don’t argue.
“Okay, sorry.” Mildred the witch steps forward a pace. She smells of onion.“Fing-is-youre-crap-really-en-you?”
“...”
“I’m sorry?” I gather myself well enough to reply.
“And we’re here to help you.” - Fishman.
“Ah, that’s nice of you. Can I ask how?”
“Yip.” - Stinky Mildred.
“...”
“Well, how?”
The fishman steps forward and puts an arm round me. I feel decidedly uncomfortable about this but the big chap frightens me, so I accept his clasp.
“You'll be changed from now on.”
I’ve had enough, I’m starting to think wacko religious sect, but I’m still not sure why they’re preying on me so specifically. So I get cynical.
“How? Some radical life changing experience? A new way of life? Three ghosts?”
They all look at each other and smile unnervingly.
Then stinky crazy Mildred witch creature comes up to me, puts her two bony hands on each of my upper arms and shoves her ugly boggle eyed face in mine:
“Nope. None-a-them. Yer-gonna-be-a-fish!”
I only have a moment to smile, then I get that sick, helpless falling feeling in my gut. My legs shrivel up, wiggling unnaturally and absorb into my torso, which seems to be reducing too, turning orange and feeling wet. And there’s laughter. Incessant, freakish laughter bellowing into my eardrums until I feel my ears close up and fuse with my head. Which is now slippery. Then nothing, no sounds at all. I feel elevated, and see a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like...
Ooh look, a blurred view out to pavement.
- Like when look... glasses.
View... out. Glassz.
Vew(?)
Glob.
Knock-knock-knock
“Monkeys! -MONKEYS!”
I walk past this chap, a suit, who's just parked a respectable car. He’s screaming “Monkeys!” through the letterbox of an indistinctive terraced house, between fits of knocking. It’s about eleven at night but he doesn’t look dangerous. As I pass, I can’t resist.
“Some kind of password?”
My question takes him by surprise and he checks over his shoulder at me, smiles.
“Top secret, mate.”
I smile back, nod knowingly, don’t break my stride and walk by, chuckling.
Next thing I hear footsteps, quick ones, coming in my direction. I check over my shoulder. It’s him again, he’s panting.
“Here, mate, you gotta help me. It’s.... it’s.....”
“What?”
“My fish.... my fish have died.”
“Not your monkeys?” I say, half smiling, slightly nervous.
“No.”
“Your fish?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
“How many is that?”
“TWO!”
“Two of your pet fish have died?”
“Yes.”
“Am I missing something?”
“You really don't get it do you?”
Despite his words, he’s still not aggressive.
“Er... no. What are your monkeys then?”
“S’what I call them. My little monkeys. They like to know when I'm getting in so they can wake up, come to the surface and greet me.”
“Ahh.”
“So I call through the letter box to let them know I'm coming. See?”
“Right. And you need my help because......?”
“They’re DEAD GODDAMIT!” he screams, then folds in two, hands on knees, weeping.
“Ok,” I try to think on my feet, “calm down. You wait here and I'll go get someone who can help.”
“Thank you,” he sobs at me.
Feeling strangely terrible, I sit him down on the wall of someone’s tiny font garden on the next terraced street to his. I leave him with his head in his hands crying like a baby and set off running, rather fast, up the street.
And I just go home.
I have to work late again the next night and reach a certain point on my walk home before deciding to take a different route, eliminating the road of the previous evening’s event. It only puts two minutes on the journey.
I turn down another, different but similarly indistinctive terraced road to find a woman stooped down to the letterbox of a house, hollering in a very strange pitch:
“Chinchillas! Chinchillas! ChinBLEEDIN’CHILLAS!”
I cross the road, then cross back after I’ve passed her. Before I turn the corner at the end of the street I check back and she’s still there. She looks a little old, stooped but animated. Big, crazy, frizzy hair slopping about everywhere, witchlike.
Madness.
It’s raining so I take the bus home from work the next day. We’re stopped at lights. I stare vacantly out of a window at a house. Someone is at a door shouting into a letterbox. I involuntarily snort at the coincidence, then he turns and meets my eye. He looks cold, tall, and very hard. A shivery fear waves through me before I remember I’m on a bus and he can’t touch me.
I get home and find the three letterbox weirdos on my doorstep.
“Um, hello” - me.
“...”
- No reply, I try to get round them to my door, feeling that same unsteady fear hacking its way through me once again, but pretending it isn’t there. They don’t let me pass. I give up, feeling like a bullied child and turn to the man who was unhealthily attached to his goldfish.
“How are your fish then?”
“DEAD!” he yells back. His eyes incensed, my stomach churns. The mateyness has apparently been extinguished from our relationship.
“Ah, right.” I look down and away, then at the second lady, “Chinchillas, eh?”
“You-diddnt-even-care-to-ask.” She speaks so fast and in such an abnormally high pitch that it takes me a second to work out what she said.
“Ah, no,” I say, smiling appealingly, “I was tired, you see and -”
“Worrabowt me?” the third one asks.
“I...I don’t know. I mean... what about you? I was on a bus. What was I supposed to do!?” I say, a mite too exasperated, instantly regretting my tone. He’s a large chap.
“Just get off the bus,” he says matter-of-factly. His companions nod their heads in agreement, like this was the obvious thing to do.
“But it wasn’t my stop and... - Look, this is just plain silly. Please excuse me.” I try to get to my door again. They’re like a wall and I bounce off.
“Well,” I say, quite exhausted now, “what do you want?”“A question you should ask yourself.” That was the fishman.
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re your, your...,” he stumbled, not the brightest, “-What are we exactly Mildred?”
“Look I’m sorry,” I say, impatient and suddenly feeling brave, “but I’m going to have to call the Police if you don -”
“-Lissen to er.” It’s the really big bloke, and he says it quite nastily so I don’t argue.
“Okay, sorry.” Mildred the witch steps forward a pace. She smells of onion.“Fing-is-youre-crap-really-en-you?”
“...”
“I’m sorry?” I gather myself well enough to reply.
“And we’re here to help you.” - Fishman.
“Ah, that’s nice of you. Can I ask how?”
“Yip.” - Stinky Mildred.
“...”
“Well, how?”
The fishman steps forward and puts an arm round me. I feel decidedly uncomfortable about this but the big chap frightens me, so I accept his clasp.
“You'll be changed from now on.”
I’ve had enough, I’m starting to think wacko religious sect, but I’m still not sure why they’re preying on me so specifically. So I get cynical.
“How? Some radical life changing experience? A new way of life? Three ghosts?”
They all look at each other and smile unnervingly.
Then stinky crazy Mildred witch creature comes up to me, puts her two bony hands on each of my upper arms and shoves her ugly boggle eyed face in mine:
“Nope. None-a-them. Yer-gonna-be-a-fish!”
I only have a moment to smile, then I get that sick, helpless falling feeling in my gut. My legs shrivel up, wiggling unnaturally and absorb into my torso, which seems to be reducing too, turning orange and feeling wet. And there’s laughter. Incessant, freakish laughter bellowing into my eardrums until I feel my ears close up and fuse with my head. Which is now slippery. Then nothing, no sounds at all. I feel elevated, and see a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like...
Ooh look, a blurred view out to pavement.
- Like when look... glasses.
View... out. Glassz.
Vew(?)
Glob.
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