How are you?

The Day the Music Died
by Blair Evans
Copyright 2013 Blair Evans
All rights reserved
http://www.facebook.com/TheDaytheMusicDiedNovel
http://blairevansauthor.wordpress.com/
To the honest musicians
and the sincere believers
of music everywhere.
Contents:
Part One:
Diaper at the Gates of Porn …… 1
Not Playing with a Full Deck …… 16
On the First Day of Bullshit …… 33
Mostly Academic …… 47
The Wanker Usurpation …… 56
Part Two:
Strawberries Among Us …… 76
Sex and Sex Ability …… 95
Beware the Heathen …… 112
Unchartered Territory …… 124
Bless’d are the Penalty Takers …… 136
Altar Ego …… 152
For They Know Not What They Do …… 172
On the Second Day of Bullshit …… 181
Part Three:
Smoke Signals …… 200
Director’s Cut …… 236
Meaningful Pieces of Paper …… 249
Coda …… 270
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be
insane by those who could not hear the music.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche
“A miracle is the violation of the laws of nature; what is more likely, that those laws have
been bent to your needs, or that you are living under a fallacy?”
- David Hume (Paraphrased)
PART ONE
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Chapter One:
Diaper at the Gates of Porn
(Year: 0 A.D minus one hour.)
“Pornography ...”
Not the usual start for a speech at an educational institution, but the
speaker was going somewhere with it, and from the way Cameron and the
rest of the audience shifted in their seats, they wanted to know precisely
where.
“Pornography will be the only non-commercialised art form we have
left”. The ends of his spectacles were clenched in his fist providing his only
academic flourish. There was no tweed jacket, no corduroy pants and no
large buttoned cardigan. They existed on the other side of the diatribe.
The so called pioneers and musical visionaries at The City School of
Music loved hearing the opinions of those that did not make ‘real’ music. As
they got comfortable, they knew that their academic self-superiority could
deflect any artistic argument involving such a low brow phenomenon.
Every Thursday afternoon at this time they would have to hear the views
of a former student and apparent success story. Of all those that had visited,
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this would be the easiest for the under graduate class to sit through. They
would hear him out and then share a few mocking glances amongst
themselves.
The guest on this day, one Raymond Dawson, had spent 4 years of his
life at this same institution, having sat in the same seats he was now
addressing. Somewhere early in his adolescence, he had decided that music
was to be his calling in life and that he was talented enough to be taken
seriously when he told his friends that he was going to pursue a career in arts
when those same friends were enrolling in law, science and architecture.
“We all have our tastes and opinions but one thing we should be able to
agree on is that art is self-justifying. If we live in a free society, then the art
work produced by that society as a whole does not need to prove itself to
anyone. It is the end to which only itself is the means. It is the means to
which only itself is the end.”
Good. Back to serious academic wordsy type stuff. This is University
after all. These kids were paying for their education and by Jesus they wanted
their money’s worth. Simple facts and self-evident realities can wait another
year. They wanted something they could use. Not in the real world of course,
but in the abstract one where it’s all put on for you. An education had to feel
like it will be worth the next ten years of loan repayments. When you’re too
young to realise that life experience is more valuable than a degree, you need
your knowledge served to you alongside mountains of tasteless and over
cooked garnish. You might be washing dishes for years to come, but you can
still regurgitate memories of fine dining.
He had studied and graduated in the fenced off fresh waters, but he had
left and evolved into something new in the harsher saltier environment of the
open ocean. This man who stood at the pulpit was actually making his living
from the production of music.
“But now art and just about everything else in society has become a
means to some other end. And that end is a predominantly commercial one.
Everywhere you go you are told ‘buy shit’ or ‘buy into this shit’. Across the
board we see human endeavour and achievement being used as a piece in a
marketing chain.” As he listened, Cameron flinched as he was doused with
the holy water of life experience. These were his words and no one else’s. It
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was rare for the school to hear anything from the proverbial horse’s mouth. It
is a sad truth well established in music that covers bands and tribute acts
attract greater crowds than those with material of their own to share.
Music was too easy to Cameron and his fellow in-patients. They wrote
their ear burningly dissonant pieces, which were performed by their friends,
applauded on by three or four lecturers and the 30 other students waiting in
line, then granted the inevitable pass mark back a week later having been
assumed to be music because it could not be proven otherwise. This process
would be repeated three times a year for three years as part of the core
requirements of their degree in musical composition. By the time they got
their hands on that piece of paper with their name on it, everything produced
as a means to that end could be forgotten and never be heard by civilisation
ever again.
“Let’s look at pure ‘pop’ music for a minute, look at your average girl
band.” Some pacing was performed and eye contact was attempted, only to
be avoided. “Their only contribution is to fulfil a particular sexual fantasy
demographic. These over populated ‘bands’ have at least one girl in them that
any girl out there would want to be like, and one that any guy out there would
want to fuck given their mood at the time.”
These kids were loving this. They loved being made to feel better than the
mainstream. Half of them came from middle class backgrounds while the
other half wanted the world to think that they came from middle class
backgrounds. You had to know what to look down on and there was no
better target in musical academia than popular music.
What they didn’t realise was that none of them would be making music
after they left University. No one gets a job as a musician on their own terms.
But academic institutions like The City School of Music try to instil into its
students the myth that one could simply walk out of the faculty doors
holding something that represented value in the real world.
Their guest speaker had dispensed with such lunacy years ago and had
adapted accordingly. With colder blood, he gave himself gills, 360 degree
vision, a thicker skin and shed his unrealistic artistic principles in favour of
commercial reality.
“Are these marketing devices we refer to as girl-bands actually artists? I
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don’t even class them as musicians. Well not if you think that an ‘artist’ or a
‘musician’ should have to write their own material. Look at who writes the
material. They’re a who’s who of retired members of vintage rock bands
from decades past.”
Attentions drifted in the expensive seats. One way of letting your fellow
middle class wannabes know that you were so born and bred middle class was
to claim to have not even heard of some of these ‘popular’ musical acts.
They would look puzzled when talk shifted to reality TV shows, sport,
mainstream radio or anything made for the masses. They owned televisions
just so they could art watch art house movies with their pretentious friends
and they only owned a radio for the Classical stations.
“When you look at each song writer’s list of credits you’ll see their
names alongside numerous artists you might have thought were stylistically
dissimilar from one another. What you have in effect is an industry selling
you the artistic output of the same group of people. Over and over. People
out there are being sold reheated leftovers.”
‘No. You don't get it. You see, we'll be the ones to make real music heard by all’.
Such was the collectively held view - bar those of the academic occupation
that formed the front row, and one other student whose grip on such naivety
was showing signs of stage fright.
“Like 100 puppets hanging from the strings of only 10 different
puppeteers, switching without the audience seeing. The movements are so
similar. The dance moves identical. The game is the same. Only the costumes
differ. The last minute aesthetic touch chosen by the marketing team is what
is sold as ‘the artist’. When a pop group later runs out of steam and aesthetic
originality, the marionette lets it fall to the ground and attaches its attention to
the next pretty face at the start of their 2 to 3 year cycle. Resources are
diverted before they are wasted and the money keeps rolling in.”
“Just the same old recycled chords, melodies, intros, outros, solos and
modulations that you’ve already heard. What’s the difference? The girl
dancing to it and claiming to be singing to it is different from the last one and
provides just enough of a variation from the last time you heard the exact
same thing played out so you can feel you are experiencing something new.”
With sweat on his brow and shortness of breath, he fought on. All he saw
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were rows of seats with their arms folded and their minds shut. All but one.
Sanity is just a question of statistics and right now it was he who was the
insane one by virtue of numeric disadvantage.
“Well that’s the porn industry too isn’t it? No matter how many times they
try to reinvent the wheel, it’s still fucking. Same positions. Same chords. Same
body parts. Same melodies. What’s the difference? The girl getting fucked is
different from the last one and provides just enough of a variation from the
last time you saw the exact same thing played out so you can feel you are
experiencing something new.”
Some of the audience showed mock disgust at the analogy. But the arts
faculty had some of the most promiscuous, incestuous and sexually active
students in the entire University trickling through its halls.
“But let’s not insult porn by comparing it to the music industry. With
porn you know where you stand. We know that the sex in it doesn’t look like
the sex normal people have. But pornography doesn’t see itself as all that
artistically vital to society. It therefore doesn’t make any pretentious claims. It
doesn’t immerse itself in an over inflated sense of necessity. But music does.
Music will fool you. The music industry will fool you.”
‘This guy is losing it surely. What does he think he is achieving by bringing sex into an
educational institution?’
“Yes, porn exploits women. But so does every dream machine out there.
And in the music industry, the girls are even younger. There is no age of
consent in the music industry. You don’t have to be 18 to have your dreams
of success dashed because you aren’t good looking enough, or that you aren’t
what the studio was looking for. Any age will do.”
Up until then, everything had sounded like a cautionary tale of the perils
of selling out to popular music. But these kids were on the cutting edge
where empty seats and confused audiences were something to be proud of.
“Classical music is just a middle class indicator. Just like a University
education used to be. But as budding classical composers, you are all fighting
for an increasing share in a rapidly shrinking market. It is an engaging art
form and one that needs full attention. Society doesn’t want that. Society only
wants gratification.” He took from his jacket pocket a Zippo lighter. Heaven
forbid that he would light anything with it. Instead, he twirled it in his fingers
6
like rosary beads, seeking strength.
“Porn only sells porn. When you buy porn what do you get? Porn. No
cross branding and no advertising. You know where you are with porn. The
people doing the fucking are the ones doing the fucking. No product
placement, they’re just too busy making a stack of cash from doing the same
thing they did when they pulled in that last stack of cash. If they do try to
sell anything else, it’s just more sex. No outsourcing. No hidden sub text. No
porn movie was ever criticised because it was too political or that it was trying
to push a hidden agenda on its audience.”
Confronted by a wall of protective expressions, he took stock of events.
With his hands behind his head, he knew he had run far outside of the
institution’s comfort zone.
“So rather than try to beat them, I left this country and joined them. Yes,
I stand before you as a musical whore. I’ll do anything so long as the money
is there. My biggest pay cheque came for providing the soundtrack for an
orgy scene from the high end big budget porno movie ‘Pop Star’. I wrote it
with no care for any art form, least of all music. The furthest thing from my
mind at the time of writing it was the artist’s obligation to preserve the
institution that is the creative process. If you’re going to sell yourself out,
you’d better do it right.”
“But pornography, I’m sorry to inform you, will be the only
unblemished art form we have left. Furthermore, it will not be pornography’s
fault. But the fault of art itself. All we need to decide that pornography is art.
Given that not much is being said while still being considered free speech,
you would have to conclude that what is being said is rather expressive and
subjective in its nature. Art then? Yes. Oh yes. Oh God yeah ... OH FUCK
YES!!!!.”
“And Thank you.” Then the audience did applaud, but only briefly. Just a
sudden scattering of pigeons, nothing that outlasted the speaker’s attempt to
regain his breath.
He had been entertaining and had provided a break from the norm.
Students and lecturers alike would joke about it from time to time.
‘Remember that guy that just ranted about the music industry for an hour’?
He was a distraction. A recitative. The bridge section. Not the chorus or the
7
aria they would have written. Soon it would be back to ‘reality’ for these kids.
After all, some of them had already turned 21.
He was at least trying to say more than the usual wave of platitudes. It
looked like no one really cared.
But one student listened.
The lecturing staff would never choose to see the message conveyed.
While older and wiser, they were beyond help, having long since been
institutionalised. Some were in their 60s and had never even left the
education system. Lifeforms that only existed in laboratories and synthetic
environments. ‘Reality’ was a foreign concept for these sheltered few. If your
audience as an artist consists mostly of former and current students, then you
might want to re-evaluate the strength of your market reach.
But one student listened.
Cameron Forsyth was an excellent student. But, if you had to guess what
subject he studied just by looking at him, you would struggle. His clothes
were not the usual ostentatious attempts at controlled undergraduate
scruffiness. His was a scruffiness that came naturally. It almost looked fake.
His facial hair was just what happened to his face when he stopped shaving
for more than a week.
Not only did he look like someone who did not attend University, he
looked like he had not even been to one. The intellectuals dressed in their
woollen jumpers and corduroy pants - the ‘Anti-Denim’. Their necklines were
high and their skivvies firmly tucked in. Atheists though most of them were,
they dressed remarkably like born again Christians.
On the other hand, the laid back and no less judgemental bohemians wore
the finest depleted denim, matched with the standard military issue Doc
Martens. There was always one that embarrassed them all by going too far by
wearing that familiar red Che Guevara T Shirt. None of them knew who that
guy in all those T shirts really was, nor were they aware of the fact that
socialist revolutionary armies killed people just the same as any other armed
8
force. Che Guevara was also profoundly tone deaf and banned the
performing and writing of non-nationalistic music, but don’t tell the students.
University study had failed to change Cameron’s hair colour or even the
shape it grew in. He didn’t cut his hair so much as it required a controlled
burn off every six weeks. Tightly bound and bulletproof. He was one of the
only students on campus who still looked like the person pictured on his
student ID. Neither side of the composer coin had appealed to him or
sucked him in. He was just there making highly overrated student music,
believing himself to be in the right place.
Cameron was the one in class who made the music the teachers wanted to
hear, while still sounding original. There was just one problem: he had no
idea how he did it.
The dilemma was solved by concluding that he must have been genuinely
musically gifted and almost divinely inspired. He was a self-taught guitarist
who could play along with virtually anything played to him. But when he
composed music, the less of it he heard, the better the finished product
sounded. His best results came from writing blind.
It was strange how fast he had formed that view, given that only two years
ago he was faced with a crisis of confidence when he discovered that he
wasn’t any good at the basic fundamentals of classical musicianship. But
thank heavens for subjective evaluation. With all those pesky fundamental
criteria courses dealt with in an unimpressive wave of C minuses, all that was
left was the easy bit. Composition. The art of being right because no one
could prove you wrong. It was of course completely flawed reasoning but
how do you determine objective standards when you are dealing with the
fundamentally subjective? In subjective study, the burden of proof is on the
assessor. Not the one being assessed. If the science faculty followed a similar
method, we’d still be applying leeches to our bodies to treat the common cold.
Couldn’t hurt, could it?
Composition seemed a natural option for someone living through a
musical form of Tourette’s syndrome. The only way to shut off this melodic
internal dialogue was to play music in real life. As he composed, he wrote
down what he thought might look good, hopefully a successful dictation of
the random whistling of an artistic stream of consciousness. It all sounded
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rather romantic, composing quickly and producing error free first drafts, like
the great masters of old. While his fellow students wrote with pencil and an
eraser, smudging their way to mediocrity, Cameron used felt pens and could
produce on the first take what onlookers thought was an acceptable final
draft.
But churning out his assignments at will, with no real conscious
connection to the music or the process itself, meant he never knew how
anything would sound in its entirety until it was performed. He just knew it
looked right on paper. On one occasion, he was sitting outside a practice
room waiting for the musicians to leave so he could organise a rehearsal of
his own piece. What he didn’t know was that the musicians inside were in fact
his and they were playing his music. He didn’t even know his own music
when he heard it played outside of his own head.
Great composers could hear a bird sing on a rainy day and then write
hour long symphonies from what was nothing more than nature singing in
the shower. Great conductors could hum any hidden part of any major work
to any fool who asked them to. Cameron couldn’t even recognise his own
music when it was played back to him, even if he had just finished writing it
that week. That day. At least the mediocre ones in his class had a basic degree
of composer’s musicianship.
He had been more than happy to play the game of mutual flattery with
his classmates and teachers. “Hey man, cool piece”. “Thanks. Same with
yours. Really cool.” Apparently, everyone’s piece was great. But Cameron now
saw all those pages of manuscript as being like children’s paintings you made
for your mother to pin on the fridge. There was more than enough room for
all the little children to show their childishly naive visions of the world for
some momentary parental approval.
For once, Cameron had heard the opinion of someone who had actually
lived off the market valuation of his musical output, not the inflated
academic reputation that powered it. Dawson was in many ways the better
artist. He had figured out a way of getting music to feed him and his family.
Cameron’s head lecturer could only emulate this through academic reputation
and teaching.
Cameron knew that at some point this dream of his would have to come
10
to an end. He hadn’t been developing much needed skills with which to build
a career. He’d been on an expensive three year holiday, a luxury cruise. Maybe
in those days of fully state funded University education this would be
justified, but not so today. People want to measure people up against other
people. If everyone passes and no one fails, then what can you possibly claim
as your base measurement? It’s no consolation when everyone around you
has a degree and the room you are all in is an entire floor of a high rise office
building.
He looked around at the self-justification in that lecture theatre-slashauditorium, where more people turned up for the lectures than they did for
the music. Cameron had only seen it full for purely musical reasons once in
his time there, and a composer had to die for that to happen. When he had
first entered The City School of Music he was awe struck by the seriousness
of the place. It was a novelty to be able to say “I’m studying Music”. He
should have wondered when people kept asking him, “So what are plans after
you graduate? ... go into teaching?”
The decline of in-jokes and ego stroking suggested that the academics
and hipsters had started to drift off. Dawson gathered his things and walked
out briskly, only taking time to shake the hands of those staff members that
hadn’t scurried into the nearest corner to privately denounce him as a heretic.
Cameron didn’t hang around or mingle either, he had more important
matters to attend.. Even his walk placed him somewhere between the two
types of people he should have turned into by now. He wasn’t a laid back
strutter like the dread-locked and ethnically dressed, nor was he the
uncoordinated tangle of limbs like those of a more intellectual breed. Staring
more at the ground than towards the horizon, Cameron found his way to the
centre of the city and into its best known adult shop, the inappropriately
named ‘Eden’.
He would easily have been on first name terms with the shop owner, if
people did in fact talk in adult shops. Customers were comfortable enough
once they were inside, but they weren’t so proud to be there that they would
actually break into casual conversation. There were reasons why you didn’t
just shake someone’s hand in a place like Eden.
Cameron was naturally distracted by the posters and box covers on display
11
all around him. Almost everything on display was coated in protective plastic,
as if sexually transmitted diseases could be passed just through the power of
imagery. Transfixed, he had barely noticed that he was being made to queue
at the counter of an adult shop. Furthermore, he was queueing behind a
woman. Even the owner had been thrown off guard by its monthly quota of
female business.
The brash combination of primary colours and the exaggerated typefaces
will always tell you that you have entered such an enclosure. The tanned
European skin tones were an orange infused beige that didn’t exist anywhere
else in nature. Only the power of low budget cinematography could create
such a hue. Their version of pink could not be found on the shelves of any
art supply store. The only places with this much skin tone on display were
health spas. If the average beautician knew what the word ‘facial’ meant to
anyone other than them and their menopausal housewife clientèle, the term
would have been exorcised long ago.
“Pop Star. Do you have it?”
The owner didn’t answer verbally, he simply reached behind him to dig it
out. If it hadn’t have been there, Cameron would still have rented a booth
along with anything from the colourfully stocked shelves that surrounded
him.
Nothing about Cameron’s visit was research. He wasn’t testing a theory or
proving a point to himself. His arousal levels had been peaked by the earlier
unexpected intrusion of sex into his conscious mind. He wasn’t here by his
own volition, something else was behind it. He rolled up the sleeves and got
down to business, he needed a release and it would come from an overlooked
cinematic gem from 2008.
‘Pop Star’, from the European adult production studio ‘Forbidden’, makes for an
interesting viewing but nothing to get too carried away by. The acting performances suffer at
times from a somewhat lacklustre script delivered entirely in English, despite its cast all
being non-native English speaking Europeans. Its producers clearly had eyes on a larger
market and a possible franchise title when the film was made. But all in all, the cast comes
through with their professional reputations untarnished.
The plot centres around Charlotte, a talented singer and the frustration she experiences
12
due to the lack of professional respect she is given by the musicians in her band. She is
assumed to be less talented than those around her due to her unusually good looks,
particularly the size of her breasts.
Her frustrations magnify when she decides to seek counsel from the band’s manager, Mr
Harrison. While he appears to be supportive and understanding of her predicament, he is
overly enthusiastic in his curiosity of the items in question. As Charlotte presents them to
him, Harrison confesses to being somewhat overcome with arousal.
Charlotte inadvertently creates for herself a moral dilemma. If she spurns the
attentions of her manager, she may damage her career. On the other hand, if she
reciprocates Harrison’s affections, she may trigger a wave of jealousy, recrimination and
politics among the other band members. After careful deliberation, Charlotte decides that
the only thing she can do in order to keep her life’s dream on track is for the two of them to
have spontaneous anal sex on top of the grand piano in the band’s rehearsal space.
The other members of the band, all female and not exactly unattractive themselves,
appear to be jealous of Charlotte. The ring leader among them is the keyboard player, Lisa.
After one particularly successful concert, the 4 other band members, at Lisa’s prompting,
trade stories and anecdotes about Charlotte. Lisa further confides in the others, admitting
that she may not be exclusively heterosexual as she confesses to being slightly attracted to
Charlotte.
A wonderful scene is subsequently played out as the three band members console Lisa
and express not only their tolerance of her sexuality but also their willingness to participate
in it - for her, as a sign of their solidarity. Some of the best acting of the movie is to be
found in this transition period between the dialogue and the hardcore lesbian intercourse
that grows organically out of it.
At Lisa’s bequest, two of the band are sent to Mr Harrison in order to question him
on the decision to place Charlotte in the band in the first place. Harrison is defensive at
first but when the two girls raise the issue of Charlotte’s physical attributes it becomes clear
that he had a role to play in her placement there. The two claim that they are both better
musicians than Charlotte, and while they admit they might not be as attractive as her, they
insist that they would make better lovers. Harrison tries to explain that such a claim is
perfunctory as they appear to have no interest in testing it. With the two band members’
reputations at stake, the only option is for the three of them to engage in a round of
spontaneous anal sex on top of the drinks cabinet at the back of the band’s tour bus.
The ongoing tension between Charlotte, the band members and Mr Harrison finally
13
reaches its crescendo in the final act. All cast members are called to Mr Harrison’s hotel
suite where Charlotte informs them that she has decided to leave the band and move back to
her small home town, her dreams of stardom crushed. Upon hearing the consequences of
their judgemental attitudes, all those present feel ashamed of themselves and promptly
apologise to Charlotte.
Charlotte’s elaborate bluff has paid off! She has forced her colleagues to admit defeat
while still keeping her job and proving herself to be an intelligent woman. Her intention
was never to leave, but to point out how childishly those around her have been behaving.
Promises are then made among the assembled group. They decide never to allow
Charlotte to become the victim of discrimination again. Rather than agreeing to shake
hands, they decide instead to cement their trust in each other in the form of a rarely
employed and often risky team building exercise at the suggestion of Mr Harrison.
Sceptical at first, Charlotte, Lisa and the rest of the band members all agree to gather in a
large circle and take turns fellating him.
Once they have all participated in the exercise with Mr Harrison, Lisa and the other
three band members embark on their own journey of self-discovery in the suite’s ample
sized bathroom where a gift bag of female sex toys and additional lubricant had been
thoughtfully left for them by an anonymous fan. During this period, Charlotte takes the
opportunity to reach out to all of them in a further act of reconciliation. This provides
another perfect example of linear progression from dialogue to hard-core lesbian intercourse,
something that this movie does consistently well throughout.
Lisa then surrounds herself with her now openly bisexual fellow band members, all
realising that their jealousy for Charlotte has faded entirely. They can now go on being the
musicians they have always wanted to be, professional in all areas. They then look on
happily as Charlotte and Mr Harrison engage in one more round of spontaneous anal sex
on top of the fish tank in the middle of the hotel room.
A minor continuity error occurs when two members of the stage crew appear out of
nowhere and with no introduction or character establishment, only so that they can lend
their talents to an impressive double penetration sequence performed on one of the girls. Her
face is obscured throughout, but the reviewer believes the body to be that belong to the bass
guitarist. By this point, there is more than enough character resolution taking place that we
can easily continue to suspend our disbelief.
Helping to set this film apart from others in the genre is the solo cello that plays out the
last 15 minutes. The soundtrack throughout ‘Pop Star’ had, up until this point, consisted
14
of the familiar and generic synthesised ambience one has become used to enduring. But this
reviewer feels it worthy of special mention, even to the point of saying that it could stand
alone as a genuine work of art.
In the moments following the team building exercise, so wonderfully performed by a
talented ensemble cast, another young girl makes her way into the hotel room. The cast look
on in bemusement as this new comer accuses Harrison of having manipulated events to his
favour. The cynical would see this uncredited late addition of a new character as just a
cheap device for justifying a further sequel - and that much prized franchise title. If ‘Pop
Star’ has its Persian flaw, then this is it, regardless of how beautiful the young lady was.
And as the credits trickled upwards, more relaxed but slightly unsettled,
Cameron could only say: “Fucking hell ... that cello line ... it’s the most
beautiful thing I’ve ever heard!”
The skilful use of register, masterful phrasing, inspired bowing instruction,
form so perfectly balanced and proportioned, all having built up to a
straining climax. What was credited to a self-confessed musical whore and
sold off to the highest bidder was superior to anything Cameron had heard
from any angst ridden hyper intellectual idealist, and light years from anything
he thought he was capable of himself.
The greatest instrumental piece Cameron had ever heard existed so a 50
year old stalwart of the European wing of the adult movie industry could,
and with all the professionalism that befitted his ‘Hall of Fame’ status,
dutifully sodomise a fresh faced, naive, wide eyed and gaping 20 year old
from eastern Europe. An immigrant to the sexual equivalent of the Ruhr
valley.
For the first time, the tissues in Eden carried tears. Via the lecture theatre
and the jerk off booth, Cameron felt the music inside him change. The
colour in its cheeks began to fade, its breathing slowed down, lacking the air
to power the fluttering lines of further praiseworthy works. The overlord to
his internal dialogue that spoke to the student via his own inner voice, now
just a self-justifying karaoke singer in his head. His faith, his inspiration and
his so-called genius, dead; dried up and expired on the digital floor of an
adult shop wank hut.
The short bus trip home was, for the first time, a silent one. His mind
15
empty, but for the image of the European nymph. Musically impotent, he sat
in his room, the walls echoing a painful silence. He used to stare at the ceiling
and enjoy listening to the music, but now he was just the calligrapher of a
language he could not fathom. A failed monk staring at scripture belonging to
a religion he could no longer follow, and only three months away from one
more meaningless piece of paper, a certificate of participation signed by the
oblivious members of a gradual suicide cult.
But as he decided that the body would require further examination, he
heard a ringing in his ears, later attributed to the phone that rang off the
hook in heaven.
16
Chapter Two:
Not playing with a Full Deck
Situated on the University’s periphery, The City School of Music was an
island unto itself. Miles from civilisation and common sense, its citizens lived
out their lives as each previous generation had done, oblivious to the
irrelevance of their pursuits or to the ongoing shift in the way they were
perceived by outsiders, unable to answer the great theological question: “Why
are we here?”
The mainland was where a useful education was to be gained, with its
temperate climate and balanced population. Departments could justify failing
students for academic reasons and they were not afraid to do so. To have
graduated from such faculties meant that others had failed in your wake. You
could put that on a CV someday.
Like all small islands, this was a relatively deserted one. Those inhabitants
played a game of academic attrition; 40 wide eyed first year composition
students entered every year, then they became 20 mildly conditioned second
year students, who in turn were transformed into 10 third year composers
who had, consciously or not, mastered the techniques of contemporary
composition in the classical tradition. A substance with a half-life of one
academic year.
17
This elimination process was not something that the school actively
applied to each class. The decay occurred naturally as students realised that
they had been there long enough. By the standards set by the department,
those that didn’t enrol for the following year’s study were still perfectly
eligible to return. They just didn’t want to. One day, they would have all sat
back and thought ‘enough’, and left the cult to live happily in its own echo
chamber of self-indulgent elitism, with one less member. The higher
someone’s education, the longer it had taken for that person to cut the cord.
To continue the process of ascension was to continue the process of failure.
Failure to see. Failure to see the obvious, that nothing ever done on the island
would survive the journey to the real world.
In this island paradise, a large palm tree grew proudly in the centre of
the C shaped three storey compound. It was at the base of that tree, in the
practice room basement, where Cameron stood in awe. Touching the rough
beauty of its skin, it was undeniably natural, a miracle of natural accident.
Just another example of nature’s penchant for mathematical proportion; snail
shells, tropical cyclones and galaxies. Tree trunks, hair fibres and reptilian
vertebrae. So much beauty, such perfect inconsistency and all of it happening
by accident.
As he stood there looking up at the palm tree’s fret board, Cameron
listened to the combined sounds coming from the dozen or so practice room
cages. Such cacophony, so many voices forming a shared coherency. It was
strange to think that the random murmurings of the nearby piano, flute, oboe,
viola and trumpet could blend together to sound better than half of this
afternoon’s so-called ‘genuine’ efforts.
With all rooms being within equal earshot, he and anyone that ventured
that far down could hear the cries of numerous native species. The shrill
oboe fought for space with the warmer more subdued clarinet. Sometimes a
flute would flutter past only to be drowned out by some other more
dominant tone. The percussionists’ wooden tapping sent out a constant
stream of indecipherable code. But none broke through the jungle floor like
those from the brass family. Patriotic, military and brash. You didn’t argue
with brass or even ask it to lower its voice.
Practice rooms were borrowed, bought or outright hijacked three times a
18
year when composer concert season began. Having pulled a few strings with
a pianist he knew, Cameron managed to chance upon an hour of free
rehearsal time in one of the larger rooms. The four performers that he had
similarly wrangled, cajoled and bribed into performing his last major
assignment were all acquaintances of his. Having a reliable core of ‘go to’
performers was better than having a decent piece to begin with, and knowing
your performers’ respective vices was equally vital. If you didn’t know what
buttons to push, you were lucky if your piece was not just sight read at its
first and only performance. Even the smallest amounts of chocolate, alcohol,
gossip or sycophantic ego stroking could prove the difference between a
piece that could find its way to the finish line and one that crashed halfway.
The hardest part of being a composition student was not the hours
spent angsting over pitch, dynamics, tempo, articulation, texture or aesthetics.
It was the human factor needed to just get four people into a room together
and do something for someone other than themselves.
Cameron knew this more than anyone else and it was for this reason that
his ensemble were waiting for him, having arrived with the respect for time
befitting musicians of such calibre.
“OK. Any issues with the parts I gave you?” Cameron asked as he
entered. “Neat and clear enough?” The ensemble grinned back in perfect
unison. Cameron’s musical calligraphy had always been notoriously neat and
clear. He knew it, but always asked regardless.
“Actually, this phrase marking over this groups of notes ...” The cellist
held up a page like a legal document. “... it isn’t a perfect parabola. It almost
looks handwritten.”
“Yeah.” The violist entered. “The first treble clef on the second page
looks ... I don’t know ... just a bit rushed.”
With no real idea how he chose the notes themselves, an obsessive
approach to the way those notes were presented on the page seemed to
compensate. Cameron enjoyed the process of drawing all the symbols and
annotations more than the actual creation of the work itself, it gave him the
true feeling that he was a composer. Good enough for Mozart, apart from
the bit about not knowing how any of the music actually sounds as it’s being
written.
19
“Alright, fuckers. Let’s jump straight in then.” Cameron replied to his
ensemble of smart arses. They knew the arrangement, just turn up and play
what’s on the page. How much effort they put in beyond that was up to them.
If the piece was awful, it wouldn’t be their fault. They might get some kudos
if the piece was well played, but if they overperformed and if the applause
rang too loudly, someone else might ask them to replicate the same miracle a
month later.
String quartets were the easiest ensembles to write for. Notes could go
on forever, the pitch of a note could be changed and volume could fluctuate
without having to worry about the lung capacity of the performer.
As personalities went, strings were also a safe bet. Brass musicians were
too blokey and casual, with an annoying habit of emptying the spit from their
instruments at the most inconvenient moment. There’s a reason why brass
bands are best suited to tarmac roads or grass fields. Pianists were nervous
wrecks. Forced to practice twenty three hours a day, they were left with no
free time, no people skills and a personality starved of basic sustenance.
Singers were mostly egotistical divas who thought they deserved to be on
stage in Wagnerian armour, taking cover from the barrage of bouquets and
hampers thrown at them by their legions of sycophantic devotees.
A good string quartet ensemble, like the one Cameron skilfully dangled
from his fingertips also knew how to look the part whenever they played.
Reacting to the arbitrary articulations on the page, their body language was
pure musical theatre. Leaning, bending and swaying to the prevailing breeze
provided by their conductor. Their stern facial expressions told a different
story, classical musicians had to be trained to smile at times. With so much to
think about; staccato, vibrato, diminuendo, tremolando, detache, col legno,
and all those other terms no one thought to write in English, looking like you
actually wanted to be there featured near the bottom of the performer’s ‘to
do’ list.
You didn’t turn on your amplifier, plug in your guitar and just go for it
when what you were making was serious music, heaven forbid. Music doesn’t
just turn up, it has to be thought into existence and that existence has to be
constantly justified and compared to previous centuries worth of efforts.
These people need to know what the composer was thinking, even if outside
20
the window a bird was singing something better, as it had done since the days
of Pangaea.
Cameron’s most loyal hired guns were following the instructions to the
letter, a no brainer for all concerned. While the piece played itself, he finally
got a chance to hear it. Something wasn’t right. 5 minutes later, as if waking
up while driving only to find himself alive and still on the road, Cameron
comfortably steered his underrated and affordable ensemble through the last
few corners without any issues.
“That’s a ‘Muppet nod’. See you at the concert.” He declared.
“It’s a bit undercooked to me, Cam.” Jane, the cellist suggested.” We
could play it through a few more times to be sure.” But she was the only one
of the quartet not already packing up and looking at the door.
Jane was the in-house work horse as well as Cameron’s best friend and
the closest thing to normal he could find at the music school. Her hair had
never been dyed socialist red, existentialist black or lesbian purple. Nor had
her face been pierced into a set of jailer’s keys. Even her clothes looked like
actual clothes. Just like Cameron, she managed to look exactly the way she
had on her first day of study.
“It’s perfect for what it is.” Cameron reassured her. “See you all this
afternoon.” And as easily as that, they were finished.
Cameron stood with his eyes shut holding the door open. A dozen or
more different instruments chirped, barked and howled around him. Such
beauty often hides in plain sight, discarded because we experience it every day.
A photo of a sunrise would receive less praise than a painting of the same
image, because less effort went into it, while we entirely ignore the real
sunrise. Apparently beauty needs someone else’s will power behind it for it to
exist, to be made into something else, for it to feel validated. But beauty could
be standing right next to someone and they might not even know it.
“Cam? ... Cam!”
“What?”
“You seem a little too relaxed. Normally you’re shitting bricks by now.”
Jane said hugging her cello case. The two of them looked like a golfer and his
trusty caddie, humming and haring over how to get their ball out from the
base of the palm tree. “And open your eyes, you’re freaking me out.”
21
“Just changing things up a bit this time.” he said, actually looking at her.
“So you’ll be walking round with your eyes shut for the rest of the day.”
“No. They’re wide open. Thanks to a life changing work of hardcore
Euro porn.”
“What? A ... porno?” Jane laughed looking round for any eavesdroppers.
However, none of the surrounding instruments seemed bothered. The piano
kept blandly running scales and the clarinet’s voice seemed unperturbed.
“That must have been one hell of a good porno.”
“It was extremely effective, put it that way. It had a cello in it.”
“In the soundtrack or as a prop? ... Please say soundtrack.”
“Rest assured, no musical instruments were harmed in its production.
But music as a whole? Different story.”
“But one rehearsal? ... It reminds me of first year. Remember then? We
didn’t have a clue.”
“As opposed to now ... of course.” Cameron said for his own benefit. “A
wise old bunch of third years we’ve turned out to be.”
For the first two years of her degree, Jane had studied composition in
the same class as Cameron. Being well known in both the performance and
composition departments meant that her drinking skills had been elevated to
a whole new level.
In their time together at the Music School, they had formed a support
group of two. Normal minority groups at Universities have rooms to go to
where they can talk about how hard it is to be whatever they were being
classed as that day. Similarly, Cameron and Jane would meet regularly at the
nearest licensed establishment and happily be normal without fear of
victimisation.
At times they looked like they were deliberately trying to emulate each
other. But it only looked that way because Cameron and Jane were the only
two at Music School that hadn’t radically changed their image. By doing
nothing, it looked like they were up to something.
“3pm?” Jane asked.
“We’re on third. After Rachel too, which is good. It’s always better to
follow a bad act than a good one. I’m sure whatever she puts up will be dog
shit in its purest form.”
22
“Let’s see, I happen to be blessed with an advance copy of the program.”
Jane assumed the posture of a circus announcer. The almond mess that was
her hair lurched back under the command of the finest lion tamer as her cello
case collapsed on the floor. “Allow me to introduce to you ‘Happenstance’ by
Rachel Fallon. On clarinet we have Nicolas Young, while on cello, it’s that
familiar face once again ...”
“Wait for it!”
“You guessed it. Jane Cooper.”
“You should stop playing music you hate.” Jane couldn’t stand Rachel’s
music any more than Cameron could. Worse for her, she was the one that
had to practice it to perform it.
“You know me, Cam. Can’t say no can I?”
“You said it, not me.” Cameron cringed. He had just assumed Jane was
poking fun at herself for being easy in all areas of University life. Jane didn’t
give off any signals that her double meaning was unintentional.
“I overheard a new name for me other day. Marge.”
“Simpson?”
“Margarine. Spreads easily, even when cold.”
“Next time someone approaches you, just give them an excuse or
something. Just say no for a change?” Again, he couldn’t get rid of the double
meaning.
Cameron only ever pinned Jane down to a practice session, not a
mattress, the back of a car, or as Music School legend has it, the floor under
the stage during a performance of ‘La Traviatta’. The only negative words
that the reviewer for the local sycophantic community newspaper had was
that it ‘felt one cello short’. An astute observation.
Because neither of them looked like stereotypical music students, a small
minority had always assumed that there was something going on between
them, that small minority being those that were not fully aware of Jane’s
justified reputation.
Student composition concerts weren’t really concerts. They liked to think
23
that they were but they most definitely were not. Apart from the tutors and
lecturers that sat cross legged in the front row following the manuscripts like
priests, rabbis, imams and shamans, just about everyone in the audience
would be directly involved in at least one of the pieces as either its performer
or its perpetrator.
As each piece finished, half the auditorium would shuffle in their seats as
their turn drew nearer and another group of people would spill out from the
audience and become the next performance. There wasn’t even a stage, just
the floor in front of everyone. It was less of a concert than it was an all in
gang bang of musical chairs, where the music didn’t work as music and took
too long to stop. The chairs worked perfectly though.
After an average offering by one of the average students in Cameron’s
average class, the stage was set for Rachel. The audience could be seen
fidgeting that little bit harder. Some of the audience slipped away under the
pretence of preparing their own performance when in fact they were making
a run for the hills.
Her painfully long marathon for cello and clarinet was like watching two
5 year olds playing their recorders on Christmas Day for a few aunties and
uncles that had to try not to look disinterested. But this woman was 20 and
needed to know that listening to her music was like watching those same
aunties and uncles trying to have sex on the dining room table.
Void of any structure and packed with meaningless atonal phrases, there
was nothing musical about it. With 50 people in attendance and having lasted
6 minutes, it would go down as 3 hours of combined human existence that
could never be reclaimed. As they say in sports commentary: ‘if this were a
boxing match, they would have stopped the fight long ago’. Performers do
sometimes carry towels in amongst their assorted bits and pieces, if only one
of them had thought to throw it at her. But instead, it was allowed to finish,
after which everyone applauded and smiled their customary smiles. Liars, all
of them. Cameron’s applause was mainly aimed at Jane who he was sure had
visibly aged, even her cello seemed to have lost some of its lustre.
A short question and answer session followed, which allowed Rachel the
chance to explain what (if anything) she was thinking when she wrote
‘Happenstance’.
24
Titles count for nothing. They’re just something to put alongside the
program notes, the composers way of pre-empting any criticism their piece
might attract. ‘Wine glasses being dragged upside down across polished steel’
would have been more accurate but far less metaphorical.
The blandness of its harmonic material was passed off as being
intentional in the name of ... “creating a deliberately dry feel so that when
you passed through that phase it would create a unique musical moment”.
Unfortunately, such a moment never came. The material that the second half
of the piece was based on was about as bad as that which provided the basis
for the first half. It was a nice idea but it just ... “... didn’t come off quite as
well as I had hoped”. That was how it was sold back. A decent idea, just not
brilliantly pulled off. In reality, it was horseshit and everyone knew it. But
(again) no one had the guts to throw a D at her and leave her to think of a
new career path while she still had enough of her life left ahead of her to
glue the shattered pieces back into something resembling a more realistic
future.
Rachel clearly wasn’t in the right place. But Cameron was, and at
moments like this he was in his element. There isn’t a better place for a
student composer to be than at a concert where you are known for producing
something interesting every time. In this tiny pocket of the world, Cameron
had a reputation.
‘The Predictability of Random Events’ was a pleasant six minutes of
mostly textural offerings that played itself as easily as it did at the rehearsal
session. The melodies were as erratic as Rachel’s piece but they didn’t
overwhelm the audience because Cameron’s work resembled expressionist art.
While you couldn’t really pick out detailed images, one could imagine what
detail hid behind the blurred textures. Not hearing it and only knowing it
looked right on paper meant it would be short on melody but would always
have a nice form and structure. You would have got the same result had you
asked Monet, Turner, Renoir or Pissarro to paint what you had just described
to them as a Boeing 747.
However, this piece was a departure from that tried and tested pattern
and he wondered if others would pick up on it. And if they did, would they
care? As it finished, Cameron turned around expecting to see surprised faces
25
and even a few frowns, but not so. The applause was profound. The smiles
were broad. Trying not to look perplexed, Cameron grinned politely and took
his seat in front of the audience. Something was very, very wrong.
“So what was your inspiration for the piece?” An ethnically wrapped first
year student asked. This sort of question always meant the piece had been
well received.
“Well ...” Cameron began, mindful of the clothes worn by the person
asking the question. The answer had to be tailored to suit. “I visited an old
friend recently and I wanted to picture that moment when he and I first met.
It was a random event but we’ve been friends for a long time.” The first year
student nodded thoughtfully, he was being watched as much as Cameron.
Away from the performance area, there was a hollow thud as Jane’s cello
fell like a drunkard as she tried to stifle her laughter. As Jane was well aware,
Cameron was talking complete nonsense.
“There was more dynamic variation in this work.” An $85 cardigan
began. “Is this something that you consciously wanted to do? Would you
agree that this is something you haven’t always taken to in the past?” He was
right.
“Well spotted.” The audience chuckled. Again, Cameron’s answer would
match the cardigan perfectly. “Again I wanted to create a sense of controlled
randomness. Nothing over the top, just enough to keep with the theme I
wanted to express ... to myself at least.” The tutor nodded in agreement.
Cameron continued: “I suppose we would have to let the audience pick that
up from the title since it has only come up now since you asked.”
No audience would ever get a chance to feel anything being discussed,
this was the first and last time the piece would ever be performed. They may
as well be attending a funeral for a man they had never met in the hope of
getting to know him. The piece was history and any discussion would be
perfunctory and purely academic.
The Tutor went on. “Well I think it’s blending the best of both worlds.
It’s delightfully rich and atmospheric, like much of your previous work, but
this time we have so much more for us to latch on to.” One or two others in
the front row smiled at this.
“I wanted to try something new with this piece. To break out of any old
26
habits I have. I hope I did that. Less time spent on craft and more time spent
on expression.”
“I’d say you achieved that.” The cardigan replied. The smiles that came
from the phalanx of open fronted large buttoned woollen overwear
suggested it was a unanimous opinion.
To the short ripple of applause, Cameron stood up and performed the
sign of the cross, in four perfect beats and with the metronomic precision
befitting a composer. The last rites had been duly administered.
Cameron took a short moment to thank his performers in the hallway
and left without staying to hear any other student effort. Jane was too busy to
see him leave, she was mentally preparing herself for some other 5 minute
long waste of time she had been blackmailed into playing party to.
If society ever felt compelled to bottle the smell of academia you would
start here, in the rarefied air of the upper floors of the City School of Music
with its smell of old books and single men’s houses. By contrast, the
performance department smelt of lavender and talcum powder. Through an
act of architectural genius the two departments were given separate wings,
lest the turbulence take the roof off.
Cameron’s current foster parent and biggest fan was Stuart. His music
resembled Cameron’s in a way, which meant that Cameron was always going
to get good marks. All this talk about helping composers find their unique
voice was nonsense. If you wanted to pass with flying colours, you just
copied the style of your current lecturer. If your course co-ordinator
preferred to lie naked on the floor pissing into a catheter linked to a sprinkler
system dripping his own urine onto cymbals and assorted tympani, then you
called a plumber, poured yourself a jug of water and went for it.
“What?” Cameron was incredulous.
“I said, A plus. Well done.”
Cameron held up the score to ‘The Predictability of Random Events’
like it was legally damning evidence. “For this piece of -”
“- You sound disappointed. How can you be? It’s an excellent work.”
27
“I’m pleased to a point but ... “
“It’s easily the best thing I’ve heard from you and I’d even say it’s a
candidate for the best student work I’ve heard here in the last year or so.”
“I’ll take the mark. But I think I need to come clean on something.”
“It’s not plagiarised is it?” Plagiarism was about the only thing that would
legitimately get you a fail mark, short of handing in a blank piece of paper. In
fact, handing in nothing had already been done so that too would also count
as using someone else’s work.
“No. It’s 100% original. It’s just the method I used.”
“How was it written? I simply must hear this.” Stuart’s corduroy legs
crossed themselves in anticipation.
“Remember that guy a month back who came here and basically
slammed the whole place?”
“Ah yes, our friend, Raymond Dawson. Amusing, wasn’t he?”
“Something he mentioned led me to make a rather interesting discovery.”
Cameron would withhold the small detail of him finding the greatest piece of
music nestled inside the sticky frames of contemporary Euro porn. “So
afterwards, I went round to a friend’s house with some manuscript paper, a
pen, a pile of booze ... “
“Ha. Love it!” Stuart said, trying desperately to sound cool, but just by
looking at him one could tell that if he sat next to anything alcoholic he
might well pass out from the excitement. To Stuart, Cameron’s story was
starting to sound positively rock and/or roll.
“We also had a pack of cards. That, as you can probably guess was how
we - I mean I - chose most of the material. I wanted to see if I could remove
myself entirely from the actual decision making process and still get the same
sort of mark - I mean, still make music of the same standard. I’m pretty
loose with all the theory.” Cameron stopped short of admitting that he had
no idea what he was doing. “So as you know, there are 13 cards to each suit.
We took the kings out which left 12 per suit.”
“And allocated each of the 12 chromatic notes to a card?” Stuart asked,
trying to guess.
“If that were so, then after a while the piece would feel consistently
random and completely disorganised. The same 12 notes all having the same
28
likelihood of appearing. I had to allow themes to work their way through.”
“Yes, the term is ‘Chromatic Saturation’ ...”. Stuart drew the physical
punctuation. Almost everyone did it at the school and it didn’t get you
laughed at. “... and a vile one it is too in my opinion. So what did you do?”
“I randomly removed 13 cards.”
“Leaving ... “ Stuart did the mental calculation, “ ... 35.”
“So certain cards or notes would appear more often than others.”
“And what about the suits themselves?”
“They related to note length, in a vague sense. I didn’t give an actual
value to diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades as such. But I did allocate
commands to each suit.”
“Delicious.” Stuart was taking this in rather well, chuckling as he listened.
“The suit order as you may know is hearts, diamonds, clubs and then
spades being the lowest”
“Oh I don’t play cards.” Stuart was quick to confirm what Cameron
suspected but didn’t care about anyway. Stuart would not have bought lotto
tickets, thrown money at a race horse, drank beer, or had the courage to walk
through the plastic curtains of Eden to hear a genuine masterpiece.
“Anyway, when a higher suit appeared I would have to give that note a
longer value than the previous one. Likewise when a lower suit appeared ...
you get the idea.”
“And dynamics? Instrumental articulations? How did you get round that
one?”
“I just put them in as I chose and as arbitrarily as I could. I just made
sure that the phrases looked like phrases and that everything looked ‘musical’.”
Cameron felt obliged to perform the physical punctuation gesture.
“But that takes some skill to achieve.” Stuart leapt to Cameron’s defence.
“But skill as a composer or skill as a musical makeup artist?”
“Oh, very funny.” Stuart’s corduroy changed polarity as he chuckled.
“Seriously, I was just touching up something that I gave up to some
other force. Randomness. And now you’re telling me it’s better than when I
was writing it all based on my own intuition.”
“Well it was your idea and you would therefore be able to take creative
credit for it. It wasn’t simply pushing a button on a computer to give you
29
some 100% randomised piece. In fact, if you look at certain passages ...
“ Stuart thumbed his way to a section of the score he had marked in pencil,
“... you can see the material really comes through. This is wonderful string
writing.”
“That’s just what the cards were throwing up for me to work with. Also,
I have no idea how that phrase sounds. I couldn’t sing it to you either. I just
know it looks OK.” Normally in these tutorials, the student’s job would be to
sell the idea to the tutor that their piece has merit. In this case, it was Stuart
that was doing the selling and it was Cameron who was sitting with his arms
folded waiting for the clinching argument to arrive. “Also, looking over the
deck at the end I saw that the hearts favoured different notes to the spades,
so patterns of pitch material would naturally show through on a dynamic
level. I was always going to emphasise certain material because the cards told
me to. The ‘heart’ notes ...”. No gesture this time. Once was enough.
“...would always come through more than the spades due to the differences in
note length”.
“Very clever.” Stuart said in admiration.
“But it isn’t. That’s my point. But for some touch ups here and there, it
was totally random. There was nothing clever about it.”
“Well I think this was even harder to create than anything else you have
attempted in the past. If you had given yourself the right to change anything
at any time then your job would only have been made easier.”
“Sorry?”
“You deliberately limited yourself to certain confines of pitch and
successfully managed to work your way around them.” Stuart said holding his
two index fingers under his chin.
“But hang on ...”
Stuart was onto something. “A lot of modern day composers have used
similar techniques. They decide on most of their pitch material and they stay
faithful to it as much as possible while also trying to create something
worthwhile.”
Cameron was almost speechless. “So as well as being musical, this piece
actually has academic merit to it as well?”
“Absolutely. Normally you just write your music from your intuition, or
30
whatever you call it.”
“I don’t know what to call it.”
“But now you’ve proven you are capable of writing from a system. This
piece marks a real progression for you as a composer.”
The two sat for a moment in an uncomfortable but friendly stalemate,
until Cameron blandly broke the silence. “A progression.”
“Yes and I still insist it’s a wonderful piece of work. You should feel
proud of it.”
“Proud of it? I’d be ashamed to put my name to something as artificial -”
“- and as brilliant -”
“- as this”.
There was no point in Cameron prolonging the discussion, minds were
well and truly made up. Stuart was convinced that Cameron was the heir
apparent to whoever the hell the current up and coming young New Zealand
composer was, while Cameron was equally convinced that the piece should
have been picked as a forgery by anyone with the expertise of those in the
upper floor offices.
Now in the hallway, Cameron could at least get some much needed fresh
air. His senses had taken all the bad breath and ineffective listerine he could
handle. In terms of personal hygiene, the composition wing was overkill on
one front or the other. It either stunk of arm pit sweat and day old socks or
Lynx Africa - that had previously been poured into a bowl full of arm pit
sweat and day old socks.
Universities promoted themselves as the launching pads for success and
personal achievement. But the only thing that had matured at all in Cameron’s
three years or had any claim to a future was his old friend, the ever present
palm tree. It had the toughest job at the department, it had to recycle all the
hot air and toxic fumes that escaped from the classroom windows and filter it
back into the atmosphere as something usable. No human being was capable
of such a miracle.
“Cam!” A familiar voice yelled out from across the courtyard.
Cameron spun round and saw Jane lugging something towards him.
31
With her seaweed hair and mist covered glasses, it might have been a
drowning victim was she carrying, but most probably her cello.
“Well?” She asked almost collapsing at Cameron’s feet.
“Good and bad I suppose.”
“Did Stuart go for it?”
“I just scored my highest mark from a piece I wrote wasted.”
“Is that what you call ‘trying something new’?” There would be no
physical punctuation from Jane. 1) She didn’t want to drop her cello and 2)
She didn’t want to look like a pretentious wanker.
“What does it take to fucking fail here?” Cameron asked switching his
view from Jane to the palm tree and back.
Jane threw her seaweed back over her head. “Have you tried writing pain
shit fuck bollocks like Rachel?”
“That would only get me a lower mark. I’d still pass.”
“So I assume you were making up all that crap at the Q and A.”
“And they bought it all, the gullible fuckers. I think I just gave my last
shit for this place.”
“And that bit about visiting an old friend. Who was the old friend?
Anyone I might have met?” Jane asked like a true drinker.
“Rum.”
“Just Rum?”
“Well this particular form of Rum had the R written backwards so it
looked more Russian and therefore more alcoholic. Put it this way. I dropped
the bottle and it didn’t break.”
“Ah Château Plastique!” When Jane smiled you could park your car in
front of it and still see teeth on either side. “A fine vineyard nestled in the
heart of the Hoooaaarrhhh Valley.”
“Mais Oui.”
“J’aime le sport.”
“Je deteste le mathematique. Je suis tres pissed off.”
“OK Cam, enough banter. I gotta fuck off.”
“I’ll get the fucking door for you.”
“What a fucking gentleman.”
“Nah, if I was a fucking gentleman, I’d be carrying your fucking cello.”
32
“Bye fucker!”
“Fucking see ya!”
“Fucking kisses”
“Miss you al-fucking-ready!”
Cameron and Jane were both working class.
With the academic side of things taken care of, Cameron had to give the
news to the other half of the creative process. This could be even more
painful.
33
Chapter Three:
On the First Day of Bullshit
Joshua Carmichael’s Principles of Bullshitics
Chapter One: The Three Laws
(i) The Bullshitter must not, either through action or inaction, allow fact to be made distinguishable from
fiction.
(ii) The Bullshitter accepts that value is subjective and that subjective opinion can be manipulated
through the art of Bullshit.
(iii) The Bullshitter shall, whenever possible, take credit for any success accidentally attributed to him,
but shall not knowingly steal success from someone else.
“Ready for it?”
“Pissing myself in excitement, Cam. Hit me with it, bitch.”
“We got an A plus”
“No ... fucking ... way.”
While Josh was Cameron’s only other friend, Josh claimed to be friends
with half the city. Even with his pressing social schedule, he would always
34
meet up with Cameron if he could. If.
Cameron didn’t know many of Josh’s other so-called friends, but the few
that he had talked to felt that Josh was just an act, one big effort at trying to
be eclectic for the sake of it. In his early twenties, Josh had moved to New
Zealand from some rural American back water, so there might have been
some truth to the idea. Naturally gravitating towards rusty pocket watches,
waistcoats, pin striped pants, tail coats, brass buttons, silk shirts, frilly cuffs,
top hats, canes, heel boots, nail polish and all the rings his frail fingers could
support just didn’t feel right. Depending on who you asked and how well he
had applied his eye liner, he was emulating either Gary Oldman from Bram
Stoker’s Dracula or a generic front man from a 1980s new romantic band
from the VHS glory days of MTV.
It had to be an act. It had to be. But with no objective proof and nothing
to be gained from arguing the point, the benefit of the doubt was always
given. At least to his face.
If Josh was smart, it was for one reason at least. He knew when to get
out of the education system. He had put in one year towards an arts degree
taking in a variety of subjects, but his true passion during his time as a
student had been “the ongoing struggle to emancipate bewildered, confused
and repressed first year language students from the shackles of their
societally imposed virginity”. What he lacked as an academic, he made up for
as an all-round lothario.
Cameron saw similarities between Josh and the majority of people he
met at University. Their attempts at trying to convince those around them
that they were something else were only believed sympathetically by those
pedalling a similar lie. Apparently they were all born on the most bohemian
streets to the most liberal minded of parents. It was a try-hard’s form of the
Witness Protection Program and you got there by radically changing your
looks, abandoning your old high school friends and acting as pretentiously as
you could to a new found audience who had no previous recollection of you
and who were doing just the same thing.
Cameron never knew if lemon infused herbal tea really was ‘to die for’ or
if some black and white festival film was a life changing ‘must see’. But he
didn’t want to appear genuinely boring and working class by having to ask
35
people like Josh if they could explain what they were actually talking about.
Ironically, Cameron had been born nearer to the bohemian heartland of
Wellington than most of the try-hards that moved in from the rural
townships they had managed to crawl their way out of.
Cameron couldn’t decide whether he liked him, admired him, tolerated
him, respected him, disrespected him, envied him or just wanted to slap him
across the face for some of the things he would occasionally come out with.
Josh fundamentally rubbed Cameron up the wrong way with his constant self
referencing and public displays of importance. But as annoying as that was, it
frustrated Cameron more to know that Josh had become such an important
friend to him. Josh wasn’t just important to him by default, Cameron could
tell him anything and he would know that deep down, Josh couldn’t care less.
If there was anything he needed to get off his chest, he knew Josh would
listen and then two days later he’d forget whose life story he had just heard.
“You just got an A plus in third year composition.” Cameron said
through gritted teeth. “Yes, you. You fuck.”
Josh leaned back and laughed the laugh of someone who wanted the world to
hear him laughing more than the urge itself compelled. ‘The world’ on this
given day was one of the better and more populated cafés in the cool end of
town - Globules, the spiritual home of the air-kiss, the long distance hug and
all other forms of the alternative lifestyle handshake. New Zealand was not a
Latin country, so to greet one’s female friends with a peck to each side of the
face was the height of sophistication. Or alternatively, a city wide indicator
that you were trying to pose your way into a position of importance.
The music at Globules was deliberately broad ranging but as fake as
most of its customer base. No hip musical trend went unnoticed. It dismissed
mainstream radio pop out of hand, but in its place it played an equally
forgettable carousel of meaningless electronic musings. One day the term
might be hip hop, on another it would be trip hop. By the power of the
evolution of language and musical etymology, anyone could construct a
musical genre by splicing a few consonants together. They were mimicking
the techniques used when the music itself was created; cut, paste, overlay,
effect, filter, synchronise, rename, rinse and repeat. Cameron disregarded
36
most of it out of hand since he was the musically educated one, it all
sounded the same to him by now.
Just like the music it played, Globules had succeeded through persistent
subterfuge, rather than through the efforts of its own natural inclination.
And the same was true of Josh. But Cameron always found himself going
back to both of them. Globules had its superior coffee and Josh was a
receptive ear. When you had Josh to yourself, he was the friend you wanted
him to be. The night they composed Cameron’s latest piece ended up being
an unforgettable night he could barely remember.
That night, the void left behind by creative disillusion had been promptly
filled with an alcoholic substance that fell just within a certain chemical
classification. It had been bought from a supermarket but it was probably
also available from the hardware store adjacent to it as a cheap alternative to
the officially promoted brand of paint thinner. Josh’s attempts to get
Cameron to wear something other than his usual safety first attire had finally
paid off, if just for one night. Josh had dressed as Josh does, and Cameron
gave in and allowed himself to be poured into a few experimental pieces,
kindly donated by Josh’s equally ostentatious flatmate. When you’ve come
back from music’s funeral you’ll try anything once.
“Usual?” Josh asked.
“Usual.”
It was Josh who had taught Cameron to drink coffee only a year earlier.
There was apparently more to it than simply ingesting it. Cameron had grown
up in a world where cheese took the form of either the 1kg block or the preprocessed slice, spaghetti came in tins which you ate on toast and coffee was
just that dissolvable powered instant stuff you kept for years in plastic jars for
those times when a non tea drinking aunty or a non beer drinking uncle paid
the family a visit. After more than two whole decades, not having had to refill
the jar, Cameron concluded that no such aunty and no such uncle existed.
Despite having come from a part of the world that gave the world such
staples as competitive eating and deep fried coca cola, Josh never had a
problem convincing anyone he met that literature grew out of his living room
walls, that the finest wines poured from his taps, that he didn’t own a TV and
that he couldn’t name any famous sports personalities. He would mention a
37
glamorous American city no one had ever been to and claim high ground on
the issue. It might be Boston, San Francisco, New Orleans or Asheville
North Carolina, all time zones apart and impossible to have lived
simultaneously in all of them, but to disagree with such a façade was more
trouble than it was worth. Refusing to argue on any rational level, Josh was
the undisputed master of diverting the point and shifting the focus of the
discussion. Eventually, you just gave up out of sheer frustration. You could
disagree with him every day of your life, but you only argued with Josh once.
A second round of Josh’s laughter had finally cooled down enough to
allow a normal conversation to start.
“I can’t read music. I own a guitar which I can’t even tune, but we just
aced it with a glorified tarot card reading.” Josh’s R’s growled. “That fucking
rules!” The obligatory fist pump and some other hand gesture followed.
Despite the conversation only being between him and Cameron, this was still
a public engagement, American accents pierce through the strongest defences.
Like meercats, heads popped up from tables hopping to see a real American,
in three dimensions, not just on TV but a real living breathing one.
“Yeah ... well ... “ Cameron sighed.
“Well what?”
“What do you think? ... Three years of being taught to angst over pitch,
note duration, form, dynamics and the intellectual ramifications of the tiniest
detail and it’s indistinguishable from crap.”
“How do you know it’s crap?”
“Careful. You’re starting to believe your own press. Of course it’s crap.”
Cameron insisted. “We patched that together over a bottle of something you
could probably start a lawn mower with and all in about an hour while
listening to someone else’s music.”
“Hang on Cam ... Skunk!”
“Ah fuck, here we go.” Cameron didn’t care that Josh had heard him. In
either case, it would make no difference. Josh bounced out of his chair and
scurried towards another table out of earshot of Cameron, he always had
that look of someone walking either with the wind or against it, even indoors.
Josh ambushed a life form known locally as ‘Skunk’ and was started
engaging in some carefully rehearsed variations on the common hello. While
38
doing so, Cameron estimated this to be a standard five minute stoppage in
play. Josh and Skunk would have to recite obligatory buzzwords and in-jokes
before normality could resume. Cameron sipped his coffee as he had been
trained to and waited obediently.
Skunk showed Josh a free seat at his table, but Josh only cringed and
motioned towards Cameron, who wasn’t even trying to look remotely faux
cool. Trying to have a coffee with good old Cameron while also keeping up
with some other aspiring member of the wanking class was a double act not
even Josh could manage. Skunk nodded in acknowledgement to Josh as soon
as he saw Cameron.
Knowing Cameron was still looking at them, Josh spun Skunk around so
he and everyone else present could see how he got his name. Through the
centre of a black, gel soaked scalp was a peroxide white stripe that resembled
a road marking more than it did a hairstyle. Josh was almost posing for a
photo alongside it. Skunk didn’t make eye contact with Cameron but instead
preferred to let his hairstyle do the work for him.
Cameron gave a forced smile of approval while saying, “What a fucking
dickhead. Do wheels shudder when they drive over it?” He immediately heard
a nearby staff member laugh out loud. Skunk was clearly a Globules regular.
There it was again. Cameron was not a skilled lip reader but he knew
these two words when he saw them. Josh had clearly said “My guitarist”. Josh
often referred to his friends as being something in relation to himself. One of
the reasons for this was phrased rhetorically and egotistically as “Can I help it
if I prefer to use the genitive sense?” in the hope that his knowledge of
linguistics and his willingness to use some of its terminology might help scare
his critics away. Despite not being as musically inclined as Cameron, it was
nice to think that one could procure the services of a musician should the
need ever arise
Cameron’s title was that of ‘Guitarist’, or as Josh would say
‘GaTOORist’, to go along with the dance instructor, the seamstress and the
interior designer that Cameron had already been introduced to in just the last
year. His view of people as property to his ego was interesting when placed
alongside his hard-line socialist views. Being a socialist when you don’t really
need to be just looks better. You could make people think that you were a
39
caring sort of guy while still obliquely stating that you were superior to them.
He was a classic liberal contradiction, holding a world view that placed others
before himself, while he freely pushed his ego onto his immediate circle of
friends.
The two attention seekers played out another round of fist bumps
before Josh eventually clip-clopped his wooden heeled boots back to his chair
across from Cameron. With Josh looking like a bad impersonation of
someone no one had ever heard of, and Cameron having been made to feel
like Josh’s Mother, they continued.
“Looks cool doesn’t it?” Josh didn’t ask, still chuckling in Skunk’s general
direction.
“Yeah ... awesome. ‘Licorice All Sort’ just wasn’t catchy enough was it?
Anyway, it was crap.”
“What was? .. Oh yeah. The piece.” Josh was sitting side on to Cameron
now. One eye on his current friend and another on his environment. He
wasn’t having a coffee with a friend. He was holding court.
“But not only was it acceptable as contemporary composition, some
even said it sounded just like something I’d write, only better.”
“So you’re improving. What’s wrong with that?” Still not making eye
contact and grinning at someone sitting at another table.
“It means that all my work has been just as random as this. Sure, I don’t
know my pieces note for note, but surely I had some influence on it. The
only thing that has improved in the last three years is my reputation.”
“Let me tell you a little story.” Josh turned to face him, not waiting for
any approval.
Cameron hated these moments. While in his imaginary wing back chair
with the fire roaring behind him, Josh would prophesy about some amazing
side of himself that he thought only he possessed, some fact only he could
discover, some realisation in life that only he could reach, a mystery only he
could unravel. From how he could talk his way out of parking fines to how
he could keep a woman interested with just the tips of his fingers, there was
very little Josh couldn’t convince someone he was capable of. To believe in
Josh’s bullshit was to believe in a successfully entrenched religion, with no
physical evidence to support any of its outrageously implausible claims,
40
believers chose to believe because it was too much trouble not to. There was
simply no reward for those that said: ‘Sorry, but absence of proof to the
negative is not resounding proof to the positive.’
“Will your story be relevant to anything?” Cameron asked on behalf of
every other audience member, past, present and future.
Josh continued talking as if doing so was the self-evident answer to the
apparently impertinent question. Cameron had long grown used to having the
deference in their friendship reinforced in such ways.
“I knew a guy in your situation. Musician ... educated type. One day he
figured out the secret to musical success.”
“Yes?” Cameron responded to Josh’s deliberately placed pause.
Academics refer to it as a ‘pregnant’ pause.
“He packed up and went to London ... and looked for an audience.”
As he spoke, Josh started playing with his Zippo lighter, despite the fact
that he was a devout non-smoker. They were just one of the things that cool
people had to carry with them at all times. Opening it by clicking one’s
fingers was cool. Lighting it with the next click was even cooler. Josh’s was
even personally inscribed with the words ‘Sugar Boy’. Josh never told anyone
what it meant and if someone asked, he said he would tell them “One of
these days”.
It was just a firewall. To be considered one of Josh’s best friends, you
had to know what that inscription referred to, so all those aspiring hopefuls
had something to work towards. Cameron knew what it meant, but he was
sworn to secrecy. Globules was 100% non-smoking but three other lighters
similar to his were being displayed on various other café tables.
“I’ve got his business card here somewhere.” Josh rummaged through a
pocket and pulled out cards belonging to a hair dresser, a tailor, a taxi driver
and a manicurist. But not the one he was talking about. Now that he lived in
Wellington, Josh was as broke as anyone Cameron had ever met, but business
cards gave over the impression that he had the money to go with his
apparently higher tastes.
“So what does all this have to do with me?” Cameron even felt selfish
for trying to steal the conversation away from Josh and back to himself.
“This. After a while, after he had served his audience, his audience
41
started serving him. Now he has a reputation and he got it because he
stopped being so bloody stubborn towards his musical principles and decided
to live pragmatically.”
“What does he make?”
“Music for film, television, that sort of thing. Commercial music.”
“That commercial? Does he still believe he’s a musician?” Cameron
asked as he took the Zippo off Josh and calmly placed it on top of the
business cards Josh had finally stopped fiddling with. Josh, unperturbed,
bullshitted on.
“I haven’t talked to him in a bit, but what difference would it make? He’s
made something of himself. He attacked his career from a different angle,
went in from the commercial side first. So one day this guy will sit back and
write the music he was always meant to write, because he has the financial
freedom and the reputation to push it out to an audience?” Cameron was
now rounding up the rings that Josh had taken off and had now gathered in
the centre of the table. The last time Cameron asked why Josh took his rings
off in cafés, he was told it had something to do with making coffee easier to
drink. Whatever.
“You’ll get these back at the end. Carry on.”
“Have you heard much of your lecturers’ music?”
“A couple pieces here and there”.
“As many as you’ve heard from your class mates?”
“Less, I’d say.”
“But people take the lecturer’s word as gospel, right?”
“Well they are the one’s handing out the marks, remember.”
“Yeah, like A pluses to that thing we did while pissed out of our skulls.
Bullshit is where it’s at, my friend.” Josh subtly made ‘my’ sound more like the
operative word, than ‘friend’. “The future is cow. The future ... is brown. If
an A grade composer like you presented something awful, how would that
make them look?”
“Somewhat embarrassed. I’m one of those being groomed for a lifetime
of whatever the hell comes after graduation.”
“Bullshit is a two way system.” Josh pushed further into his speech.
“Both sides have something to gain. Academics need up and coming types
42
like you more than you need them, the Pope needs the crowd more than they
need him and the bullshitter needs the gullible. When they applauded that
piece we wrote, you know what they were saying? ‘Nice clothes, Emperor.
Nice fucking clothes’.”
“He said wearing that get-up.” Cameron reminded Josh exactly what he
had walked in wearing.
Cameron and Josh ordered more coffee and said nothing for a while.
i) Turn handle to 3 o’clock.
ii) Lower one spoonful of sugar onto the surface of the milk.
iii) Let the sugar dissolve slowly into the coffee.
iv) Repeat the previous two steps for each spoonful.
(Recommended dose, 2. Maximum of 3.)
v) Stir coffee while keeping the stem at the cup’s edge and ensuring the contact point is as
still as possible, thus ensuring the milk top is not disturbed.
vi) Gently remove the spoon.
vii) Hold cup with thumb and ring finger. The ring finger should pass through the cup’s
handle if large enough. Remove rings if you are wearing any.
viii) Turn handle to 12 o’clock.
ix) Bring thumb to base of bottom lip.
x) Consume.
“Here’s what I don’t get about you, Cam. When I first met you, you
wanted to be a rock star.” Josh said this without any shame, but the clenching
of Cameron’s arse displaced enough air to make his eardrums pop. “You
were this long haired metal band kind of guy who just played his guitar. Yet
the other night you told me you don’t play it as much now. You study music
but you don’t play it. What happened?”
“All that stuff I used to play just seems hard to justify now. It’s all so
corny and arbitrary. Anyway, I was 18 back then with no idea how to actually
get anything done.”
“Lennon and McCartney were 20 when they met, weren’t they? Mick
Jagger and Keith Richards as well? David Bowie started young. All they did
was make the music they wanted to hear and the establishment could go fuck
43
itself for all they cared. And they did it where it mattered. In the UK.”
“Well I’m not in the UK. I am in New fucking Zealand, writing painfully
dissonant shit that can only be scientifically proven to be sound. Actually
that’s not 100% true, an American guy called John Cage, you probably met
him.” Cameron allowed himself a moment of sarcasm, to which Josh called
his bluff and started to think to himself, wondering whether he really had.
“He’s long since dead so you can forget whether he’s on your Facebook list,
but he wrote a famous piece called ‘Four Minutes and Thirty Three Seconds’.
It’s 100% silence. It’s a piece that -”
“- Silence? As music? And you lot look up to these people?”
“When you’re 80, you’re just hitting your prime.” Cameron muttered to
himself.
“What?”
“It’s a line I remember hearing in first year. All the great composers took
about 50 years to even find their musical style. Or bollocks to that effect.”
Cameron and Josh skilfully slid their ring fingers into their own coffee cup
handles. It was clear who was emulating who.
“Fuck what people think of you when you’re 80. What were these people
doing when they were young? You should have better goals in life than just
wanting to be remembered when you’re dead. That place sounds like the total
opposite of what was advertised to you, it can’t be the only option for you.
You should be expressing your true self, but instead you’re being railroaded
down the path of mediocrity and eventual obscurity because your so called
education hinges on it.”
“But talking crap because people don’t have the courage to call you out it
can’t be the only alternative.”
“Can’t it?” Josh just sat there smiling. Cameron knew what that grin
meant. Josh was living what he was saying, while Cameron could only dream.
Josh talked crap until people HAD to believe him. After all, no one would be
that fake on purpose now would they?
Josh wasn’t finished. “What the truth is doesn’t bother me. But if the
truth concerns you so much then you need to go look for it. You seem to
have made your mind up about what is fake, maybe you should look for what
is real ... starting with yourself. If you want to wear different clothes, then
44
wear them. If you want to meet different people, then meet them. If you
want to go overseas, then go. What do you want to do with yourself ? What
do you want to be? Who are you?”
“I didn’t say anything about going overseas.”
“Well that’s something you should think about. Especially if what you
think you are is a musician. I know who and what I am, and I know where I’ll
be in ten years.” Because Josh was proudly extroverted, he would often use
that as proof that he had found his real self. Softly spoken people like
Cameron had not, in Josh’s opinion, progressed nearly as far.
“So are you really telling me you’re ... this?” Cameron didn’t point at Josh
directly but referred to Globules as a whole.
Globules even held open mic poetry nights for those that wanted to take
their pretentious hugging and the faking of interest in niche markets and
minority views to that next level. Cameron was once forced to sit through a
session by one of Josh’s friends. She didn’t carry a possessive term relative to
Josh but ‘air headed thirty-something vegan that clearly smoked too much
weed when her brain could have used the extra cells’ would have fit her like a
pair of hemp pants.
“So you’re telling me I’ll know that I’ve finally found my own voice when
I don’t know when to shut up? Being loud mouthed and obnoxious isn’t a
progression from being withdrawn, it’s just an equally large swing in the
opposite direction.” This was all Cameron could think of as an argument
winner. By saying you were as bad as Josh was often as far as you would get if
you tried to dissect him.
“I know who I am. It’s not my fault that people envy me for it.” Josh
returned without missing a beat. “You envy me because you aren’t enjoying
life the way you would like to enjoy it. As a musician or whatever else you
want to call yourself.” Josh was even starting to sound more serious and
willing to defend his position with his tried and tested non-argument
techniques.
“I don’t envy you in case you’re wondering. And give me those!” This
time Josh had pulled out an entirely unnecessary pair of gloves. They were
apparently giving his words added importance as he flapped them around,
swatting non-existent mosquitoes. In Wellington. Indoors. In winter. Morning
45
cloud, clearing by afternoon, a possibility of some light rainfall with a
prevailing northerly breeze, strong in exposed places. Cool, with a 0% chance
of seeing any mosquitoes.
“Tortoise shell gloves?” Cameron asked disbelievingly.
“Turtle. There’s a difference. But you envy something about me don’t
you?”
“Bullshit.”
“Yes you do. You -”
“- No, I envy your ability to talk complete bullshit and get more from
people than if you came in from an angle of honesty and actual substance. I
envy your lack of self-accountability, I don’t think I could ever do what it is
you do. Whatever it is you do.”
If you wanted to stay friends with Josh you had to flatter him into
submission from time to time. Often Cameron had to make emotional
concessions like this in order to stop a discussion from descending into an
argument. But Cameron meant it this time.
“It’s the way forward. I keep telling you. I’ve got more by just being what
people want me to be. Hey what’s the time?”
“You’re the one with the pocket watch. You tell me.”
“It hasn’t worked since I bought it. People don’t look at the hands to
make sure they’re still moving, they’re too busy looking at the packaging.”
“All bullshit then.”
“Yep, you are getting it after all. Anyway ... I’ve got important people to
go see.” Josh had said this a few times before and on each occasion, it was
never clear from Josh’s inflection whether the people Josh had to see were
important as well as Cameron, or as opposed to him.
“OK, well I’d better give you all this shit back.” Cameron went through
his pockets and gave Josh his prized Zippo lighter, along with the 5 gold rings,
the 4 calling cards, the 3 French pens and the 2 turtle gloves that he had
confiscated from him throughout the course of their coffee. Josh had yet to
bring actual flora and fauna to a simple coffee engagement, but maybe that
was just a matter of time.
Josh pretended to fight his way out of Globules while Cameron stayed
seated. To some, the door was just a door. To others, it was the last hurdle on
46
a military assault course and it was greeted with some collective relief by
those still there that Josh finally tiger rolled his way out of it.
Cameron tried to look as casual as he could and ignored the looks he was
getting from the others in the café who, fake as they were must have been
wondering how he could have made a friend like that. Skunk was similarly
holding court with two newly arrived female friends - probably named Flora
and Fauna. Cameron and Skunk both wanted nothing more than to stay away
from each other. Cameron didn’t fit Skunk’s criteria for personal interaction
and Cameron didn’t need a second Josh in his life.
The customers were soon hypnotised by some other form of electronic
dance music that was a musical microwave dinner of re-heated riffs from
songs written decades earlier. Cameron wondered whether you could pick
who was real and who was fake in a crowd like this. Were these people any
more aware of themselves than those he might see in some other café in the
corporate end of town? Presumably out of all those self-repressed suits and
ties who wished they could have amounted to something else, there must
have been a few that genuinely gravitated to that way of life, maybe they even
genuinely enjoyed it. Looking at the so called free spirits in Globules,
Cameron didn’t feel that either scene possessed the monopoly on genuine
self-discovery.
Cameron would rather die than admit that Josh was right about everything
they had talked about. Conceding on a couple of points was more than
enough pride to swallow for one day. It would have been better had he
reached his conclusions on his own, but Josh was right. For everything Josh
was, Cameron envied him. Josh could do whatever he wanted and not think
twice for the reactions of others. But personal change never comes via the
wardrobe, the hairdresser or the travel agent. It only reflects the change that
comes from life experience, which in turn comes from the personal change
brought on by exterior forces.
Now thanks to exterior force, Cameron recognised on a conscious level
that he would inevitably change into something and that he wouldn’t be
happy unless he followed it through to its conclusion. The idea of embarking
on a process of personal evolution was not what bothered him. What he did
find worrying was the same thing so many people worry about in these
47
situations, how much of his immediate world he would have to take with him
and how much of it he would be forced to leave behind.
48
Chapter Four:
Mostly Academic
Back on the island, Stuart and his third year composition class had been
killing time talking about the usual nonsense for about ten minutes or so
before the actual start time of the class. As they mused, they could almost
hear the excitement coming from the mainland departments that sold
knowledge and actionable intelligence to their (soon to be) graduating class.
There was hardly any need for a composition class at all by this late stage
in the year, pieces had been completed and performed and the overall marks
had been all but given out. For the time being, those A pluses, and B minuses
would have to sit under the Christmas tree until Mummy and Daddy said it
was time. Time spent in class wasn’t devoted to discovering anything
particularly new or ground breaking, more often than not, they just listened
to music that interested them on an intellectual level and practiced discussing
it like academics. Any work done from this point on was also completely
academic.
Words no one used or had even heard of off the island were still the
standard weights and measures. A student couldn’t sit silently and feel the
music, they had to put it into words. The unquantifiable had to be quantified,
the rose would indeed smell less sweet if it went by the wrong name. Praise
49
would be given to the photo of the sunset without giving credit to the sun,
not able to see the real thing for the light in their eyes. ‘Ecclectic’, ‘essoteric’,
‘phantasmagorical’, ‘pregnant’, ‘teutonic’, ‘phlegmatic’, ‘choleric’; all needless
terms for describing the obvious.
Cameron’s interest in talking the proverbial talk had reached an all-time
low, and thanks to his rather severe Jane-assisted mid-week hangover, he
found it difficult to walk any other particular kind of walk either. He was only
attending this class because a new assignment was to being handed out. If it
hadn’t have been for that, he would still be in bed. Only the completion of
the assignment itself was needed. Handing it in meant Cameron would
complete the course participation requirements, what was on the paper would
be purely ... academic.
“Cameron, you’re a little quiet today.” Stuart was almost baiting him to tell
the class why. Cameron’s very presence was surprising in itself now that he
had effectively stopped attending classes.
“Yes I’m aware of that thank you.” Cameron replied and immediately
gave himself away. The rest of the class gave a warm hearted cheer.
Cameron’s voice was pure gravel and it wasn’t the only time he had gone out
drinking midweek in the months since his last piece was so favourably
received. “... and if you bump into one Jane Cooper, please use the most
dulcet of tones.”
“Well it’s good to have you here all the same.” Stuart said comfortingly.
“You are there aren’t you?”
Stuart made the biggest mistake any comedian could make, to laugh at
one’s own jokes. But Rachel, the peddler of musical ‘extreme renditioning’,
joined in. She clearly didn’t find it funny either, but she was never one to turn
down an opportunity to feather her own nest. Stuart’s laugh was the rapid fire
inhaling and exhaling of a man with no sense of humour, while Rachel’s was
the controlled laugh of someone with excellent vocal technique and no sense
of shame.
“Right-o, I suppose we had best begin.” Stuart continued merrily.
Cameron wondered whether Stuart was normally this upbeat or whether he
just seemed so much more alive compared to how he felt.
“Your last written assignment for the year can be on any piece you want.”
50
Variations of “OK cool”, “Yeah wow” and “Nice” were heard from the rest
of the class. Cameron’s expression was somewhat harder to read.
Stuart carried on. “I have the usual list of pieces that would be a good
starting point if you want to choose one from there, but if you have a
particular favourite that you would like to write about, then you’re in luck,
you can.”
“Oh can I choose Messiaen’s ‘Trois petites liturgies de la présence divine?”
Rachel asked in her usual overbearing fashion with the obligatorily
exaggerated French pronunciation. This was New Zealand, not NouvelleZélande.
Normally the class would look over the list and all agree to find the best
piece for everyone. The alternative was to pass the list round and have each
person pick one, the last person ending up with the one that no one wanted,
all based on where in the room he or she chose to sit that day. That last piece
would normally be one by a New Zealand composer. For all their talk of
supporting the local industry, when push came to shove, they preferred to
holiday abroad.
Stuart verbally prodded Cameron, looking for further signs of life from
his most promising student. “Do you have anything in mind?”
“I choose Serenade for Solo Cello by Raymond Dawson.”
Stuart looked puzzled. “I don’t believe I’ve heard it. What year is it from?”
“Oh it’s relatively contemporary.” Cameron informed him rather sneakily.
“It’s a multimedia work by a New Zealand composer in fact.”
“Lovely then.” Stuart clapped his hands together, hoping to round up the
debate.
The rest of the class chuckled but did not feel the need to burst anyone’s
bubble. It was of course Rachel that couldn’t resist the need to interfere.
“Stuart, I don’t think Cameron is being serious.”
“No, I’m being deadly serious.” Cameron replied. “I want to write my two
thousand word essay on the soundtrack to the X rated movie, Pop Stars”.
“Artistically X rated or -” Stuart began.
“No! It certainly is not.” Rachel turned in her seat to face Cameron, eager
as ever to offer more to a discussion than her practical knowledge justified,
she would attempt to take centre stage. “It’s some background music to a ...
51
pornographic movie that was written by that guy we had here a few months
back. It should not be allowed.”
“You’ve heard it have you?” Cameron interjected. “Even if you had, are
you in any position to write off anything you hear?” Cameron fought back
the urge to remind Rachel just how bad her own music was. For Rachel to be
talking about what was and wasn’t good seemed hypocritical.
“Come on Cameron, surely we can agree that if it turned up in a ...”
“You can say it.” Cameron grinned. “P-p-p-p ...”
“Pornographic movie, then it can’t be a worthwhile piece of music. Or
anything.”
“And our last pieces were?” Cameron was treading some pretty shaky
ground by implying that a fellow student’s work was anything less than
wonderful. By referring to everyone’s music, including his own, at least he
appeared not to be singling out one person in particular.
Cameron looked over at Stuart, making sure he hadn’t forgotten their last
fireside chat and said, “Some of us are making the best music here without
even trying. While some are working their arses into the ground only to
produce shit.”
This time, everyone knew who Cameron was referring to. Rachel’s music
had been forced upon this class for the last three years and only Rachel
seemed to be unaware of its reputation among the composition department.
If Rachel wasn’t offended by Cameron’s remark, then she must be living in
denial.
“Well you can’t convince me that there is anything musical about the piece
you’ve chosen.” Rachel replied. “And what you said wasn’t fair on everyone
else here.” Denial it most definitely was then.
Apathy has an energy all its own and right now Cameron just wanted to
go home as soon as he could. But he battled into the headwind and
continued. “What is actually riding on this assignment anyway? I’m sure we’ll
pass this course and graduate without any trouble, regardless of what we
review or how well we review it.”
Talking so openly about the actual assessment policy was not something
you really did out in the open in class time. It was something you did in the
privacy of a tutorial or over a few drinks outside of class. Reality did not
52
belong on Fantasy Island. Stuart was the least comfortable of all of them to
hear what was totally true.
“Just write about whatever you want Cameron.” Stuart said hoping to
conclude the matter. “You seem to have your heart set on it.”
Rachel rolled her eyes as if in the presence of a blasphemer, whereas
Cameron struggled to stop his from rolling back into his skull. “I’ll study it
and put genuine time into it. But if it is a genuinely awful piece of music, I’ll
take consolation from the fact that I wasn’t the one that wrote it. It’s a feeling
many of us here have grown used to in our time here.”
More than a few of the students shifted uneasily in their seats knowing
who and what Cameron was talking about, hoping Rachel didn’t pick up the
reference. But she didn’t even twitch.
“But on the other hand, if you want me to review something from the list,
I’ll put zero time into it and keep the entire essay to one sentence only.”
“One sentence?” Stuart asked.
“Something like ‘This is an amazing piece of music’. How about that? It
says ‘maximum of 2000 words’, there’s no minimum word count.”
“For goodness sake Cameron.” Rachel sniffed.
“What I say won’t be wrong.” Cameron continued, “But would anyone be
brave enough to fail me based on either method? Do you want a one line
suck-up review of a piece you already know to be great? Or would you prefer
an original opinion of a piece no one has ever heard of ?”
“Well neither of course.” Rachel replied.
“I was asking our lecturer and course coordinator actually. His name’s
Stuart, he’s the tall guy in the red cardigan sitting next to you. Rachel, Stuart.
Stuart, Rachel.”
For the remainder of the class, both Rachel and Cameron said nothing.
Cameron got to do what he wanted and Stuart got his class back, which ran
as predictably as any other. If it was unique for one reason, it was because
Cameron managed to smell worse than all of them put together - no mean
feat.
As the class emptied, Cameron moved as fast as his hangover would allow.
For stability, he hugged the outside of the office walls that overlooked the
53
courtyard, also avoiding the rain that had made its presence well and trully
felt since he had arrived. Avoiding rain in Wellington was a simple matter of
staying on the other side of the building from which it was driving in from.
In the nation’s capital, rain never falls, it is fired at you.
In the courtyard, the palm tree swayed in its familiar dance as it saw
Rachel chase Cameron down.
“Do you have to mock what we do here?” She asked rounding on him.
“Calm down. It’s just music education, not cancer research. No one ever
died because their music belied their aesthetic.”
“Well of course. But you don’t have to be so childish.”
“But it is childish, don’t you see? Everyone’s music is great by default. It’s
like those races you ran at school where even the kid that comes in last gets a
medal. ‘Best trier’ or something. If any of our music was halfway decent then
why doesn’t anyone listen to it after the first time? We might listen to our own
music again out of vanity, but speaking for myself, I’ve never felt the desire to
hear anything written by anyone from the entire music department. Not even
Stuart’s, but especially yours.”
“If you don’t want to like my music, then fine. But you don’t have to
belittle the place.”
“Maybe it’s about time someone did, and pointed out what’s really going
on here.”
“There’s nothing going on here. What do you mean?”
“First off, it’s not just me that finds your music less appealing than unsedated dental reconstruction. Your reputation is very well established. Only
no one has had the guts to tell you.”
“Like someone else we know. Someone with a reputation. Who was the
lucky guy last night? Not you, I’ll bet.” That pushed Cameron back like a
sudden gust of wind.
“At least Jane’s aware of what people think of her.” Cameron could have
punched Rachel for bringing Jane into the discussion, but if he had swung
for her, he probably would have missed. “So what are you planning on doing
now that you have your hard fought education?” He asked swaying north by
north west.
“Oh, I’m coming back.” Rachel said, straightening her stance and folding
54
her arms.
“Here? You mean you’re applying for honours?”
“The almighty Cameron disapproves?”
“Nothing honourable about honours.”
“Well I’d like to keep learning here. If that’s not for you, then you don’t
need to come back.”
“In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m not returning.”
“I’m truly fighting back the tears. Sob ... sob. Sob ... sob.”
“But I don’t think you’re coming back next year to learn. I know what’s
going on here.”
“Then what am I here for? And what exactly IS going on? Tell me.”
Rachel made a grandiose gesture to the surrounding walls of the department.
“You’re here because you have nowhere else to go. The two of you need
each other.” South east, east, north east ... as the wind swelled.
“Two of who?”
“You and this place. It’s all held together by mutual delusion. This place
trades in a currency that is worthless outside of its own borders. The
department needs to feel useful and the likes of you need something to do.
You sit back and are given a degree in return for you agreeing not to openly
label it as a useless one. You’re both misleading each other. Flattering to
deceive. Pampering egos. Trading off. Pandering. Shameless mutual
gratification. THAT ... is what’s going on here.”
Out of nervous tension, Cameron started bouncing on his heels, believing
he was on the deck of a sinking vessel. The worse Cameron felt, the more
Rachel seemed only too happy to let him sway in front of her. It became
harder to tell who was the one doing the sinking and who was the one
treading water. Folding her arms once more, she looked directly at him and
smiled for the cameras.
“Waste your time and money for another year or two if you must.”
Cameron swayed on. “But one day you’ll need to walk out of here and that’s
when you’ll realise what you were sold and what you actually gained. That is
of course if you’re not planning on staying for the life term. Speaking of
which, do you know how old Stuart is?”
“40s I think. Why?” Rachel smiled even harder.
55
“He hasn’t left this place. Not ever. He studied as an under graduate here
just like us. His Bachelor’s degree begat his Honours degree, which begat his
Master’s degree, which begat his Doctorate. That in turn led to his placement
here as a lecturer in Music Composition.”
“Stuart’s a really nice guy-”
“-and I won’t argue with that, but he’s not qualified to teach us anything.
Everything he says is meaningless outside of here. Education is only useful if
you can apply it outside of the institution’s walls, somewhere he has never
been. He’s institutionalised.”
“And he’s standing ... right behind you.”
“FUCK!” It hurt his head to shout.
Turning round dizzily, he was rocked by a wave of guilt as he saw a visibly
hurt Simon standing weakly in front of him. Stuart had been taking
everything on board. Rachel had given Cameron all the rope he had needed
to hang himself, with enough left over for a adult size hammock and a
macramé plant holder.
“Cameron,” he said choosing not to walk any closer. “Just send me
whatever you have planned for me and ... not like you need reminding ... but
don’t feel you need to come to any further classes.”
While Stuart was matter of fact and visibly saddened, Rachel could
scarcely contain her joy. Both her and Cameron looked like they were about
to explode, for vastly opposing reasons.
“Seems like we’ve lost a talented prospect.” Stuart said to Cameron as he
started his sheltered walk back into the main building.
“Chin up mate.” Cameron finally made to move away. “You’ve still got
Rachel to look forward to for at least another year. Good luck. Both of you.”
Cameron drifted off with the rain at his back, as if even the weather itself
wanted him out of there. It did however have a cleansing effect, not on
Cameron’s mind or on his bruised liver, but on the section of pavement
outside the department’s main entrance. The one he finally and inevitably
vomited on.
56
Every so often, we as a society will dismiss art of the highest form which has hitherto
been staring us blankly in the face. Only recently, it came to my attention that the artisitic
world as a whole was either unwilling or unable to see what was hiding in plain sight. If
the same thing had happened to anyone from within this academic institution, we would
have felt nothing but the greatest sympathy for the composer in question. Therefore, I feel it
is my duty to speak out on behalf of one artist and one work that did nothing wrong,
other than be commissioned by an industry lacking in any creative and artistic credibility.
Raymond Dawson’s hypnotic work for solo cello is art in its purest form that suffers only
from guilt by association. ‘Serenade for Solo Cello’ is not vulgar, nor is it an accomplice to
filth peddled to the lowest common denominator. It is art that does not need to live a life
justifying its own existence. The unspoken tragedy of this work is this: If this piece could
have flown under the academic musical radar, what else lies buried under prejudice, elitism
and cultural stereotyping?
CComments: None.
57
Chapter Five:
The Wanker Usurpation
Name: Cameron Forsyth.
Musi 303 - Contemporary Composition: A
Degree Status: Eligible for Graduation.
It was over. No more University for Cameron and Jane. They had escaped
alive, but not unscathed.
“Cheers dude.”
“Cheers fucker.”
“So that’s it.” Cameron said with necessary finality. “Whoop de fucking
do.”
“Yep. Music school graduates. Look out world, here we come.”
Cameron and Jane were camping out in the corner of their favourite pub,
The Queen Victoria. The carpet burnt the eyes of any first time observer and
the place as a whole smelt of spilt beer and urinal cakes. It was heaven on
Earth.
It was home base for two people who only judged a pub by what came
out of its taps, not by its wall mounted speakers or the arse mounted mouths
58
of its patrons. And they weren’t the only ones who felt this way, ‘The Vic’
attracted a broad cross section of only the most honest clientele. The lifestyle
unemployed could happily rub shoulders with any uptown suit, provided their
goals were the same. That goal was always to forget about your day and more
generally to forget about reality.
This was that place where everybody knew your name, and that name
would be one of either Dave, Trev, Garry or Bruce, good old fashioned Kiwi
names from an age before Sefton, Trent, Brent, Caleb and Reuben had their
new age way with the national birth registrar. Even Jane was on male first
name terms with the inebriated bar top barnacles that the staff had to scrape
loose at the end of a successful night’s trading. This was not like the pristine
bar from Cheers that made the same outrageous claim of perfect
nomenclature cognisance. How could it? Its customers were so sober you
would think Norm had spent all his years there drinking grapefruit juice.
Unlike Cheers, this pub actually had people in it other than the same 4 or 5
loyal regulars.
The Queen Victoria cared little for who you were or what you did outside
of its blurry and history stained walls. No great business deals were done and
no one came to network. Their policy on the serving of droids was unclear,
but one could probably find a pilot that could take you to Alderaan - if the
price was right.
There was something about pubs which gave themselves overly regal
names. In Wellington alone, there was The Prince Albert, The King James
and The Prince of Wales, and all of them were toilets in the style of The
Queen Victoria. In moments of nostalgia, Jane often recounted the story of
The Duke of Westminster, in Hamilton. It placed a second set of locks on
the outside of its doors. Whenever trouble broke out, the staff would just
trap everyone in and call the police. Those still standing were summarily
arrested.
“So here we are in this shitty situation.” Cameron muttered.
“Drinking in this dump?”
“No, I mean shat out the other end of the music education system with
two pieces of paper each.”
“What’s the other one?”
59
“The bill.”
“If it was such a bad move, what made you want to study music in the
first place?” Jane asked, making solid progress on her first beer of the night.
“Why did you?”
“I asked you first.”
“Fair enough.” Cameron sat back and started to tell Jane of his personal
relationship with music. Maybe he would learn something too. “Music was
the thing that got me through school. Songs in my head would keep me
company and at the end of class, I would go back home to them. I had no
idea what I wanted to do once I finished high school. Nothing in my grades
pointed in any obvious direction. But I always had music playing in my head
from somewhere. Then I heard you could be a composer with no classical
training.”
“So the thing you used to escape from school was the thing that kept you
in the system? Ironic.”
“At least an education in something sounded like a worthwhile thing to
pursue. But institutions lie to us when they link the term ‘education’ to other
terms like ‘investment’.”
“Yeah, it kind of implies we’ll be getting something back in return. That
would have been around the time it became a lot more expensive.”
“Your turn. Go.” Cameron demanded, after another healthy gulp from a
glass of 4% escapism.
With a two handed push through her hair, Jane would match him. “I went
to Music School because I was taught formally and it was just the next logical
step in learning an instrument.”
“Did you not have a plan B when you were doing normal school work?”
“Nothing. Just like you. Could we have been any more fucking naive?”
Jane finished her beer like a man and went ahead for reinforcements. Jane was
easily the best looking of the female regulars at the Queen Victoria. This
wasn’t hard to do when you were also the only woman in the room, as was
the case on most nights. Some of those that were technically classed as
women looked like they had crawled out of the ground or had fallen from
the ceiling.
By the time Jane returned with the next round, Cameron had finished his
60
beer and they were on equal terms once more.
“But you must be a better musician now than you were when you went in,
right?” Jane asked.
“I can’t even say that any more. But you! Three years of practice and
tuition and you’re a beast on that thing. But a three year degree in
composition did nothing like that for me. If anything, I went backwards.
There’s no practical element to composition, it’s all abstract.” Cameron was
trying to hold his body firm against an earlier arrival to the Queen Victoria
who was already at an advanced stage of lower body paralysis. “At the end of
it, if you don’t want to starve to death as a composer or go into the education
system, you come away with less than what you went in with.”
“Well the performance department does a similar thing.” Jane countered.
“Jeff ... Jeff ... Jeff ... no ... it’s Gavin. How have you been mate?” The
numbed body asked Jane, who turned and finished her point looking at him.
“After a while you look at your instrument and all you see is a rigorous
timetable and hours and hours of practice. Most of the others in my year will
only earn money from music if they decide to teach.”
“Yeah I reckon.” The regular replied. “What do you reckon there ...
Trevor?”
“Well .... Sebastian.” Cameron replied making up a name for the man.
“Somewhere in all those courses don’t you think there should have been
something that gave you an idea of what to do next?”
“Most of us will just get office jobs ...” Jane said to Sebastian. “... as we
try not to let our skills wither and die. Is that what you did Seb ... when you
got your PhD?”
“Yeah ... philosophy bro. Who the fuck needs that eh Jeff ? All it taught
me was how to think. Who the fuck needs that?” Some beer was spilt on Jane
as he spoke but she was dressed correctly for the Queen Victoria with rough
patterned clothes that proved ideal for disguising momentary acts of drunken
carelessness.
“It’s Darwinian natural selection when you think about it.” Cameron
looked away from the lost Noble Laureate and back to Jane.
“Er ... yeah. Provided you think really strangely. I think you’ve been
hanging round comp department theory bashers and all round word wankers
61
for too long Cam.”
“No, what I mean is that the intellectual side of the music industry can
only support two or three new people a year but the higher education system
still throws as many people into itself as it can. The two or three they were
looking for will eventually come through, while the rest -” Cameron paused
to look back at Sebastian.
“- are left to celebrate their graduations in shitholes like this.” Jane said
clinking her glass against Sebastian’s, dislodging it from his grasp and
knocking him over completely.
“Selfish fuckers. As blind and as deaf as anyone in here.” Cameron said
slumping back into his chair.
Jane and Cameron began the game of seeing who had been given the
roughest deal from their time at university. Jane’s case was that she was now
over qualified, Cameron’s argument centred around the three years spent
listening to people trying to define the undefinable. Looking around the
Queen Victoria, he dictated what he saw from his memory, through the filter
of alcohol he could see more detail.
“I was expecting hours of analysis of vintage classical music, but instead
we were force fed atonal contemporary compositions by people no one has
ever heard of and then rail-roaded into the same musical style.”
“I tried that for two years ...” Jane said. “... thinking I could do modern
composition alongside classical performance. Part of being a musician is that
the right hand should be aware of what the left hand is doing. The comp and
performance departments teach from different eras.”
Jane also looked away from Cameron and half focused her eyes on a beer
stained patch of wallpaper. “I remember, in the mornings I would be playing
Brahms ... then in the afternoon I would be sitting alongside you and the
others listening to something my cello tutor would have chastised me for
even looking at.”
62
Cameron’s head bobbed in agreement. “At least music was a dream to me
then, now it’s dead.”
“We were all living the dream and now we have to pay for it.” Jane said
looking back at her drink and then back up at Cameron.
“Oddly enough the bands that play here are better because they don’t take
themselves seriously.”
“Yeah it’s some classic covers band or something tonight by the looks.”
Jane said looking over at the lowest stage in rock music. Rather than being
designed as such, the stage at The Queen Victoria was just an anomaly in the
construction that became the area the bands place their instruments. It gave
them a whole 15 centimetre pedestal on which to showcase their skills.
“I think I’ve been wasted in here before when these guys have played.”
Cameron said trying to remember whether it was even the same pub let alone
the same band he was thinking of. “They’re nothing special at all. I think they
play the Irish pub circuit too.”
“And for that they just slap a stupid Irish two step beat under it and just
like that, you have instant alcohol friendly Celtic music.”
“But these guys actually make money from performing. They earn money
by doing the exact opposite to what I was taught to do. I honestly can’t think
of a more pointless thing to have spent the last three years working towards.
If I didn’t think the teachers up there actually believed in what they did, I’d
feel conned by them.”
“Well my only option is to invest in pie crust collars and some half-moon
glasses with beaded chains just so you can teach the local rich kids Do Re and
Fuck Me. Fuck that. But it’s not music’s fault. I’ve done more than just
practice my arse off. I’ve learnt to like music ... I’d never have heard of. So
Uni must have given you something.”
Cameron sighed in agreement. “Indirectly. I’ll probably look back on my
Uni days fondly one day. I met you remember.”
Jane smiled. Cameron hardly expressed himself outside of the veiled
form his music took. For all their talk of expressing their feelings, composers
were emotionally very withdrawn people. As art became more abstract, artists
became more emotionally pent up with no real outlet to say what they often
wished they could.
63
“Gee.” Jane said through that familiar wide and drunken smile. “I’ve met
dozens of people but I don’t like more than about three of them.”
Cameron and Jane were forced to say nothing while the faux rock band
played a quick and noisy sound check. A 70s rock landmark was sacrificed
with a minimum of fuss. Cameron was sure he heard the singer sing “Smoke
on the Water, Fire Engine Guy”, but he put that down to the less than ideal
acoustics. This was The Queen Victoria, not The Albert Hall.
“So, what made you want to leave the country?” Jane asked changing the
subject. “You’ve obviously made some sort of decision.”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Cellist’s honour.” Janet raised her glass in an act of ceremony.
“Music ... yes ... you heard right. Music.” Cameron said slouching back in
his chair almost ashamed to have said it.
Jane looked at him with her eyebrows almost sitting on top of her head.
The whites in her eyes demanded to know what Cameron was talking about.
“What was all that earlier about music being a piece of shit and you won’t go
anywhere near it ever again in your lifetime?’ Now tell me, why are you really
leaving the country?” Jane asked leaning across the table.
“Music is all I have and if I’m going to stand a chance at being anything at
all, then I should at least move closer to where the action is. Besides, the UK
is hardly uncharted territory for us Kiwis.”
“You don’t sound very convincing there Cam.” Jane was right. Cameron
was not telling his best friend the truth. The UK did represent Cameron’s
future, but deciding to emigrate just out of frustration with your current
environment was a false positive. “Let’s see those hands.” Jane reached out to
Cameron like a clairvoyant. “Look at those paper cuts. I see offices,
photocopiers, call centre headsets and extremely boring people in suits. Your
guitar playing calluses have healed and now you have office scars.”
“Once I decided not to care about my studies, Composition became an
incredibly flexible course. And 6 months spent putting away someone else’s
filing is as motivating as it is boring. Let’s hope it’s worth it.”
“But what are you actually going to do in the UK once you get there? You
know, for money? It’s bloody expensive over there. Do you have interviews
lined up or anything like that?”
64
“Yeah. A few.” Cameron avoided eye contact. “Temp agencies are
everywhere there. I’ll just get something to pay the bills and try to connect
with musicians where I can.”
“You need a plan before you just flutter off to the other side of the world
Cam.” Jane implored. She wasn’t smiling any more. She knew her friend was
leaving but it would have felt better had she known that he knew what he was
doing, but that was a comfort Cameron could not provide.
“So what great plans have you made?” Cameron tried to deflect any
further criticism by questioning Jane’s own future.
“You know what? ... I just don’t even want to think about it now.” Jane
sounded equally defensive. She didn’t like the idea of moving back to the
People’s Republic of Hamilton, a place where if you said you had just
watched Evgeny Kissin playing Gustav Mahler, they would have asked you
who won and what the final score was.
“You’ll have to think about it at some stage.” Cameron said incurring just
enough damage on Jane’s position to save himself from further criticism.
“Unless I think of something, I’ll just move back home I think. This isn’t
just your going away drinks. It’s effectively mine too. Unless you choose
Hamilton instead of London.”
“Fuck it. I don’t wanna talk about all this and I know you don’t either.”
And so it was silently agreed that neither of them had a clue what they
were going to do in the medium term and the more it had to do with music,
the more painful that future would be. They agreed to talk about petty and
insignificant things rather than ruin a perfectly good night out.
“Hey remember that ... um ... guy I keep telling you about?” Cameron
asked.
“Yeah, J something?”
“It’s Josh and he’s coming along sometime tonight. He was supposed to
be here when we both arrived actually. So you’ll see what I’ve been ranting
about all these years.”
“Gee can’t wait. Are you still his guitarist?
“I would assume so. I haven’t been introduced as anything else lately.”
“Maybe you really are a guitarist then, if this Josh guy keeps labelling you
as one. What does all that make him?”
65
“An idiot probably.”
“No I meant in relation to you.”
“Oh right, he’d be my middle class Yoda.”
“ ..... Hmmm. Funny it will be. He sounds like a dickhead. If half of what
you’ve told me is true, this could be fun. Anyone else coming?”
“Nope. You and Josh are all the people I know now.”
Cameron and Jane finished another death row drink. Believing it to be the
last time they would see each other, it seemed fitting that they should finish as
they had started. They met as two drunk first year students, so it was best that
they should finish as two drunk graduates.
“Ah for fuck’s sake!” Cameron threw his head back after seeing what had
just walked in the door.
This was typical of Josh, he could never follow simple instructions. Not
only was he late, but he had managed to bring along two people Cameron
had never met in his life. This was supposed to be Cameron’s time, but there
was nothing in his life that Josh could not impose his will on.
“Cam, this is Dunc. And this is Ruby, remember me telling you about my
manicurist?” Introductions followed immediately after Josh had fully posed
his way in with the help of his ever present walking stick.
“Hi. Is it Duncan?” Cameron extended his hand to him.
“Yeah, you know, friends call me Dunc.” He couldn’t shake Cameron’s
hand as it had already been turned into a makeshift hat stand.
“Right you are then Duncan. And Ruby, manicurist, congratulations. Hi,
by the way. Everyone, this is Jane.”
“Nice meeting you Jane.” Ruby replied. She had been entrusted with the
cane. The chairs at The Vic had plain backs and did not allow for the hanging
of meaningless personal attachments, prospective friends would have to
suffice. “So how long have the two of you been -”
“- drinking? About two hours.” Jane cut her off from embarrassing
anyone by asking what others had asked in the past. “And we’ve just
graduated from Music School. So yay on us eh?”
As Jane moved herself round the table next to Cameron she studied Josh
and tilted her head down, stifling a laugh. Cameron hadn’t been exaggerating
after all. Things were becoming painfully clear. The last time the Queen
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Victoria had seen a top hat and such a hilarious get up it was in the 19th
century, during the time of the real Queen Victoria.
“Cameron’s going overseas. Ain’t that cool?” Josh said with great pride,
turning the word ‘cool’ into a two syllable word.
“Groovy. Where are you going?” Ruby asked in between puffs on some
sort of designer style stick.
“London.” Cameron replied looking everywhere on Ruby but her eyes.
Everything about Ruby looked deliberate. Behind the hurriedly constructed
veneer of faux cool, there was a personality with its own tastes and opinions
but it had been pushed to one side by an insecure ego that demanded it live
up to the expectations of other phonies. Cameron would have wagered his
life that Ruby even had a tattoo on the base of her spine, the standard first
year undergraduate issue faux Celtic kind with cleverly overlapping and
triangular knot work that as well as saying to prospective suitors ‘I am
sexually open minded’, it also acted as an arrow, to remind Josh which bit to
penetrate. Such a point is severely laboured when the tag on the back of the
visible G-String reads ‘Next’.
“Only London?” Ruby inquired.
“Well, to start with. London just seems the obvious place. Then I’ll
branch out.”
“Fo what are you planning on doing while you’re veer?” Duncan lisped his
way through a simple question. With a mouth that struggled to hold the saliva
it generated and with facial hair that failed to cover anything, his face was just
a swollen vagina popping out of a crumpled silk shirt.
“He’s going to make it as a musician.” Josh interrupted.
“Well ...” Cameron tried to stifle everyone’s expectations. “... that’s the
plan I suppose.”
“Yeah there’s a really big scene over there for it.” Ruby asserted.
“8 million people, you’d think there would be.” Cameron was selling the
idea to Jane more than anyone else. Duncan and Ruby were more interested
in themselves and in not being eliminated from the reality show that was ‘The
Path to Josh’s Friendship’; episode 8, series 4.
Mercifully, the band kicked in with its beer friendly set of rock standards.
As a group, they drank and listened to the assembled minstrels ploughing
67
their way through the soundtrack to a 70s best of album that never saw the
light of day. Their playing suggested they had been drinking as heavily as
their audience.
“OK I’ve got one!” Ruby said proudly.
“What are we playing?” Cameron asked Josh and his two attachments.
“We’re renaming films in the style of Robert Ludlum. He’s the guy that
wrote The Bourne Identity and the Bourne -”
“- Supremacy.” said Jane. “Yeah I’ve read those, they’re cool.”
The table froze and Jane corrected herself in as dead pan a fashion as she
could. “Oh sorry, I mean ... they were simply awful low brow offerings. What
was I thinking? Carry on.”
The two normal people, the two pretentious wankers and their patron
saint eventually started to enjoy themselves as a group as they took turns
renaming cinematic classics. For a few minutes, Amadeus was ‘The Vienna
Juxtaposition’ - a brilliant cloak and dagger mystery surrounding the
premature killing off of a mentally unhinged genius by his jealous and
mediocre rival; and The Wicker Man was ‘The Hebridean Immolation’ - a
knife edge thriller that spoke of a faithful man surrounded by the delusional
only to be encased in a corporeal tomb so his own delusions could be burnt
into the soil. But Josh had everyone stumped when he said, “Here’s one you
should all know, The Auricular Severance.” The rest of the group could only
look at each other cluelessly.
Cameron didn’t know the film Josh was talking about, but he knew what
was going on, so he thought it best to end everyone’s misery. “OK, we give
up. Tell us.”
“It was ‘Blue Velvet’. Has no one here seen it?”
“Nope.” Jane proudly replied and returned to The Barley Fermentation in
front of her, which if it was given it’s less pretentious name, would simply be
called a ‘beer’.
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“Oh of course!” Ruby said slapping her forehead trying to recapture lost
intellectual ground. “I should have known.”
“Nice one Josh man”. Duncan was quick to follow up as he breathed his
inner labia back into his mouth.
Cameron inwardly applauded in Josh’s direction. He was in the presence
of a true master. It was all smoke and mirrors, just create the smallest amount
of plausible deniability and you can get away with just about anything. So
long as your audience wants to be flattered, you can have them flatter you
back just as hard. If he had to name one thing he had learnt from university,
that would have to be it.
“And who made this movie? If I may be dumb enough.” Jane asked
looking specifically at The Aluminium Oxidisation, that called itself Ruby.
“David Lynch”. Josh answered for her. Ruby tried to hide her sigh of
relief. Josh would no doubt help her re-pay her debt to him later in the
evening. And if he had the energy left in him, maybe again in a different
position.
“OK I’ve got one.” Jane took a sip and planted her glass on the table in a
clear sign that she was the one talking. “How about ... ‘The Hooker
Intoxication’?”
“The Hooker Intoxication?” Cameron silently mouthed back at her.
No one knew it. ‘Pretty Woman’ was Duncan’s best effort, while Ruby
courageously offered ‘Leaving Las Vegas’.
“Nice try, both of you, but nope.” Jane left the others hanging just that
little bit longer for dramatic effect. “Come on. It was Sean Fitzpatrick’s
bestselling autobiography. ‘If the Shoe Fitz’ “
“Is he that rugby player guy?” asked Ruby as honestly as she could.
“I’m not sure, I think he might be.” Duncan added, also badly disguising
his own knowledge of the subject.
“No, he discovered the Higgs Boson particle. Yes, he’s the famous All
Black and the position he played in is called Hooker. He’s a national
institution and you know who he is. You don’t have to pretend, no one will
think anything of you if you just admitted that you know what those big H
shaped things on school fields are used for.”
“Well I’m sorry, but no, they didn’t have them at the school I went to.”
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Ruby countered straight back, discarding her vegan ways and smelling blood.
“Yes they did Ruby, or should I say Kimberly. You were two years behind
me at Hamilton Girls. The posts are rugby posts, not giant capital H’s, there
to remind you that you were still living in fucking Hem-il-tun. Have you been
living in a bubble?” Jane had clearly had enough of these two idiots.
“Living in a bubble? You mean like studying music for three useless years?
And funny you mentioned the word hooker too ... Jane, or would you rather I
call you Community Ferris Wheel? Because every guy I knew got a ride. Or
Shed? Because that’s where a guy likes to puts his junk. Or maybe you prefer
Fondue? Everyone can dip in whenever they feel like it. Yes, I remember you
from school.” Ruby may have looked like a complete moron but when a
moron can make a point stick, it hurts even more.
“Ruby! Bad dog. No biscuit!” Josh snapped.
“Woof!” Ruby said, audibly snapping her teeth together. She immediately
put a style stick in her mouth and Josh, without blinking, lit it for her. Maybe
Josh was a boy scout in his early years, because he certainly came prepared
with his Zippo and a few well-worn in-jokes.
Josh had prevented an escalation of hostilities, but the conversation
ground to a halt. Jane fell silent and showed no signs of emotion, at least not
on the outside. There was no point carrying on the class struggle, sometimes
it’s just best to leave pretentious wankers to pretentiously wank.
Apart from his apparent calming down of Ruby in a manner only he
could have accomplished, Josh had said very little up to that point. He was
more or less entertaining himself watching these two divergent groups go
head to head. Cameron did however catch Josh smiling at Jane during the
verbal fracas. He would have admired her ability to smell bullshit and to label
it as such and not be one to fall victim to its powers, unlike Ruby and Duncan.
Cameron and Jane turned back towards each other and started to talk
again. They knew that Ruby and Duncan were a different species from them.
With Josh sitting in between both Jane and Ruby he could keep the two
groups apart, he was the common ancestor, someone happy to mix with a
member of either gene pool.
As Cameron suddenly saw.
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“Er ... Jane?”
“What is it mate?”
“What do you think?” Cameron lifted his eyebrows and looked down at
Josh’s hand on Jane’s thigh. There he was, thinking that Josh had sat there to
be a bridge between the two groups of people.
“Bah, don’t worry about that. He’s a dickhead.” Jane told Cameron, who
had experienced this feeling before, having Jane’s eyes, while someone else
had drilling rights on her body.
“Let me guess. That hand means nothing right?” He asked.
“Correct. Nothing at all.”
“And in half an hour from now? An hour from now? When it’s still there
and he’s starting to work his so-called magic, what will it mean then? Sorry
but this is half your problem -”
“- I have a problem now do I?” Jane asked back and stopped looking at
Cameron, hoping he would go away. But Cameron kept on talking.
“Do you believe this guy? Do you believe anything he says? He’ll just
become something for you. Whatever it is you think you need, he’ll know
how to be it. But he won’t be it tomorrow.”
Jane still looked straight ahead. Josh’s fingers drummed on her thigh while
he was deep in a fake discussion with the company on the end of his other
hand. The topic was that a film never really does the book justice. Examples
were given, books were named and no one questioned whether anyone had
actually read any of them.
“Girls like you are his bread and butter - or should I say his margarine?
He’ll come in all strong willed and confident. Eccentric sensitivity with just
the slightest hint of assertive manliness. Then after that, you are - quite
literally - fucked. You know why I never flirted with you?”
Jane finally turned. Hurt, she said, “I don’t know. Some sort of claim for
the moral high ground? Good old Cam never puts a fucking foot wrong does
he? Take a risk one of these days and actually man up.”
Both Cameron and Jane took a breath as they noticed how blunt they
were becoming. Though drunk, it wasn’t just the alcohol, they had been in
worse states than this on numerous occasions. The tension of having to say
goodbye was being channelled in negative directions.
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“I never flirted with you because you never liked the men you went to bed
with. I wouldn’t have fit your criteria, because you like me. You don’t like Josh.
We both know that. We’ve made fun of him practically to his face. You hate
people like this, yet you still sit there with his hand creeping up your thigh
and you insist it’s nothing. I’ve seen you do this so many times. How hard can
it be to just say no? Women have invented an entire vocabulary of terms to
get the message across to me. I can give you some lines if you need them.”
Cameron actually smiled hoping it might show he was happy to expose some
of his own failures.
“So if you’ve seen me do this before, why is it suddenly different this
time?”
The nature of Cameron and Josh’s friendship was a constant source of
confusion to Cameron. His social life seemed to revolve around someone
who would only ever see him as an option. He had seen Josh do this sort of
thing to women he had been talking to in the past. Many a time he had lost
out to Josh and didn’t even know it until he heard the tales days later. But
those times never bothered him. But this time, his only two friends had
decided to combine their worst traits into one event.
“So what are you then?” Jane asked. “The knight in shining armour? The
good boy I should be taking home to Mum and Dad?”
“We just like each other too much.”
Jane just tightened the muscles on one side of her face in confusion.
“What are you on about now?”
“We don’t fuck our friends. Sex is something I think of doing TO people.
Whether on a TV screen or in some red light brothel. Where do you think I
go when I’ve carried your wasted body home after a night out? Or once I’ve
left you in the capable hands of some random that I trust just enough not to
harm you? Sex is something you let others do TO you. There’s no intimacy
for either of us. If we tried, it would only fail.”
The music in The Queen Victoria became so loud that it was impossible
for those at the table to hear anyone else unless they leaned in to each other,
so Cameron and Jane did just that. This was as close as they had been to each
other. He could smell the products in her hair, he could see those minute
details you only saw on a woman’s skin when you got this close to one.
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Common pixel resolution never reached such clarity, the imagination lacked
the frame rate; neither could show the short, pale hair at the base of a
woman’s scalp, or how wonderfully imperfect real skin is on close inspection.
And then there was the smell. Jane smelt like the real thing.
This wasn’t how he had pictured such a moment of physical closeness
with Jane to play out. It was all forced. Involuntary. The one time he wanted
to keep his distance, he was given the very proximity he had previously
longed for. He imagined Jane feeling his breath on her as he spoke.
“I always liked you Jane. Three years at Uni and we liked each other right
from the start. I liked you despite what others thought of you, and you liked
me because I showed no interest in being a part of your reputation. I might
not be the solution, but at least I wasn’t part of the problem.”
Not seeing her face made it all easier to say.
“You must have seen his other hand on Ruby. He does this to everyone.
He has both of you right where he wants, competing against each other. He’s
loving every second of this. And you’ll have no say on the final outcome.”
Jane turned around slightly. To anyone else at the Queen Victoria, they
looked like a couple in love with their heads seemingly resting on each other’s
shoulders.
The barman heard one particularly wasted regular proclaim “Hey it looks
like old Mark and Pamela have finally hooked up.” They were in fact a couple,
but one going through a painful divorce from a relationship that had never
been given a chance to exist. Like sex and music. Never able to fuck and
make up.
“Yes I liked you Cam. But I never saw you as anything other than a
friend -”
“- Bullshit. Women give guys that line all the time. Plenty of women have
fed it to me in the past and none of those so called friends are here to prove
it now. It’s just a self-righteous way of saying you like the bad boy in the
room, the one that will never say he loves you, because you won’t love
yourself. Women that trot out that line just don’t want to put their friends
through the experience of being close to them. You might respect me but
you don’t respect yourself.”
“Well I’m sorry if I’m not perfect.” Jane’s hand had joined Josh’s, their
73
fingers linked. Even as Josh was humouring the pretentious wankers, he was
offering Jane moral support.
“And neither am I.” Cameron replied. “We’re both afraid to hurt each
other because we hold the other in higher regard than we do ourselves. You
are what you are, and I am what I am.
“And what the fuck are you?”
“Fuck.” Cameron paused. It was just a simple question, but he didn’t
know the answer. Cameron had no idea what he was. “I’m not going to the
UK for music.”
“Duh ...”
“I’m going because of a woman.” He sighed. … That’s enough! …
Then suddenly the volume dropped, forcing Cameron and Jane to snap
back to a comfortable distance.
“Yes? ...” Jane threw her hair to back across her face, pulling a curtain
between her and the other three. “Cam, tell me. Who the fuck is she? And
what is she doing in the UK? Have I even met her?”
… Don’t tell her …
It was Duncan who spoke next. “Hey, well if you’re going to London,
promise me you’ll go to Camden Market. They have the best leather jackets
you’ll see.”
Ruby joined in. “Yeah my brother went through France last year. He says
there’s this café that makes these cakes that you just couldn’t start to describe.”
“But you haven’t actually been there yourself ?” Cameron asked.
“No but apparently it’s -”
“Then why don’t you all shut the fuck up for once?” Cameron paused for
dramatic effect. “Maybe I’m being a drama queen, but this is my second to
last day in the country and I’ve been sitting here listening to endless stories of
people I don’t know, having gone to places none of them have even been to,
and books they’ve never read and films they’re pretending to know. Josh and
Jane are my friends, but I have no idea who either of you two are. I can barely
remember your names, but apparently I’m supposed to follow your second
hand advice on how to do a bunch of shit you aren’t in a position to do
yourself.”
“Hey man, I was invited here by Josh.” Duncan said defensively.
74
“Well good for you. He was invited here by me and he knew what he was
being invited to. Josh, next time you get invited out to a friend’s leaving drinks,
don’t bring your contestants with you.” Cameron didn’t look at Josh’s face
when he said it but both of Josh’s hands were now free.
“Would you rather we leave?” Ruby asked.
“Jesus! You even phrased that like it was a threat. As if we’d all lose
something if you abandoned us. You can all stay here. I’ll leave. If anyone
wants to say goodbye, then they can follow me out. If you choose to stay.
Promise me you’ll try the Carlsberg Extra Dry, it’s simply heavenly and most
surely to die for.”
As Cameron stood up, he snatched Josh’s Zippo lighter from the table.
“And that nick name he has etched into this thing?” Cameron waved it at
the group like a remote detonator. “It says ‘Sugar Boy’ because he puts four
sugars into his coffee. That’s all. Just a lot of sugar in a perfectly fine cup of
coffee. Sorry to spoil the surprise for you both. A bit of a let-down isn’t it?
Now it’s just a worthless piece of metal.” Cameron took it with him as he
walked out before any of the group had time to do anything.
Out on the cold street, Cameron looked through his wallet for some
necessary cab money. The muffled band could be heard rumbling on.
“Cam!”
Cameron slowly turned around, “You again. So you’ve decided not to
fuck that loser?”
“Seems so. Proud of me?”
“Maybe you should just do it and get it over with. Does every night out
with you have to end up in someone’s bed? Have some respect for yourself.”
“Jesus Cam. I’m sorry. All I came to say was ... have a good time in the
UK.”
Between the shame, admission, nostalgia and sadness, Cameron added,
“Time for me to go I think. Time for me to get out of here. Just go back in
there and do whatever you want. It’s not like you’ve ever needed my
permission.”
“When you get settled, drop me a line. You’ve got my email.”
“Hopefully I’ll have sobered up by then.”
“When you get settled -”
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“- yeah I’ll drop you a line. I get it!”
“No, I meant to say, when you get there, be what you can’t be here. Deep
down, you know what you are.” Cameron’s defences fell. He dipped his head
into his hands and surfaced with his eyes full. Overseas was where he had to
be. For all the reasons in the world. “Now hug me you fuck.”
And they did hug.
“And tell Hannah I said Hi.”
“I will. Bye Josh.”
And from that day on, she would stare at the ceiling, choosing only to
listen to the music.
76
PART TWO
77
Chapter Six:
Strawberries Among Us
(Year 5 A.D.)
<Menu
<Phonebook
<Rebecca
<Dialling
“Yes?”
“Becks!”
“... one second. I’ll just see if ...”
“It’s OK it’s me, Hannah! I was wondering-”
“Hannah! Oh God. Sorry. How are you? You’re on speaker phone in my
car right now but you’re OK.”
“Great. Who’s going out this weekend?”
“Well I can’t, work commitments. I’ll be out of town the whole weekend.”
“Just me then?”
“Sadly, Hannah my dear, I think it’s an army of one tonight and you’re it.”
78
“It’s not the same going out on your own is it?”
“It never is.”
“- One second, I’m just pulling into my driveway.”
“No that’s fine. I’ll let you go then.”
“OK bye Hannah. Take care, and I’ll hear from you soon.”
Getting everyone out on the same night was like trying to align the
planets. Rebecca travelled a lot in her job, Samantha had kids and Wendy
worked long hours. Most of Hannah’s friends were in their late thirties, so
she really had to sell the idea of a night out to them to begin with.
But Hannah never needed cajoling. She was always up for a night out
and tonight was no different. Even if it meant that she had to go out on her
own, she would.
Stage 1: The Preparation.
As necessary as it was, Hannah hated this bit. Her vanity and
perfectionism required it, but she wished she could just walk out the door the
way every other woman did.
A short rub against the grain of her legs meant further delays were to be
expected. What was needed was a process that resembled the spreading of
honey onto a coconut with the piece of wood taken from the inside of a
Magnum ice cream. Hannah’s budget meant that the tedious and time
consuming process of epilation was very much a do-it-yourself operation. If
only there was a better way. She’d buy Agent Orange online if it was legal.
Twenty minutes later, the bathroom in Hannah’s humble flat looked like
the site of a mass lemming suicide. Each discarded wax strip was a corpse
that told its own story of suffering for a greater good. As she crawled on the
ground to gather them all up, her inner thighs slipped past one another
smoothly. Phase one could be declared finished, the pain had been worth it.
Next.
A makeup kit that was supposed to look like an artist’s paint box, but
worked more like an archaeologist’s tool-kit was brought forth and placed
next to the filthy bathroom mirror. Skin imperfections and wrinkles were
identified. Rogue hairs were singled out and removed with surgical precision.
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The holy trinity of ‘Cleanse, Tone and Moisturise’ preceded the
application of a fair but not excessive base foundation. Eyebrows, eyelids, lips
and cheeks were overly raised lowered, sucked in and puffed out as liners,
powders, highlighters and glosses were applied in only the most necessary of
ways. Hannah felt like the kind of builder you see scandalised on consumer
watchdog TV shows, papering over fundamental cracks and structural flaws.
One overly enthusiastic smile tonight could bring the whole place tumbling
down.
Now polished smooth and made up, Hannah could at least decide on
what to actually wear tonight. “Now what would a strawberry look good in?”
she said to herself throwing open her modest closet doors.
That was her body shape - ‘The Strawberry’. Not the perfect hourglasses
of Marilyn Monroe, Selma Hayek, Scarlett Johansson or Halle Berry; nor the
voluptuous pears given to Beyoncé, Shakira, Jennifer Lopez or Rihanna.
Bitches all of them, for Hannah was a common garden variety strawberry,
like such well known sex goddesses as. Clearly an acquired taste.
Since her legs were presentable enough to justify something other than
the stockings she too frequently fell back on, her recently bought snakeskin
sandals could warrant a premier. It was time to change things up.
Upper: Imitation Snakeskin
Lining and Sock: PU
Outsole: Resin
Heel Height: 8.1cm (3.2 inches)
Product Code: TGFAS1578472
Style guides often told Hannah to choose a “fluted or flared skirt to give
volume” while having “fun with colour”. Therefore, those new faux
snakeskin heels would similarly justify the wearing of her camel fishtail skirt.
Hannah always talked to herself as she dressed, reciting her lines as if
from Holy Scripture, “Medium length skirts with frills help hide the knees
while pulling them closer together. They should fall from the waist rather
than the hips, essential for the strawberry.” Hours of daytime TV had
perfected Hannah’s lifestyle vocabulary.
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100% Leather (Lining: 100% Polyester)
Specialist leather clean only
Product Code: YUBRO150810
“Wear tops that are sleek and soft, as opposed to anything stiff and rigid.”
Living Channel ‘How to wear ...’, Series 4, Episode 9. This meant that her faithful
one shoulder top would again make an appearance.
Fluted sleeves and fixed bow on shoulder
Machine washable
95% Polyester, 5% Elastane
Product Code: YUBRO150810
Having previously been ordered to “choose long strap handbags that rest
at the hip” Hannah contemplated all alternatives before finally settling on the
only handbag she actually owned.
Main: 100% Polyurethane
Lining: 100% Polyester
Product Code: ZOLPA1269399
Peering down, she could see that the buckles on her sandals were gold in colour only of course. And they did not glitter either. “Do not let one’s
metals clash. Like the matching of red wine to red meat, ensure that gold is
matched with gold and silver likewise.” Gold would therefore be the colour
of those useless items on the ends of her wrists that would only serve to
catch and snag on anything that brushed past her throughout the course of
the evening.
Having painstakingly brushed her mane, forcing the lines to frame her
face just so, Hannah was ready. It was at times like these that obsessive
behaviour was your friend. She liked what she saw in the mirror and that was
all that mattered to her in the end. Forget what anyone else thought. Hannah
knew that she was attractive to some men, but not all. But tonight was about
her. Just one last glance. All good.
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“Wow, very nice.” Astrid said as Hannah trotted into the kitchen. While
she considered her flatmate to be her best friend, the two never went out
partying. They just weren’t part of each other’s weekend worlds. They had
their best moments during the week over a packet of biscuits and a movie on
the primitively small TV they kept in their flat. Astrid had those Germanic
looks that the decidedly Anglo Saxon Hannah would have killed for. Even in
her casual clothes, Astrid could make Hannah feel lacking in basic style.
Maybe it was her natural confidence, but Astrid was just in another league.
She was gorgeous. Undeniably gorgeous.
But it wasn’t Astrid doing this to Hannah, it was Hannah doing it to
herself. Her life would have been so much easier if she could be everything
Astrid was. But there were still times when Hannah was equally grateful she
wasn’t. Astrid didn’t get out much and for all her good looks, she couldn’t
scrape a decent group of exciting friends together. Astrid didn’t do fun.
Hannah looked great - for Hannah that is. As good as she felt at that
moment, she always felt slightly apprehensive before going out, so a few
supportive words would be all she would need.
“I like the skirt ... and the shoes ... was that what all the screaming was
for?”
Hannah said nothing. But they both smiled.
“Well, I think you look wonderful” Astrid insisted.
“As good as it gets.”
“Oh come on, Hannah, stop fishing for compliments”
“What’s on?”
Astrid scrolled through the free to air channels. “Nothing. There’s the
World Cup of course ... a phone-in talent show ... and some sort of political
debate”. Cheering was heard on all three as they briefly flashed up.
“Britain’s got talent? It’s ‘Britain HAS Talent’. Anyway, now it’s ‘Hannah
has to go’. Wish me luck and you can put your music back on now.”
She just couldn’t get in character before a night out if Astrid was playing
her music in the flat. As weak as her sound system was, Hannah could still
hear it.
“OK bye, Hannah. I might still be awake when you get back in.”
“Hopefully I will be too.”
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Astrid laughed the way non-native speakers do at times – too much. But
Astrid’s sincerity was never put on. She was an angel who listened to only one
band. read only one book and lived for only one person.
Hannah checked that she had everything and finally, yes finally, she
walked out the door.
Stage 2: The Execution.
“Where to, love?”
“Loops”.
Hannah caught a glance of the cab driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror.
He was a Muslim man living in a western city. Hannah smiled as if to wish
him well on tonight’s shift hoping he didn’t get hassled by the wrong type of
passenger. He just smiled back as if sending her a similar message.
It was 10pm in Edinburgh in August - the middle of the International
Festival. This night of hedonistic revelry would involve locals and foreigners
alike. It seemed that more than half the people on the streets were from
abroad, coming from all parts of Europe and North America. After a hard
day of tracing one’s roots and feeling so incredibly Scottish through the act
of wearing a kilt to go with the bomber jacket, white trainers and aviator
sunglasses, plastic Scots needed their leisure time just like anyone else. What
better way was there to meet the real Edinburgh than to go into temporarily
erected clubs, bars and booze filled marquees that the locals avoided like the
inflated prices they charged? During August, central Edinburgh was almost a
different economic zone, using what were well known as ‘Festival Prices’.
But Loops was different. It couldn’t treat its loyal and local following
with such impunity. Loops was a haven from the festival. There would be no
Americans using the terms England, Britain and The United Kingdom
interchangeably. No Spanish economic migrants would be trying to sell you
beaded chains outside its doors. Loops was the most honest and genuine
place on the map right now, it was all of these things because it was a gay
club.
One foot in the door and Hannah was greeted with bright lights, bass
frequencies and cigarette smoke. First port of call - the bar.
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Orange. Something with lyrics about men being like coffee, “hot strong
and sweet as toffee” or something along those lines, while the handle bar
moustache boys rode in and made their presence known. With their build and
facial hair, all they needed was a set of leopard skin leotards and a penny
farthing bicycle and ...
Pineapple. Two immaculately groomed muscle boys brushed past her,
too busy looking at each other to actually offer a simple ‘sorry’. But Hannah
preferred gay clubs to straight clubs when all she wanted was a good night
out. Straight clubs were just full of idiot men and whorishly dressed women.
No way was Hannah going to try to complete with that. Here she could wear
whatever she liked and no one would care either way.
Peach. Now drunk enough to try it herself, Hannah left her bag in a
corner of the dance floor and let herself go. The Emo boys, who probably
weren’t gay, but just wanted to look victimised seemed to approve. The sense
of hedonism at Loops was practically painted on the walls, whatever your
agenda, you were more than welcome. It was a meat market for some, but
Hannah could safely let the minority be the majority for a change and just
enjoy herself without any pressure.
Watermelon. Most of the men at ‘Loops’ were only looking at
themselves or each other but it was typical for at least one to be less than
black and white with his sexual preferences.
Lemon. She could dance on her own all night if she had to. It seemed
like everyone on the dance floor knew not only the words but had memorised
the choreography from the music videos to half the tracks being played.
Sometimes someone would dance a little nearer to her to try and bring her
into the main group, but Hannah generally ignored it all. She’s going to do it
her way thank you very much.
Lime. OK, enough. Enough strobe lighting. Enough of that mandatory
gay pride techno. It was break time for this girl. And why was she drinking
Bacardi breezers? She hates those things. Some mash up remix of a classic
70’s disco tune started blasting out, taking with it a well-known Madonna line.
The club collectively cheered and the DJ took his bow.
“And I’m sweating. Damn it.”
No kidding she was sweating. When she got to the mirrors in the ladies
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toilets she adeptly performed the necessary emergency re-touch. Hannah felt
that a career in the restoration of old books was something she might be
better qualified for than meaningless office drudgery. Why they gave all the
mirrors in gay clubs to the boys, she’ll never know. Actually she knew full well.
Vain little bastards. But remember Hannah, you came here to get away from the
attention. Or are you trying to have it both ways? And how many have you had? The
barman will know.
Confidently restored, Hannah positioned herself at the bar and calmly
waited her turn behind two pouting twenty-somethings.
“Nice hair. Where’d ya get it fa?” Hannah heard a barely perceptible jibe
from the man now queuing at the bar behind her. She guessed it was for her
since she was about the only one there not stylishly shaved to the scalp. She
took it as a compliment since she was always pleased to show it off. Long,
not perfectly straight but with a gentle wave as it parted obliquely over the
face. Friends said it drew attention to the eyes.
“Very funny”, Don’t be sarcastic now. You love the attention.
Hannah was enjoying herself enough to find any remark genuinely funny
and she showed no sign of hiding it. When she eventually looked around to
see where the voice had come from, her pupils must have visibly dilated. He
was taller than her for one thing. Forget all the Braveheart stereotypes or the
shortbread tin propaganda; Scottish men were either short and fat or anaemic
and gaunt. In heels, she normally towered over the men she met when she
went out, so to actually have to tilt one’s neck upwards just to look at this
man was a pleasant inconvenience. Exposing the neck rather than displaying
an obvious double chin was worth talking to anyone for.
Go on Hannah admit it. You like him already.
“OK barman, what have I had so far tonight?”
“I think you’re one off the rainbow for this evening.” The barman was
not only familiar with the 7 breezer flavours; Lemon, Orange, Lime,
Watermelon, Peach, Pineapple and Strawberry, but he knew Hannah’s routine
as well as she did.
“Let me guess. Strawberry. Oh, strawberry, in all your many forms, I hate
you.” She declared.
“Why not have something else?” The same voice as before chipped in
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with perhaps the dumbest thing she’d heard all evening. Hannah and the
barman looked at him in a manner that looked rehearsed. Yes Hannah, the
barman HAS seen you before.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Barman -”
“Yes, m’lady?” he replied like any good chauffeur.
“May I please have ... a ... “ Hannah slapped the back of her hand on her
forehead in mock agony. “ ... strawberry breezer. Sigh!”
“I’ll get that.” came the voice from behind.
“And yes. Charge it to him.” she said as she clipped off in those brand
new sandals. All brand new shoes show their true character when it’s too late
to turn back and change into something more comfortable. They looked so
practical and durable on the website, worn by a teenager half her age, with
legs made from the flexible drinking straws.
Hannah was followed to the relative sanctuary of a corner booth,
presumably designed for those party goers who had had just about all the
electronic pop they could handle. The spliced Madonna disco marathon
pounded on mercilessly, oblivious to the interchange between Hannah and
the man, who at times sounded like he was speaking a foreign language.
Unsure as to how much each understood the other, they still attempted
conversation. Ten minutes or more of a song that was 50% pop and 50%
disco played at 100% volume with six bottles of soft drink containing 4%
alcohol, meant that Hannah would only be 80% sure that 40% of what she
was saying was being understood more that 75% of the time.
“Good thanks ... No, not really ... Yes I have a mild form of obsessive
compulsive disorder and it seems to flare up in clubs ... and anywhere else ...
what? ... oh, exactly ... about a year now ... that guy there? ... Really? ...
generally wasting my time ... nice people so far ... do you live around here? ...
Hannah ... Adam, nice to meet you ... Oh sorry, Simon ... a man in a gay bar
drinking a pint. Something you’re trying to hide? ... never mind ... “
Simon similarly struggled, “Aye. So are ya well? ... Do you visit this place
much a’tall? ... Y’no like strawbreeze then? ... aye does nay bother me ... I’m
Simon ... no no, I said I’m Saymun ... aye .. me be um close at street ... “
OK, Hannah I think I got that last one. I think he said ‘maybe I’m closet straight’.
“Oh nice.”
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“Aye ... aye.”
While Simon seemed genuinely relaxed, he couldn’t have dressed any less
gay if he had tried. Denim, but pulled up high with a brown tucked-in
business shirt and a tweed suit jacket. If Simon ever permed his hair, he
might get offered a job hosting his own motoring show with a short metrosexual, an eccentric middle class caricature who lived in the past and a leather
fetishist in a crash helmet who demanded that his true identity be kept a
secret.
Pelted with enough noise to make a conversation a pointless exercise,
Simon just placed his considerable hand inside Hannah’s freshly waxed thigh,
as if resting on the hand brake.
Yeah, that was pretty forward, Hannah ... If you look over at him, you’ll make it
look like you disapprove ... Just look a little off to your side ... good ... His hand is still
there ... He’s figured it out ... Now, slowly look around at him ... And don’t pretend we
don’t know why you kept leaning in to hear him better ... We all saw it ... You did that on
every line with him ... Granted I can make out only marginally more than you can but even
the times you’ve understood him, you’ve been giving him that opening ... No, I don’t know
why he hasn’t made his next move either ... If an internal dialogue could shrug it would be
shrugging most definitely by now ... Wait, he’s about to say something ...
“You like the Bee Gees, Hannah?”
… That’s what Madonna was being spliced with! ... The Bee Gees! …
“I don’t listen to this sort of music during the week. It all sounds
different in heels.”
“Aye”. ... I don’t think he got a word of that, Hannah … “I don’t like any kind
of music, it’s too distracting.”
Hannah was only local by Festival standards, and she knew it. But even
so, Simon’s strong accent would have got him into situations like this with
virtually anyone born more than 50 miles from his home town. So when they
actually kissed it was really just to move on from having to hold down silence
from a distance. There was not the usual build up from a short peck to a
smooth kiss. Instead, they moved in deliberately, from a relative distance and
once there, they held on. If they could just keep this up then they wouldn’t
have to speak.
Hannah relaxed and let her head tilt back and to the side slightly. Simon
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filled the gap and just rested himself on her more. Nothing too aggressive,
just taking things in. Lips skidding across her skin with a hand here and there,
but nothing more than what Hannah was giving back.
Nestled in their corner of Loops, the two looked a somewhat odd
pairing up against the backdrop of all those clean cut twenty something men
pursing their lips at each other, or the usual team of tough girls pretending to
scratch body parts they did not possess. Neither group did anything for
Hannah, or Simon apparently.
So Hannah ... Hannah! ... “What?!” ... When was the last time? ... “Don’t
know. That time we went through to Manchester with Rebecca.” ... 6 months
then. How does this guy feel generally? “He’s nice. He makes more sense when he
doesn’t say anything.” I was just thinking- ... “Do you mind? I’d like to enjoy
this if I may.” ... I just wanted to remind you that you are aroused. Now, be careful ...
Despite being a style crime that smelt of the aftershave that came free
with denim shirts, Simon had enough ticks in enough of the right boxes for
Hannah to feel genuinely turned on. Judging by the way Simon was breathing
on her neck, it was obvious that she had met similar criteria. In fact, Hannah
got the distinct impression that Simon hadn’t been this close to a woman in
quite some time.
“Hannah ... “ Simon finally broke the silence.
“Yes?”
“Shall we get outta here?” he asked as he pulled back.
“NO!” Hannah didn’t need any form of translation this time. “Sorry.
Can we just ... sit for a bit? I’m not ready to get up just yet.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you or nothing like. I just thought ...”
“No it’s not that. Really.” Hannah leaned forward grabbing the last
Bacardi Breezer of seven.
“Oh Aye, I think I know what you mean.” Simon grinned, looking less
rejected and in fact rather pleased with himself for correctly spotting the
cause of the hold up.
“Yes. You do. I’d like to leave, but just give me two minutes, OK?”
Hannah took her time emptying the bottle as she looked at Simon with the
straw in her mouth and her eyes tilted upwards. It was hard trying to look
sensual when you had something in your mouth you hated the taste of, but
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Hannah managed it. Now with her obligation to her afore mentioned
compulsive streak fulfilled, Hannah was finally ready to leave.
Having waved goodbye to the barman and amateur psychiatrist known as
the Barman, Hannah made her way to the taxi rank outside Loops. Before
turning round to see if Simon was behind her, an anaemic, clearly gay and
clearly inebriated 18 year old gave Hannah the warmest and drunkest of hugs.
The poor thing more or less disappeared into Hannah’s chest.
“You look fan .. tastic! How could you be on your own tonight?”
Confident he would never hear a word, Hannah said, “Lay off the
Graham Norton, you’re more camp than a row of tents. And pull your
bloody pants up.”
“Aw, that’s too bad love ... maybe next time. Wait, who’s this? Knight in
shining armour?”
Simon had been arranging a cab and rescued Hannah with a very
obvious arm round her waist. The task of freeing her from this homosexual
barnacle would need all the tact and subtlety he could muster.
“Eh ... you. Fook off.”
“Spoken like a true gentleman.” Hannah swooned. “And off he fucks.”
In the cab, Simon thought he could force the issue and push for the final
sale. But that moment was short lived, because as soon as the cab pulled away,
Hannah’s phone rang. Of all the ring tones to have, it had to be Black
Sabbath by the band of the same name. Even delivered on a digital device
such as a mobile phone, its analogue purity could be felt as well as heard. It
caused Simon to dash into the corner of the taxi like a chastised infant, it
even through Hannah of her game.
“Rebecca!” With distance her and Simon re-established, she spoke to her
very sober friend and looked out the window. Simon could only look out of
his.
“... great, wonderful time ... a little drunk, yes. On my way home now
actually ... Oh God, there was this awful Bee Gees track playing ... I know!
Loops for you ... Yes ... all the flavours ... YES!! Even strawberry! ... And
you? ... how did your evening go? ... Wonderful!”
Simon occupied his time by watching the drunken traffic scroll by his
window. There was the fish and chip shop full of drunks spilling out onto the
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street, which, during the day would have resembled a meeting of the cystic
fibrosis society. What a difference a change of lighting can make. Then came
the obligatory hen’s night worth of thirty-somethings in personalised t-shirts,
sparkly cowgirl hats and angel wings, eagerly stalked by the equally mandatory
group of male hyenas, waiting for one of the older and less fit members to
fall away from the main pack, yielding an easy kill.
“ ... no one I recognised ... a bit of a quiet evening actually ... I think it
was a popular night to be home watching the telly ... football ... some talent
show was rounding up tonight and there was a particularly hot tempered
political debate. ... Do you know who won?”
“Poland!” The cab driver leaned over his shoulder. He had clearly been
following the score during his night shift. “Scandal, right? They got a penalty
right at the last minute but it wasn’t one, like, but the ref gave it, you know, so
they won it, like, and Argentina were one of the favourites. Scandal no?”
“Aye, a scandal.” Simon agreed, resigned to the fact that any victory of
his own would not be decided in normal time. Extra time would be required,
if not penalties.
“Yeah I’m in a cab. ... Who won the other two?” Hannah then covered
her mobile and tried to address Simon and her chauffeur. “Anyone? ...
anyone?” A vacant look was reflected back in the driver’s rear view mirror.
Simon only shrugged his shoulders and threw his palms open. “Gotta go
becks, hear from you soon, OK? ... Just here, Driver!”
Hannah was sitting half in and half out of the cab with the door held
open while the not too visibly annoyed Simon reached for his wallet. The
driver kept the meter running while the two made their goodbyes.
“Hannah ... H. A. N. N.-”
“Aye.”
“Incognito ... bloody hell ... I. N. ... “
“Got it. Aye”
“At ... Gmail ... Great. So ... “
“So ... “
“Bye.”
Then Hannah hopped out.
... OK Hannah, you’ve been named, tagged and released. Let’s get you upstairs ...
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“Yes, let’s.”
With her feet aching, she made it up the stairs to the flat, ever mindful
of the neighbours.
“Hi Hannah.” Hannah entered the flat and closed the door in relative
silence. Relative to someone who had been forced to shout most of her
conversations throughout the duration of the evening.
“Hi” was the now raspy reply. ... You’re right Hannah, the ringing in your ears is not
coming from inside the flat ...
Once inside her room, she slumped onto her bed. As soon as she closed
her eyes, the room started to rotate.
“Shit.” She was lying face down and remembered what happened the last
time she fell asleep face down after a night out. Not this time. She promptly
got up to undress fully.
Off came her top. Once unzipped from the back, her skirt fell easily to
the floor.
Now in the bathroom, Hannah didn’t take off her corset so much as she
released herself from it. Her corset fulfilled the role that wooden braces
provide at construction sites when holding wet concrete in place. Sadly, body
fat never sets. Off came the faux snakeskin heels, proving that the feeling in
one’s feet when heels come off after a night out is always worth the ordeal.
Along with the bra came what were lovingly referred to as the ‘chicken fillets’.
That time she had fallen asleep after a night caused her to damage one slightly.
Nearly there Hannah
“Yep. Nearly there.”
And in one swift motion, off came the wig. Beautiful, straight and long,
the one that obliquely parts across the face while hiding excessive neck and
shoulder muscles. “Bought online like everything else, if you must know
Simon”.
Style Name: Angelica
Colour: Paprika
Head Size: Average
Crown: 15” (38cm)
Fringe: 8” (20.5cm)
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Nape: 14.75” (37.5cm)
The obligatory, and often forced, female facial expression calmly faded
away. Wrists tightened, eye brows dropped, shoulders fell forward and feet
opened up. The overall female deportment vanished as it willingly yielded to
the man in the room.
Looking at the mirror, leaning against the bathroom counter, there it was.
That momentarily absent but familiar figure looking back. It was still 5%
alcohol but 100% male and 100% Cameron, engraved with the markings of a
thoroughly enjoyable night out.
Picking up the wig, now smelling of Marlboro lights and the Edinburgh
gay community, he brushed it out and placed it on its polystyrene head.
Tomorrow he would reward it with an appointment at the nearest hair salon a plastic basin filled with warm water and supermarket brand fabric softener.
“Bye, Hannah.” ... Bye Cameron ...
Cameron could finally be what he wanted to be, without the fear of
walking into an old school teacher or a less than open minded relative. Some
friends would be less willing to come with you on such a journey, while
others might find it fun. The problem was that you didn’t know which group
any of your friends belonged to.
Painfully liberal minded friends like Josh jumped at the chance to
showcase their principles with total disinterest in anything strange. But, if you
were more than just friends, you had to ask yourself whether your company
was really worth the ordeal you might drag them into. It was for this reason
that Jane remained totally oblivious.
Like so many like him, Cameron would never pass as a woman. This
wasn’t the expectation, only the desire, and Simon knew what he had been
talking to all evening. Cameron had enough softness in his facial features to at
least be acceptable to look at but his body would never say anything other
than ‘Man’, even with all the behind the scenes rigging he employed.
Of Hannah’s friends, Samantha had the body but not the face, Wendy
had an average attempt at both, while Rebecca was the one that won the
genetic lottery. Rebecca was more than just the porridge that got it just right,
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she looked better than Goldilocks herself. She was the Big Bad Wolf that
could have made Little Red Riding Hood feel self-conscious and be left with
nothing to say but, “Grandmother, what an amazingly natural and all together
convincing female form you have, you bitch.” - provided that Grandma liked
short skirts, sleeveless tops and jelly heels.
But there was more to it than trying to look good for the benefit of
someone else. Knowing that you might be attractive to someone was nice to
know, but there was never any of that drag queen shock value routine with
the common tranny. You wouldn’t see them with a crown and sceptre atop a
float during a Mardi Gras parade. Nor were they in any particular stage of
gender transition.
Cameron thought like a heterosexual man and Hannah like a
heterosexual woman. What Hannah was happy and willing to do for the sake
of living the role, Cameron could never do as a man, and vice versa. He
didn’t even know a gay transvestite in all of Scotland. Many were married,
some had girlfriends and some, like him, were just self-consciously single.
They were a bit like normal men, a lot like normal men. If you didn’t know
what you were looking for when you met them, you wouldn’t pick them by
their nature as anything out of the ordinary.
Forget ‘Some like it Hot’, ‘Tootsie’ and ‘Mrs Doubtfire’. Those were one
dimensional and cartoonish. They only depicted desperate men placed in
situations where they had no choice but to dress - often for the wrong
reasons - and who would choose to stop if given the choice. Hitchcock’s
Norman Bates and Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs should not even
be taken seriously. Their crossdressing was a symptom of their strong
pathological dysfunction. Cameron and his friends were just common
household garden variety transvestites. Not murderers, paedophiles or any
other breed of sexual pervert.
And Cameron was proud to say that of himself. Well, at least to himself.
To be able to say it, meant as much to him as actually living it out. He would
often leave his female life lying around his bedroom. To wake up and see a
lipstick tube or a pair of heels first thing in the morning was not him trying
to pretend he had a woman in his single male life. It was proof to him that
his feminine side was validated. She existed. She was real. She wouldn’t be
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forced to live in the closet when he was around.
In fact, looking round his bedroom, there were more signs of Hannah’s
presence than of Cameron’s. Being male and ordinary, you could get by with
a few pairs of jeans, one pair of shoes and an assortment of completely
boring t-shirts and tops.
Who else he would tell all this to would be another matter. It was one
thing to feel proud and free of any self-recrimination and loathing, it would
be another thing all together to expect society to clip down the road with him.
Society might tolerate you, but they won’t always let you babysit their kids. At
best, this was something mainstream society as a whole felt was fine for
adults to do in private behind closed doors but not beyond there thank you
very much. Tolerance comes in degrees.
Still adjusting to the endorphin inducing change in physiology, Cameron
thought about that skirt. It was a nice skirt but the fabric was too thin and
would show off any sudden moments of ‘arousal’, as had been the case that
night. Simon had seen what had happened. To what extent Simon found it a
turn on or a turn off was unclear. How he liked his tranny was not entirely
clear.
… Denim skirt next time ...
“Got it.”
After a night out as Hannah, he could easily spend longer in the shower
than he would in a normal week as Cameron. A torrent of hot water, the
strongest make up remover available to the transgendered community, a
liberal dose of face wash and at least 5 minutes of simply standing under the
waterfall were necessary. Corsetry leaves its mark, so to feel the water hitting
his skin, re-forging it, having been twisted and contorted into an unfamiliar
form was euphoric.
A woman walked into the bathroom and a man emerged, accompanied
by bathroom steam, the smell of fruit scented toiletries and a pair of faux
snakeskin heels. It was a French farce in the Garden of Eden.
“Astrid! ... Sabbath ... now!” Cameron called out while the shower foam
crackled in the plug hole, like the first seconds of anticipation at the start of a
vinyl record.
Astrid’s knowledge of popular music was minimal; her background in
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classical, limited; trance, non-existent; radio, scant. But her taste was the
easiest to class. Her taste was Black Sabbath. It was the only music she liked,
to the point that it was the only band she played. A taste Cameron shared,
but Hannah did not.
The hamster inside Astrid’s vintage vinyl record player huffed and puffed
as it pushed out a divine offering from those four complete nobodies from
Birmingham. They sang their hymns and madrigals concerning angels and
demons and the generally spooky goings-on you find taking place at your
local graveyard. The flat was alive with real music, unless of course you left
the room, in which case you couldn’t hear a thing. Astrid’s speakers were the
kind you couldn’t hear from the other side of a piece of butcher’s paper.
With the needle where it should be, Cameron wore a pair of
unapologetically grubby jeans and the cleanest excuse for a t-shirt he could be
bothered to look for as he casually fell into the seat next to his best friend in
Edinburgh. She found it easy to settle in Edinburgh thanks to Scotland’s
overrated international image and its unwillingness to dispel the myths that
perpetuated it. Americans made the journey to Scotland in the hope of
discovering that they were in-fact related to Mel Gibson; whereas Spaniards,
Swedes, Italians, Germans and every other form of disillusioned European
left their pastures in search of the Scottish fairy tale, one that only existed on
an overpriced table cloth or on the outside of an imported bottle of single
malt.
“Hello Cameron”. The way Astrid could switch genders with him so
easily and willingly was a credit to her socially liberal northern European ways.
He still envied her, but not so much during moments like these, his need to
be female had been well and truly fed. Right now it felt fine just to be male
and boring again.
“So who won in the end?” Cameron asked.
“Poland.”
“Lucky win, I hear.”
“A miracle in fact. And the 12 year old kid that played Stairway to
Heaven on the guitar upside down
“Why Stairway? Be at peace my dear Stairway, for ye hath suffered much.”
“... and a rather stern man in a suit appeared to win a political debate ... “
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“Was it a particularly sharp suit?”
“Well it wasn’t. And he wasn’t very nice at all. Try this for a quote:
‘Homosexuality is, in my opinion, morally indefensible. While the prevailing
mood of the people seems to be that it should be tolerated, I don’t feel
compelled to advance their cause by supporting any further legislation in their
favour’.”
“That much of a bastard? Well, they shouldn’t have the right to get in my
way on a dance floor, block my way to the bar or begrudge me the right to
use the ladies toilets when the need arises. Sorry if that was more detail than
you needed.”
Astrid smiled by way of reassuring Cameron that it didn’t matter to her.
She just sat back with her book and toyed with her trusty pendant.
“Had a good night did we?” Astrid asked.
Cameron took a chocolate digestive from the coffee table and slouched
even harder. “Yes we did.” He said barely coherently through melting
chocolate. ... Oh, yes we did ...
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Chapter Seven:
Sex and Sex Ability
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a fancier in possession of a tweed jacket must be
in want of a transvestite. However little known the feelings or views of such a fancier may
be on entering a gay friendly establishment, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the
surrounding bar staff, that he is considered to be the rightful property of their crossdressing
clientele.
“Looking rather lovely, I must say.” Hannah greeted Samantha with a
matching pair of air kisses. Regardless of her sincerity, compliments would
have been forthcoming under any circumstances, such was the protocol
maintained in all their social outings. If Hannah were to be totally honest, she
would have chosen not to say anything. But ladies do not say nothing as they
meet, nor are they satisfied when they hear nothing in return.
“Hannah, very nice too.” Samantha replied in accordance with the
hierarchical structure of transvestite social order. One must pay homage to
those that have paved the way and served the time themselves. Unless a girl
was remarkably attractive and added prestige to their group, she could not
escape her place in the group.
Samantha was the one with the body and the balls to wear what she
wanted, it was her lighter Scottish physique that served her well. The slim
shoulders holding just one of the many things Hannah could never wear:
spaghetti straps. Even Hannah would admit that Samantha’s red one piece
oblique and fluted dress looked great on her. With her blonde bob and silver
high heels, she looked like a 50’s hot rod. Apt, given that she worked as a
mechanic in her weekday life.
Long hours standing around overly compensating men in greasy overalls,
waiting for those business ladies in their sharp outfits to pick up their midpriced girl cars will take their toll. Urges will be planted, it’s all a matter of
pressure. The less of an outlet for femininity, the more it will try to break out
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in unfamiliar ways. Samantha’s weekday world was the video to Billy Joel’s
Uptown Girl. Oh to surprise those filthy men by walking in one day as Christie
Brinkley.
Blessed as her body was, Samantha’s face could not make a similar claim.
She may have been able to cross her legs, but she didn’t have Hannah’s
softness of face. Samantha’s eyes weren’t cat-like prisms, her lips not as
inflated, her chin not as rounded and her nose not as tiny. Samantha was
convincing from behind and from a distance, but Hannah worked best at
close range, and she would take that every time. Face to face was where it
counted.
“Hannah, I’d like you to meet Wendy.” Samantha presented the much
talked about new prospect. Wendy obligingly allowed Hannah to assume the
more feminine wrist posture as they held hands briefly by way of greeting.
There was no shaking from either side.
Wendy was hoping that her inclusion into the group could be finalised.
Samantha had done well in finding another like-minded soul from amongst
the slurry that was the Midlothian and Strathclyde transvestite community.
Some of the worst nights The Girls had ever endured were the larger,
community organised social functions. These were designed for the tranny
who felt uncomfortable in any public setting, merely having dressed in the
living room with the curtains firmly drawn. Only a sense of community
obligation had compelled Hannah to attend them, as there was never a
stronger sense of being in a room full of men than when one was situated in
a ball room full of these so-called ladies flaying their limbs to Shania Twain’s
‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman’. If a song existed called ‘Dude, where’s my
penis?’, then they would probably play that one too. They were fake, every
action an arbitrary one, dispassionate, nothing like the real thing. Nothing like
The Girls.
But through Darwinian forces, there was always a Wendy waiting to be
found and nurtured into the woman she wanted to be, the woman she never
thought she could be. Wendy had been found by Samantha dancing on her
own in the primordial ooze, who was found similarly by Hannah, who was
plucked out of the crowd by Rebecca. As each carried out their role in the
pyramid scheme, the job of panning for gold in the mud was delegated to the
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junior. And that was the hierarchy of the group. If Wendy was to be
confirmed, then the job would fall to her to sift through the genetic mishaps
while Samantha could breathe easily.
Wendy certainly looked the part. Her outfit suggested time spent in the
company of younger women; a half-length pink leather jacket over a T shirt
seen mainly on micro sized Japanese girls, a pale blue and worn denim skirt
and the shiniest black leather boots Hannah had ever seen. Their zips cut
across the surface like a drunk surgeon’s stitches and the chains smiled their
way around the folded tops.
With no physical selling point to work with, Wendy was a keen learner, as
they had all needed to be in their own early days, when they thought they
were the only ones in the world who thought the way they did.
“In case you are wondering ...” Hannah began. “I received
correspondence from Rebecca just this afternoon and I was left in no doubt
that she had more pressing matters to attend.” Hannah was referring to
Rebecca’s recently updated Facebook status.
Rebecca Nightingale: Stuck in the real world ... hope to escape soon.
“Rebecca not up for a night out, not like her is it?” Samantha asked
rhetorically. “She didn’t say why.” Samantha gave a look towards Hannah,
“Did she?”
“No she did not.” Hannah stated succinctly. As second in charge of the
group after Rebecca, Hannah’s word could be taken as the last word on most
issues. In fact, Hannah insisted that it should. A private Facebook message
sent to her by Rebecca simply read: “Career.”
The Girls each took the time and effort to buy their own drinks from
their trusty barman. Taking turns to buy rounds would have been more
practical, but being practical was not what brought them out tonight. Ladies
simply do not buy rounds, and a lady is never obliged to think practically.
“I think I just saw Michelle.” Wendy said as she looked over the fondling
masses of Loops.
“THE Michelle?” Hannah asked.
“I’m not sure. But that’s certainly one of the Michelles.” Wendy replied.
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Samantha felt she had to clarify matters. “Yes that’s one of the Michelle’s
at the bar now, but the real Michelle is the one coming out of the men’s
toilets right now.”
“Good lord. It’s Michelle and her apprentice, Michelle two point zero.”
Hannah said rolling her eyes. “Let’s try to keep a respectful distance. Do I
need to ask what they’re drinking this time?”
“Pints. Through straws.” Wendy skilfully mimicked Hannah’s drinking
method. With an upright posture, she held the vessel and a finger length of
available straw skilfully in the same hand and kept it nicely within sipping
range. Holding a bottle of pre-made alcoholic beverage too far to one side of
the face was also to be avoided, otherwise, one might look too much like the
Penguin from Batman or an Arabian man sucking on a hookah in a Turkish
bazaar.
“Oh God, get ready.” Hannah warned the group as the Michelles
approached. The official collective term for two or more Michelles has yet to
be finalised, but a ‘Style crime’ or ‘Train wreck’ would work perfectly. The
Girls gave a set of forced, but relatively polite smiles as the Michelles clunked
their way towards them.
As they greeted each other, they shook hands. The Girls lightly placing
their hands on a Michelle hand with a light bending of the wrist. Each
Michelle had stick-on plastic nails that weren’t even the right size for their
fingers; daylight was clearly visible on either side, as was a small amount of
glue and a large amount of male finger nail. The Girls avoided such
pretentious touches that did nothing but make it impossible to pick anything
up.
One of the Michelles’ nails had a strand of wig hair trapped in it, having
been plucked out during the preening process. Whether the wig had come off
as a result and was quickly slapped back on was not obvious. Either way, it
always looked like a Michelle wig had been lowered on by military helicopter.
Even in the false light of Loops, the Michelle skin foundation could be
seen to be poorly matched to the underlying skin tone. One could see where
they had stopped applying their foundation just by looking at their double
chins. Their eyeliner was a joke, that joke a child plays on an uncle by
smearing ink on the eye piece of a telescope. Their blusher belonged on a
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carnival doll people paid money to throw objects at. If such a sideshow
attraction existed, the queue would have formed behind Hannah.
None of The Girls gave more than a painful courtesy smile as the
Michelles clunked their way back to their spot at the bar. Only in the strictest
of social categorisations were they of the same ilk. The Michelles were
genetic mutations which evolution could find no fitting swamp for them to
thrive in, nor a forest for them to whither in. They were a dynamic
equilibrium, with the half-lives of Uranium. Numerous Michelles would land
on the transvestite community only for them to lose patience for the idea of
learning a craft and developing a persona. They were the talent show throwbacks that the audience outwardly laughed at while they stood before the
panel of experts, an open insult to the very thing they felt they were part of.
An infant Michelle will land on the scene as a spent veteran wanders back to
his broadband, the novelty having peeled off. Back to the internet for them,
where numerous outlets exist for them to play out as unconvincing 18 year
old girls. Anywhere, just so long as they leave in peace those that had heard
the voice speak to them personally.
Those like Hannah, Samantha, Wendy and Rebecca, could all recite their
emotional lineage and dust off a collection of adolescent artefacts all
pointing to a life as a proud member of a hidden minority. This was not just
an idea that hit them when they ran out of ways to fuel their solo sex lives.
This was the real thing.
“Why do they wear so much black?” Wendy asked, resetting the straps on
her shoulders. “Black might be a flattering colour but think about expressing
yourself. Did they just come from a funeral?”
“Probably the one held for good taste.” Hannah snapped, starting to feel
slightly violated by their very presence. As the Michelles stood at the bar they
were dead rock stars sniffing lines of cocaine as they hovered over their black
filled pint glasses with their contrasting citrus coloured straws. At times, their
wigs often stuck to the foam from their pints as they swung in like cinema
drapery. If The Girls drew their inspiration from Denise Richards, the
Michelles drew theirs from Keith.
“Don’t ask the barman for crisps.” Samantha pleaded out of earshot to
the Michelle tribal leader. “Crumbs get everywhere and you don’t just wipe
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your mouth - “
“-which ... she just did.” Wendy finished the sentence for her. “And with
her ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ inspired long gloves.” The Girls couldn’t bear to
look but neither could they manage to look away.
“Oh, is that why Ms. Hepburn wore them in the movie?” Hannah rolled
her eyes. “To wipe the salt and vinegar from her face before smearing her
upper lip with a fresh layer of Boddington’s Creamy Ale?”
“Apart from thinking it makes them look glamorous.” Samantha said in
dead pan voice. “They wear them whenever they make a hash of shaving
their arms.” One set of Michelle wrists was dotted with shaving cuts. Unless a
girl is extremely lazy, she only shaves her arms once before giving wax
another try. Hair only grows back faster under a Mach 3 razor and they were
designed to hug the soft contours of the face, not the unforgiving wrist
bones. “We’re in a night club, not a banquet hall. At least she won’t lick the
crumbs from the tips of her fingers.”
“Is the one that swallowed the plastic nail still in the scene?” Wendy asked
as she sipped from her alco-pop with a straight neck.
“She left immediately after that night.” Hannah replied “She couldn’t
handle the embarrassment. How she never felt that way sooner, I’ll never
know, but if one thing will bring it home, it’s having to put two fingers down
your throat to retrieve a poorly glued inch long piece of plastic from your
stomach.”
“Reality. It can be a hard pill to swallow indeed. Elbows dear.” Samantha
corrected Wendy, who took heed and lifted the offending arm from the table
and stretched her shoulders back in another act of physical conditioning.
Hannah and Samantha shared a brief smile.
“For me it’s not the gloves that look silly.” Wendy said, now looking at her
painstakingly hand crafted face in her compact mirror. “I just think that if
you’re going for the Audrey Hepburn look, you should first shave your
sideburns.”
The three of them laughed. However, neither of them lifted their
shoulders or pressed their chins down into their necks. Nor did they laugh
from the diaphragm. Actors say that if you can fake sincerity, then you can
fake anything. In their world of female mimicry, that principle applied most
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strongly to laughter. Laughter was unexpected and involuntary, so if they
could do so like a woman and make it seem like it was their natural inclination
to do so, then they would stay one step ahead of the rest.
The Girls were also advocates of a softer and lighter feminine speech that
similarly set them apart from the misguided slurry. Others either used their
day to day male voices; making a night out with them sound like a lock-in at
their local pub.
The Girls’ secret ingredient for an attainable feminine voice was
resonance, or rather the lack of. This was their thing, their secret weapon in
the transgender class war. To get this right was to lay a marker in the sand, a
declaration, a demonstration of a level of seriousness others were not willing
to match. Achieving a convincing female voice meant you did this for more
uplifting reasons than just the feel of the clothes or the shocked looks on
your audience’s faces.
Hannah Forsyth’s Crossdressing Bible
Chapter 3: Voice
1) Raise the pitch of your voice slightly.
Hum the first two notes to the main theme to Star Wars, making the starting note your
natural male pitch, the second note will be where your female pitch will sit. Avoid falsetto at
all costs.
2) Speak with subtle feminine inflection and character.
Men use rhythm and volume to emphasise important words in their sentences. Women use
pitch. Listen to your favourite actresses, newsreaders and female friends, and pay attention
to how they rise and fall when they want to mark a verbal climax.
3) Shut off your chest resonance.
Breathe out with your mouth open, but make sure the air actually flows out of your nose.
When talking with the air moving this way, male chest resonance is removed and the voice
is sustained by female head resonance. This explains how a woman with a low pitched voice
still sounds like a woman and when a woman has a cold she is totally inaudible. When
practising, pinch your nose. If you can speak freely, then you aren’t shutting off your male
chest resonance.
4) Practice.
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A lot. It might take 6 months, it might take two years. But the results are worth it.
Practice over the phone with meaningless queries to Indian call centres. They spend as much
time manipulating their own voices and accents to sound like something else anyway. Not
being Sir’d over the phone will also lift your confidence.
Despite the enthusiasm and sincerity that certain other aspiring ladies
possessed, The Girls found it sad that many could not, or chose not to
perform the very basics of feminisation. But in the community at large, there
was always a Wendy somewhere to be found, hoping for a better way, looking
for a mentor by whom she could be nurtured into the woman she wanted to
be.
After careful deliberation and extensive googling, the four of them had
decided to define themselves as ‘Gender Femalers’. A minority within a
minority. While flirtatious, they did not believe in being promiscuous and
neither the side they presented nor the side they concealed was to be
sexualised. While male company was easier to deal with on an intimate level,
it was not essential in order to feel satisfied. Anything that might look like
affection was done purely for the purposes of maintaining the role.
The stronger the connection to the role, the easier such affection was to
carry out. The more affection shown, the stronger the connection to the role.
And thus the cycle was created. But all ladies had their limits and they are
non-negotiable.
So went the theory.
“Fancier at 12 O’Clock” Samantha triggered the alarm.
“Oh great, here we go. Shields up girls.” Hannah gave the order.
Hannah Forsyth’s Crossdressing Bible
Chapter 8: The Fancier
Noun: fan-cee-er
1) A married or recently separated middle aged man of average appearance, moderate
income, liberal views and conservative dress sense, possessing a stronger than normal
attraction to men who dress as women; not self-classed as homosexual; easy to spot in gay
clubs due to them looking like annoyed husbands made to wait at the shopping mall
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escalators by their over bearing wives as they try not to look totally emasculated.
2) One half of the mutually cathartic system of sexual validation and gratification
between themselves and heterosexual male-to-female transvestites; an objective system of
measurement for any transvestite that wishes to gauge their level of convincibility through
sexual attraction.
Wendy calmly looked towards the bar and saw the fancier in question
without making direct eye contact. “He looks like ...”
“... a television motoring journalist.” Hannah finished Wendy’s sentence
for her. “Even his leather elbow patches have their own leather patches.”
... This should be fun. It’s your friend Simon. ...
“Just ignore them and they tend to go away.” Samantha said to Wendy as
if she had had to suffer through male attention in the past. “Look through
them. Not away from them. If you take too much effort in trying to look like
you haven’t seen them, then it just looks like you’re flirting with them.”
Wendy nodded. “I just wish they’d leave us alone … all we came for was a
night out. Not more of this nonsense.”
“You have to give them the feeling that as far as you’re concerned, they
aren’t even there.” Hannah added. “Don’t look away from them, that just
looks like you’re playing hard to get. Look just past them, through them. You
would rather look at the wall behind them than actually engage in eye contact.”
As Hannah issued her wisdom, she was looking directly at Simon, who smiled
again at the group as a whole, then calmly turned away.
“Well at least he has taste.” Samantha said, flicking at an ear ring stud with
her index finger. “He’s standing with his back to the Michelles.”
... I think he’s made up his mind. ...
“I think he got the idea.” Hannah said, trying to reassure the group. “And
the Michelles look like they’re leaving.”
... Are you going to keep looking at him like that? ...
“Yes, I thought I heard the lifeless clattering of plastic jewellery.” Wendy
added like a true prodigy.
“Dancing might be an option then, Hannah. What say you?” Samantha
waited for a reply. “Hannah?”
“Sorry what?” Hannah snapped her attention back to the table.
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“Wendy and I feel like a dance. What do you think?”
“Yes ... yes, of course.” Hannah replied, shuffling her way out of the
booth.
Gathering their handbags, mobile phones and fluorescent drinks, the band
of gypsies began the ten metre trek towards the dance floor. Hannah could
not see Simon but she felt he was looking at her from somewhere. To dance
for an audience other than oneself would be an experience to savour.
“Sammy?” Hannah called out to Samantha, letting Wendy walk on. “I like
her, she’s nice, she dresses well and her makeup is excellent. Did you help her
with that?”
“She listens too.”
“If only more would. And it looks like she dances like a human being.”
Wendy was dancing modestly and within her capabilities. When she turned
round, she saw Hannah and Samantha looking on approvingly, and positively
beamed back. Wendy was good looking enough so as not to embarrass her
friends, while not making those around her feel inferior. “Rebecca will like
her, I’m sure. Well done, Sammy. Your days of sifting through the rubble at
support groups have come to an end.” Hannah placed a comforting hand on
Samantha’s shoulder.
“And those God awful tea evenings!” Samantha tilted her head towards
Hannah and their rough downtown hands touched. “I’ll never have to look at
another crocheted tablecloth in my life.”
“It’s over. Now let’s boogie.”
The dance floor had enough space to move around but was still not so
sparsely populated that they would look like they were showing off. Harris
was doing that for them, as he hugged and kissed his way through Loops.
The familiar sound of soullessly spliced electronic music pounded its way
into the ears of all and sundry. A camp fire favourite from an eighties new
romantic band was given the full digital treatment; a ridiculously enforced
bass drum for those who couldn’t find the beat in any bar, coupled with a
stolen melody from a song by a similar band from the same period. This
process of creative theft and musical plagiarism is referred to by the accepted
term of ‘Sampling’.
“You’re right, Hannah. Music really does sound different in heels!” Wendy
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called out. Hannah was dancing casually on the spot, smiling in agreement.
Samantha and Hannah also preferred the calm and collected swaying of one’s
arms to the rampant full body exhibitionism. They always thought twice
about even the slightest non-essential body movements, to keep that sort of
thing up for an hour or so would have caused their foreheads to produce
enough sweat to wash their entire face off. Sweat can be dabbed off in front
of the mirrors in the ladies’, but if your face looks like an old candle at a new
age supply store, then you’ve been over doing it.
The girls were wobbling and swaying politely on their own as the dance
floor started to fill for the late night crush. More top ten pop jingles were
mixed into an easily digestible paste, luring every hedonist in the building to
writhe and twitch on the floor in loose unison. The girls tightened their
formation against the invading hordes, as what appeared to be another
fancier crept his way into Samantha and Wendy’s air space. People were
invading on all fronts.
“Oh I’m sorry,” came a voice in Hannah’s ear.
Hannah continued dancing, collisions were to be expected and besides,
most of Hannah’s outer shell was padding.
“I said, I’m sorry!” A different ear, but it was the same voice carrying the
same message. This time, Hannah looked and saw what she would have
categorised as a 40 year old lesbian divorcée. Her makeup technique was not
perfect, but it did not need to be when you were a real woman to begin with.
The hard part had already been done for her, decades of hormones inside a
tear drop shaped frame was all it took to beat Hannah’s 2 hour session of
alchemy with a mortar and pestle.
... Not sure how to play this one. ... Neither
“No that’s fine, no structural damage was sustained.” ... Where’d your voice
go? ...
Any pretence of maintaining a female voice around real women seemed
pointless. Astrid had never been treated to Hannah’s stage voice, the pretence
seemed somewhat pointless. In the company of a real woman, Cameron
often came through, wig and scalp cap in hand.
“I must say, you’re looking very lovely there, dear.” A compliment, but a
compliment from a real woman with no obvious reason to lie. Those meant
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more to Hannah than any incestuous praise from within her own circle.
When a chef compliments your home cooking, when a musician
compliments your karaoke singing or when a woman compliments your
amateur crossdressing, savour it. “I’m Gemma, by the way.”
They shook hands, Gemma’s hand declined into the feminine position,
palm down allowing her wrist to bend naturally. There was a pause while a
name was remembered. “Hannah. It’s Hannah. My name’s Hannah”, came
the reply, looking to see where Simon might be hiding. Samantha and Wendy
were pretending to fend off their own fancier du jour.
“Hannah you say?” Gemma smiled before spinning out of time to the
music.
The more Gemma moved the less Hannah picked her as a lesbian. Her
clothes and overall look were the product of years of trying to attract male
company or at least not being afraid to, but all the straight men in Loops were
dressed as women or were staring those men dressed as women. On closer
inspection, Gemma had to be straight.
The real lesbians on the other side of Loops must have picked her
immediately through some sort of sophisticated screening method, possibly
showcased on an episode of Ellen. Those in the corner were mostly wearing
flat shoes, straight pants, ethnic weave waist coats, stern frowns and haircuts
best suited to overpaid footballers.
“It’s a great place for a harmless night out, isn’t it?” Gemma shouted
through the noise. Her dancing style was a bit on the pole dancer side of
normal, another heterosexual indicator. Loops was situated in the Pink
Triangle of Edinburgh, but Gemma’s moves belonged firmly in the Pubic
Triangle on the other side of town. She danced like she was trying to attract
the attention of straight men,
Hannah danced like the girl she had seen in a music video a few weeks
ago. The way the girl had managed to move practically nothing while still
looking like she was contributing to the overall vibe was something Hannah
had taken a firm mental note of. “You won’t get a more different night out
than in here. It’s a bit of a zoo tonight though.” Hannah said looking down
on her, with shoulders gathering and chin lines forming. Even in heels,
Gemma stood at only 5 foot 6. In heels, Hannah measured an even 6 foot.
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“But those are your friends, no?” Gemma pointed to Wendy and
Samantha, who were aware of Gemma, but were trying not to show it.
Wendy had stopped preening her hair as she had been doing throughout the
night and instead let the wig sit where she had put it last. But Gemma’s
presence didn’t stop their fancier from dancing like a drunk uncle at a
wedding.
“Yes, well spotted.” Gemma’s ignorance would have been cute had
Hannah not been caught on the wrong end of it.
“I’d love to meet them. May I?”
“That might not be as simple as it sounds.” Gemma ignored Hannah’s
warning and pushed past.
There was a tangible uneasiness on the faces of the other two as they met
the real thing. This was not the time for The Girls to ask for makeup and
clothing tips, this was their time. If Kylie Minogue attended a weight
watchers meeting, few would ask for her autograph. Samantha and Wendy
had the shinier jewellery, the trendier tops, the sexier skirts, the more
expensive shoes and the nicer legs; but neither could compete. Gemma had
the priceless second X chromosome, and that was worth more than any outfit.
“That’s amazing! Is that your own hair?” Gemma asked Samantha
reaching out to study some of it.
“Is yours?” Samantha said becoming a cocksure transvestite. As was the
case with Hannah’s voice earlier, Samantha’s had become both male and
brash. The mechanic was coming through; experienced in the art of work
place banter she was ready to hold her ground.
Three previously confident chins sunk and their bullet proof glances lost
their resilience. Forgotten body parts were felt once more and scalps started
to itch.
“Wendy, we’re going.” Samantha stated. She gave a look to Hannah that
meant only one thing - ‘get rid of that’.
Samantha and Wendy remembered to pick up their hand bags before they
pushed past the dance floor extras.
“Nothing I’ve said was it? If I have, I’m sorry -” Gemma said to Hannah
as they watched Samantha and Wendy clip purposefully out of sight.
“No. It’s not your fault ...” Hannah reassured Gemma by not finishing her
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sentence with ‘that you’re a real woman’. “I think they’re off to sulk in a
corner somewhere.”
“How do I say sorry to them? Can I do that?”
“You know what Gemma? I think I’d better go for the evening too.”
“What about your friend?”
“Sorry?”
Gemma pointed to Simon, who had been dancing behind Hannah for the
past ten minutes. She then leaned in to give Hannah what she thought was
vital intelligence. “I think he quite likes you. He’s been there looking you up
and down, groping you here and there.”
“I never noticed. Most of my body is padding.”
“Will he be the lucky one this evening?”
... Say yes ... “I don’t know.”
“Shame.” Gemma offered a cheek kiss as she made to leave. “Bye bye,
Hannah.”
“Shame?” Cameron’s voice crashed down to earth from a great height.
“Shame what?” ... Forget her. Let’s focus on Simon ...
Cameron spun on his toes and was Hannah again. With a hair flourish,
she tilted her head upwards to look at Simon.
“No strawberries this time.”
“Have you been watching my drinks for me?”
“5 Breezers ... 2 orange, 2 pineapple and a lemon.” ... Looks like he’s been
doing more than just keeping an eye on you ...
“Well, things got a little disorganised tonight. I suppose I’m a little bit off
my game.”
“Aye, that’s a shame Hannah. I really hoped we could go ... you know ...
“ ... Direct, let’s give him credit for that ...
“I’m heading outside soon. OK?”
“Oh aye ... aye.”
Samantha and Wendy were not in the Ladies toilets when Hannah went in.
Instead she was greeted by more denim than in all the video to ‘Come on
Eileen’ by Dexy’s Midnight Runners. An uncomfortable glance was
exchanged with one of the lesbians who was adding some hair to her gel.
Hannah dropped the pre-tense of touching up her makeup and left,
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showing due respect to territory that was not her right to piss on. Just one
float ahead of the likes of Hannah on the pride parade, lesbians could be
quite the discriminating minority, expecting to have their pussy and eat it too.
Samantha and Wendy had apparently not sought refuge in the women’s
toilets and they were not stretching out over the dance floor crowd like the
Meer cats they sometimes resembled. Hannah couldn’t strand her two friends
in the club without saying farewell, as ranking officer she had responsibilities.
Etiquette demanded she follow the code of ‘no tranny left behind’. If they
hadn’t left, they could only have been in the men’s toilets.
It was worth a shot.
When Hannah peered inside, she saw two familiar sets of heels. One a set
of jelly heels and the other a pair of leather boots adorned with zips, chains
and buckles. They were both poking out from under the cubicle walls. Over
the top of the cubicle wall, a hairy set of fingers twitched as they held on for
dear life. Hannah made brief eye contact with one of the gay men that had
been studying himself in one of the mirrors, he grinned back saying nothing.
Mindful of not wanting to ruin anyone’s fun, Hannah also remained silent.
Calmly, without letting the sound of her own heels alert anyone to her
presence, she left.
As part of the sacred bond that existed between The Girls, tales of sexual
indiscretion were not to be repeated, revisited or bragged about. What
happens on the toilet floor, must stay on the toilet floor, to be washed away
at the end of the evening. Samantha and Wendy would swear secrecy to each
other while continuing to openly preach celibacy and from that point on, they
would share a common bond, protecting each other’s image, guarding their
own hypocrisy.
Every girl was both a teacher and a student, showing respect while at the
same time being afforded due deference. There would be a day when Wendy
would introduce a new girl to the group and the two of them would undergo
the same secretive induction process; in a sacred booth, in a holy building, at
some ungodly hour. Like a secret society, members only knew the actions of
those one degree above or below themselves. It was this very subterfuge that
kept The Girls together.
A year ago, Hannah had held Samantha’s hand as they knelt before the
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altar. A year before that, it was Hannah who had performed the rite, with
Rebecca proudly looking on. For all they knew, the celebrant could have been
the same fancier wearing the same tweed jacket on each occasion.
“Welcome aboard Wendy”. Hannah said to herself as she walked out of
Loops and waited for her own evening’s entertainment.
“Jane!” Thrust out of character, Cameron spun in the direction of the
voice he had just heard. There was apparently more than one Jane in the
world. A young native Scottish party goer, was now running to hug the voice
that had called to her.
“Not my Jane.” Cameron said with enough male roughness to sand off his
own foundation.
“Hannah!” Cameron momentarily couldn’t recognise his own pretend
name when he heard it. “Hannah ... This way!” A different voice yelled out
from the front of the queueing party goers waiting for taxis. ... someone’s calling
us, you fool ... . It was Gemma.
Like the Mother of the bride, helping her newly wed daughter into the
hired vintage car, she held Cameron by the hand and coaxed him in. Simon
would have to go home empty handed. ... Well that’s my night well and truly over
then, isn’t it? ...
Away from public scrutiny, Cameron slouched further and resumed conversation. “So you appear to have a thing for -”
“- Homosexual men. But this is the first time I’ve met ... one of your
kind.” Cameron resisted the urge to correct Gemma’s assumption of his
sexuality as well as her belittling inability to use a harmless term like ‘Tranny’.
Being liberal minded must have come late in life for her. The use of any
reclaimed and re-empowering diminutives was a habit she was yet to acquire.
“Are we going to ... you know?” Cameron asked.
“You mean have sex for most of the night at my place while occasionally
falling asleep? Absolutely.” Gemma replied without missing a beat. ... What
kind of a lady does she think she is? ...
“My place first.” Cameron said. “While it takes me two hours to get into
all this, I only need two minutes to get out.” Cameron talked while Gemma
felt every texture, like a blind woman studying her children. “All this has a
very short shelf life. It’s not that I’ll turn into a pumpkin, I already do look
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like that. But by tomorrow morning, I’ll look like the one left over from last
year’s Halloween” ... OK bye then ...
“They feel so real.” Gemma had a hand on one of Cameron’s silicon
breasts, but sadly he couldn’t feel a thing. It was point of view lesbian porn.
A straight man and a straight woman indulging in mutual fantasy. “Tell me
what parts of your body you can feel. Hannah.”
“Don’t worry, that detail will become perfectly clear. But this will only
work if you call me Cameron.”
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Chapter Eight:
Beware the Heathen
It was Sunday afternoon and Cameron found himself in one of the nicer
houses in one of the nicer streets in one of the nicer post codes of
Edinburgh. It was 2pm and he was lying in a pool of his own sweat,
exhausted.
He had heard the tales of ‘cougars’ and sexually rampant middle aged
women, but nothing could have prepared him for Gemma in heat. When on
top, he was forced to ride an exercise machine set to a difficulty level higher
than his own fitness could keep up with. When on his back, he was
mercilessly run over by a herd of wildebeest, all of whom were in their late
30s. For someone offering a harmless sympathy fuck, she took no prisoners.
With Cameron’s help, Gemma made the bed sound like a self-indulgent
drum solo at a pretentious international jazz festival. Both Gemma and the
bed were thoroughly worn-in instruments which had clearly played host to
numerous guest musicians in the past, mainly the likes of Cameron who had
enjoyed great success as a solo artist and was just grateful for the chance to
collaborate.
Cameron had shown himself to be some sort of man, a first in his life.
Granted, he was a transvestite on his day off with most of his body hair
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missing and whose sexual appeal centred around the assumption that he was
gay. But a sexual conquest was a sexual conquest and Cameron would make
the most of this new sensation. Hannah might have felt awkward in Gemma’s
company, but Cameron felt right at home.
It was after one more session of ‘Reverse Retrograde Inverse Parallel
Spanish Wheelbarrow’ that the two of them decided to shower, get fully
dressed and go out for their ceremonial one night stand sending off of a
coffee engagement. Cameron thought it was nice of Gemma not to have
kicked him down the street once her libido had cooled. Instead they would
visit a suburban Edinburgh café before she did eventually kick him on his
way down the street once her libido had cooled.
Cameron dressed himself from the contents of his overnight bag while
Gemma performed a beauty routine similar to the efficient German one
Astrid carried out every morning. Cameron and Gemma had become
weekend sex toys so quickly that he never had time to see any part of the
house, besides her bedroom. She could have had the corpse of some other
weekend conquest soaking in a cauldron of his own blood and Cameron
would have been totally oblivious. As he wandered, Cameron saw no signs of
bodies being soaked, distilled or pickled. But as he walked into her living
room, he felt he was in the proximity of a different kind of evil.
The reading material scattered about the living room was a more than
respectful assortment of political thinkers from past and present, with not a
magazine in sight. The room overflowed with the second hand and the wellthumbed new. She didn’t source her reading material from the local high
street pulp merchant, there were no token gestures and furniture fillers from
Dan Brown, Danielle Steele, Sophie Kinsella or Nora Roberts. The pupae
from Oprah’s book club had failed to hatch within the hardwood of
Gemma’s bookcases.
Gemma was clearly a smart woman with an intellect that liked the regular
exercise. But a short inspection of the other side of the room showed that
her musical taste left a lot to be desired.
A hell of a lot.
CD after CD of rancid insipid trash. Top 40 transient pop, coma inducing
easy listening, manufactured Pop Idol variants, and soap stars who thought
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they possessed talent. All of this was squeezed next to numerous bubblegum
orchestral soundtracks from disposable and equally forgettable Hollywood
movies. Gemma’s musical taste had been piped in directly from her local
supermarket, alongside the fresh bread, pancetta, baby tomatoes, ricotta
cheese, pesto and all that extra virgin olive oil.
“Shall we?” Unfazed by his inspection, Gemma gestured for Cameron to
lead the way out of the house. He felt no guilt for looking round, nor did she
feel embarrassed by what he had seen. If Cameron looked troubled and short
of breath, it was because he had allowed himself to stand within arm’s reach
of a Celine Dion CD. Far too close for any kind of comfort.
In keeping with British women of her age and sexual self-image, Gemma
dressed twenty years younger than she really was. Her libido exceeded that of
any women half her age and apparently granted her the right to dress like one.
“... Her cleavage is too weathered for that top ... her saddle bags don’t work with those
jeans ... you don’t wear a belt that tight around the waist if you have an arse that size ...
her high heels make her legs bend too much and she’s put her eye liner on too circular, it
makes her eyes look too narrowly spaced ...” Cameron nodded to himself, Hannah
did have a point as they walked through the idyllic streets of Edinburgh’s
higher tax brackets, keeping their hands to themselves.
While Chockolat was nicely decorated, its prices were what the middle
classes referred to as ‘reassuring’. Cameron preferred the term ‘extortionate’.
The revenue generated from the higher prices should someday go towards a
spell checker for the fashionably misspelt shop logo.
“Let me buy you a coffee.” Gemma stated.
“No ... Sorry, I mean no thanks.” Cameron held his palm up to Gemma
like a monk being offered a line of coke. “I don’t drink coffee in the UK.”
“Well, what do you people like to drink?”
“Well, normally we drink the menstrual blood of virgins while we
masturbate with a view of the local high school, but in the absence of that,
I’ll just have a generic lemonade.”
Gemma ordered for both of them while Cameron found a table. As he
did so, he looked over the surrounding stage props. Serving absolutely no
practical function, they were modern café must-haves; the steam wand, the
tamper, the basket, the espresso cup, and the retirement home enema nozzle
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that the end product must have flowed from.
The music played at Chockolat was as plastic as the iPod that piped it in.
It was like a sprinkler system in a greenhouse designed to cultivate and
nurture trays of boring middle class financial service sector professionals,
people that made no tangible contribution to society and if they had the
choice they would rather be doing something else with their lives anyway. The
only notes they knew were of the yellow and blue square variety that they
stuck to the monitors belonging to their equally boring mid-week family.
But unlike the rain of nature, this easy listening mist was dowsed from all
angles with no sense of direction or stereo perspective, just a 360 degree
mono experience. Chockolat, like Gemma and her fellow patrons, hoped to
appear cooler, more liberal and laid back than they really were.
As much as they would like to distance themselves from each other,
Globules and Chockolat were identical. Both peddled an image to its
customer base, which their followers obligingly swallowed whole. At least
Globules had decent coffee.
“Did you see the way that man just looked at you?” Gemma asked, as she
joined Cameron at the table.
“Like a human being?”
“Oh, you didn’t see it then. I think he gave you a bit of a sideways glance.”
Most of what Gemma saw, she was deciding to see. “Feel free to sit however
you want. They know me here. I’ll make sure no one gives you any grief.”
Gemma looked over her shoulder as she placed a hand on one of Cameron’s
plucked forearms. Unsure of the correct way to sit, he rested his elbows on
the table, lightly spaced his knees and hunched over his drink. Normally, in
other words.
“Oh, I wish they’d just leave people like you alone.” To Gemma’s credit,
she did at least spare Cameron the actual embarrassment of preening him in
public. “I’ll bet you he was a Christian.”
“Like I said, I didn’t see -”
“Who are people like that to tell others how to live? …” As Gemma
talked, her cheekbones rose and her lips tightened on a mouse-like face with
the eyes of a cat. Her wide grin was endearing and involuntary while also
looking alarmingly conceited. Her expressions were sudden and rapid, her
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wrinkles appeared as flashes of lightning, further punctuating her opinions.
“ … selling their followers a delusion and a pre-made lifestyle.”
“Coffee flavoured milkshakes and Celine Dion.”
“What?” Gemma asked swirling her mug in both hands, mixing in the
milk foam, cinnamon, melted marshmallows, chocolate shavings and the one
sugar she had added to it to help soften the bitterness of whatever trace
amount of coffee had been added to it.
“Nothing. Carry on.”
“Oh I mean it. What are people afraid of ? What do they have to fear from
people like you?” Gemma’s views were just a set of false positives formed
from a series of double negatives, just what was hated by those she liked to
hate back even harder. Cameron had to say something intellectual in return.
The only thing he really knew how to talk about was music. On any other
subject, he didn’t really know what he thought until he opened his mouth. On
this occasion, when he did open it, it summarised a 70s classic.
“It’s just like Scooby Doo then isn’t it?”
“The cartoon?” Gemma asked.
“Have you seen it?”
“I grew up with it.”
“Well then, you’ll know that every episode followed the same pattern.
Let’s see ... there was always an abandoned coal mine or a derelict fairground
that was, according to rumour, haunted. This caused the population of the
town to completely lose their collective shit until Daphne, Velma and that guy
with the yellow hanky round his neck -”
“Fred. That was the blonde guy’s name. Fred.”
“He doesn’t look like a Fred at all, does he?”
“You’re going somewhere with this?”
“How did every episode end?” Cameron pushed on. “There never were
any ghosts or boogie men after all. It was just the owner of the mansion or
the abandoned coal mine trying to scare the population into submission by
running around in a werewolf costume, or operating some papier mache
demons on a series of homemade pulleys. All he wanted to do was to spread
fear and manipulate the mood of the people for his own twisted ambitions.”
Gemma paused to think of a political quote. Political theories, plots and
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schemes seem far more credible when spoken by academics that chewed the
ends of their glasses, not by casual sexual acquaintances referencing vintage
cartoons, with eyebrows drawn on to their skin like the bow markings of
their forgotten manuscripts. “So, once you decide to stop believing in ghosts,
fairy tales and the myths told by those who would benefit from them being
believed, the truth becomes so much clearer?”
“Scooby Doo was the first atheist cartoon. They thought critically and
never leapt to judgement. Which one would you say you are?”
“Those people behind the scenes ...” Gemma ran with the metaphor. “...
pulling levers and working the pulleys, as you put it. They were spreading
their lies on TV recently.”
“Was that the night Poland beat Italy and that 12 year old girl won
‘Britain’s Got Talent’?”
“Yes! Did you see it?”
“No but I heard Franciszek Czerwinski’s last minute winner was nothing
short of miraculous and that -”
“Oh I didn’t see the football but I recorded the girl that played Highway
to Heaven -”
“- Stairway to Heaven.”
“Whatever, but -”
“Wait!” ... Fucking hell, calm down ... . Cameron slapped his hand on the
table harder than he had slapped Gemma’s size twelve, thirty eight year old
arse at thirty eight minutes past twelve the previous night. In similar response,
the whites of Gemma’s eyes broke through the heavy layering of mascara like
a corona. “No one ... ‘whatever’s ... the Stairway.”
“Anyway, I’m being serious -”
“- and I’m not? -”
“- Did you see that debate on the other channel? It was about gay rights in
the UK. I remember what one of the speakers said. ‘Homosexuality is, in my
opinion, morally indefensible. While the prevailing mood of the people
seems to be that it should be tolerated, as a Christian ...”
“... I don’t feel compelled to advance their cause by supporting any further
legislation in their favour’.” Cameron finished for her. “Now just take back
what you said about Stairway. Besides, you were probably thinking of
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Highway to Hell.”
“I thought they were the same song.”
“They are in the sense that one must never play either of them in a guitar
store when sampling the merchandise. Same goes for Smoke on the Water ...
Wish You Were Here ... and let me think ...”
Gemma drifted off as she calmed herself down from her hate spike
induced by someone she had never met. Cameron was happy just to recite
names of holy works from the cannon of modern western ethnic music. She
may have found it boring, but for Cameron, he was reading from the periodic
table of elements. These were the unshakable axioms of life on this planet.
They were the Standard Model, Newton’s laws and Einstein’s E=mc2. Even
if you found words like heat, gravity, energy and light boring to listen to, your
life would be rather different without them.
“... Under the Bridge ... Enter Sandman ... Hotel California ... Paranoid ...”
“Is that the one that tells you to kill yourself ?”
“No, that’s a common misheard lyric. It’s not ‘I tell you to end your life.’
It’s ‘I tell you to ENJOY life’. Ozzy Osbourne has been copping shit over
that for decades.”
“Wasn’t he a Satanist?”
“In the sixties, he was arrested for burglary. Apprehended at the scene, he
was wearing gloves. Fingerless gloves. Satan should fire his recruitment
agency if they keep sending him people like that.”
“So do people still listen to those bands from the 60s and 70s?”
“We’re still out there. My flatmate only listens to Black Sabbath, and all on
a vinyl record player.”
“A record player?”
“I know, she’s from the Bronze Age.”
“My mother used to play tunes on one of those things when I was little.”
“But you don’t listen to it yourself ?”
“No I’ve moved on. I have Celine now.”
“Maybe it is Celine that has you.”
“But just one band? How can someone do that?”
“She just does. It’s the music she’s into. She didn’t choose it, so much as it
was chosen for her. Given to her by her creator.”
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“Like a religion.”
“Like a virgin.”
“Is music that important to you?”
“It used to be everything. I even loved it, and I thought it loved me. But
then it died. Overall, the death itself was gradual, but I saw it all in the space
of one day. Music to me now is a dead relative I can reminisce about, great
songs are now just family stories, memories I can’t get out of my head.”
“But how does something like music die?”
“When people stop valuing it, when people disrespect it and when you’re
convinced the world can no longer feel it. When the best piece of music
could be so uncaringly crafted and totally overlooked, and when I can try to
write something with the intention of it being bad only for it to be
sycophantically praised by those who should know better ... that was when I
performed the last rites. That was the day ...”
“... that music died.”
“I don’t even listen to music out of my own volition. Dead though it may
be, some music lives in you, and after a while, you don’t even need to hear it
from an outside source if you still want to feel it. You can remember those
times when you listened to it while it was alive, and you can experience that
song just like you did that very first time. Like so many things, you can carry
it around in your head.” Cameron stared at Gemma but she had drifted off
again, unable to feel a thing. “You don’t discover music in the lecture theatre
any more than you unearth dinosaur skeletons in museums. But you can feel
it through a sound system that looks like your auntie’s pottery wheel.” …
forget it, she couldn’t care less … you’re just talking to yourself again.
Gemma reached out and held Cameron’s hands in hers. “Cheer up my gay
friend.” ... you haven’t told her you’re not gay, can’t wait to be there for that ... .
Gemma was noticeably lacking in shyness as she spoke, being liberal wasn’t
enough, she had to be seen and heard to be liberal. “Music is just music. It’s
not like it has life changing capabilities. Sorry to inform you, but come on, it
isn’t that important.”
“You’re the expert there.”
As much as Cameron felt that Gemma had personally laid Bob Dylan on
his back so she could take a gigantic dump on his chest, he was willing to
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forgive her for that last remark. As passionate as Gemma was for her own
field of interest, she was not wholly inconsiderate, she was just unaware that
music could be something more than living room wallpaper or café air
conditioning. It could instead be the soundtrack to a person’s life; a living,
breathing photo album and a collection of emotional bookmarks to your
autobiography.
Having traded off their ignorances and their passions to one another, the
conversation had to dock somewhere less cerebral, so it naturally entered the
surreal world that was male to female transvestism.
“Facebook, really?” Gemma asked.
“Oh yeah, half the trannies I know have Facebook accounts”. Cameron
grinned sheepishly. ... Must you call me a tranny? ... “It’s mostly a place to store
photos for friends to see. Nights out and all that. Some even have solo
photos for displaying to those we refer to as ‘admirers.’”
“Men who are sexually attracted to transvestites? Like that guy that had
his hands on you in Loops.”
“Who?” ... Who do you think? ...
“If I couldn’t feel his hands, or whatever it was he was rubbing up against
me, blame the padding. Very little of Hannah’s surface area is actually me. My
torso is virtually chainmail with all the silicon padding and corsetry employed.
Then there’s the boobs.” ... which are ten times better than hers, I’d like to add ...
“Chicken fillets?” Gemma asked.
“The finest free range.”
“So how many tranny friends do you have in Edinburgh?” ... Great, now
she’s even started using the word ...
“Well I know about twenty or so, but I would only say I’m friends with
about four.”
“Show me.” Gemma pulled a tablet from her bag and in seconds she had
it switched on and placed in front of Cameron. “Come on, show me.”
Hannah’s Facebook page had close to 300 friends. Female names
belonging to fellow transvestites or real women working in the friendly
industries of cosmetics and custom clothing. Male names conveniently did
not show their faces, suggesting they were alternative accounts like the make
believe girls they spent their Saturday nights chasing.
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“So many Michelles!”
Cameron laughed out loud, “Yes, it’s a popular name isn’t it? Then there
are those that give themselves names to help them attract men.”
“But that’s not your thing?”
“Not my thing at all.” ... Liar. Will this be where you recite the official propaganda
as to why you don’t seek the company of men when in female form? ... “You see ... I’m
not gay.”
“But you dress up as a woman.” Gemma pulled her denim jacket tighter
around her chest, looking posthumously violated.
“You seem disappointed.”
“So what are you then?” ... yeah, what are you? ...
“Well I used to be a musician, but it’s more complicated than that now -”
“Yeah, whatever. That’s not what I meant.”
“Maybe I don’t know.” ... trust me, you don’t ... “well I’m heterosexual. But
when I’m out dressed, I’m sexually neutral.” ... pffft, Samantha said that exact
thing the other night, these aren’t your words ... “Nothing really turns me on when
I’m out.” ... Sure whatever ... “It’s as if all those glands and hormones get put
away in a drawer and are waiting for you when you get back home.” ... Well at
least SHE’S falling for it …
“Is that you there?” Gemma interrupted to point to a group photo taken
from a night out 6 months earlier.
“Yes that’s me unfortunately.” ... Awful photo! ... “Girls post photos on
their pages only if they look good in them, not how well their friends look.
So that’s me on the left, then Wendy, Samantha, Michelle, another Michelle
and Rebecca ... who -”
“Looks amazing! My goodness.” ... For heaven’s sake! Another Rebecca
devotee! ... . Gemma zoomed in for a closer inspection. Cameron frowned on
Hannah’s behalf.
“Every time I see her out, she’s wearing something new and she always
looks great. Wait. Let me show you a photo of her actually looking bad.” ...
Yes please do ... . Cameron spun the tablet round to face him and attempted to
pinch and grab his way to a photo in Samantha’s gallery that showed Rebecca
looking relatively rough and ready. Eventually, he did find one. “There, she is
human after all.”
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“Gotcha.” Gemma took the tablet back and waved her fingers across it
like a conductor, a priest or anyone who just knew how to work the latest
piece of gadgetry. “This is fascinating. So many of you look unconvincing,
but at least you have something to work with.” ... Was she complimenting me? ...
“Sorry, but Rebecca looks stunning.” ... How many more times do we need to
hear it? ...
“Small favour? Please don’t keep reminding me.” ... Yes, thank you. Albeit
late ...
“Gotcha.” Gemma said grinning as she sat back in her chair still looking
over the photo one last time.
“We’re finished here, right?” Cameron asked on behalf of his bruised
alter ego.
“Yes ... I suppose we should go. Not gay, you say.” Gemma sounded
equally deflated.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m nothing special. I put my fishnets on,
one leg at a time, like every other man.”
Out on the street, Cameron and Gemma stood at the bus stop as the light
faded further and the cooler evening air brushed past. The two of them
would need to separate themselves after such a fun filled day of primal sex,
second hand philosophy, disagreeing on music and the dissecting of the male
transvestite psyche. They still had nothing fundamentally in common and still
lacked any shared experience.
“So ... “ Cameron began. “... are we supposed to hug or something?”
“Too many tongues would waggle, dear.”
“So to speak.” ... You know Simon and I managed it ...
“Are you OK getting a bus back?”
“Yeah, no problem, there’ll be one by in a minute or two I guess.”
Gemma started bouncing on the balls of her feet, the next bus couldn’t
arrive soon enough. She would politely see Cameron on his way and then
struggle to remember his name by the same time the following week.
“Early start for you tomorrow?” Gemma said more formally.
“No. As they say, I’m an office temp that is currently between stations
right now.”
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“Sounds riveting.”
“And you? Early night? Beauty sleep?” Depending on the ego of the
woman hearing a line like that, it can mean either: ‘You are beautiful and need
to preserve it’, or ‘You’re ugly and I’m making fun of it in front of you’.
“That’s nice of you.” ... Oh surprise surprise she gave herself the benefit of the
doubt ... “No, I have a night of important TV planned.”
“The words ‘important’ and ‘TV’ don’t normally go together. What’s on
TV on a Sunday night?”
“Right wing American cable news. ‘Bulletin’, ‘Fulcrum Point’ and
‘Carmichael @ Nine’.” Gemma tried to grow another foot to see further
down the street for that fucking bus.
“I haven’t seen any of them. “ Cameron offered. “But I know about
Carmichael though.”
“Carmichael is -”
“-a bullshit artist. I know. Good old Josh, he’s back in his element.
Number 31 bus! This is me, Gemma. Hey it was great -”
“Wait! ... You know Joshua Carmichael?”.
“Old friends from back in the day. Why?”
Finally Gemma was speechless, but she grabbed Cameron from behind
his ears and kissed him fully and in full view of all those on the bus he was
now half hanging out of. Those inside could have been forgiven for thinking
he was boarding a steam train bound for the battle of the Somme.
“Gotta go. Thanks for the shore leave!”
“Gotcha.” Gemma said, as Cameron climbed on board.
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Chapter Nine:
Unchartered Territory
Monday morning came and Cameron had a job: the job of finding a job.
He would be faking it over the phone with the inhuman liars and
manipulators that the rest of the world referred to as ‘Recruitment
Consultants’.
His wallet contained more cards belonging to such ‘Re-Cons’ than it did
from any other form of life. Endless names he couldn’t put faces to, agencies
he couldn’t distinguish from one another and interviews that were memorable
only for the fact that they were easily forgettable.
Tests, tests and still more tests. Perceived strengths, confessed
weaknesses, aptitude, spelling, grammar, data entry speed, alpha numeric
entry speed, interview technique, educational history, fax and phone
references from the last 5 years of employment, excuses and explanations for
the last 5 years of unemployment, criminal background checks and finally, of
course, the obligatory Myers-Briggs personality assessment.
Even though Astrid and Cameron shared the bond of having to go
through that same dehumanising process of ‘touching base’ on her way to
finding her own menial jobs, Cameron couldn’t do it with her in the flat.
Pretending to look busy, he sat in the kitchen and observed Astrid going
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through her morning routine. Her minimal but immaculate visual
presentation, the solemn consumption of cereal, all to the snap crackle and
pop of a morning pep talk from her faithful record player.
The slight but broad shoulders, the high cheek bones, the straight elbow
length hair, the hour glass form, the longer than agreeably normal legs and
the forehead made from the finest porcelain; it all floated on a cloud of
effortless female posture.
Astrid was off the market as far as Cameron was concerned. She was the
type of woman he wished he could be rather than have. She was also
deliriously in love; unconditionally, continually and perpetually, in love with a
man whose existence was unprovable but a man whom she firmly believed
loved her back just the same.
She would leave in the morning in high spirits and return in the evening,
calm and collected. Such a trait wasn’t genetic, it was a sense of well-being
generated from the medallion she wore. It was her force field to protect her
from arseholes, hypocrites and alpha males.
She clutched and cradled that small piece of metal every time she left for
work and no meal could start without an acknowledgement of it. If she ever
removed it, she might just disappear into the ether.
“I’d better shower first.” Cameron said by way of further procrastination.
It wouldn’t make any difference what state of cleanliness Cameron was in. It
might be next to godliness, but it isn’t something that naturally passes down
cellular networks.
“I can’t do this without having something to eat.” Astrid had now been
gone for an hour, but if Cameron kept this up, she would glide through the
door having done more with her day than sell herself a set of readymade
excuses. Cameron just didn’t want to go through with it, not because of the
actual task involved, but because he knew that once he had finished, he would
be left with nothing to do but be unemployed until further notice.
Business cards were finally laid out perfectly on the table equidistantly,
with no corners touching and in landscape view, in a manner befitting
someone who thought he had OCD but didn’t really. He was ready to play cat
and mouse with a pack of rats, all of which would pretend to be deliriously
happy to hear from him while expressing a mandatory level of sympathy that
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things were still a little slow and unsettled in the job market. Not once had
Cameron called a Re-Con to be told that the economy was booming, soaring,
growing or going through any form of stability.
But maybe the perfect job was right round the corner for that aspiring
musician who just needed to pay his bills so he could get his ambitious ball
rolling. Yes, maybe Cameron would make something of himself and his
education; an education force fed to him until all he could produce was
academic fois gras; an acquired taste, overpriced and utterly irrelevant to the
needs of the masses. And yes, while we’re at it, maybe music would
miraculously spring back to life in front of his disbelieving eyes.
But whether it was Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha or even Ozzy Osbourne
himself that was at work, something would happen.
A miracle.
Cameron’s phone seldom rang, but there it was, possessed, twitching, fully
charged and screaming wildly at him. A collapsed rock star, out of his mind
on fame, writhing on the filthy kitchen cloth. Cameron didn’t buy a trendy
ring tone or a pretentious rendition of some top 40 piece of musical chewing
gum. When Cameron’s phone rang, it never said ‘I’m cool and trendy and I
can afford to buy a new jingle every week’, it was 1970s Black Sabbath telling
him ‘Hey man, your phone is ringing, now answer it, and be grateful you
aren’t the one paying for the call’.
<Unknown number>
“Yes?”
“This is Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid RD-398 calling from Segue
Recruitment.”
On a literal level, Segue meant the smooth transition from one state to
another. On a corporate branding level, it meant that with this company’s
help, your career is set for a constant series of leaps and bounds. But from
Cameron’s point of view, it represented the continuum between employment
and poverty.
“Are you working at the moment.”
“Well, as luck would have it, I’m a free agent.” Cameron replied positively.
“Great, because a client of ours has a position available.”
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“Cool. Let’s hear it.” It was time to see what Nameless Re-Con Protocol
Droid RD-398 was made of.
Like a courtroom clerk, Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid RD-398
proceeded to read off a series of charges to the defendant before he would
be given the chance to enter his plea. The sentence sounded boringly straight
forward; ‘office clerical’, £8 an hour, ongoing and on one day’s notice.’ Hardly
transportation to the colonies, and not exactly hard labour either. In fact it
sounded ideal. Something wasn’t right.
“Well normally we would float this one round some of our other
applicants, but in this case the client has asked for you specifically.”
“What? ... I mean, great.”
Cameron, head hunted? Since when did a company ever look at his paper
stacking, envelope licking, toner inhaling, mail sorting, box assembling and
general crap taking credentials and declare: ‘That’s our man, get him and I
don’t care if you have to break the bank to do it!’?
“What’s the company name? You didn’t tell me.” Cameron was just trying
to sound professional. The actual company was irrelevant. At the office level,
all companies are the same. Their PCs are all as slow as each other, their postit notes are the same shape and come in the same two colours and their pens
all write from the sharp end.
“Oh yes, it’s an accountancy firm in the city centre, Pearce & Loe.”
Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid RD-398 replied. “Your contact there is Ms.
Hutchins. Gemma Hutchins.”
<Call Ended>
“I love the smell of facepalm in the morning.”
Was there anywhere Cameron could go without living in deference to an
overpowering ego? If Josh could have seen this, he would have laughed the
laugh that the staff and regulars of Globules must still have etched in their
memories. Even after five years and without Josh needing to be in the same
time zone, Cameron’s life was taking turns thanks to the overbearing
influence of other people.
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Cameron’s morning routine was ruthlessly male in its minimalism and
allowed him to respond swiftly to any office temp staffing crisis. On went his
suit; pants, shoes, shirt, tie and jacket of charcoal, pewter, ash and obsidian.
But for his iridescent blue eyes and the last remaining pixels of colour in his
cheeks that the Scottish weather had yet to bled from him, he was a grey scale
image of the real thing.
On arrival, Cameron was immediately placed at an abandoned cubicle
with a PC that wasn’t even plugged in. There were no obvious signs of office
backlog, or that the company was in any way overworked The phones hardly
rang and not a word could be heard anywhere. If a trio of Trappist monks
had walked past with their heads bowed in reverence to the office carpet, they
would have been given an official warning for creating an unnecessary office
disturbance.
His desk had the usual list of phone numbers he would never need, a flow
chart relating to a work process he would never be involved in and some
cheaply printed photos of children that as far as he knew, were not his. But
from his cell, Cameron did have a perfectly clear view of the water ... cooler.
At 11am sharp, morning tea arrived, finally a break. With still no sign of
Gemma, he was invited by the receptionist to meet the assistant receptionist,
a mail room clerk, an accountant and some other species of accountant.
Cameron should have known not to have attempted humour in an
accountancy firm, the nature of the work demanded that one’s sense of
humour glands be removed at the point of industry accreditation, but
foolishly he tried.
“So Adam, you’re a chartered accountant. But Alex, you’re not?” He asked
rhetorically.
“That’s correct.”
“That’s correct.”
“Unchartered? So does that mean you don’t show up on any kind of GPS
navigation system?” Cameron’s joke had been greeted as blankly as a third
quarter travel expense report incorrectly filed in the proceeding year’s capital
130
outlay account for a parent subsidiary company that had been carrying an
operating derivative budget greater than its projected net worth, adjusted for
inflation and the fluctuation of space time according to Einstein’s theory of
spacial relativity. “Uncharted ... you know?”
11:15am and it was back to the grindstone. Back at his desk, two paper
clips had linked through no force other than their own will, giving Cameron
at least thing he could get on with.
Sometime between the two seconds it took to separate the two paper clips
and the next two hours of total silence, the printer next to Cameron snapped
into action. He didn’t remember having fallen asleep, but it woke him up. It
did however serve as a convenient warning that someone who actually did
have something to do at the firm was about to intrude on Cameron’s personal
office space. Without a moment’s hesitation and as if he was an observer of
his own unconscious actions, he quickly took the printed page from the out
tray and placed it back into the feeder, face down.
“What the?” asked the uncharted accountant. “Did you see anything print
from here?”
Cameron made arbitrary typing motions while trying to appear focused
on his blank screen.
“Sorry?” Cameron pretended to have been snapped from far more
engaging tasks. “Nothing came out that I saw. Try it again I suppose.”
Alex did so and returned optimistically.
“What the?” Alex raised his Breshnev eyebrows. “Now it’s printed itself
on both sides! Well well, they’ll laugh when I show them this.”
As entertaining as it was to tease someone on four times the wages but
one tenth the social skills, Cameron would not be able to sustain this for too
much longer. It served only to remind Cameron what a poisoned chalice
talent really was.
His talent had once warranted ambition, which meant succumbing to
belief and its sibling, faith. For Cameron to have faith would be to live under
a false reality; believing that the world might come right and that his time
would come, in that long wished for moment of synchronicity. But he had
been taught that for every success story, there are thousands fighting for that
same spot, all believing in their birth right to succeed in an industry where
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failure filled its foundations.
Suddenly the phone next to Cameron pierced the silence, it was the B flat
below middle C, Chopin’s best known Scherzo starts there, as does
Tchaikovsky’s greatest Piano Concerto. To the rest of the office, such details
were only as interesting as anything else printed on just one side of the page.
The phone might have been on his desk, but was it on his job description?
Letting it ring itself to death it would have looked slightly worse than if he
had answered it without having anything to the say, so answer it he had to.
“Hello, Cameron speaking.” Deadpan monotone and void of any
unnecessary expressions of personality. This was an office after all.
“Gemma here. Can you come over to my office?”
“If I knew where it was.” Gemma’s directions included prominent office
landmarks: The white board with acronyms no one knew the words to and
flow charts resembling crop circles which no one understood or had the
courage to wipe clean; the yellow vest and red plastic hard hat that was
supposed to be worn only during fire drills, but got more use as part of
someone’s impromptu Village People impersonation; and the office pillar that
hosted a photo mosaic of staff, past and present, all caught wearing the
yellow vest and red plastic hard hat that had formed part of their own
attempt at an impromptu Village People impersonation.
She needn’t have bothered, he was guided also by the spacious, monastic
and digitised chanting that floated out from Gemma’s office. Reverberant and
lush, seducing the minds of its subjects and flattering the world’s lowest layer
of cultural existence into the belief that they might have taste, just because
they had a bit of money in their pockets. There was nothing remotely easy
about listening to ‘Easy Listening’ music, but somehow Gemma managed it.
As he strolled, he saw that a crowd had formed next to the cluster of
workstations used by his new found friends, the chartered and the uncharted.
“You’re joking! On both sides? Let me have a look.”
“See? Both sides.”
“Now I really have seen everything! I’m pinning that to the pillar. Shane,
come back, you have to see this!”
Gemma’s floor to ceiling fish tank of an office suggested authority and
standing in the company, but glass walls and office partitions can vanish
132
overnight, and with it the job that was associated to it. He sat down in the
seat in front of her desk while she tried to wrap up a phone call. Her desk
looked like it was made from solid wood rather than the laminated particle
board that her underlings worked on. Her stationary looked native to her
office and of a species protected from intra-office poaching. The stapler and
the hole punch looked like it could actually staple and punch holes. Smiling,
she gave Cameron the international gesture for ‘I’ll be with you just as soon
as I get rid of this moron on the other end of this line.’
“OK ... lovely ... aye ... aye ... very true.” Her look of exasperation grew as
she smiled at Cameron off stage. “Well that’s all I wanted to know, I’ll let you
go then. OK ... bye ... yes? ... really? ... on both sides you say? ... wow, I’ll have
to see that for myself won’t I?”
“Was that the chartered or the uncharted colleague?” Cameron asked as
Gemma hung up.
“Chartered. He’s the one with the personality.”
“A relative term no doubt.”
“Such boring people.” Gemma’s corporate body language relaxed slightly.
“So ...” Cameron said, hoping Gemma would be upfront about why he
had been hired out of nowhere to do precisely nothing.
“Yes. So ... let’s talk about Joshua Carmichael shall we?” And upfront she
was. “Exactly how well do you know him?”
“Hard to say. We used to be friends. But we’re old friends more than
actual friends now.”
“Yesterday you told me you were friends with him.” Gemma was
incredulous. Apart from the investment in Cameron financially, her hopes
had been raised and they were not to be dashed so easily. Gemma’s eyelids
creased and her lips pursed, a give-away to Cameron that she wasn’t just
chatting.
“I emailed him years ago when I first arrived in the UK but apart from
that, we’ve just been sitting on each other’s Facebook lists. I have 35 friends
on my list, whereas Josh has well over a thousand now. That hardly makes
you feel special when you get an online birthday message from someone who
automatically generates an average of three a day.”
“But you use Facebook all the time for Hannah’s life.”
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“True, but it’s just easier to do that as Hannah. I keep in closer touch with
Hannah’s friends than I do with my so-called real ones. I’m just not cool
enough for real life Facebook.”
Gemma’s metronome tapping of the table with her Parker pen rose in
tempo. “So, are you friends with him or not?” Gemma asked for what was
going to be the last time, one way or the other.
It was a question Cameron had never asked himself in the five years since
he left home. But now he genuinely didn’t know whether he was still even
remotely on Josh’s radar. Either way, he had to let Gemma know that they
were still friends. She had rescued him from financial uncertainty and he
could further turn her into quite the cash cow, if he could give her what she
wanted.
“Yeah, we’re friends.” If Cameron had said no, then that would have been
it. Half an hour after work he would have received a call from Nameless ReCon Protocol Droid RD-398 at Segue Recruitment politely informing him
that he would no longer be needed at Pearce & Loe Chartered Accountants.
He wasn’t lying, he just didn’t know the truth. In the absence of facts he
chose the path of bullshit. Josh would have at least approved of that.
“Good to have cleared that up.”
At least Cameron had a clearer idea of where he stood. He would have an
income for the next few weeks, and furthermore, he had a job to go with it to re-establish contact with Josh and mend the 5 year divide.
“So who’s paying for all this?” Cameron felt it was his turn to be the
interrogator.
Gemma grinned. “I’m an accountant-”
“- I noticed that -”
“- and I could have you listed as office supplies, share your cost around
the company and no one would question it. So, grab a stack of paper from
the floor over there and rearrange it into different shaped piles every day to
make yourself look busy, or if you’d prefer, you can move in with your new
found friends, Alex and Adam ...”
“Sweet Jesus.”
“… the two most boring people in the field of accountancy. And that’s in
a very talented field.”
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“You wouldn’t ... dare ... be so cruel. Would you?”
Gemma grinned a sneaky grin, reminiscent of the time they played a
medley of drum solos from Buddy Rich, Ginger Baker, John Bonham and
Neil Peart on her bed only days ago. It looked like she was enjoying this.
“Alex was telling me as you walked in that one of their team handed in his
notice, so there must be something I can get you working on for them. And
Shane was Australian, so you’ll fit right in.”
“I’m not an Aussie. I’m a Kiwi.”
“Be whatever you want, so long as you realise what great lifelong friends
you and Joshua Carmichael really are.”
“Then some recreational sex after work would be out of the question?”
“Right out of the question.”
“Fuck.” ... Tough luck on that one. I told you she was a nutcase ... “What about
holding the hand of a minority while he tries to buy women’s clothes?”
“Not for someone who wasn’t honest with me.”
“You never asked me if was anything. It’s not my fault your Gay-dar
couldn’t pick George Michael from George Foreman.”
As if consciously aware of his low threshold for pain, the interrogator
turned up her office sound system. Despite Cameron’s internal pleading to
every acknowledged Deity, God, Messiah, Prophet and Frontman, out came a
Celine Dion live album. Even a quick plea to Saint Matthew, the patron of
tax collectors, fell on deaf ears.
Hearing people actually cheer and sing along to something as evil as this
was pure mockery. A predominantly white middle class crowd was being
whipped into a hypnotic coma worthy of a mass prayer rally through
excessive reverb and overly indulgent orchestral sections for trivial ballads
with lyrics better suited to the greeting cards forgetful husbands buy from
petrol stations on the day of the anniversary.
Cameron’s non-existent arm hair stood to attention. Checking his bristled
wrist, he tapped his imaginary time piece. “Hey, well if you don’t need me
here …”
“No. Stay.” Saint Matthew, if this doesn’t fall within your jurisdiction, then
your job description has less on it than Cameron’s. Think about that when
you hand in your time sheet to God at the end of the week. “So what kind of
135
friendship is it?”
“Where to begin. Where to begin.”
“Wait! I love this bit.” Gemma bent her leather office chair back as far as
it would go. The crowd cheered as they partook in the music industry’s
equivalent of a book burning ceremony.
“He was there when music died. He helped me realise that there is no
truth in the world any more, that there is no objective value in the subjective
and that anyone can turn a lie into a fact if you dress it up enough.”
“At least you only do that in your leisure time.”
“Do what?”
“The dressing. Dressing something up to play make believe.”
“Well he was the one that encouraged me to go ahead and actually do it.
Hannah as a person was born the same day.”
“And a raving right winger approves of all that?”
“Josh isn’t right wing.” Cameron leaned back and put his hands behind his
head, confessing details about Josh as if it were his life he was laying out on
the table. “I don’t think he has any burning convictions at all. Just flags of
convenience.”
“Sounds like the sort of boy I could tear to pieces if I had the chance.
Once you start using logic on them, you’ve got them where you want them.
Their views either can’t be proven or they contradict each other.” Gemma’s
cards were now on the table, she wanted to take on the undisputed King of
Bullshit and all its city states and principalities.
“Well there’s your problem. He would just pound you into submission
with never ending rhetorical questions and changes of subject.” Gemma was
mouthing along further to the blend of acoustic brain death that was
polluting Cameron’s near field. “Let me say it another way ... you don’t
know ... the power ... of Bullshit.” Gemma didn’t seem frightened by the idea
of debating with someone like Josh on any issue. She had buried herself in
knowledge and ironed out her politics to the last possible decimal place.
The phone rang and Gemma answered it while looking at Cameron,
wondering why he was still even sitting there. “... aye ... aye ... three percent is
too high obviously. Check that with the same figure from the previous
quarter and split the difference.”
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Cameron needed to walk off his frustration and his Muzak induced
nausea. Fresh air would have been best, but the recycled air that smelt of
ventilation shafts and back-up power generators would have to suffice. No
one would suspect he was skiving off either since he had with him his secret
weapon, a piece of A4. No member of the indentured office labouring
classes ever questions the validity of the humble piece of paper. Just as you
could get backstage to any rock concert in the world with nothing more than
a guitar cable and a roll of duct tape, Cameron would always appear
professional while his aimless walking was accompanied by a piece of lightly
folded A4. Being only his first day at the Pierce & Loe gulag, Cameron chose
to go for extra credit and put a pen in his mouth.
On his way back to his wall, he stopped in the middle of the office floor.
It was the strangest thing for any onlooker to have seen in an office, someone
actually standing still. You either sat at your desk or you were on your way
towards one. There was no middle ground, no time to be still or to take stock.
But he turned around slowly and looked back into Gemma’s office.
Angsting over a phone call, surrounded by grey iron filing cabinets and
brown cardboard boxes, a wall of her own, the cougar was a caged lion. She
needed a way of escape. Her passions lay elsewhere and she had been
fortuitously gifted a ticket to a new life. Her political views were of secondary
importance. All she really wanted was to get out of there. To succeed,
sometimes all you need is a lucky break.
Now Cameron actually pitied what he saw. He had never known what it
was like to hold someone’s life in his hands, not even his own. His life and his
future were valuables that others had kept, for safe keeping, just in case he
needed it one day. He hadn’t thought for a moment that Gemma had it worse
than him, until now. Now he had to help her.
Thinking wishfully for Gemma’s benefit, Cameron remembered what a
good friend Josh was after all. He had been there when he left NZ, when he
had lost his friendship with Jane, at the death of music and at the birth of
Hannah. Josh had always been there.
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Chapter Ten:
Bless’d are the Penalty Takers
“Cam!”
“Can you hear me OK?”
“Loud and clear. How the hell have you been?”
With nothing but sound to go by, Josh’s American accent came across
even stronger. Cameron easily pictured the old Josh sitting across from him
in Globules. As pretentious a hole as it was, Cameron even wished he could
have been there; the smell of its superior coffee, the sound of its pinball
machines and the ongoing zoo that was its customer base. Even the headlines
on the newspapers seemed tamer in those days.
“Well, Hannah’s having a great time.”
“Nice. I knew you would enjoy the freedom once you found it. I told you.
I was right, wasn’t I?” Josh still asked his questions rhetorically.
“Partly. It took some effort from my side you know. There’s more work
that goes into it than you think.”
“Well, you can thank me properly some other time.”
“Fine. Then I have you to thank. We created someone and she’s living
happily here in Edinburgh.”
“Great. And how about the music? Any progress in that area?”
138
“Music?” ... Well, are you going to answer him? ... “Er ... yeah, let’s not get
into that shall we?” Musical interrogation would have to be side stepped with
Josh just as it would have been if anyone else from home had asked. “Hey,
one thing I was meaning to ask ...”
“Go.”
“This show of yours ...”
“Bullshit at Nine.” Cameron could hear someone laughing in Josh’s
background. “The time slot may change, but the content will always stay the
same. I told you it was the way forward.”
“But religion?”
“Of course. It’s where bullshit all started. You’re still struggling to grasp
this, aren’t you? You don’t need qualifications in this business. Fuck, you don’t
even need to believe in God, you just have to know your audience.”
Josh naturally fell back into story-time mode and cared nothing for the
fact that he could be heard by whoever those other American accents
belonged to. They were presumably in on the act, as Josh still was,
manipulating the ones who chose to believe just in case, and demonising
those that refused to believe a convenient myth, even if there was nothing to
be gained by following one’s powers of reasoning.
“So then ... Joshua Carmichael ...” Using Josh’s stage name felt odd to
Cameron, but looking across his room he saw the drawers that he kept his
own alter-ego packed inside of, stored away for future use. “... who chooses
the people you interview?”
“I do, of course. Why?”
“And can you debate with them on anything?”
“Anything you can turn into a religious debate. Where’s this heading?”
They had only been talking for five minutes after an absence of as many
years, but Cameron feared he had played his hand too fast and was now
staring at his own bottom line. When no one talks over the phone, time slips
by at a frightening rate, without body language or the breathing heard from
an old fashioned telephone the pause can last forever.
“Cam?”
“Still here, dude.”
“You were saying?”
139
“Nothing. Well ... not nothing as such.” Another silence. In a café
Cameron could have folded his arms, looked around the room or picked up a
newspaper and not have needed to be so direct. “I was just wondering how
people end up on your show.”
“Cam, have you phoned me up after 5 years just to get on my show?”
“No, not me. I mean that’s not the reason I phoned. I -”
“Shame then. I’m always looking out for people with differing opinions
to feed to my audience.”
“Well I do know one person who would love to be on your show. She’s
the woman I work for. Very political.”
“Great, so you work for a politician?”
“No, she’s my line manager at a firm of chartered accountants.” Cameron
slumped in front of the screen as soon as he heard his own words. There was
Josh, a presenter of a sensationalist television show in America who
interviews people who at least give themselves titles of substance, and there
was Cameron suggesting he waste an evening’s programming to debate with
someone whose official expertise is the science of re-distributing the losses
made by one wing of a company onto the gains made by another wing of the
same company in order to reduce its tax liabilities. “At least that’s what she is
for the time being ... and for the foreseeable future ... unless ...”
“Unless what?” Josh asked with all the innocence he could fake.
“Chartered accountancy ... not the best religious fodder I have to say, Cam.”
Josh was smiling, Cameron knew it. He could picture him sitting at right
angles to his screen as he dealt with some other matter of business. The
other voice in the background was saying something. Josh had always lived
off the deference shown to him by his entourage, so his time had not been
wasted if he knew he still held sway over Cameron’s life. But just to be sure,
Josh made it even more apparent.
“Hey, I nearly forgot.” Josh began. “Jane says Hi.”
“Oh?” Cameron tried to sound unenthusiastic, but his interest was
aroused. “What’s she doing these days?” Cameron’s tone became that of an
interrogator. Much like the Josh displayed on screen.
“She seems happy. Self-employed, in Wellington. Doing what she loves.”
“How do you know all this?”
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“Just what I heard. Jane is well known, in the biblical sense.”
“Self-employed? Jane naturally wanting to be a pie crust private cello
teacher to the local snot nosed population of suburban Wellington is as likely
as -”
“- You moving to the UK just so you can live part time as a woman? It’s
not that kind of self-employment my friend.” Josh preferred the possessive
tense when talking with Cameron, even if he did wrap it inside a less insulting
term - ‘genitive’. “She’s a working girl.”
A conversation had started in the background between two more overly
nasal East Coast accents, two oboes playing out of comfortable register and
in slight discord. You always know when an American has entered the room,
your ears begin to hurt.
“Not my Jane.”
“Well she’s just the Jane of many, it would seem. Or shall I say the
Typhanny of many.”
“She always was. But what kind of name is that?” ... it’s the name for a
whore … . And Cameron agreed. “Wow, what a loser.”
“Hey listen Cam, I can’t sit around all day -”
“But how is she really? ...” ... Forget it, he already hung up ... and forget about
contacting Jane ... you don’t need her ... and she sure as hell doesn’t need you ... she proved
that didn’t she?
One of the benefits of working behind a self-made wall of paper worthy
of any chart dominating double album is that no one can see your screen
when you use the internet privileges generously bestowed upon you.
Cameron had subscribed to Josh’s YouTube channel at Gemma’s bequest and
on arrival to work, there was a new clip waiting for him.
Carmichael @ Nine: Series 1, Episode 27:
The opening theme was an attempt at a serious sounding brass melody
over sporadic drums. Both were plastic and synthesised. The rhythmic
141
jabbing of wooden percussion hoped to mimic the typewriters at Lois and
Clark’s Daily Planet, creating a sense of newsroom urgency. If the theme
music was ever handed in by a student musician, it would have caused a
tsunami of cringe. Lecturers would have forced themselves to applaud while
making the necessary mental note to ask the maker of such dribble whether
they really thought music was what they should be doing in life’. But this was
TV, it was perfect. Any idiot could watch this show and conclude that only
the most pressing issues were being discussed. Sadly, too many idiots did. The
painfully long ending extracted a few more tension building thumps, with
clips of Josh engaged in studio discussions and outdoor ambush interviews
with heathens and sinners of every description.
With militarily short hair, his suit was contemporary rather than his older
Edwardian style, but his gaze was no less engaging. However, the one way
nature of television meant that Cameron could look Josh in the eye for a
change. How strange it was to see him so front on.
“Hello America. I’m Joshua Carmichael ... and these are your issues.” Josh
opened to camera one, took a breath and turned to camera two, beginning his
weekly diatribe. “Men. Men who dress as women ...”
Josh went on for half an hour mocking what he had helped Cameron
become. The ‘experts’ he had decided to pit against one another were invited
mostly for their entertainment value. A generic Bible-in-a-holster evangelical
sparred with an awfully dressed Michelle styled crossdresser, with Josh in the
middle being anything but neutral. One was made to look ridiculous even
though his words made perfect sense, talking of the rights of the individual.
The other was made to look credible as he spoke from the Old Testament
and selectively misquoted his own Messiah. Lifestyle decisions and victimless
crimes were demonised and rewritten as just further examples of the
downfall of western civilisation via the scourge of moral relativism.
How Josh sold to his right wing guests the idea that personal freedoms
were the enemy of freedom itself was nothing short of genius. Living
according to a constitutionally granted bill of rights and the Bible was some
balancing act. Personal freedoms and archaically worded attempts at moral
absolutes make for an awkward one night stand.
Cameron couldn’t finish watching it. He closed his browser window,
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grabbed a fresh piece of A4 and walked off his anger for ten minutes. When
he returned to his desk, all he could do was torture himself by scrolling
through the video clip’s comments section. It was the usual product of
internet anonymity, endless opinions without names to back them up,
devolving into outright hate speech. Not what the founding fathers would
have had in mind when they drew up the notion of free speech.
urth567: These people are why we are where we are.
Albox: BURN THE MOTHER FUCKERS
Ftfde: 129 people disliked this clip. 129 faggots watched this clip.
Cameron’s only alternative was to stare at a screen and arrange playing
cards into piles of descending numerical order and alternating colour. Red
king, black queen, red jack, black ten. The deck was full on this occasion so
all he was doing was making banality out of the random, rather than beauty
out of the chaos.
On Josh’s next instalment, it would be something and someone else, and
when everyone had had their turn being the enemy of all things ‘moral’, the
cycle would start anew. Josh would call up the abortion doctor, the gay rights
campaigner, the public healthcare analyst or even the peace activist and ask
them if they were willing to go another round of the same nonsense, trying
to justify their views and lifestyles to the hypothetical and non-existent third
party that Josh claimed to speak for. They always agreed to appear because
any publicity was better than no publicity, and for as long as the ensuing
melee could sell advertising space, the show would pay for itself.
Josh’s cynicism for humanity was now on another level to what Cameron
had seen from him in places like Globules. With no care for the alien concept
of ‘truth’, and caring less for those that might suffer from the proliferation
of religiously rationalised indifference, Josh was happy to feed the lions back
to the Christians and let them conclude that God allows them to hate,
because he loves only them.
Red six, black five, red four ... carry across to black seven ... no moves left.
“Fuck!”
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Astrid was sitting casually on the couch watching the World Cup when
Cameron entered wearing his trusty all-purpose corporate suit of armour. He
had a suit for every day of the week - that one - and it was as grey and as
bleak as any north facing side of Edinburgh. Perfect for any office.
Only the most incurably upbeat visitor would describe their lounge and
kitchen as being open plan. It should really have been called a ‘Litchen’ or a
‘Klounge’, since the one bedroom flat had been turned into a two bedroom
flat at the expense of the actual living room. If you like stairs, noisy
neighbours, and bizarre smells; hate having space, sunshine and warmth, then
there’s a place in central Edinburgh just for you.
There was enough room for a two seater couch and a table which they
kept their TV on. The fridge door could still open without one of them
having to leave the room, so it was perfect.
“So ... this new job of yours ...” Astrid waited for Cameron to begin,
knowing what he would have scanned the office for - signs of trouble that
might manifest once those polite smiles had died off.
“My boss hasn’t found me anything to do yet.” Cameron huffed and sat
down next to her. “So I’m building a wall around my desk.”
“Are they that disorganised?”
“No they’re the pinnacle of organisation. I’m just not supposed to be
there.” Astrid turned to look at Cameron and she didn’t let go, she clearly
knew that he was holding something back. It took him less than ten seconds
to crack under her gaze. “Ah fuck it! I met my boss the weekend before I
started, she’s just using me.”
“What on earth could you be useful for?” Cameron knew that Astrid
wasn’t trying to be funny or offensive. Being German meant that she had no
sense of humour, no eye for a punch line, a play on words or a double
entendre. As good as her English was, her German bluntness often showed
through. It was something Cameron was long since used to. Astrid was a
Bullshit free zone.
Cameron took a moment to detach himself from some of his corporate
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uniform and hung his chainmail jacket over the nearby door handle. “Heard
of a guy called Joshua Carmichael?” He asked, turning the volume down on
the TV remote. “He’s an up and coming sensationalist religious TV show
host in America. You’d need something better than this piece of shit to pick
up the signal”. Cameron pointed to the plastic box that sometimes worked as
a TV and on other times didn’t work at all. It was so old, it came with a VHS
player built into it.
“I know exactly who and what he is. How much do you know about him?”
“More than you.”
“You seem confident.”
“He’s not there yet, still on some relatively obscure network and mostly
fuelled by the internet anonymity granted to his fanatical fan base.”
“One or two in my prayer group talk about him.” With sage like wisdom,
Astrid added: “Normal people behave normally. Abnormal people behave
abnormally. For normal people to behave abnormally you need the internet.”
“I thought it was ‘good people do good things, bad people to bad things,
for good people to do bad things you need religion.”
“No, the internet is worse. I don’t believe in Vorsprung durch Technik ...
Ha.”
“Not an Audi fan then?”
“It means advancement through technology. It is not bringing us together,
it is pushing us apart. Making us indifferent to each other. It might be
shrinking the world, but it is closing the mind.”
“You’ve given this some thought then I take it.” Cameron smiled.
“People used to be persecuted for their beliefs, then we learnt the value of
free speech and tolerance. But the responsibility was mutual. If you disagreed
with someone in authority, you could say so, but you had to put your name to
your words. People would know if you were being a hypocrite. The
evangelists of the early days put themselves out there even when there wasn’t
any protection granted to them. The so called Christians that ... Joshua
Carmichael ...” Astrid hesitated over his name. “... whips into a frenzy every
night would never have worn a crucifix in Rome during the days of Nero.”
Just as Cameron felt his own body rebel when he tried to speak of certain
artists in the easy litening adult contemporary genre, Astrid suffered from an
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acute breathing disorder when forced to mention Josh by his full name.
“Then you’ll hate to read some of the crap left behind once Josh has
emptied his ego onto the world.”
“Christianity now is an industry.” Astrid sighed. “A readymade excuse for
the justification of hate. That’s what you get when people like Joshua
Carmichael are out there working their magic. That man is pure evil.” Josh
was rubbing Astrid the wrong way and they weren’t even in the same room.
He really did have a way with people; hands on thighs that weren’t asked for,
a fleet of pretentious wankers that had sold their souls to popularity, and the
sending of friends off to the other side of the world. If Cameron cried over
the dead body of music, Astrid wept at the perversion of compassion and
understanding. Composing herself, she asked: “How does all this fit in with
this boss of yours?”
“Josh is an old mate of mine from University.”
“Yes.”
“When I told my boss I knew him, she practically threw herself at me.
That was a week ago, after a rather fun filled day of getting to know each
other, and today I’m being paid to be nothing more than be a potential spring
board to a new life.”
“Still. Not a bad temp job.”
“It would be if it didn’t come with all that Easy Listening Adult
Contemporary.”
“Like what? Will anything happen if you hum it?”
“I had hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this ... “
He jumped to his feet and snatched the remote control from Astrid.
Making a series of quick fire yodeling sounds, he reached out to an imaginary
star in the distance and held it to his chest. The clouds in the Edinburgh sky
seemed to loom even larger. Yodeling further into the remote, he extended
his hand in Astrid’s direction and gave her a heartfelt but slightly cross-eyed
stare.
“Make it stop!”
“I’m sorry, but I had to make you see.”
“I’ll have this room purified as soon as the game is over.” Astrid closed
her eyes and lowered her head in reverence with her index fingers pressed to
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her lips. “The song, from the album and by the band that share the same
name, let the most famous rain in all of rock cleanse this place hereafter.”
“A-fucking-Men. A few hail Ozzys and we’ll be fine. But every day she
traps me into that sound booth of an office, quizzing me on Josh.”
“So why is your boss such a big fan of him?”
“She isn’t, well not as such. She’s about as left wing as they get, but she
wants to get politically active. She’s a desperate single accountant, who
decided she wanted to be left wing, so she’s working backwards from that.
She’ll categorise people with alternative life styles as easily as she would label
those she blames for their problems. Christians, mainly.”
“I prefer to follow the words of Jesus. If that makes me a Christian, then
fine.”
“You have to admit, there is a certain logic to that.”
“But I never follow those that think they speak for him.”
Cameron had to bite his tongue at this point, as he did whenever Astrid
brought her faith into the room. To him, it was a grotesque family heirloom
that only she found beauty in. It would only hurt their friendship if he
reminded her that the same words attributed to Jesus were not written by him,
or even written when he was alive; but rather by people speaking for him and
with a vested interest in the power of those words, people like Josh.
Cameron had not grown up around religion, so living around someone
who referred to Jesus as if he not only did exist but still exists and who
claimed to feel his presence like he was in the next room was to humour a
twenty year old composition student as they talked of how good they had
been for Santa Claus that year. He was just humouring the undergraduate
Rachel as she applied for her honours year with nothing but a well-rehearsed
delusion wrapped inside the power of denial.
“Have you told other Christians that you’re a die-hard Sabbath fan?”
Cameron asked.
“Of course not.”
“Then how do you explain it to yourself ?”
The contradiction between Astrid’s musical tastes and her devoutly held
beliefs was unavoidable. “I know I like the music made by a band that has
such a bad reputation among Christians. But I wouldn’t enjoy it if God didn’t
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want me to.”
“I think the term you are looking for is ‘I was born this way’.”
“If it is the music of Satan -”
“- which it’s not -”
“-then I’m annoying him even more by listening to it while not shaking an
inch from my faith. I suppose you could say I am re-empowering it.”
“Or carrying out some Gandhi-like act of non-violent protest.”
“I can stand at the coal face and if Satan really is looking at me, then I can
stare him down. Being devout means that you can stand strong with your
faith, and not huddle in a corner. I don’t hide my faith behind a Twitter
account or a forum tag. Faith in God does not crumble just because some
band plays with distortion.”
“So it’s God that has the best tunes after all.”
“Good music is divine and the Devil hates that. So he blurs the lines
between what is good and what is bad. Ensuring that real music suffers from
-”
“- The power of Bullshit? But you only make a stand in one area. Only
embracing one apparent sin.”
Astrid spotted the insinuation. “Yes. I’m a virgin if that’s what you’re
getting at. Let’s not pursue this shall we? I don’t want to miss this next bit.”
She tried to return to the football.
Astrid gradually pumped the volume up on the TV, but Cameron hadn’t
finished. “Do you ... you know ... pray for me? When I’m geared up and
rubbing shoulders with all those heathens and sinners, what are you doing?”
“I don’t pray for you directly, if that’s what you mean. I pray for the world
as a whole.”
“Right. The broader the prayer, the harder it is to see if any of it actually
works.”
“No, it’s not as simple as that.” Astrid said, smiling the comforting smile
of the Christian who knew someone was refusing to see the point in its
entirety.
“No, you’re right. It must be a complicated science indeed.” Cameron
replied as smug as someone who knew that no such point existed.
“Prayer can’t be tested scientifically anyway.” Astrid added.
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“Yes it can, virtually everything can. All you need is a consistent
environment, a test sample and a control sample.”
“For Ozzy’s sake, Cameron! You still don’t get it.” Astrid tapped the TV
remote once more. If she was interested in sport, then this was news to
Cameron, but she was suddenly watching the football World Cup quarter
final with added interest. The lounge soon became a din of excited
commentators, foreign names, sporting terms, pouting rockstar sportsmen
and those bloody awful vuvuzelas that the South Africans had brought into
football. The game was looking like a foregone conclusion, Brazil happily
trampling over a group of less creative Poles.
“OK, let’s leave it there.” Cameron had the sense to say.
“Yes, let’s.” Gemma must have heard him through the noise.
“Josh hates Black Sabbath.”
“Cameron! Enough, please!”
There it was again, Astrid’s trademark pressing of the cross to her chest
while moving her lips. It was a gesture of devotion and loyalty that she
performed whenever she needed to log on to her own private energy source,
as if to say: “Sorry you had to hear all that, Mr Jesus”. Cameron and Astrid
were good friends, but he always felt that he was playing second fiddle to
western culture’s ongoing and most loved imaginary friend.
Cameron felt increasingly uneasy sitting next to Astrid’s medallion. In felt
morbid to him for someone to carry their moral reference point, nailed to
classical Roman equivalent of the electric chair. Mozart died in his 30s
through illness with no fanfare or cult following, only his music did the
talking from then on, but even the academics at the Music School, in their
sycophantic reverence to past masters stopped short of wielding bottles of
wine and a pair of exhausted kidneys. The historical Jesus was pinned to a
Bronze Age cork board with a note saying ‘Back Soon’. That was two
thousand years ago, he clearly doesn’t clear his voicemail.
“Hello, welcome to Heaven, you’re speaking with Peter. One moment, please I’ll just try her
line ... hello Mary, it’s Peter here ... Oh sorry I was trying to contact Mary ... is she? ... for
how long? ... that long? ... right, well I have a gentleman here who ... OK, I’ll tell him. ...
Hello caller? ... yes I’ve just tried Mary’s extension but she’s on extended assignment. I can
put you through to her voicemail if you would like to leave a message detailing your specific
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prayer ... Oh dear, urgent you say? Right. Well I can try someone else if you like. ... Let
me check for you.”
“Hello caller? ... Strange, none of the higher saints are answering and the same goes for the
lower and yet to be confirmed minor miracle workers ... are you sure it can’t wait? ... Well,
let me see if I can help. What’s the specific matter relating to? Right ... right ... I see ...
wow ... really? ... right ... so you’re at the quarter final stages of the FIFA World Cup
and the game has just gone to penalties and you feel you need spiritual help on the matter. ...
Well the thing that stands out about that is that you would have a hard time convincing
anyone that a football match should take priority over the kinds of things we normally deal
in. ... oh you know, normal things like trapped miners or children with cancer ... yes, that
sort of thing.”
“Well if I was going to pick a wild card for you I would be inclined to go for Pope John
Paul II. ... he did play football in his youth and what’s more, he even played as a goalkeeper.
He also died from a degenerative brain disorder - I know, not exactly Colosseum cat food
but that’s the best I can do for you. There really isn’t anyone around that died all that
horribly. But John Paul II might just be the one for you. Shall I try his line? ... OK, one
moment. ... Hello can I speak with John please? ... John Paul ... the second ... Karol Józef
Wojtyła ... the Pole ... yes THAT Karol Józef Wojtyła. ... Oh really? He’s out of the
office too? My goodness, wait a minute, what reason did he give? ... riiiiiiiight ... well I
won’t bother you any further then. Hello caller? ... it’s Peter here again. Can I ask you
something? ... what team are you playing for? ... Brazil, and the team you’re playing
against is? ... Poland, yes I thought so. I don’t think there’s much I can do for you on this
one. It looks like your tournament has come to an end, sorry to say.”
“Now, calm down, there’s no need for you to lose your temper over this. It’s quite simple,
that other chap is clearly just as devout as you, but he must have made preparations by
praying ahead of time. Normally, I would suggest trying Our Lady of Fatima, she was
the one that saved John Paul II when that man shot him so she would presumably outrank
him, but as I’m sure you are aware, Our Lady of Fatima and the Virgin Mary are the
same person and as I also told you, she or ‘they’, if you prefer, are all unavailable ... yes ...
yes ... that would include Our Lady of Guadalupe, Our Lady of Zeitoun, Our Lady of
Knock and Our Lady of Gerabandal ... Yes, they’re all the same person. No, you’re
absolutely right, we aren’t polytheists like those other weirdos. I hate to have to say it but I
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don’t think there’s anything we can do for you.”
“Tracey, it’s Peter here, can you cover for me on reception? I’m just on a break. I’ll be on
the phone in the smoko room if you need me. Where’s my lighter?”
“Hello ... Jesus? ... Oh, OK, do you know when he’ll be back in? ... Do you know where
he went? ... Well did he take his mobile with him? ... Good I’ll phone him on that. OK,
deep breath, Peter, you can do this. Stand strong. Stand tall.”
“Hello Jesus? ... it’s Peter here. I said it’s Peter! Wow, sounds like there’s a bit of noise in
the background. ... World Cup? Of course, I wondered why so many people weren’t
returning calls. Can you hear me OK? ... Cool ... Well as you know I’ve been here for a
while now, but just recently I’ve been finding my job here a little, how shall I say it?
Limited in scope. ... No, it’s not that, Jesus, it’s just that there’s only so much you can get
out of working at the reception desk in all that time. The more I think of it, the stranger
it seems that I would be given a book keeping job when I couldn’t actually read or write on
Earth. ... well, thank you for showing faith in me, Jesus. But even now that I can read, I’m
still wondering whether this is not the sort of job that other people could take turns doing ...
What’s Polish for sit the fuck down? Sweet Ozzy. H. Osbourne! I have no idea, Jesus. ...
Jesus, are you even paying attention to me?”
Cameron and Astrid had just witnessed one of the greatest turnarounds
in sporting history. Tournament favourites Brazil had been ahead 3 nil against
Poland with just 15 minutes of normal time remaining in their World Cup
quarter final. But Poland levelled the scores and after another gruelling half
an hour of extra time, Poland won the tie on penalties. The Polish goalkeeper
would later be heralded as a national hero and would make a televised visit to
the house in which Pope John Paul II was born. By contrast, the word
‘Brazilian’ would be synonymous with choking on a sports field, just as it is
with the no tolerance form of female pubic exfoliation. Photographs of their
goalkeeper would appear on the covers of Latin sports tabloids picturing him
tearing his crucifix from its chain, having lost his faith at that moment of
defeat. Apparently deserted by the one thing he thought would always be
there for him.
“Lucky little bastards.” Cameron muttered. “Mind you, if that Brazilian
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goalie had spent less time crossing himself and more time actually trying to
stop the ball, maybe they would have come out on top.”
“Maybe the Poles just had friends in high places.” Astrid smirked.
“But both sides prayed.”
“Yes, I can hear you much better now. Look, does this all go back to that time I pretended
not to know you? I thought we were over all that business. I can do so much more now and
I’m running out of ways to prove this to you ... what have I done for you? ... Jesus, the
Romans crucified me UPSIDE DOWN! ... do you have any idea how many crucifixes I
get to see every day? ... they all come up wearing those things, it’s very unsettling ...
meanwhile there’s Paul, he was a misogynist, and an anti-Semite that died in his old age a
successful author of horror fiction, but I’m the one working the switchboard, checking for
names and handling the problems of trapped coal miners, Brazilian goal keepers and
homophobes praying for their gay son ... no ... no ... you’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have
yelled at you like that, Jesus. ... Yes, I know I’ve been given an assistant, and Tracey is
lovely, but still it’s just the two of us down here and well ... oh never mind then. If it’s all
for the greater good and if it pleases God ... I mean if it pleases you ... wait, if it pleases
as many of you as there are, then that’s all that matters in the end right? ... No, I missed
the game. There’s not much down here beyond the gates and the book ... A TV screen? Oh
Jesus, that would be lovely of you! We could hook it up to some CCTV on the actual gates
too because, if you don’t mind my saying ... well, we’re getting more people coming up that
really don’t look like our kind of crew if you know what I mean ... well ... have you heard
of a guy called ... Joseph Smith? ... No I didn’t think you would have. Not only is his
name not mentioned, but I’m even getting calls for this guy. Oh, and Protestants I’m still
getting a lot people mentioning that ... and Evangelicals, who are these people? Hardly a
year goes past that I’m not hearing a new name for a new church springing up. And the
music they’re arriving with is getting worse and worse. ... Is anything being done about all
this?”
“Jesus! Peter here again. Sorry, one last thing before you go, Tracey keeps telling me she
needs a swipe card, a username, a password and some timesheets. She’s telling me she still
hasn’t been paid yet. There’s nothing wrong with cash flow is there?”
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Chapter Eleven:
Altar Ego
“Hello? ... Rebecca, Hi! ... getting by ... Tonight? Can everyone make it? ...
Of course I can come. How long have I got to get ready? ... Bloody hell, I’d
better get moving ... OK see you soon.”
The night of Wendy’s confirmation had arrived and Cameron was hoping
to be reunited with two old friends: normality and sanity. It had been quite
some time since he had spent time with either of them and neither were to
be found in his ostensibly normal life. And Hannah had grown restless.
It’s about time ... “True, I suppose.” ... Suppose? I haven’t been out in weeks. ...
“But you’re on in two hours.” ... That doesn’t give me much time does it? ... “No, it
doesn’t. Sorry.” ... Well, I’d better get cracking then hadn’t I?
Stage 1: The Preparation.
“Sponge.”
“Sponge.”
Cameron started by patting beard cover on to his smooth skin. Despite
the term ‘beard cover’, it didn’t cover any actual beard, it covered the
worn leather that was the male face ravaged by the Mach 3 all those adult
153
years.
XGHDFG Beard Cover.
Colour: Light Tan.
Product Code: TGFAS1578472
“Forceps.”
“Forceps.”
By contrast to the Michelles of the world, Cameron didn’t even need to
shave. Most of the hair on his face was just stubble waiting to be pulled. Only
distressed parrots (masters of imitation) pluck their own feathers. But like all
things painful, the pulling of hair became tolerable after repetition. First the
hair on the eyebrows gives way, then the cheeks, the upper neck, the side of
the mouth and the side burns, until finally the eyes stopped watering when
the chin and moustache hair was plucked.
... You missed a hair from your cheek, Rebecca will see that ... “Yeah, I saw, give
me a minute.” ... You need better tweezers, these are rubbish ...
The individual hairs with bulbs attached scattered themselves on the
porcelain of Cameron’s bathroom. They stood out like the compositional
markings to a genius’ first draft; crotchets and quavers thrown at the page
with random brush strokes. Stems successfully exorcised, he ran the tap and
they were gone.
“Retractors.”
“Retractors.”
With the unruly thatch flat packed inside a scalp cap, eyebrows were raised
further up his forehead for the application of shadow. ... Slow down, stop
rushing ... He lowered his eyelids to near closed, presenting a canvas on which
to paint Hannah into view.
‘Brilliance’ Tri-Colour Shadow Pack.
Product Code: TGFAS1578472
“Left eye done” ... Do it again ... “It looks fine.” ... There’s too much dark shade
on the inner half of the eyelid. It makes the eyes look too narrowly spaced. The dark shade
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should sit on the outer half of the lid, the medium shade on the inner half and the
brightest shade under the furthest edge of the eyebrow, drawing attention to the outside of
the face and not the centre. Now do it again. I’m not going out with a smudged eye, unless
you plan on balancing it out by messing up the other one ...
Cameron produced a cotton bud and some make up remover and
photoshopped the poor first attempt off his face.
“Calliper”
“Calliper”
Much better ... “Do the two match?” ... Well enough ...
Ambidexterity worthy of Da Vinci was needed to correctly apply liner to
eyelids and eyebrows. Pencil work always had to run in natural lines moving
away from the face, never inwards. To draw both eyes with the same hand, in
the same direction, gives the face an unfair lean to one side. The observer
must look at the face and have their gaze pushed outwards from the centre,
not forced from side to side.
What are you doing? ... “Eyebrow pencil. What does it look like?” ... If you
don’t have an eyebrow there, then don’t draw on it. It’s supposed to accentuate what is
there. ...
In his days writing out his compositions, Cameron used a separate pen for
the stems of notes, a thicker chisel shape felt tip for the beams of quavers,
and ruled lines while others wrote in freehand. But as exacting as he was in
those days, he couldn’t recall giving himself quite so much grief over
anything as minor as a smudged accidental.
“Prepare dressing.”
“Preparing dressing.”
From his costume drawer came a padded girdle, which provided the
needed hip width and stomach flattening. Its padding was made from the
same material found in standard office issue orthopaedic wrist supports, with
the toughness of rubber and the flex of silicon. It didn’t feel like muscle
topped with a layer of fat, but rather an alloy of both.
Cameron did not ‘tuck’, all he needed was a girdle that kept everything in
place under a skirt made from a fabric that did not flinch in the face of
arousal.
“Scalpel.”
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“Scalpel.”
Chicken fillets were removed from their tissue lined box and inserted into
the reinforced bra, like implants into the incisions of a Hollywood
wannabe. ... “The left one still looks a little out of shape.” ... “Like I said, I fell
asleep with them in, deformed one of them slightly.” ... No comment ...
“Stitching.”
“Stitching.”
Of all the exfoliating and the bodily manipulation, Cameron harboured a
particular loathing for the process of binding the corset. “... Deep breath ...”.
After clipping the steel teeth together, he then prepared the laces. With
practice it was like tying your shoes in the dark, keeping your back straight
while pulling at a giant Doctor Marten. “... Just like I taught you ...”
Both Cameron and the corset groaned like something from the Spanish
Inquisition. It could have hung proudly on a museum wall alongside other
instruments of religious re-enforcement. It hindered his breathing and over a
now uncountable number of nights out, it had left its scars. But this was the
most important piece of equipment Cameron owned. Despite all the makeup,
the high heels and the deportment techniques, without this, Hannah would be
nothing but a box shaped man unable to keep a skirt up.
Cameron had just gained 2 kilograms in weight in the name of feeling
lighter.
“Suture.”
“Suture.”
Thanks to the philanthropy of his musically challenged manager at Pearce
and Lowe, he had decided to placate Hannah with a new skirt suit; black, but
not in the Michelle monochrome sense. For someone who worked in the
industrial mills of the twenty first century, it seemed an unusual choice, but
there was something therapeutic and re-empowering about wearing the
corporate attire of the opposite sex.
... Lovely blouse, so light. Now the lipstick can go on. The collar sits nice and high, so
I’ll need to watch for foundation marks throughout the night ... “I was hoping you’d
like it.” ... Maybe I should register at an agency. I could handle getting paid to wear this ...
“Clamp.”
“Clamp.”
156
As much as Cameron’s scalp itched, it would have to suffer until his cap
was removed at the end of the evening. The synthetic hair always had to be
worn down, connecting the head to the body. To wear it tied up would be to
draw a thick line across the shoulders; it had to drape itself over an
unforgiving musculature.
<Text message received
<Sender: Simon
<Open message: Yes
<Message: hi Hannah wt u up 2?
... Well, are you going to reply? ... we should call him ... just to let him down gently ...
“Hair first, you know that.”
Until his wig went on, it would still be Cameron in body armour and face
paint. With his wig cap and the shadows in his eye sockets, he was a mortician
surrounded by his instruments, raising the dead by burying the living. Step by
step, he had smothered himself under powder, grease, rubber and silicon,
until he was no longer there and only Hannah could step into the void.
... And here comes the hair, close your eyes …
Close the patient.
Then she opened her eyes and approved. Hannah started to stroll through
the narrow confines of the flat, with its frayed carpet and exposed wooden
flooring. Not exactly a cat walk, but it helped trigger the physiology. After a
few laps, she switched on the built-in voice recorder on her mobile.
“Mmmm-ay ... Aaaa-ee ... Sssss-ee ... Eeeee-oo.” More “Mmmm-ay ...
Aaaa-ee ... Sssss-ee ... Eeeee-oo.” ... Again ... “Mmmm-ay ... Aaaa-ee ... Sssssee ... Eeeee-oo” Better, let’s hear it.
<Playback> “May I see you?”
… Perfect, at least I’d fall for it …
<Dialling>
“Simon. Hello”
“Hi, Hannah, you well?”
“Very. Just returning your call, I don’t want to be late for my engagement.”
“Great. Where are we heading?”
“It’s a private thing at Albert’s actually.”
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“Gotcha.”
When Hannah arrived at Albert’s, only Rebecca was present. Samantha
and Wendy were within the boundaries of fashionable lateness, but in either
case the occasion demanded that they take greater efforts at their own
presentation.
“Hannah, it’s been too long.” Rebecca got up from her bar stool and
greeted Hannah with an air kiss to each side of the face. Contact was not to
be made, not through fear of physical closeness, but for fear of disturbing
each other’s perfect make up so early in the evening. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
“Medium Latte, Becks.”
While Hannah was still deliriously happy not to be living out of a suitcase
just for once, Rebecca was able to buy a new wardrobe every week. She
typically wore the hard to wear shoulder-less jumpers with boat neck collars.
And pants. Pants were such a no-go area for any crossdresser, they were male
attire borrowed by women in the first place. On this occasion, it was a shiny
pair of dark blue jeans with a suede tassel belt pouring from the waist. When
you look this good, you don’t need to try too hard. Rebecca was leader of the
group and looked every bit of it.
Albert’s was a well decorated and painfully liberal café specialising in
caring little for what you were when you entered. The customers may be
hedonists but this was their day off. Any respectful and conservatively
dressed tranny could blend into the décor with no trouble.
Its understated vibe meant that there weren’t enough mirrors in Albert’s
for Hannah’s liking, other than the obligatory one behind the bar that hoped
to give the impression that there was twice as much alcohol on the shelf. Half
the point of dressing was to enjoy fast and easy access to one’s own reflection.
Hannah would have to be content with being on stage more than sitting in
the audience, presenting rather than experiencing. The corset pinching her
body and the constant puffing of the lips would have to be endured for
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someone else’s benefit for a change. At least Rebecca would appreciate the
effort taken; she had looked on as Hannah had grown in confidence, from a
fledgling dresser to a full blown inhabiter of one’s female persona.
Patrons chatted to the sounds of old school jazz. Cymbals splashed on
rocks while tenor saxophones reminisced of the smoke filled clubs of old.
Artistry and the clean living lifestyle are not known as the greatest
collaborators, and the best music was written in an age when you could
develop cancer just by walking past the drummer’s dressing room, or suffer
liver failure by walking downwind of a composer. The story of Rock and Roll
might have been different had Jimi Hendrix not had a cigarette squeezed into
the headstock of his Fender Strat, but rather a piece of organically grown
asparagus. He might have lived long enough to record a few more albums and
publish his own vegetarian cookbook, but who wouldn’t choke on their own
vomit for the chance to write Little Wing, Purple Haze or Castles Made of Sand?
A later generation of celebrity would have to create ‘Partridge Wings’, ‘Eggplant
Haze’ and ‘Turrets of scorched wagyu beef under orphan veal pâte, prepared sous-vide
beside matching twice killed baby harp seal foie gras carpaccio fleurettes, embedded in an
almond ganache of chilli infused marmalade, moistened with a coconut hollandaise,
wrapped in a seasonal medley of micro greens and partially interleaved by a desiccated
black truffle durian purée’.
Rebecca waved for the attention of a staff member and at the first
attempt, managed to attract an immaculately clean cut, full lipped 20 year old
boy in a tight black t-shirt and designer destroyed jeans. The back further
down his legs with each table he visited. Hannah once asked why some gay
men wore their jeans like this, apparently it makes one’s bum sit higher.
Smoke and mirrors, darling.
The waiter went about his business of flirting with some similarly aged
gay men before bringing back a half scale marshmallow covered replica of
the Sydney Opera House with a chocolate rendering of the Burj Khalifa
sitting on it for Rebecca. Hannah’s medium Latte looked more like the Taj
Mahal with a chocolate Statue of Liberty pressed into one of its walls.
“So why didn’t you just order the large?” Hannah said, poking her straw
inside the bottle.
Rebecca, always a fan of gloss lipstick, smiled brightly in return and
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started to pick at and dissect the small meal in front of her that was
technically classed as a beverage. “That outfit, Hannah. I love it.” Rebecca
reached forward to touch Hannah’s silk blouse, which reflected the soft
lighting. Hannah marvelled at Rebecca’s perfect nail polish technique and
noticed the impression left behind by an absent wedding ring. “It really works
on you.”
“First time out in it.” Hannah puffed her chest proudly. ... It’s a winner, I
told you ...
“So I didn’t miss much the other night apparently.”
“A potentially good night out hijacked by a bunch of phonies. The
Michelles and a fag hag.” ... she’s the one paying for that outfit ...
“How many Michelles?”
“Just the two, but they definitely brought their A-game with them.”
“It must have been Katherine.” Rebecca said crossing her legs, another
status symbol she could display. To cross one’s legs ranks as highly as having
slight shoulders, soft knuckles, bald fingers, puppy fat and no Adam’s apple.
Any man with all these boxes ticked ought to check that they still have a penis.
“Is that her actual femme name?” ... How much do you think she paid for those
earrings? WOW ...
“No, I think she genuinely calls herself Michelle, but everyone I know
calls her Katherine Sideburns. The other thing she walks in with, we call
Moustache Sally.”
“Wendy hardly needed convincing of our views on the Michelles of this
world.”
“Where did we find her?”
“Sammy found her in one of the support group mosh pits.” ... Oh my God,
that’s a Gucci ...
Rebecca had her handbag on to her lap from which she produced a
compact mirror, she inspected her handiwork and replaced the lipstick lost to
her coffee mug. “Is she ... well behaved?” She asked, not looking only at
herself.
“Well behaved? You mean ...” ... Back straight and lean forward. Your chin is
folding ...
Rebecca looked around her mirror. “Male attention.”
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“Oh, very well. Hates fanciers.” Hannah leaned forward and lied. “The
night I met her, they were up to their knees with them, but they pulled
through.”
“Right. We don’t like whores now do we?”
“No whores here, Becks.” The night they had broken their own rules
together in the rest rooms of Loops had been skilfully re-categorised as a
‘one off learning experience’. It was never spoken of; they knew they had
broken their own code, but they also knew that neither of them would
divulge. As they both looked around, Rebecca shifted the subject.
Rebecca snapped back to attention, puzzled to see how her posture had
been corrupted by the breath of the saxophone on the back of her neck.
“What’s that playing the background?”
“John Coltrane. He practically invented jazz.” Rebecca then stopped
powdering her nose for an instant and listened to the stream of
consciousness of a flame that burnt out too fast, a star too large to sustain
itself, inevitably to super nova and live on in the glow of a successive
generation of lesser lights. As she listened and paid greater attention,
Rebecca’s shoulders managed to slide forward as Mr Coltrane’s would have
done. Chins gathered, eye lids creased and an Adam’s apple felt the force of
gravity. Rebecca’s eyebrows lifted in exaggerated curiosity, allowing her to
showcase her own artistry. ... How many shades do you think she uses? ...
“You’re the only musician I’ve ever met. Strange that.”
“But you listen to music, right?”
“Never. I just listen to whatever is playing wherever I go. I do like Lady
Gaga though. Her stuff is really catchy. You must like her too?”
“You mean Lady Madonna.”
“No, that’s a Beatles song isn’t? I do know that much.”
“Yes it is. What I meant is that Lady Gaga is just a tin foiled pile of
microwavable Madonna left overs. Once you strip it all down, once you take
away ...” ... Voice! ...
“Well you don’t have a problem dancing to her.” Rebecca grinned.
“True. Music feels different when you’re wearing heels, when you’re
someone else -”
“- Oh I know! Doesn’t everything.” Rebecca leaned in suddenly. “I
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thought I was the only one who thought that.” Back in character, she flicked
her hair away from her face with nothing more than a practised twitch of the
neck. “I can drink alco-pop, read Cosmo and check out men, but not just
because it fits the outfit. I do it because the outfits make me do it.”
“And when you change out?”
“Total opposite. You’ll never catch me going anything as Gay-chique as
this. I’m not even very gay friendly normally.” Rebecca expertly ate a cube of
chocolate provided with her small meal. Nothing touched her lips, not this
time.
“You’re not as bad as some. How did it go ...? ‘Homosexuality is, in my
opinion, morally indefensible. While the prevailing mood ... fuck ... “
“... of the people seems to be that it should be tolerated, I don’t feel
compelled to advance their cause by supporting any further legislation in their
favour’.”
“That’s the one. That’s what was being sold the other night.” Hannah
raked her fingers through her hair. ... Don’t let your fingers catch, you’ll pull the
whole thing off ...
“Packaging.” Rebecca continued. “It’s even happening with information
now. News programs don’t tell us what we need to feel validated, they tell us
what we need to feel gratified.”
“Is that something you see in your other life?” Hannah asked, having no
idea what Rebecca did for a living.
“Hannah ... I didn’t come to talk about my career.”
“Sorry, Becks. I didn’t come to talk about mine either.” ... Oh, I never knew
you had on ... “But music now is just there for gratification.” ... If you’re going to
go on one of your flights, remember who you are. Whenever we talk about music, your
deportment slips ...
“Aye, so people who say they’ll listen to anything so long as you can dance
to it aren’t really listening?”
“Like saying, ‘I’ll wear anything if you can fuck in it’.”
“Those sluts.” Rebecca scoffed. “For us, it’s a need, for them it’s just a
desire.” The look on Rebecca’s face could have melted the plastic jewellery
off any passing Michelle. But luckily for both parties, Albert’s was a sanctuary.
It wasn’t a blatantly hedonistic environment, it was an up market bar that
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happened to be a gay one. Those who dressed only for sexual ends could take
no pleasure from it.
“Nice timing, Sammy.” Hannah smiled at the door.
Samantha entered wearing another well-chosen one piece dress, an
informal and summery number with a suggestion of floral patterning. But
just a suggestion, not a rampant flower arrangement best suited to a
pensioner’s settee. The sinewy straps of her handbag hung from the inside of
one elbow while Wendy hung from the other.
“I’ll wait here.” Rebecca said as Hannah dislodged herself from her chair.
As Hannah met them by the door, Rebecca looked over her shoulder.
“Wow, you both look wonderful.” Hannah kissed the air around Samantha
and Wendy. Wendy had in fact made the extra effort for Rebecca’s approval.
“What a lovely jacket.” Hannah gushed.
“And that suit Hannah, wow.” Wendy returned Hannah’s compliment as
she had been trained. The usual chorus of sycophantic compliments were
sung.
“We’re down the back. Rebecca can’t wait to meet you, Wendy. Come.”
As they walked to their table, their heels clipped like horse hooves along
the polished wooden floor. Corsets, bras and girdles gripped like saddles,
reins and bridles.
“Rebecca must be in the Ladies. Take a seat, order some drinks. I need to
pop in there myself.”
As they sat, Samantha tapped Wendy on the thigh. Both fidgeted and took
a breath as they saw Hannah walk off, expecting Rebecca to appear at any
second.
“Becks? You in there?” Hannah took the risk of asking whoever it was
that was sitting in the one closed cubicle.
“Aye.” ... She’s lost her voice ...
“How long will you be? Becks?”
The cubicle door clicked. “Door’s open, come on in.” Now Rebecca’s
voice had fallen away entirely. Rough and male, it may as well have come from
the local pub that holds quiz nights when it’s not playing football for those
who affectionately refer to Stella Artois as ‘Wife Beater’. Hannah saw a bald
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headed man, with six shades of eye makeup dripping down his face like
sabotaged art. His fingers were shaking.
“Close the door behind you. For fuck’s sake.”
“Rebecca, what’s the matter?”
“I can’t go out there, Hannah.” He said looking up, with a corrugated
forehead. “I know that guy.”
“Wendy?”
“Aye. His name’s Andrew, I’m sure of it. Some of us don’t want this sort
of thing getting out.” He held his wig in front of him like a dead family pet.
“At least your career wouldn’t come to an end if you met someone in this
scene that you knew outside of it.”
“Rebecca -”
“- James. Look ... for now, just call me James. Rebecca isn’t in the building
right now.” The secure femininity of the carefree single woman had been
replaced by the shame and remorse of a man who was now trying to force
his wedding ring back on.
Hannah stood over James, whose bald crown and grey temples put him at
roughly least forty years old. Having thrown his wig over his shoulder like a
rag, he was sitting the way any man would, with his elbows resting on his
open legs.
“Call me Cameron.” His voice dropped immediately. “I don’t have a
career. I’m not really a musician. I wanted to be a musician, but then one day
I -”
“Whatever, Cameron!” James whisper shouted. “Get me out of this.”
“Samantha won’t like it if we don’t allow Wendy into the group.”
Cameron said with his arms folded. “And if one of us doesn’t go out there,
one of them will eventually come in here. Maybe both.”
James was shaking even harder. “Do you smoke Cameron?” James put a
cigarette in his mouth and kept rummaging through his belongings.
“I’ve never seen you smoke.”
“Rebecca doesn’t, but I do. Weird, I know.”
“It’s different in heels, I get it. Do you need a light? I have one.” Cameron
handed James the Zippo lighter he always kept in Hannah’s handbag.
“Sugar Boy?” James asked lighting his cigarette.
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“Long story.”
As forceful as James appeared in male form, he was a man before the altar
and Cameron was his unlikely saviour. “Do whatever you have to. Cameron.”
“OK. Let me get in character.” ... Leave this one to me ... This needs a woman’s
strength. Not a man’s frailty ... and get our lighter back from him … “Stay in here with
the door locked and only open the door to me.”
“Aye.”
“And start praying.” Cameron finished with his palm open, onto which
James placed the Zippo.
Thanks to the delicate buckles clinging to his feet and the strands of hair
that curled under his chin, physiological reflexes were triggered and it was
Hannah that walked back out, calm and serene.
“Ladies.” She said running her hands under her legs as she sat.
“Hannah? What’s the matter with -”
“- Rebecca is fine.”
“I’ll go in and see her.” Samantha started to stand.
“No, you won’t.” Hannah countered immediately. “Stay there.”
Hannah sat with a firm back and looked directly at Samantha. Hannah
was every office manager, every nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid, every
bossy receptionist and every uncooperative female customer Cameron had
ever had to confront. “Sam, Rebecca isn’t sexually active, you know that don’t
you?”
“I’ve been told that, yes.”
“Well it’s true, and the last time we went to Loops, the two of you broke
one of Rebecca’s rules for inclusion into our little group.”
“How did she find -”
“- I told her. When she asked me if there was anything that might get in
the way of Wendy’s acceptance -”
“You told her?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Sorry Wendy, but we don’t accept whores into the
group.”
Wendy looked plaintively at Samantha, who was busy locking eyes with
Hannah. Samantha’s Adam’s apple visibly dropped and Hannah waited for a
very male retaliation. But nothing was said.
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“But, Hannah.” Wendy offered more calmly. “That was just a -”
“- one off learning experience?” Hannah’s voice held firm. With only a
victimless crime and a false position of power to work with, she would do
her job for a boss she hardly knew. “It was what it was, Wendy, and Rebecca
will take no part in it. Nor will I.”
With her own cards on the table, Hannah knew that Samantha could not
argue the point without causing more collateral damage than it was worth.
Wendy’s assumption was that their indiscretion really was a one off, if
Samantha called Hannah’s bluff, she would lose Wendy’s trust and the only
friend she still had. Hannah was reading from Josh’s manual for argument
survival.
“Edinburgh is a small town, Hannah.” ... Her voice is dropping, she’s gone male.
We’ve got this ... “There are only two places for us to go. Here and Loops.
“Take Rebecca off your Facebook list but keep me on yours. I’ll post an
update when I’m going out and you do the same. Do so inside two days of
the event, the first one to do so, wins.”
“Come on Wendy, we’re going.” Samantha said as she stood up. Had they
both not turned male, they would have sobbed like girls, instead they were
two emotionally closed off men who would have to find another disguise to
cry inside of. They stamped off in their expensive but impractical high heels,
like riverboat gamblers having lost their fortunes to the same crooked dealer.
On her way to the Ladies, she found herself standing face to face with her
ever present admirer.
“Simon. Fucking hell. Hi.” ... Fucking hell indeed ... “One minute OK. I’ll be
right out. Naughty boy, you didn’t tell me you were going to meet me here.”
“I’ll be out here waiting, OK?” Simon leaned forward hoping for a kiss,
but Hannah stood still, offering only her neck.
Once James had opened the cubicle door, it was Cameron that leaned
back on the edge of the hand basin, with arms folded under the silicon
breasts that sucked like leaches on his now sweaty skin. “Good news and bad
news dude. They’ve left.”
“And the bad?”
“There’s no group. It’s just us now. I’ve arranged a system of visitation
rights for friendly venues. Given that I’ve basically destroyed their social life,
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they took it well. So you really did pray?” Of all the things a partially
feminised man should have in his mouth in the toilets of a gay bar, James
held in his lips a crucifix that sat at the end of an exquisite gold chain. “I
wasn’t being serious.”
“Well, I was.”
“I never knew you were ... er ... you know.”
“A Christian? You can say it.”
“Well, your prayers appear to have been answered – at a price. You’ll be
the one that finds the next girl. Weeks of support group scouting and newbie
filtering await you, James. You’ll be the one to walk with the lepers for a few
months.”
James sighed with a mixture of relief and dread as he finger combed the
wig he was holding. Having to rebuild a depleted social group by sifting
through the ranks of delusional men who lift their dresses up to use the
urinals and need the dry cleaning label to tell them which way round their wig
sat was however the least of his concerns. “Thanks, Cameron. If it weren’t
for you, I might have had to quit all this.”
Cameron pulled at his corset trying to unstick it from his skin. “Don’t
thank me, thank Hannah. It wasn’t really me out there.”
“Isn’t that what we all say? It’s never us doing it when things seem to just
happen.”
“So you’re still going to dress after all this?”
“I’m sure I’ll be in front of my mirror this time next week, getting ready
for another night out as Rebecca. She’s a pretty demanding woman. Is
Hannah ... pushy as well?”
Don’t answer that. ... no, better answer it. Say you don’t know. ... No. Just say no. ...
“Yes. Totally. Definitely.”
As he walked out, Cameron was again replaced by Hannah, and again
confronted with a man that saw her as the woman of his dreams. “Finally, eh
Hannah. Are you OK? You don’t sound right at all.”
Hannah’s voice had dropped just enough for her to lose that vital
feminine edge.
“Look, Simon.” Hannah’s voice was barely passable and below her
exacting standards. “Right now, I just want to go home.”
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“How many times is that now?”
“Is what?”
“That we’ve been ... this close ...”
“... and not. I know. It’s not as easy as you think.”
Simon fell back on his heels for a moment, he didn’t want for it to come
to this. “Can I at least give you a lift home?”
“You’re a life saver, Simon.”
And those were Hannah’s last words.
Stage 2: The Execution
Less than an hour later, Cameron woke up face down in a small puddle of
blood mixed with saliva that was trying its best to stain the hand stitched
patent leather interior of Simon’s Audi A4. Automotive luxury might be
trivial to some, but not so for a man like Simon with his eye for detail equal
to that of any television motoring journalist. One online review even
described the interior stitching as “ ... proving the Audi A4 to be a genuine class
leader, providing comfort in its entry level luxury car price bracket, not forcing you to remortgage your house just to buy a Mercedes S class ...”. Even the seatbelt that Simon
had wrapped around Cameron’s neck to hold his head in place carried a
softness seldom found in its entry level rivals. A lesser vehicle might have left
Cameron with more obvious tell-tale scarring, but this was an Audi A4.
Knowing its capabilities, Simon had even placed the suspension system into
Sport mode, providing “ ... additional comfort for those family excursions through
Britain’s picturesque B roads, or maybe just for the time when you are finally ready to
sodomise the prick teasing transvestite that kept giving you the cold shoulder, and all
without arousing the suspicion of onlookers. Yeah that’s right, fuck that bitch.”.
The Audi A4 really was a hidden gem in the automotive world and from
Simon’s point of view, it was paying for itself, right down to the standard
issue child proof locks that had reduced Cameron’s attempts at escape to
mere acts of futility.
Presumably Simon had purchased his car with at least one eye on its 225
brake horse power, its top speed of 220 km per hour and a zero to a hundred
time of just 5.5 seconds, but the Audi A4 was proving to be the must-have
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car for that amateur rapist who tucked his shirts into his jeans. Vorsprung
durch Technik.
The 99% of Simon that was outside of Cameron’s body didn’t bother him
nearly as much as the 1% that was inside. The breathing he felt on his neck
was easy to ignore, as was the corset hook that had broken free and was
cutting into his skin. The exposed tip of his right index finger, left behind
after the entire nail had come off during an unsuccessful grab at the door
handle was painful but not life threatening. The involuntary gag reflexes
caused by the few strands of wig he had partly inhaled and were sticking to
the inside of his throat were of nuisance value only. What bothered Cameron
most of all was the ever present voice of Hannah in his head. She was doing
just fine and was typically not afraid to offer her advice. She did have a point,
but she did not have the solution.
Well Cameron, this is a fine mess
you’ve found yourself in.
Me? I don’t remember being the
one that teased him at Loops.
I was just doing what I thought
you wanted me to do.
I never wanted that.
He should be raping you, not me.
He’s raping you now, and you know
why? Because the two of you have
so much in common. He lies to
himself, just like you. And just
like you, he’s desperate.
How am I desperate?
Why are you here? Both of you are
heterosexual men, you both worship
women but neither of you want to force men
onto them. He likes the feminine form but
he can’t put women through the ordeal
of sex, something he thinks women
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fundamentally dislike.
But what about that time with Gemma?
I had no problem with her.
Did you notice how different you felt
with her? How unusual it was for you
to even talk about me? And when you did,
you were talking about me like I was a total
stranger. You can’t sustain something like
Gemma. It’s me you need. You need me.
I thought you were the
reason I go with men.
It’s not for me that you do it.
The two of you are just playing out
a game of mutual gratification.
Then can’t you take over for a bit?
He’ll keep this going until you give him
something that would make it all worthwhile.
It has to mean something.
I’m having nothing to do with this.
I’ve got a better idea.
I’m not taking over for you!
You will.
You can’t make me.
Can’t I? You know what?
I feel a song coming on.
A song? Music? What does music
have to do with this?
You’ve never been a fan have you?
Good bye Hannah.
And a one, and a two,
and a one, two, three, four ...
Given the circumstances, Cameron was doing well, singing anything in his
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head that might numb the pain. However, his internal back catalog was being
pushed to its limit. A verse of classic rock, a line of Beethoven, an uncredited
memory of a melody hummed by a stranger. What was important was that he
was hearing something.
Cameron felt nothing as he began to observe Hannah from above, Simon
had landed all his weight on her and was nearing his last throes of ecstasy. All
this time, Cameron had failed to notice the tinted sun roof. Could this car get
any better? Vorsprung durch Technik.
Cameron could picture Simon’s mind like he could see inside of his own.
They had both been raised by women; their mothers, aunties and early year
school teachers; but all in a world run by dominant men. Every real woman,
just another case of Oedipus syndrome. For them both, sex was a commodity,
not an expression of affection; a sign of a woman’s weakness, not a sign of
their strength; readily found in the one night stand and the lovingly
maintained hard drive. It waited on street corners as a wolf in sheep’s
clothing and it gasped for breath on the back seat of quite possibly the best
mid-range executive four door saloon ever made. Sex was an inherently
aggressive act and one that shouldn’t be carried out on those you may want to
treasure. Cameron and Simon preferred the facsimile and not the actual. It
was sex without the guilt, and femininity without the need for all that
annoying emotional attachment.
Staying in tune, Cameron looked back to the time when femininity
became an object of worship, the time when masculinity became a crime, the
time when the guilt of being male exceeded any shame of being fake, the
time when intimacy and sex became incongruous, the time when he knew
love but could not see it; all reviewed and evaluated to the finest soundtrack.
“Simon?” Cameron called out like one does during a dream. It sounded
feminine enough, he had been putting on an act for so long that another one
would be within the reach of his capabilities.
Simon slowed down but said nothing.
“Fuck me.” Cameron called out.
Simon stopped for an instant but then pushed himself anew. It felt like
there was more of him than before.
“Fuck me. Say her name and fuck the bitch!”
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Simon’s breath blew harder, the grip on Hannah’s shoulders became a vice.
His own anger building. Never one to stand out in a crowd, a life spent in the
female shadow of guilt free self-righteousness.
“You fucking bitch, Hannah!” Simon screamed. The superb sound
insulating qualities of the Audi deserves a mention at this point as voices
were reduced to nothing more than soft romantic whispers.
“That’s it. Fuck her!” Cameron’s voice was deteriorating.
“You ... fucking ... whore!” Simon looped his hand into the seat belt and
tightened his grip around Hannah’s throat. Comfortably numb, Cameron felt
the final cut.
Cameron then observed Simon pulling Hannah’s body out of the car by
the arm pits, she was motionless. Tossing her to the ground, crying, Simon
took a step back. To his surprise, the body moved.
Cameron screamed in pain as he felt himself thrust back into the vacuum
of Hannah’s dead body. Trying to stand upright, his high heeled feet forced
him to stagger on the road’s rough shoulder. His ankles twisted and brought
him down, his skin grated on the road as he fought against the binding of his
own clothing, all with the synthetic mesh of a dead scalp clinging to his face.
He could do nothing but wait for Simon’s next move.
The next thing he heard was an automated closing of a car door and the
civilised starting of the engine. Simon reached the fast - but not suspicious speed of 60 miles an hour in the five and a half seconds that the salesman at
the show room had gone to great pains to advertise. By the time Cameron
had pulled half of his wig out of his mouth and vomited on the ground,
Simon was gone, and Hannah too.
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Chapter Twelve:
… For They Know Not What They Do
Both Cameron and Astrid were standing still in his room, debris littered
the floor and one of them was gasping for air.
Scraps of denim, unravelled wool and severed leather; pockets torn from
skirts, collars ripped from blouses and straps cut from bras; fallen buttons,
frayed cotton and a broken string of cheap pearls; tangled locks and loose
strands from waves of synthetic hair, cut from its netting; assorted hair ties,
ribbons and bows; a hair brush and disassembled jewellery; broken makeup
casings, trampled eyebrow pencils, crushed lipstick tubes; a handbag,
dismembered and dissected; the laces pulled and the metal hooks de-boned
from a figure deforming corset; straps, buckles and broken heels; the shrapnel
of fake nails, and the blubber of artificial padding, removed stitch by stitch
from reinforced underwear; grains from a polystyrene head circled the room
with the incoming breeze; breast forms like silicon jelly fish - bludgeoned on
the ground, left to suffocate in the low tide mud that surrounded a grounded
vessel. There was no body, but someone had been murdered. Cameron had
killed her and he was now disposing of the body, reducing it to its composite
elements. He stood shaking in her wake at the scene of the crime.
Astrid braved a step through the wreckage, then another. As her hand
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touched his shoulder, Cameron turned slowly and deliberately. He laid his
head on Astrid’s shoulder, held her carefully and, following the script,
proceeded to break down. Astrid’s own sense of relief was visible. All she
could do was hold him and she did well just to keep him from collapsing. The
harder they held each other, the more the contours of Astrid’s metallic
Messiah made its impression on Cameron’s chest.
“It’s over.” He broke the silence with boring understatement.
“I know.” Astrid would do nothing but agree with Cameron. She knew
Cameron was always going to have to say that to someone sooner or later.
Her role now was just to reflect back onto him whatever he needed to say, to
give it added resonance.
What Simon had started, Cameron had decided to finish, he needed to
put HER out of HIS misery. Cameron had thought that Hannah provided
him with a sense of fulfilment and balance, a place of tranquillity and
sanctuary, helping him to live both sides of a uniquely complicated
personality. But she was just an unnecessarily convenient diversion, proof of
the continuous need for complicit self-deception in his own life. He was far
from immune to society’s most easily transmitted illness - delusion.
In the name of tolerance and social cohesion, it had been no one’s right
to point out such an obvious truth, but Cameron could see it for himself, in
all its painful clarity. Hannah had sheltered him like an overbearing mother,
providing refuge from reality like an imaginary friend who had outgrown its
host. He had signed away his sovereignty to a persona, a phantom, an avatar.
To have ever thought he could have lived comfortably while switching from
one to the other without negative consequences was childish folly.
All he felt now was shame, embarrassment and regret. Thinking of those
people he had known from his past who had managed to make their lives
into something sustainable, with families to go with those careers they had
carved out for themselves because they made the right decisions in life. They
made them because they were viewing the world and themselves with
objective clarity. They hadn’t made the right decisions because they were lucky,
they did so because they were choosing not to blind themselves with
deliberate false perception. A rare breed.
All of Cameron’s choices in life seemed to have been guided by systematic
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flattery, false promises and non-existent enthusiasm. He had made choices in
his life that he could not keep up with while he procrastinated his way around
decisions that could not be avoided. His grip on reality and his sense of
responsibility was no stronger than it had been on those first few days as a
starry eyed music student, thinking that the world was at his feet. He wasn’t at
the right place then and he wasn’t at the right place now, because everywhere
he went, he took himself with him. And everywhere that Mary went, her lamb was
sure to go.
“Kicked out of a fancy dress party, you must think I'm a fucking idiot.
And while this is my breakdown, I'll swear as much as I like.”
“Swear if you must, but I've never moralised with you, Cameron. You
know that.”
“It's not the morality of it, it's just so misguided. We aren't women
trapped in men's bodies, we're men trapped in men's bodies and we'll do anything to try to break out. Now what would your Jesus say about that?”
“He was quite tolerant.” Astrid said firmly standing up for an absent
friend. “He never said any behaviour was wrong.”
“I'm no biblical scholar but is there the verse that says 'blessed are the
trannies and those that fuck them' .. no, there isn't is there? It might not be
blatantly wrong, but it isn't exactly right either. All this.” Cameron gestured to
the assorted debris. “It just proves an unwillingness to face reality, to face
what we are, to take responsibility.”
“OK then, I'll admit that while you did it, I didn't think it was the right
thing for you to be doing. But I didn't feel it was my right to get involved.”
“Judge not lest ye be judged?”
“That's not what Matthew 7:1 means.”
“Ah ...”
“That line is used by people who wouldn't know a Bible from a phone
book. If you think it means that no one has the right to judge your behaviour,
then you're wrong.”
“Then what the fuck does it mean?”
Astrid shifted at Cameron's less than pious choice of words, but she soldiered on. “It's not a warning against judgement of each and every kind. It's a
warning against hypocrisy. The clue is in the next line. 'For in the way you
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judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of measure, it will be measured to you.”
“So Matthew ... “
“7:1.”
“... isn't the Bible verse you quote when you want to tell a Christian to go
fuck off?”
“Correct.”
“But you lot still confuse me.”
“You lot?” Astrid would not lower herself to the use of physical punctuation, probably because there was yet to be unearthed a stained glass window
depicting anyone of religious importance with both index fingers above their
head.
“Nice Christians. Not the fire and brimstone kind, more the denim and
rhinestone kind. How do you guys view this? A lot of you go out of your way
to preach and change people, but when there's one living in your house, it's
somehow not your right to get involved.”
“Something may not be what was intended. They may not be doing what
is best for them. What you did and what is happening now is between you
and a greater power.”
“Everything that is happening?”
“And ever happened.”
“Who gets the credit for anything ... a creative idea or a few well-chosen
notes? And who takes the blame for something that's wrong, badly executed
or just vile?” Cameron gingerly made his way to the edge of the bed and sat
beside her. “Or is it just a crime committed in the name of this higher entity
you keep talking about?”
“Everything happens for a reason. And I'm honoured to be part in the
larger ensemble. A voice in the cathedral choir.”
“Accidentally producing genuine music from flipping over a pack of
cards? ... or finding the greatest piece of music hidden inside an obscure European porn movie?”
As sex entered the discussion, it would have been safe to conclude that
Astrid had not been treated to a screening of 'Pop Star'. “All for a reason,
Cameron.”
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“So I should be grateful that God sent a 6 foot tall, 100 kilogram car enthusiast to lock me in the back of an Audi A4 ... and wait for it ... fuck the
tranny out of me?”
Astrid looked at the bruises on Cameron's arms and his swollen lip, now
they weren't just self-inflicted wounds created from inside the flat. Closing
her eyes, she brought him closer, rested her chin on his head and breathed
deeply, absorbing and absolving. Cameron cried into her shoulder.
He had not meant to hold the details back to build tension towards an argument winner or as a punch line for a show stopper, he just didn’t like the
idea of admitting to a virgin that he had just been raped by another man.
Cradling him across her lap, her skin shining like unspoilt marble, and her
medallion resting on Cameron’s chest, the two of them formed a faithful
rendition of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Astrid held the pose, clearly knowing her
Catholic porn.
Astrid cried when she finally pulled back and rested a hand on Cameron’s
cheek. Like any good martyr, she took fulfilment from the absolution of pain,
weeping more than her subject. Cameron looked up with his eyes blurred, she
was smiling down on him. Why does the lamb love Mary so? The eager children cry.
Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know. The teacher did reply.
“And what about the guy that did this to me, where does he fit in to all
this?”
“Just try to forgive him.”
“So rape can be a catalyst for self-discovery? That’s battered wife syndrome. Do I have any say in his future?”
“Right now you have more power than you think.” Mary full of grace, the
Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women. Holy Mary, pray for us sinners, now
and at the hour of our death. “You need to open up and listen.”
“... and let him walk the streets, hoping he gets hit by an anvil tied to a
grand piano?”
“Cameron?”
“What?”
“Shut ...”
“- the fuck up?”
“YES!”
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And up one’s fuck was most definitely shut. Astrid wrapped herself
around him like a mother to a new-born. She was loving this. How she generated all that good will was not Cameron’s right to second guess, but it felt
real. There are some things in life you can’t fake. Credit had to be given
where it was due and to have cross examined her motivations in life would
have been the height of hypocrisy given all that Cameron had been proud to
have been associated with. Astrid would already have heard the arguments
centred around earthquakes, floods, famine, AIDS, cot death and ecclesiastical child rape; he didn’t need to kill off one of the only friends he still had just
for the sake of repeating someone else’s diatribe.
“I wish I knew your story.” Cameron said.
“No story to tell.”
“I wish I knew more about of this perfect, upstanding and morally balanced beauty queen.” Still tearful, Cameron opened his eyes to see Astrid
from a new angle, an angel from German grand opera, kitted out with her
own backlighting and smoke machine. When she smiled, his own lips
twitched. When she cried, his own eyes itched. He had long studied her,
wishing their bodies could have been regularly switched.
“I’ve been called a lot of things. But never that. Perfect? Beauty Queen?”
“Drop the modesty. Look at you. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve
met, but you’re saving yourself for some sort of pseudo sexual religious
epiphany. If you marry a guy who has that same set of expectations but the
same lack of experience, don’t expect much. The sex won’t be any good if
you still think of it as the basis of immorality.”
“Or shameless gratification.” Astrid had him cornered on that one. “We
need validation first. That’s when I will be sexual. I just haven’t met anyone
yet that would qualify.”
“Well you’re safe from me.” Cameron managed a smile. “You’re the kind
of woman I never think of having sex with.”
“Thanks. All because I believe in God?”
“No, not that. You’re so attractive that had I been given the choice, I
would rather be you than f -”
“- No need to say it.”
“You might need to say it one day. Men want to fuck you, deal with it.
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You’ll need to get your hands dirty at some stage. You’ll need to play in a few
sleazy pubs from time to time if you want that big break.”
“Please, not another one of these discussions. I’ll put some music on.
You’ll feel better, I promise you.”
Astrid helped him to the micro lounge where she had her record player
set to full beam. She handled her vinyl records like they were stone tablets,
religious artefacts or ancient scrolls.
Two full rubbish bags sat in the hallway containing the last physical remains of Cameron’s alter ego. No memorial service would be provided nor
would a procession of guests be required to wail over a wooden box to the
sounds of ‘Abide with Me’. Elton John would not helicopter his piano in just
to sing a reworked rendition of an old standard and give his back catalogue
another chance to sky rocket. Just a simple and matter-of-fact raising of the
lid on the nearest Edinburgh City Council skip bin first thing in the morning
would suffice. Hannah would be committed to the earth in a vessel reserved
for any other piece of household trash. As the needle etched its way round,
Hannah finally spiralled down the plug hole to the sound of a stone being
dragged over her occupied tomb.
“Cameron, you have to see this.” He had tried to treat himself to a rare
weekend early night, but his sleep was broken by Astrid bursting her way into
the room. “Cameron, get up.” Astrid was now pulling his wounded body out
of bed.
“Careful! And what happened this time? Another football miracle?”
“You need to see this for yourself.”
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Cameron and Astrid were now fixed in front of their TV as the signal
flirted with static.
“Reports are coming through of an incident at a night club in Edinburgh. Loops is a
well-known gay night spot situated in the city centre and home to numerous alternative lifestyles. One eye witness reported: “A small but terrifying explosion”. Many have been confirmed as injured, but as yet, there have been no reports of any fatalities.”
“Fuck!” Cameron sat down on the couch, while Astrid chose to stand. As
yellow and reflective emergency personnel were pictured helping blackened
youths out of a smoking building. Cameron looked up at Astrid. “You’re
smiling.”
“You have more power than you think. Do you see it? What do you see?”
Astrid sat alongside him and held her gaze. “Tell me Cameron. What do you
see?”
“I think it's time I called a friend.” Cameron could only blink and Astrid
could only shake her head.
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Chapter Thirteen:
Two to the Power of Bullshit.
“... The latest news we can give you is that one of those injured in the attack was
James MacArthur...”
“... James MacArthur, a local government politician suffered only minor injuries in the
incident while he was at the club ...”
“... yes, I’m standing outside James MacArthur’s family home in central Edinburgh ...
and as you can see, there is considerable media presence. There is even a camera crew from
the United States ...”
“... Mr MacArthur was released from Edinburgh Infirmary shortly after the incident.
His office is yet to make any statement on the matter and his wife has reportedly not left the
family residence ...”
“... currently a member of parliament in the British Conservative Party caucus. He
was elected to office during the recent elections and at the time was considered something of
a rising star in an emerging, more morally focused right wing ...”
“... it would appear that his political career is in all effect, over. As you know, there are
many openly gay and lesbian politicians in the United Kingdom and throughout the world.
But James MacArthur however, has gone on record as saying, and I quote:
‘Homosexuality is, in my opinion, morally indefensible. While the prevailing mood of the
people seems to be that it should be tolerated, as a Christian, I don’t feel compelled to
advance their cause by supporting any further legislation in their favour’ ...”
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“... interest in the incident centres around the contradiction between appearances and
reality. One woman I spoke to outside of Edinburgh Infirmary, who wished to remain
nameless, referred to Mr MacArthur as Rebecca, presumably his female nome de guera.
She went on to say that it was a miracle that no one was killed ...”
“... it was a miracle that no one was killed ...”
While Astrid had slept soundly, Cameron had been up all night. In the
morning she found him leaning forward watching the screen in the same
position as she had left him hours before.
“All this time you knew James MacArthur.” Astrid stated.
“I only met James once, but I’ve known Rebecca for years. That’s who I
know, just as he only ever knew the contents of those two rubbish bags. I’m
just starting to get to know this James character.” Cameron finally made room
for Astrid to sit down. “So he was the guy on TV everyone has been talking
about? All I was told was that he had an important work commitment, not
that he would be appearing on a televised debate preaching the right wing
agenda. Lovely. Some of us could have been lawyers, mechanics, doctors, taxi
drivers ... you name it. But Rebecca - sorry, James - a fucking politician?”
“His views are the ones that give Christians a bad name. You bring God
into the room by your example. Not by trying to bend people. To your idea
of God’s will. God creates you. You don’t create God. Hypocrite. Judge not,
James MacArthur.”
“For in the way you judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of
measure, it will be measured to you.”
“Word for word. Well done, Cameron. You are learning.”
On Facebook, the self-appointed moral arbiter for western civilisation was
busy helping the world make sense of it all.
Joshua Carmichael: Shame to see such a good man struck down by such
immorality. How does that happen to good people? I don’t know. LOL
837 Comments, 3024 people liked this. 1548 shares.
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The following morning, contrary to all sane advice, Cameron limped his
way it into the chartered accountant gestation and cultivation centre that was
Pierce & Lowe. But no one needed worry whether he was of the right frame
of mind to separate star struck paper clips or mentally prepared to stop his
screen saver from activating. He only intended to stay the necessary 5 minutes.
Cameron walked right into Gemma's office without so much as a polite
knock on the glass wall. Adam and Alex turned to look at Cameron like a pair
of CCTV cameras. “Guys ... if you’re here to discuss another page that’s been
printed on both sides, you can discuss it another day.” Both then put their
finely tuned people skills to work and decided it was time they took a time
leveraged cessation of workplace productivity, supplemented by an Earl Grey
matrix scenario – or common tea break.
With the two most boring accountants in all of Scotland gone, Gemma
pulled herself out from her desk and attempted to apply layers of sympathy
to someone who didn't have the time to be cradled a second time.
"Gemma ... sit back down."
"OK. But are you well? ... I heard that some of you were there that
night. ... You poor thing. ... Are you in pain? ... Did you see the explosion? ...
Was it loud? ... Are you seeing a doctor? ... Who could have done such a
thing?"
"I didn't go that night." Cameron tried to answer once Gemma had run
out of breath. "Only James ... or Rebecca ... or whatever you call it."
"But you look -"
"- Like shit. I know. That's from something else. Think of it as a tranny
related occupational hazard."
"Well either way, you didn't have to come in to work."
"I won't be long. I came in for two reasons and stacking boxes isn't one
of them."
"Well then, please sit."
"Trust me ... I'm more than happy to stand."
Gemma leaned back on her middle management worthy chair.
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"And please don't touch that fucking stereo!"
"I wa just trying to help, but if you don't want my assistance then -"
"- You're booked on Josh's show."
"My God!" Forgetting entirely about Celine Dion, Gemma looked up at
her apparent saviour. "When?"
"This afternoon. I know it's short notice -"
"I don't care! Will it be some sort of satelite link up thing? Or will I have
to -"
"He's in Edinburgh right now." Gemma’s expression froze, like an atheist
who heard that the Pope was getting dressed in the next room, like a classical
pianist that knew that Yanni was playing scales somewhere just out of earshot,
like Astrid would have stopped breathing had she heard that the star of ‘Pop
Star’ was in the local shopping mall signing autographs for those emasculated
men left at the food court.
“He’s here milking some ratings from the MacArthur story. Make a name
on Josh’s show, tear him up on live TV and doors could open.”
“Live?”
“Josh is playing for keeps this time. No crafty editing. 100% live.”
To Gemma, the boxes of paper and the rigid filing cabinets were already
relics to her past life. This was it, her way out of her glass cage, the elephant
enclosure, and the job mucking out and wiping the arse of the larger
corporate animal. “Does he want to talk about MacArthur?”
“That will come up, but talk about whatever you. Your value to his show
is that you are left wing … and local.”
“You know me, sexual political arguments fully locked down and flattened
out.” Gemma had already switched her PC off and was starting to prep for
her studio début. Makeup was retrieved from a drawer and was already being
re-applied. “I won’t fluff my lines.”
“Then you’ll need this.” Cameron gave Gemma a small piece of office
note paper. “The number will get you his PA. He has a venue lined up plus
his own crew. All they’re missing is you.”
Gemma sat at her desk saying nothing, internally rehearsing her lines for
the Globe Theatre of Bullshit. What if Carmichael said this? What if
Carmichael said that? Eventually, she noticed that Cameron had not moved
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either. “Well, if that’s all you came to talk about ... then ... hey, take the day
off.” Gemma slapped her hands together and smiled like a philanthropist.
"Oh I will. And here's the second reason I came in today. Sign these
please." Cameron covered Gemma's desk with paper and stood with a
forcefulness that could have come straight from Hannah's old play book.
"What's all this?"
"Time sheets ... for the next six months. Come the end of the accounting
year, upper management will discover that your department really did
hammer the stationery budget."
“Fine then.” Gemma grinned in admiration. “All going well, I won’t be
here in six months either.” Gemma signed all twenty timesheets. Monday to
Friday, nine to five with a one hour lunch, excluding public holidays. By the
end, she must have felt like she was signing autographs. “There you go.” She
said, folding them together like a celebrity author’s signed hardback, the next
adoring fan would be along shortly.
“And did you know that Celine Dion is a Christian?” Cameron asked.
“Have you not heard her sing Ave Maria?”
“That’s the only track of hers I can’t listen to.”
“That’s the only track of hers I can. It was written by Schubert.”
Cameron left and closed the airlock behind him, convinced that even
Gemma’s musical tastes were formed from her dislikes, just a set of
convenient lifestyle defaults and reactions to exterior forces. What she
actually liked in life was still a mystery to Cameron, and presumably her too.
Even her sex life could only exist in the context of the rules she was rebelling
against.
The actual subject of ‘Carmichael @ 9: Series 3, Episode 14’ was abandoned
almost as soon as the introductions wore off. Gemma had been charitably
introduced as a prominent gay rights campaigning left wing activist with a CV
padded up with such low lying fruit as climate change, stem cell research, gun
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control, evolution and the legality of a publicly funded healthcare system.
The proverbial bull had been thrown its red rag.
As practiced as her anti-Christian repertoire was, she was reciting
Beethoven in Justin Beiber’s elevator, humming Mozart in Shakira’s waiting
room and busking Bob Dylan outside Cheryl Cole’s supermarket. Right song,
wrong gig. The only thing she had in common with Josh’s audience was that
she could hear but she was unable to listen. Neither knew how to truly open
the ear and hear their own thoughts, their own principles, their own
soundtrack in life. This is not something taught and repeated, this is not
something preached and swallowed. The study of note value, articulation and
the composer’s lineage; the recitation of verse, of chapter and of the so
called gospel; the memorisation of speeches, punchlines and well-rehearsed
argument winners, entering in one ear and escaping out the other, untouched
and unchecked in the vacuum that was the closed mind. All covers bands,
tribute acts, front row worshippers and fan fiction housewives.
And just as the thousands watching on screen had no idea what they were
really worshipping when they tuned in, Gemma had no idea who and what
she was up against.
“And you know what else we have, thanks to narrow minds like you, Mr
Carmichael? ... Hate criminals. Those that would commit one crime against
those that are committing only a victimless one.”
“You are referring to -”
“Loops, the gay bar in Edinburgh, where some of my dearest friends
were on that fateful night.” From the way Gemma said it, one would think
that a van full of homemade explosives had killed half the city.
“Well, I’m glad you mentioned the incident at that particular
establishment. It is part of the reason I came to Edinbro’.” Josh said, as
relaxed as he had been at the start of the show. Nothing Gemma had said
had put a dent in anyone’s self-image or any audience member’s dogma.
Closed minds can only be opened from the inside. “Miss Hutchins, do you
know a gentleman by the name of Cameron Forsyth?” Josh casually threw
this at her from his pointed finger, a loaded handgun.
“Yes. As do you, I believe. It seems an unusual coincidence doesn’t it Mr
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Carmichael? ... that you know a member of the transvestite community all the
way over here and something just so happens to take place in a club that he
regularly frequents.”
“No more than what could be said of you, Ms Hutchins.” At that, Josh
gestured to an assistant away from camera.
That was Cameron’s cue. Looking away from the television he had been
watching, he was ushered through to the makeshift sound stage by another
member of Josh’s imported entourage. In his familiar work suit, he sat
between the other two.
As confused as she may have been, she would not give up her advantage,
she was this close to her goal. Be seen handing a right wing pundit a fully
deserved beating, live on his own show, and doors would open. Guest spots
on hard-core liberal cable networks would follow, Twitter accounts would
light up and YouTube channels would beat a path to her inbox. Now was not
the time to lose sight of the goal.
“Cameron Forsyth ...” Josh began. “… firstly, may I call you, Cameron?”
This was the first time they had seen each other since the time five years ago
outside The Queen Victoria. They would normally have shook hands, hugged
or just stood in front of each other in a moment of acknowledgement.
“If I can call you Josh … I’m not calling you Mr Carmichael.” Both
grinned the way friends do when they want to show off that they have been
friends longer than anyone else in the room. Staying friends with a bullshit
artist is not that hard after all, the trick is to not hold all of your own
principles so dear. So long as Josh didn’t rub Cameron up the wrong way on
the only issue he really cared for, everything would be fine. So far, either by
design or dumb luck, Josh had managed that.
“Cameron, you are a musician and as I understand it ... a former
transvestite. Is that right?”
“Well the music thing is a little more complicated, I suppose you could say
that I am a former musician. You see, the thing with music these days is that -”
“- But you used to ‘dress’ but no longer do - is that the right term for it?”
It was the right term for it, he knew it was.
“Yes, I’ve stopped.” As he said it, Gemma looked up from her notes. “So
when I stepped off the Ferris wheel, you see a lot.”
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“What did you see? Tell me, Cameron. What did you see?” Josh repeated
word for word what Astrid had asked him days earlier. But just like then,
Cameron couldn’t see a thing.
“I saw who was behind the incident at Loops.”
“Well I simply have to hear this.” Josh slouched comfortably in his seat.
The top hat, the cane and all the other signs of opulence and self-imposed
grandeur had manifested in spirit. Gemma looked across at Josh, waiting for
Cameron to pull the trigger for her. Money was on the table, bluffs had been
called and cards were about to be turned over.
Cameron said nothing as he looked directly at Gemma. Then Josh looked
at Gemma, the cameras looked at Gemma. Even Gemma was forced to look
at Gemma.
Cameron began. “To someone with such hard-line left wing views as Miss
Hutchins, James MacArthur was a mouthpiece for an ideology she is
vehemently opposed to. But the story itself broke in the media too quickly to
appear accidentally uncovered. Someone must have tipped them off.”
Gemma flicked her attention between Cameron and Josh, not sure exactly
which one was the devil incarnate.
“A fake cannot spot a fake.” Cameron continued. “I had to break free of
my own delusions before I could see the delusions of someone else. Gemma,
you are a fake liberal. You don’t have a talent. You are just an ordinary person
with no special gift.” Cameron was saying all this while a fake conservative
looked on proudly from the other side of the kidney shaped table.
“At first I was a way for you to show support for a cause, but then you
struck gold. You recognised James MacArthur from photos I showed you.
When you found out what he was in his private life, it became the perfect
opportunity to expose a right wing opponent. Your principles and your
actions are driven from hate, animosity and intolerance. The very things you
apparently place above all else.”
“Can you explain your whereabouts on the night of the bombing, Miss
Hutchins?” Josh asked forcing Gemma to spin in her seat, working her like a
turntable. Josh had chosen not to call it a bombing until now. Earlier he had
played it down as just an ‘incident’ when the commonly held view was that it
had looked more like the work of the homophobic right wing. But now that
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blood was starting to congeal on more delicate liberal hands, he had no
qualms in changing his terminology to suit a friendlier conclusion.
“If I am to be accused of something then I think the accuser has to step
forward and prove the allegation.” Gemma plainly stated, but Josh and his
cameras kept running as they ignored any fundamental rights a citizen has in
a free democratic state.
“Can you explain your connection to these events, or would you rather I
cut to commercial and give you time to think something up?” Josh kept the
pressure on. “Maybe you should call yourself a lawyer.”
“Oh, you will hear from my lawyer. Both of you.” The audio scratched as
she took off her microphone and got up from her seat in an attempt to
boycott the remainder of the interview. She felt she might also have been
protected by the much cherished, but seldom used, American right to remain
silent. But Josh had not brought that one with him either. This was television.
Lack of proof of innocence was proof of guilt and silence only served as
further damnation.
Pair wins.
“Ms Hutchins?” A uniformed police officer said. He spoke in an
American accent and was heard with perfect clarity, almost as if a
microphone had been conveniently attached to his uniform. Uncanny.
Cameras wobbled slightly and muffled voices were heard in the
background, but Josh was unmoved in his close up and held court the way he
had done all his life.
Camera A
“God is no fan of the hypocrite and neither am I. Two of which have
been exposed for us all to see. One acted like a promiscuous liberal, while he
talked like a conservative. The other acted like a criminal while she pretended
to care. Neither of these people have a place at my table.”
“And niether had any taste in music.” Cameron felt the need to add.
Camera B
“Yes ... my guest ... Cameron Forsyth lived the very life I am sitting before
you and stating is an immoral one. But he is a friend of mine. He has sinned
but more importantly, he has atoned. He is another kind of human being.
The repentant.”
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Camera A
“But this is where moral relativism gets us. A never ending queue of
normal people losing themselves in what seems like just a bit of harmless
hedonism. But it has consequences. Soon, they aren’t able to hear the voice
of truth anymore as they fall down Alice’s rabbit hole of experimentation,
failing to listen, to who and what they are.”
Camera B
“And those were your issues.”
Camera A
“Good night and God bless.”
YouTube clips of Gemma’s online ‘arrest’ and near breakdown would find
their way to computer screens around the world. People would hear of it, see
it and add a brainless comment just after it. One largely overlooked clip also
circulated in which it was claimed that Josh had cynically manipulated the
media and the gullibility of his audience to feather his own nest. Of all the
fanciful ideas.
And thus the legend of Joshua Carmichael was created.
Gemma was just an intelligent woman with average abilities, but nowhere
to channel them. She was smart enough to understand anything on an
intellectual level, but unable to feel what was right. Unable to hear. She could
form an opinion, and through the process of thinking it through, she could
fashion it into a principle, but she had never had an independent thought of
her own, so those principles just belonged to someone else. She didn’t know
what to listen for.
But Cameron was not the sane thinking meddling kid getting to the
bottom of things. The ghosts that haunted the stately mansion and the
ghouls that patrolled the graveyards had all escaped without charge and the
levers were still being pulled. Cameron had pulled the mask off the wrong
monster and he had aided and abetted the pitch fork wielding townsfolk into
burning the wrong witch.
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“Cam, this is foul!” Josh had made the same error every visitor to the UK
makes: he had assumed that the country that industrialised the world would
be able to push hot water past ground coffee beans without the end product
tasting like shit. “I ordered an espresso. What I have looks more like a
blocked toilet.”
“Dude, the Brits just can’t do coffee.” Cameron apologised for an entire
nation as the two of them sat across from each other in another one of
Edinburgh’s failed attempts at a bohemian café. In Edinburgh, the ‘Bohemian’
label is earnt simply by having wobbly tables that aren’t cleaned between
customers.
“Any self-respecting country should be able to make coffee, but sadly the
UK can’t manage it.” Josh said, not caring if he was being overheard, in fact
he hoped he was.
“These days ...” Cameron began, ignoring his coffee. “... if you really want
to put your national and cultural credentials on the table, you need a
sustainable, uninhibited, self-referring, uniquely styled and fully profitable
porn industry.”
Josh then angled himself so he could see the reactions on the faces of the
two ghostly white females in singlets and harem pants that were cuddling
their coffee flavoured milkshakes. For all Cameron knew, those two women
could have been Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid RD-398 on her day off,
sitting across from her colleague and best friend, Nameless Re-Con Protocol
Droid GR-748.
“Look at British porn ...” Josh began. “... and you’ll conclude that their
best days are well and truly behind them - so to speak. You can learn a lot
about a country by studying its contribution to the global porn effort.” Josh
said to the world around him. “Look at America ...”
“Style over substance. And they talk too much.” Cameron replied.
And at that they performed the updated form of their coffee drinking
ritual:
i) Look at ‘coffee’.
ii) Look for the actual coffee within the ‘coffee’.
iii) Push the ‘coffee’ to the furthest edge of the table, hoping
the staff will take this as a hint.
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iv) Consider the price paid for the ‘coffee’ to be a fee for sitting
in the establishment from which it was bought.
“This is all your fault.” Cameron informed Josh across their empty table.
“Not you. I mean America.” The two adjacent alternative lifestylers smiled
and looked over their sacramental chalices, smelling flavours that weren’t
there; they were hardly the type to leap to America’s defence. “Remember
‘Friends’?” Cameron asked. “It was supposed to be a reflection of a
generation. But what happened instead? The market started to imitate the
show. Everyone wanted to be those six kids slouching around on a couch in
some trendy café.”
Josh smiled in approval. “Did you ever notice that Central Perk printed its
logo on the inside of the window so that it only read the right way for those
inside the café? They don’t care about the ones outside. You know what that
tells you?”
“It’s all audience. It’s bullshit and it sells.” The two pairs of harem pants
were then met by a pair of middle aged liberal one piece ethnic weave
tarpaulins. Hugs were exchanged and their sense of inclusion was fully
enforced through numerical advantage.
“All audience. All bullshit.” Josh shifted to his more comfortable forty five
degree angle so his words would create a greater blast radius. “If only your
friend knew that. She just didn’t realise who the audience was and what they
wanted. She could deliver her speech a thousand times to those same people
but not convert a single idiot one of them.”
“But you should have seen her in bed.” Cameron was confident that Josh
had not in fact had sex with Gemma and could for once claim an experience
that Josh could not, but that did not stop Josh from momentarily staring into
the distance. “No, Josh. You haven’t had sex with her. You don’t need to trawl
through your internal memory banks on my account looking for an image of
a mildly unhinged chartered accountant from Scotland.”
“But, her and I would agree on most things. I don’t worship in God any
more than she does.”
“Yes, I noticed you had no issues betraying your principles. Sorry, I
forgot ... you don’t have any.”
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“Life is easier without them … Snake!”
“Get the fuck out of here.” Cameron sat awestruck as Josh slithered
across the café floor to shake hands, bump fists and man hug a tall and
sinewy individual who had swapped out his first name in favour of a species
of reptile.
Just like that friend Josh had in Wellington, named after a mammal whose
evolutionary claim to fame was the ability to spray would-be predators with
nature’s form of tear gas, Snake had a similar physical connection to his stage
name. Josh soon coaxed him to lift his shirt and perform a 360 degree turn
for Cameron and anyone with a perverse interest in topless skinny men.
Wrapping his body three times from his rib cage to his hips was a tattoo of a
boa constrictor, its mouth looking upwards at the face of its host. Cameron
did not know what came first, the tattoo or the nickname, nor did he know
which scenario would have been sadder.
Snake was just another of Josh’s disciples, having made the lifestyle leap
to another country, hoping to find happiness and solitude. Instead, he wore a
reptile skin tourniquet that pinched his waist, slowly suffocating him.
Snake, like Skunk before him, offered a seat at his table but Josh frowned
when he gestured to Cameron. Josh still preferred to keep his friendship
circles strictly concentric; not to be crossed or overlapped.
Not in Edinburgh more than 48 hours, Josh held the café in the palm of
his hand like a trusted regular. Eventually he did sit back down. Eventually.
“Yes?” Cameron asked once Josh was comfortable.
“Oh, he’s from the States. He’s over here tracing his roots, finding himself.
Good for him, eh? A friend of mine did the tattoo, cool isn’t it?”
“Your tattoo artist? Bullshit.”
“No, I mean it -”
“- No I mean that I get it now. Multiply everything to the power of
bullshit and it all makes sense.”
“Follow the Laws of Bullshitics, Cam, and the world can be yours. Oh,
and think about London. Plenty of avenues in Bullshit if you have a creative
mind like yours. That’s what all it boils down to, inventing, blurring and
reworking. Creative guy like you would make a killing.”
“London, you say ...” Cameron said furrowing his newly formed neck
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beard. He had seen what true power could do, how it works and how it can
be manipulated. Tired of living as a refugee, a stowaway, or a musician in
exile, he might try to find his light at the end of the orifice. “Promise it won’t
be the same as Edinburgh? I’ve had mixed results so far.”
Then Josh smiled and held it for a second, proud of his latest convert.
“I’ve been telling you. It’s the only way forward. You need to move on. We all
do. I’m going a step further too. Big plans, Cam. Big plans. I want to control
the process, I need a more vulnerable audience. And thankfully, there’s an
industry that will let me do that.”
“Sex?”
“No!” Josh’s cackle was still fully functioning. The gathering of
Edinburgh ‘Prit-TEEN-shuz Wunkaz’ looked up from their tasteless herbal
tea drinks to see where such self-referencing ego was coming from. Josh even
laughed in an American accent. “Sex is the only thing left in the world NOT
affected by bullshit. But what’s a bit like it, only with less scruples? What’s a
bit like the sex industry but with a younger, more impressionable ... more
gullible audience? One that doesn’t know what it likes ... yet.”
“Oh God, please not music.”
“Bingo. There’s a voracious appetite for televised judgement, Cam. It’s
genius. We throw up the choices, they pretend to be the experts, they decide
which they like best out of the limited choices available, we charge them for
telling us and then we charge them to keep buying into it.” Cameron gripped
his chair a little harder as he listened to Josh. “They even call it ‘family
viewing’. That’s the product, Cam. Judgement.”
More piercings, dreadlocks and facial hair entered the café. Cameron and
Josh were now on the wrong side of subjectively measurable sanity. “What a
bunch of phonies.” Cameron huffed. “We’d better leave.”
“Hey, I was meaning to ask, how’s Hannah these days?” Josh asked and
saw Cameron flinch at the sound of his alter ego.
“Dead.”
“How does a ... whatever you call it, die?”
“Painfully and I needed someone to do it.
“I thought you looked like shit. Need any help with that ‘someone else’? I
know people that can help you out with that. Covert shit. If you know what I
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mean.”
“I figured you would.”
“Just my suggestion.”
“No I was thinking of going with someone else’s idea.”
Cameron arrived home loaded on borrowed energy. As much as it had
stung him, as much as his wounds had fought back in their wish for vengence,
as much as his remaining anger had disagreed, as powerless as he had felt,
and as unconscious as Simon must have been to the consequences of his
violent actions, Cameron had given Astrid's idea some thought. He was
exercising more power than he thought he possessed.
But as he entered the flat, Astrid stood before him in the centre of the
token hallway; the proverbial figure in black, serene in the middle of an aged
wooden floor. To her right was her record player and on her left, a suitcase.
“You’re leaving?” Cameron asked.
“My work here has finished.”
“You didn’t give me any warning.” Cameron stated. He had no right to
demand that she stay, he just felt he should at least try to appear important.
“I’m going now. There's already someone else waiting for me.”
This was too quick for Cameron, but they found themselves standing by
the main door. Astrid’s expression was stoic and matter of fact.
“So, just like that then.” He managed to say. “The end of our little time
here.”
“You’ll see me again.”
“You think so? How?”
Astrid thought for a moment. Grabbing the door handle, she looked
down and gave Cameron something to think about. “Do you know the film,
The Wicker Man?”
“The Hebridean Immolation? Well enough.” As movies go, Astrid was
not exactly choosing Ghost, Casablanca or The Wizard of Oz to help draw
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her metaphor. “Will our last moment together be a horror movie review?”
Astrid pressed on, still facing the door. “Edward Woodward plays a
policeman and devout Christian. He’s lured to a remote Scottish island. To be
the human sacrifice for the sun worshipping townsfolk.”
“Charming.”
“Near the end, as he is being prepared for burning, he has his crucifix
ripped from around his neck. It ends up on the ground in the middle of the
field.” Astrid could talk in her staggered German way for as long as she
wanted as far as Cameron was concerned. Anything to keep her there for just
that little bit longer. “Ten years after the movie was made, Woodward went
back to visit the island where they filmed it. While he was strolling and
reminiscing, he looked down and saw the exact same crucifix.”
“So are you trying to prove something to me? It was on a remote island at
the bum end of Scotland, unless it was accidentally eaten by a goat, of course
it would still have been there.”
“Nevermind then. But always try to remember.” Astrid turned to face him.
“You may find it again. It's trying its best to come back to you.”
“What is?”
“What you lost and what was unfairly stripped from you. But right now,
you still don’t know what you are.”
“I think I've forgiven him.” Cameron said as a final offering.
“Then you have. Goodbye, Cameron.” Astrid placed a hand on his cheek.
He dared not touch her during a moment like this, instead, he breathed in
deeply, only to smell nothing from her virginal skin. Then, with a solemn kiss
to his forehead, Astrid left him.
He had always felt alone in that flat, but knowing that no one was due to
walk through the door made it unbearable. After a lap of the flat, he looked
at his guitar leaning against a kitchen wall. It held the dust of a long lost
bottle of wine that had aged gracefully, not to be opened unless the occasion
demanded it. Cameron took it into Astrid’s room, a place that up to now, he
had never felt the need to set foot inside. When he walked in, it was bare and
the smell was something unique; there wasn’t one. Everyone’s house, room or
current lodging smells of that person in some way, but not here. There wasn’t
even the smell of cleaning products to explain its immaculate condition, even
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the window frames were spotless. The rest of the flat had lived joyfully under
its own layer of filth, and Cameron’s own room was anything but pristine, but
there was not a single visible point of dust in any part of Astrid’s own private
sanctuary.
On second wishful inspection, he found no parting gift of a crucifix
behind the bedroom door, or of an album cover hidden under a mattress.
Edinburgh would play host to any final act of melodrama. Hawkeye would
not find a teddy bear sitting on his bunk after Radar had been flown back
home to Iowa, Alex Keaton would not burst back into the house and into his
family’s arms crying that he loved them, Ross would not hear Rachel’s soft
voice behind him as the studio audience roared their relief after a decade of
built up romantic tension. Garry Burghoff appeared once on the Love Boat
just before he sailed off into obscurity, Michael J Fox developed Parkinson’s
Disease and David Schwimmer would be lucky to be praised for anything
more meaningful than the voice talent for an animated giraffe with acute
hypochondria.
Now empty and reverberant, Cameron sat on the floor with nothing
belonging to Astrid that he could hope to hang a memory on. His only
memories of the virgin had been formed from inside the flat. He had not
met any of her friends, just as she had never met any of his. He couldn’t even
think of a time when the two of them had stood together on the street, or
anywhere in the outside world. He never even thought to carry her suitcase
down the stairs for her. All he could do now was to sit alone in the reverb,
and strum for her. With his newly clipped nails, he could put his fingers on
the strings for the first time in years. There was no one there to hear him, but
it was a start.
In that flat, he had less than what he had walked in with years earlier, but
out on the street, he had nothing. No social outlets and no positive memories.
Just a non-smoker's Zippo lighter in his back pocket, and a loose promise
that he may be reunited with his obsession. He could play make believe all he
wanted and be given every friend he had ever wished for, but clarity comes at
a price. He had indeed been stripped bare, surrounded by extras, as the brass
band played on, beating its drum so that Cameron’s delusion could be burnt
for the common good, in the hope it might yield unfamiliar fruit.
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Later that day, on the other side of the world in a one bedroom apartment
in central Wellington, a moderately priced computer was switched on. It was
1pm and time for breakfast.
Offers of cheap medication and sex organ enhancements were routinely
dispatched from the spam folders of different email accounts. No real emails
from real people were left, just a confirmation for a newspaper ad and a
follow up from a regular client.
Facebook seemed quiet, an old friend from school had to tell the world
what a nice breakfast she had just had, while someone else scored highly on a
trivia quiz centred around 80s TV shows. Something was liked and something
else was shared.
Nothing jumped out from the headlines of the usual news websites CNN, BBC and good old TVNZ. CNN talked mainly of US politics, BBC
more about the world and TVNZ preferred to talk about why a country with
nothing to be afraid of had so many reasons to feel afraid. If a recently
released paedophile ever builds a meth lab with his army of Rottweillers in
your neighbourhood, TVNZ will be the one to tell you.
Such was her daily routine.
On YouTube, the list of recommended videos included the usual array of
dogs that could ride on skateboards, teenagers that couldn’t stop falling off
them and Chinese musical prodigies that could play Paganini while still in the
wombs of their respective tiger mothers.
Standing out from all of them was a 10 minute edited clip of a debate that
took place on a minor US cable news show a few days back. The low
resolution thumbnail had appeared on her screen for the last few days but she
had always chosen to ignore it. If she viewed it at least once, then maybe it
would go away, after all she had a few hours before she needed to prep for a
quiet midweek service.
She didn’t watch the clip just once. She watched it non-stop for an hour.
That independent prostitute sat speechless as she studied the strangely
unfamiliar face of someone who had morphed into something entirely
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foreign. Afterwards, all she could do was lay down on the bed and stare at a
ceiling lined with manuscript pages belonging to Cameron, from their
undergraduate days. His calligraphy had always been sought after as musical
wallpaper.
She lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, choosing as always to listen
to the music.
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PART THREE
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Chapter Fourteen:
Smoke Signals
(Year 10 A.D.)
Joshua Carmichael’s Principles of Bullshitics
Chapter One: The Three Laws
(i) The Bullshitter must not, either through action or inaction, allow fact to be made
distinguishable from fiction.
(ii) The Bullshitter accepts that value is subjective and subjective opinion can be
manipulated through the art of Bullshit.
(iii) The Bullshitter shall, whenever possible, take credit for any success accidentally
attributed to him, but shall not knowingly steal success from someone else.
It was the internal admission that Josh was right and the subsequent
adherence to his tenets that made Cameron a rich man, certainly richer than
the paper shifting serf who had lived in Edinburgh five years earlier listening
to the voice of an alter ego. And he was a million miles away from the
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idealistic composition student who had lived off false praise thinking that his
own creative internal dialogue was something other than placebo. Money was
now flowing freely and Cameron’s career was only moving upwards.
His current job title was listed as ‘Senior Copywriter, Creative Department
for DDS Advertising Inc, (formerly Wildfire Media International - a member
of Worldwide Creative Alliance) a subsidiary of Global Media Partners UK,
co-owned in part by Hofmann, Sykes and Teixeira, Ltd of Hong Kong.
Founded in 1998, (pending litigation)’. His business card read like a bistro
menu with barely enough room for the logo. He was selling bullshit by the
plane load.
Five years ago, he had landed in London with a generous scholarship
allowance from his anonymous sponsors at Pierce & Lowe, Chartered
Accountants of Edinburgh. Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid RD-398 had
not thought to ask Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid TR-975 about the fact
that Cameron’s timesheets were being faxed from a different London
advertising agency every week. Nor did it wonder whether the signature
belonged to anyone still working at the company. The manager that had hired
him, having been ridiculed to the tune of a million plus YouTube views had
decided that it was time to ‘move on with her life’.
As for Cameron, it turned out that happiness in London really did just
came down to resources. How do you spend yourself happy? How do you
spend away the stress of a city? Talk to any antipodean traveller and their take
on London will vary, corresponding directly to their earning power while
living there. Happiness in London revolves primarily around how regularly
you can get out of it on your own terms. Either physically, through one of its
5 airports and countless train stations, or metaphorically through its
numerous built-in vices. Perhaps Cameron had judged London too harshly
when he first landed five years ago. This time, if he wasn’t earning large sums
of money, he was spending large sums of money.
Breakfast wasn’t a chipped bowl full of porridge that looked and tasted
like the contents of an office hole punch. Lunch wasn’t homemade
sandwiches of cheese and marmite, or something from the office canteen
with its crusts mysteriously castrated for the sake of aesthetics. Dinner wasn’t
plastic pasta in a generic tomato sauce shared with a German Christian with
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no sense of humour who still felt thankful for such a modest bounty.
Cameron ‘breakfasted’, ‘lunched’ and ‘dined’ at the finest tables in London.
Teams of cooks in concentration camp stripes followed the orders of
abrasive perfectionists all so that Cameron’s lobster tortellini would be ‘just
so’.
If it was undercooked, over garnished, under seasoned, too hot, too cold,
too large, too small, too rustic, too minimalist, too retro or too modern,
Cameron sent it back. He was a man of taste now - apparently. Of all the
things that money can buy, it buys the consumer the belief that they have
taste, simply by the sheer volume of items they choose to surround
themselves with.
For all the cars on the London streets, Cameron didn’t know anyone
stupid enough to drive one into central London. One either caught the tube
or hired a cab in the city that had reached critical mass in the days of Dickens.
Like Darwin’s travels through South America and the Galapagos Islands, the
cars perfectly mirrored their habitat. The racially divided but equally
impoverished inner south London neighbourhoods of Oval and Camberwell
suited cars cheap enough not to be missed if they were casually set on fire.
The flat and unimpeded streets of Chelsea naturally suited outlandish and
impractically high riding four wheel drives. And occasionally Cameron would
see an Audi A4; it seemed that more people were driving them these days.
But rather than acting as motivation for his career, it served as justification
for the lack of humanism needed for a successful career in the dark arts of
media bullshit.
In contrast to his office years, Cameron wore a suit in his free time and
casual clothes when he was being paid. Suits look best when they are tailored
and worn out of choice, not hung on the back of an office chair like a shed
skin. Ties are a rare masculine style accessory, not a tether to one’s computer,
not an obstacle to filing, not a potential death trap when leaning over an
industrial sized printer.
Just as happiness in London had little to do with London itself, success in
media had little to do with genuine hard work. One could climb the ladder
very easily just by working smarter and by letting one’s principles take a back
seat for a change. By working for free at as many agencies as he could, his CV
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puffed with creative credit in no time.
It all centred around being in the room when the creative idea magically
appeared. It was creativity by committee. Had The Mona Lisa been painted
this way, someone would have insisted she show her teeth, The Scream would
have had the words “Oh My God!” written inside a speech bubble, and
Michelangelo’s David would have been fitted with a pair of low rise boxer
shorts with ‘Head Shot’ written on the waist band. But they all would have
sold in large numbers.
‘Dampax. The best tampon on the market. Period.’ An eight word line
which nine people were given the creative credit for.
Career advancement in an industry with a ruthlessly high staff turnover
was the science of adding more to a CV each time it is presented it to the
next prospective boss. Job titles have to show an upward progression. It’s no
use having ten or twenty years’ experience in the same job role, you need to
prove you are on the up, and that you are an investment that will deliver a
return. What good is a CV if you keep it all to yourself ? Why bother working
beyond the minimum expectation if no one will hear of it? You might have a
better reputation within the company you are currently faking your loyalty
towards, but your salary package will be the same. Pay rises only happen when
you switch jobs and your value is re-assessed by people who don’t know that
you haven’t miraculously changed since your last job.
One humorous spin off benefit of success in the field of Bullshit is this:
When your mobile phone plays its elaborate ring tone and it’s the ever
friendly Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid TF-409 just calling to touch base
and see if everything is OK - Nameless Re-Con Protocol Droid RD-398
having long since been decommissioned - you can be the one to exploit them
for a pleasant change. Cameron was not a number who also had a name, he
was a name and you were lucky to have his number.
Classic 1970s guitar rock had a habit of sounding better on small speakers,
whether it was Astrid’s old vinyl record player or Cameron’s black iPhone.
Now, whenever it rang, Cameron knew that some hopeful young Re-Con
who was unaware of the true secrets of success, trying to pay their bills with
hard work and determination was about to show him due deference. Re-Cons
just weren’t on the same tier.
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Joshua Carmichael’s Principles of Bullshitics
The Four Tiers.
i) Unconcious Sincerity:
Your natural state of being is that of honesty. You have never needed to sit down and
define what is morally right, you know it instinctively. However, you are also unaware that
this is why you are not succeeding in life. Your survival mechanism is to turn material lack
into a moral virtue. Your main problem in life is that you care too much for those who don’t
care for you. Ex; Undiscovered Artists, ‘Nice’ Christians, Unsung Charity Workers and
Solo Mothers who refuse to steal in order to feed their children.
ii) Conscious Sincerity:
You know the difference between right and wrong and you proudly choose the right way at
all times. It does however feel better if people can see you choosing the right way, this is
called ‘making a moral stand’. Your minimal level of success comes mostly from hard work,
however, you know that you would be a greater success if you didn’t have such annoying
obstacles as ‘principles’ standing in your way. Ex; Loyal Office Workers, Small Time
Business Owners and Low Ranking Law Enforcement Officers.
iii) Conscious Bullshitting:
You have a passing relationship with the concepts of right and wrong. You experience
reasonable success and while you might have entered your career path with the most honest
of intentions, you often feel guilty because you know your success has come at the price of
some or all of your previously held values. To you, it’s not your fault that you act the way
you do, it’s society at large forcing it on you. Ex; Recruitment Consultants, Religious
Leaders, Politicians, Journalists and Modern Day Rock Stars.
iv) Unconscious Bullshitting:
Not only do you not know the difference between right and wrong, you have never sought to
find out the difference between the two. You have mastered the art of success and are of the
belief that the Three Laws of Bullshitics are a fundamental human survival
mechanism. Those at levels 1, 2 and 3 prove no match for your superior will to misinterpret
facts, spread misinformation, reject scientific explanation and smudge any lines separating
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truth from fiction. Ex; Advertising Executives, Political Strategists, Televangelists,
Lawyers, Alternative Therapists, Feng Shui Consultants, Homeopathic ‘Professors’,
Media Magnates, Pop Stars, Rappers, Tabloid Newspaper Editors, Medical Insurers,
World Famous DJs, Televised Talent Show Judges, Military Dictators and Myself Joshua Carmichael.
But bouncing the tennis ball off the ad agency wall with the other ball
boys was only going to take Cameron so far. It might get him a job on centre
court but he would never have been mistaken for Roger Federer.
Cameron’s true masterstroke of Bovine Scatology came when a routine
and unappealing brief landed on his desk, one to which the other so called
hot shots gave only lip service. They favoured products that might help win
them industry awards; cars, condoms and caring. Creatives live for the brief
that lists as its target demographic, ‘Male 18 - 30’. That’s a market that
responds to humour and is impossible to offend. If you wanted to sell a 60
year old menopausal woman a computer, you would have to highlight its
strengths in the areas of household finances, education, and the storing of
muffin recipes. But for the 25 year old metrosexual male, all they need are the
facts: how much free porn the hard drive can hold, how fast that free porn
can be downloaded, what resolution all that free porn can be screened at, and
how well the 99% of that free porn is protected from the 1% that was
infected with internet AIDS.
But Cameron took that relatively boring brief and insisted on working on
it alone. No one else would be there to soak up the credit.
Once upon a time, a big bad pharmaceutical company had a pill. It was no
more effective than the common over-the-counter product sold by the other
big bad pharmaceutical company, and neither of the pills successfully treated
what it purportedly treated: chronic pain. In clinical tests, only 3 out of every
100 test subjects in all demographic groups felt their pain disappear
completely when using either drug. The statistics were identical. They were
identical because the chemicals involved were identical. The active molecule
used was the same for each brand, the difference was that each of the two big
bad pharmaceutical companies had glued a personalised and benign
molecular barnacle onto its own version to make it different - in a legal sense
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only. One was singing ‘Smoke on the Water ... yeah!’, while the other offered
‘Smoke on the Water ... wooo!’, but it was still garden variety smoke ... and
mirrors. The PowerPoint presentations for each drug were different, but the
body wouldn’t notice. A suffocating man wouldn’t care if he was given
raspberry flavoured air instead of orange, all he needs is the oxygen wrapped
inside it.
So it looked like the big bad pharmaceutical company’s pill would just sit
alongside the other big bad pharmaceutical company’s pill and offer only
token resistance. They needed a miracle. So Cameron kept asking for tests
and kept biding his time until a natural statistical variation threw up an
anomaly he could work with. Eventually, he was given a test that showed that
9 out of 100 men between the ages of 30 and 39 felt a total reduction in pain.
Armed with this ‘fact’, Cameron could finally go to work.
Symtofontasis: Clinically proven to be 300% more effective than any
other drug of its kind on the market in the COMPLETE eradication of
chronic pain*.
Just to clarify: 9 is 3 times more than 3, even if the remaining 91 and 97
that didn’t feel anything are still the vast majority. Fineprint could be left to
the legal team and the asterix (*), the advertising industry’s best friend and
perhaps the most prolific writer in modern medicine, with its magic potion
of bullshit at the ready. No one reads the ‘*’ if they have already decided that
they want the product to work. As the saying goes, ‘Don’t confuse me with
the facts, I’ve already made up my mind’.
Now the big bad pharmaceutical company loved it, and were content to
let the pill compete at the same price as the other big bad pharmaceutical
company’s pill and achieve moderate market share domination, but our hero
was only getting started. Cameron insisted that they charge three times the
price for it. They were sceptical at first, but the idea soon caught on once the
pill went to market.
Every doctor believes in the power of placebo and so too does every
successful advertising executive. Pain medication and customer satisfaction
are largely psychosomatic. Give a patient a nameless white pill, in plain
packaging, and it might work. But give that same patient a pink pill in a box
with the picture of a female model in loose fitting linen pants, meditating on
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top of a dolphin, accompanied by a reassuring price tag, and you have
yourself a painkiller that will actually kill pain. All it needs is that first spark
of Bullshit to get the process moving.
Cameron even made the product better at what it claimed, just so long as
the patient thought they were swallowing Symtofontasis and not the sugar
flavoured clump of chalk it effectively was.
It immediately became the must have pain medication. You weren’t really
treating your condition unless you were using Symtofontasis. It even had a
reverse effect on the rival drug. Patients had low expectations when their
doctor started them off on the other cheaper and apparently inferior pill so
that when their brains obligingly rebelled against it, they would ask if their
pain was severe enough for an investment in Symtofontasis. The doctor,
placed in a moral dilemma between healing pain and exposing a statistical lie,
fell back on their Hippocratic oath and wrote out a different prescription. It
isn’t medicine until it looks like healing, it isn’t information until it looks like
news, it isn’t music until it looks like entertainment and it isn’t sex until it
looks like porn.
One box cost the same as a CD, but this was a CD that could be sold to
the same fan over and over again so long as you could convince the user that
they still needed it. Fans would boycott their favourite band if they had to pay
a renewal fee just to keep listening, but in the pharmaceutical sector the term
used is ‘Prescription Renewal’. Symtofontasis out sold Dark Side of the
Moon, Sgt Pepper and Thriller, turning our hero into Sir George Martin,
Alan Parsons and Quincy Jones. It wasn’t the team of biochemists or the
accountants that worked the magic, it was Cameron. With no knowledge or
experience in the fields of medicine or law, he had legally pulled off the scam
of the century and everyone in the industry knew him, applauded him, and
sought to know where his genius had flowed from.
He had healed the masses through a process of media induced
transubstantiation. They were swallowing bullshit. And so all the townsfolk
lived happilly ever after. (Read: Marginally longer than they would have had
they not taken Symtophantasis, taking into account certain risk factors,
including, but not limited to, diet and common sense lifestyle decisions.) The
End.
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“Champagne?”
Not just any champagne, but champagne in designer glasses, with
sparklers stuffed inside them. Champagne served to you by hired models.
Champagne served to you while yet another anthem from the 70s is digitally
strapped into a rhythmically perfect digital cage. What musicians refer to as
‘groove’ or ‘feel’ was quantised to within a semiquaver of its life, because it
was easier to add that thumping bass drum to Baker Street’s already perfect
saxophone line. This was high end champagne.
“I suppose I should.” Cameron replied.
Cameron had not won any awards tonight, he hadn’t even been
nominated, but those who knew the industry knew him, and he would be
treated like the rock star he once wished he could have been. His was the
mind behind the campaign that had made the most money that year, not the
one that the most people laughed at while not remembering the name of the
product. He was over that phase. Funny ads were just there for window dress
and to put on an agency show reel. Advertising agencies pay their overheads
in money like everyone else, not in self-congratulatory awards, and clients
cared as little for the feel good factor of their advertising as they did for the
validity of their clinical research. What they cared for was their bottom line.
And Cameron had brought his to the annual industry awards after party for
all to kiss.
Annual awards ceremonies were the usual assemblage of the well dressed
and the successful. The more they tried to look good, the less you needed to
look out for them. Cameron dressed as he would have for any work related
engagement - blatantly casual, and just like the days of music school, he
looked like he was up to something. The others who appeared in identical
designer apparel looked cliché before they had even introduced themselves.
The ordinary panned for business cards, or promises to keep previously
broken promises to do something other than delete an incoming CV from an
already crowded inbox.
Such wannabes were too easy to spot, they were the ones that were
interested in you, a complete giveaway. No one just happens to be interested
in you at an organised industry event and no one wants to just say hello.
Idly strolling through the crowd with a glass of champagne with the
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governing body’s logo scratched onto it and a lit firework preventing him
from actually drinking it, Cameron waited for the next young dreamer. Maybe
someone with notions of success and the world at their feet.
“It’s Cameron Forsyth, isn’t it?” On cue. Cameron did in fact know his
own name but apparently, someone needed to repeat it for him just in case he
had forgotten it since he had been introduced last.
“Bloody hell.” Cameron said to the avant garde sculpture of a woman that
he had turned round to see.
“It’s Smoke.” The model extended some tendons wrapped in skin by way
of greeting.
“Actually all this is dry ice. If it were smoke, we’d all be dead.”
“No. Smoke is my name.” The limb still hung in place waiting for some
sort of reciprocal gesture. Smoke, the model, wore her clothes with less
shoulders than her coat hangers would have done so earlier in the evening.
“Well then Smoke, what’s your role in all this?”
“Nothing as such. I’m -”
“Here to network?” Cameron had correctly pigeon holed her.
“Well I suppose so. I’m a model actually.” Smoke rubbed her fingers
inside her laser straight hair.
“No ... get out of here. You don’t say.” Cameron climbed onto his toes to
try to see over Smoke. “And you know me how?”
“My friend pointed you out to me. She’s with that group over there.”
Smoke raised her other arm in the direction to a collection of similarly
shaped clones Cameron wouldn’t have recognized had they been placed
alongside the extras from the stage musical adaptation of Schindler’s List.
“My friend is the model you used for the Symtofontasis campaign.”
“Great, so you know Larry the dolphin! Sorry, Smoke, but I’m not here to
network, hand out business cards or lick arse. Nor am I here to be networked,
take cards or have my arse licked.”
“Not even from me?” Smoke tried her best to pout, but without body fat,
she looked like a punctured sex doll.
“Do you have a network?”
“Well, just the friends I came in with -”
“- who I don’t need you to introduce me to. What about a card?”
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“Well, no.” Smoke reached into her larger than necessary hand bag. “What
I’d like is for you to look over my folio and maybe if you had the time to -”
“- Can’t be fucked. Which just leaves the tongue ... which ... I can get
anywhere.” Smoke deflated further. “I was serious about what I said before
Smoke. I wasn’t nominated for anything so I really shouldn’t even be here.
But there is one person here that I have a chance to speak to. I’m just killing
time drinking fireworks until I get a positive ID on him. And I think I’ve just
spotted him, so if you’ll excuse me.” Cameron walked past Smoke without a
second glance in her direction. She stood still and closed her eyes which
retreated back into their sockets along with the panda worthy eye makeup.
Having pushed his way past some waiting staff with minor burns to their
faces, Cameron stood in front of a man a few years older than himself. He
was also battling to drink without setting fire to his eyebrows. Two men
alongside him compared the size of each other’s trophies.
“Raymond Dawson, yeah?”
“When did these things become preferable to the ordinary drinks
umbrella? Yes it is, and who the fuck are you?” The man asked back,
dissecting his champagne.
“Cameron Forsyth. I did the -”
“- meditating model on the dolphin campaign!” Dawson’s posture shifted
to acknowledge one of his own kind, the successful. “I’ve heard all about
you.”
“Any of it bad?”
“All of it bad. But that’s what we’re aiming for really isn’t it?”
They were both New Zealanders and sounded like it, but that meant
nothing in London. Half the people Cameron dealt with in his industry were
from outside of the UK. Smoke’s accent had sounded South African and the
last two waiting staff he had bumped into were Australian. The only person
that he could accurately identify as being English born was the black man
paid to sit in the bathroom and hand out soaps and aftershaves.
“Do you know we both went to the same music school? ... Allow me.”
Cameron took Dawson’s sparkler from his glass and handed it to a roaming
Australian waiter, burning side first.
“Ah yes, the City School of Music.” Dawson looked past Cameron fondly.
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“I haven’t been there since ... fuck, let me think.”
“I’ll do the thinking for you, it was probably the time you gave a speech to
my class ten years ago.”
“That’s a quite a keen memory you have there.” Dawson was as similarly
dressed down for the occasion as Cameron. People around them perceived
this to mean that two genuinely important people were having a genuinely
important conversation and that any interjections could genuinely wait
another five genuine minutes.
“I only remember you because I remember your speech.”
“What was I crapping on about that day?”
“You said, and I quote: ‘Pornography will be the only non-comercialised
art form we have left.’ And it seems time has proven you right.”
Dawson took a deep breath of the smoke machine ambience and the
photo-sensitive mood lighting. The reverberating mess from overhead further
proved his point. “But what could we have done?”
“What indeed. What’s this they’re playing right now?” Cameron took
cover from the heavily reinforced bassline that thumped through the venue as
if a flock of pigeons had flown overhead.
“It’s the industry standard electronic remix of some other slightly less
electronic hit from last year.”
“It’s shit.”
“You’re welcome.” Dawson smiled back at Cameron, proud to have
caught him out, but not ashamed of the fact that he was a producer of fake
music. “It’s being sung by -”
“- you mean ‘sung’ -” Physical punctuation was necessary, and Cameron
performed his with advertising industry standard exaggeration.
“- sung by the winner of this year’s American series of Fame Factory.
Joshua Carmichael’s brain child. Do you remember the girl that won the
British version?”
“Jessica someone.”
“And tell me who won the Australian version? Or the Canadian?” Dawson
asked crossing his arms. “Or perhaps you’re more familiar with the South
African winner.”
“No idea.” Cameron replied.
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“That sort of dream doesn’t cross boundaries. We don’t tell the girls that
small detail. We certainly haven’t told the one we’ve picked to win the New
Zealand series.”
“Yes?” Cameron left the door open for Dawson to give him his red hot
tip.
“Crystal. She’s the latest project.”
“If you’ve worked for Josh all this time, how come he never mentioned
you to me?”
“He never mentioned you to me either and I know the guy pretty well.”
“Well, I know him pretty well too.” Cameron bounced on his toes, fondly
but painfully remembering legendary tales of over imposed ego and a
faithfully observed ten step coffee drinking protocol.
“How well exactly?” Dawson similarly bonced.
“This well.” Cameron produced from his pocket a certain Zippo lighter
he had carried with him since the night he left The Queen Victoria. Letting it
shine in the coloured lighting he asked: “Did he ever tell you what Sugar Boy
stood for?”
Dawson replied by producing his own Zippo lighter. One with its own
inscription. “Did he ever tell you what Milkman stood for?”
“Do you mind?” Cameron took Dawson’s lighter and compared it to his.
Identical. Each sat beside the supposed impostor reflecting back the coloured
lighting and the handheld fireworks. Both lighters were sold as unique to
anyone gullible enough to listen. Cameron and Dawson were both famous
actresses walking the red carpet in the same outfit.
“How did you manage to keep it?” Cameron asked.
“I just ended up with it when I left NZ. A souvenir of friendship. Deep
down he’s a good friend and a good source of second opinion. He was the
one who taught me to think of the audience first. Best thing I ever did for my
career, learning that and moving here.”
“But when you talked to my class, you mentioned a piece you wrote for a
hardcore porn movie from Europe.” Cameron didn’t flinch as he changed the
censorship rating of the conversation.
“Nothing new there. I’ve done dozens of those ... soundtracks of course.”
Dawson showed his hand to an industry new comer who was trying to shoe213
horn himself into the conversation.
“Well it’s an amazing piece. The film was called Pop Star -”
“Solo Cello?” Dawson’s smile tightened as he moved closer.
When Cameron nodded, Dawson handed his glass to the same onlooker
as before. Then he turned Cameron away from the others. “Now what about
it?”
“Did you really write it without a caring for what you were doing?”
“It’s irrelevant. Remember the old practice room basement with the tree
that reached right up through the roof ? It was always a great place to get
ideas for instrument combinations, just standing there listening.” Cameron let
Dawson reminisce for both of them. For a minute both of them could
pretend they were musicians again. “Often I would stand by that tree and just
listen and wait for an idea. So, one day I heard a cellist playing something that
caught my attention. It didn’t sound like something a performance student
would have been given to play and it sounded nothing like the stuff we were
made to churn out by the academics. It was entirely original.”
“Like nothing you’d ever heard?”
“Nothing I had ever heard. I recorded it on my mobile, wrote it out the
next day. Then one day, I needed it to complete a deadline. That’s how it
was ... acquired, shall we say.”
“From that cellist.” Cameron reached behind him for a free glass, tossed
out the contents that weren’t liquid and gulped it in one motion. “Did you get
a look at her? ... or him for that matter.”
“Only the sound from the other side of the door. I only remember that I
was looking up as I was hearing it.”
“First year composition student, playing the cello. Fuck ... ing ... hell.”
Never had the phrase ‘Fucking hell’ sounded more like it belonged in catholic
liturgy as it did just then. “Why did you hand the piece over to a porn movie?”
“Deadlines. That’s all. If that piece became well known, people might
know I took it. Even putting it in a movie like that was a risk, but I got lucky.
The film got recalled. Don’t even bother looking online for it.” Cameron had
previously left no adult rated stone unturned on pay sites, free streaming
‘tubes’ and barely legal virus ridden file sharing forums in the hope of finding
a copy of ‘Pop Star’. “Turned out that one of the girls was under age by
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about a month. Stupid really, given that it was an unsexed role. Beautiful
creature she was too.”
But an under aged girl in a porno is still an under aged girl in a porno, so
the studio panicked and pulled it from the shelves.” Dawson smirked. “The
porn industry doesn’t take any chances. I told Josh about it all, I even played
it to him and he suggested I cover my tracks completely and so deleted my
files and got rid of my complimentary copy.”
“Any idea where she is now?”
“The minor? No idea.”
To Cameron, Raymond Dawson was not only a musical whore, but a lying,
thieving, musical whore. The two stood facing each other. One was Santa
Claus whose beard had fallen off. The other was the child, who had just
realised that all he was looking at was a phoney from an inherited fairy tale.
Cameron had made the trip to this particular mall just to see if Santa had a
present for him, a recording, or even access to the sheet music.
Having heard it, Dawson did not follow it or choose to believe in it. He
was Pontius Pilate, a man just doing a job, a man trying to appease forces
beyond his control, he had accidentally murdered the only thing worth dying
for.
But this Santa was not always this apathetic - he used to care. He had
heard the cello piece for himself. He had once paced the polished wooden
floors of a makeshift lecture theatre a conflicted man, sounding his warning
to a generation while he could still feel music enough to know what he had
decided to betray. The self-fulfilling prophecy had now consumed the seer.
Would this be Cameron in another five years? Looking back with resignation
in an old folks home for those that still remembered the war but couldn’t
remember whose side they had fought on?
“OK, well ...” Dawson started to move.
“Yeah ... guess that’s all.” Cameron offered. “But for the record, I charge
you with breaking the third law of Bullshitics.” Cameron spoke to Dawson
like an inquisitor. “The Bullshitter shall, whenever possible, take credit for
any success accidentally attributed to him, but shall not knowingly steal
success ...” Before he had a chance to finish, Dawson was already outside of
Cameron’s vocal range and well within the powers of the digital ambience in
215
the event centre. “... from someone else.”
Dawson was not overly Santa-esque in build, but he had been more than
adequate to hide the ever present Smoke. The antlers from one of his
reindeer might have provided sufficient camouflage, so as Dawson shuffled
away with his apathy towards the world sufficiently intact, there she was again,
holding two drinks. She was determined, to say the least.
“You again.” Cameron took out the current market leading micro mobile
phone and entered some lines of modern Morse code. “I’m done with this
event and I’m due for a very important appointment, you can tag along if you
think it will help your chances at whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“Great.”
“In case I haven’t made it clear enough by now, I don’t find you attractive
and you have nothing to offer me.”
“They normally come around in the end.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Cameron made his way out of the nightclub that he had
already forgotten the name of without any further disruptions or ambush
handshakes. He also created the necessary backdraft for Smoke to follow
close behind.
On the street, the silence was deafening. Cities breathe at their own speed
and the citizen survives by learning to breathe in time with it. If you live in
London and you can’t walk or even inhale as fast as the others, you’ll only feel
their footprints on your back as you suffocate on polluted air.
“Over here!” Cameron waved down a cab. Closing its door behind him, it
looked like he had managed to lose her, but Smoke was sitting comfortably
next to him on the other side of the cab. He was just drunk enough not to
remember if he had heard her get in through the door, the gap in the window
or the air vents. Cameron could only smile out of grudging respect.
“Such & Such Hotel, please. Don’t know the street address -”
“- at’s alright. Nar it well, mate.” The Indian cab driver replied in a
perfectly convincing London accent. The cab then turned 180 degrees in a U
turn any household cat would have been proud of. Smoke rocked herself
against Cameron under the pretense of losing her balance.
“I’m surrounded by women like you all the time, but I prefer it whenthey
don’t look like they keep a tongue depressor and a sick bag at the dinner
216
table.” Cameron said more to his phone than to Smoke.
“Are you normally this charming?”
“But don’t be offended by criticism of your looks when you are your
product.” This time he turned to her. “Your industry judges you on them and
you were working the room like a pro and all because of the looks you think
you have. It’s not my fault that what you are and what you are selling are the
same thing. Where’s that CV you’ve been trying to peddle?”
Smoke pulled out a neatly bound A4 sized laminated booklet. Titled
‘Smoke. Model’. Cameron thumbed through it aggressively, as if it were a
bistro menu.
“These shots are all in chronological order. You can tell because you get
thinner as you turn the pages. Watch.” As he flicked through the pages it was
like watching time lapse photography. Natural tones vanished and eye sockets
opened. Cameron then alternated between the first and last shots in Smoke’s
CV. One was a full cheeked smile for an obsolete mobile phone, the other
was an upper torso in a state of ‘near death chic’ lying on a bed next to a
broken glass and an upturned champagne bottle, apparently helping to raise
the market appeal for a fashionable brand of wristwatch. “If I hadn’t seen the
frames in between, I would have thought these were two different people.”
At his destination, Cameron handed the CV back to Smoke and a note to
the cab driver. As he got out he didn’t wait for the change or the artist’s
mannequin still inside.
In the clearer mirrored light of the hotel elevator, Smoke’s makeup was a
mask. It was as unnatural and overcooked as anything he’d seen during his
days at Loops. Somewhere under that façade there was a person eating itself
from within. She was scarcely more human than Cameron had ever been
when he had force fed himself the notion that he could live a consequence
free life as something he wasn’t.
“So, if I’m not good looking,” Smoke raked her fingers through her hair,
inspecting it for dust. “... then tell me what is?”
“Figure it out.” Cameron swiped his card past the hotel room door.
“What’s an industry run by men, paid for by men, but staffed by women?”
Cameron gave the contestant only a few seconds to answer. “The correct
answer was: Prostitution ... Prostitution.” The audience groaned.
217
Amanda was already standing when they entered. “Mr Forsyth.” The two
exchanged a warm but formal set of air kisses as Cameron gave her an
envelope from his jacket pocket. Like someone looking into a hanky after
they had blown their nose, Amanda peeked inside it. Happy it contained
everything it was supposed to, she placed it back on the desk, then removed a
hair tie that let loose a blanket of blonde hair that couldn’t decide what side
of her head it liked to hang from. “Will our friend be joining us?”
“No.” Cameron looked around for Smoke. “No, she won’t be.” He
affirmed while flapping his fingers at the chair in the corner of the room, his
rings shimmering in the defused hotel lighting. Smoke did what she was told
and sat down.
Amanda unbuttoned her coat and hung it over the clothing rack - not
Smoke, but the actual clothing rack provided by the hotel. Full and buxom,
rubenesque and rouged, Amanda was a delicious caramelised pear with the
fat content of parma ham and all the sweetness of white chocolate mousse.
Naked, but for her matching black heels and the fencenet stockings that
wrapped her legs like any fine gourmet meat, she was fast food delivered to
your door that came straight from a delicatessen.
“Business ... meeting.” Smoke said folding her arms, crossing her legs and
almost wrapping her shins round each other.
“Very important business.”
“Well, I may be a libertarian, but I can’t say I approve of the objectifying
of women.”
“Oh, I’m touched by your sincerity, Smoke.” Cameron stood still waiting
for Amanda to commence proceedings. “If only there were more girls like
you out there offering unprotected blow jobs for a complicated promise of
career advancement and less women out there offering hygenic, hedonistic
hassle free, no-strings-attached sex for a predetermined and up-front cash fee.”
“But I don’t like what this sort of thing does to women as a whole.”
Smoke tried to look elsewhere.
“Oh, and the modelling industry is innocent?”
“We don’t belittle and degrade-”
“- show me the newspaper article about the girl who had to be admitted
to hospital because she was trying too hard to look like Amanda here.”
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Oblivious to the ongoing debate between Donatella Versace and Larry
Flint, Amanda went about the business of undressing her 1am appointment.
It’s an interesting footnote of history that the buttons on a man’s shirt are on
the other side to that of a woman’s blouse. It makes crossdressing seem like a
left handed activity, but when a man and a woman face each other, each can
undress their partner as naturally as if they were undressing themselves. “And
don’t play the feminism card on me either. If you want to be an activist and
fight at the coal face of women’s rights, get off the cat walk. It’s no better for
women than a three star hotel in Soho.”
“I didn’t say I was a feminist.”
“You don’t need to be a feminist to be feminine. You don’t have enough
muscle in your legs to walk properly in those heels, so you look like a praying
mantis.” With his shirt off, he shifted his weight to allow Amanda to take his
shoes and socks off.
“Beauty is subjective. Everyone is allowed their opinion.” Smoke saw the
pile of clothes grow as she recrossed her legs like she was on a piece of gym
equipment. “My looks are unique, that girl there is just generic.”
“Beauty doesn’t come and go with the whims of a fashion designer,
Smoke. Curves like hers don’t go out of style because of some transient
trend in expensive fabric.” Cameron stood as still as he would have had he
been visiting his tailor. As Amanda threw pieces of clothing to the floor, she
was ever careful not to leave them crumpled, but she did so with enough
rehearsed passion to imply that rampant sex would ensue - just as soon as her
client was through preaching. “The beauty industry is an industry that has
nothing to do with beauty. And the sex industry as a whole has one other
thing in its favour.” Cameron was now fully undressed, not having voluntarily
moved a muscle for Amanda’s benefit. “Success in the sex industry is based
on merit, not spin. It’s a sanctuary from Bullshit. Bad sex doesn’t sell Amanda, keep your heels on! ... Failure in the sex industry is punished and
can’t be covered over. It sells a fantasy, but it doesn’t sell a lie. All other
industries lie even to themselves, but not the sex industry. I would be
powerless in the sex industry, it is immune to the powers of the modern day
bullshit artist.”
“So that’s what you are then. A career bullshitter.”
219
“And you’re a coat hanger ... so that other women can be told what they
need to be wearing if they want to feel good about themselves - not yet! I’m
still talking - provided they could wear those clothes in the first place. And
you say I’m the one doing the harm? ... See this?”
Cameron showed Amanda’s back to Smoke and bent her over. “This is
curvature. It might be hard to design a set of wearable curtains for and it
might not leave much room on the magazine cover for the text, but it’s better
looking than any breast bone or rib cage. And now, it’s time I fucked it.”
Amanda knelt, ready to receive communion.
Cameron rested a hand on Amanda’s head and placed the unwrapped
condom on her tongue, which she expertly wrapped around his holiness,
hands free like any devout and skilled worshipper.
A minute later, Amanda pulled back. “Mr Forsyth. You’re not quite at
concert pitch, shall we say.” Amanda leaned back from the faulty microphone.
“No, you’re right. I had a few drinks at that event thing.”
“What’s the matter, Mr Forsyth?” Smoke taunted. “I thought she was the
definition of sexy.”
“Sometimes, Smoke, you just have to know how to push a man’s buttons.”
“Does that mean you’d like me to ...?” Amanda asked.
“Oh, yes please. PLEASE do that.”
Amanda stood and left only her head on Cameron’s shoulder. From
there she moaned into his ear. Hers was the most unusual accent he had
heard all evening, that of a university educated middle class English woman.
Elizabeth Hurley took a deep breath and began. “Hip hop, Rap and all
round dance music serve only as gratification.” Helena Bonham Carter
continued in a smooth and relaxed tone. “They are functional in the same
way that pornography is functional.”
“Do you actually have to pay people to agree with you?” Smoke asked,
her eyebrows stretching her sockets and lifting her makeup.
Unperturbed, Miranda Richardson knelt down again and kept the
momentum going. “The easiest way to ruin an art form is to sexualise it. Any
song that uses sex appeal is falling back on gratification. Music is art. Nothing
that is functional can be art.” Rachel Weisz would triumphantly conclude that
- “Dance music is functional. Therefore, dance music is not music.”
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“Now ...” Cameron said as he grabbed Emma Thompson by the bicep
placing her on the bed. “... tell me what you know of Pink Floyd.”
Kristen Scott-Thomas reached into her hand bag for a bottle of KY jelly
and a piece of A4. Shortly after, Jessica Biel had Cameron slumped on top of
her while she held the page to the ceiling in both hands like a patient’s X-ray.
Kate Beckinsale’s speech was broken as Cameron thumped the bed against
the wall like a bass drum. 60 beats per minute, resting heart rate. “Part of the
legacy of The Dark ... Side of the Moon is in ... its influence on modern
music, the ... musicians who have performed cover ... versions of its songs,
and ... even in modern urban ... myths. The album’s cover ... has been lauded
by critics and ... listeners alike, VH1 ... proclaiming it the ... fourth greatest in
history, and ... Planet Rock ...”
“Oh ... yeah.”
“... listeners declared ... it the greatest of ... all time. Pictured ... to the right
is a ... diagram -”
“- Skip that bit! Keep reading. Keep reading!”
“Its release is ... often seen as ... a pivotal point in ... the history of rock ...
music, and comparisons ... are sometimes ...”
“Bone hard, here! Bone hard!”
“... drawn between Pink Floyd ... and Radiohead - specifically ... their 1997
album OK Computer - which ... has been called The ... Dark Side of the ..”
“Uh huh. Keep going.”
“... Moon for the ... 1990s whereby ...”
“YES!”
“... the two albums ... share a ... common ... theme: the ... loss of a
creative ... INDIVIDUAL’S ABILITY ... TO ... FUNC ... TION ... IN ...
THE ... MODERN ... WORLD!”
Cameron lifted the needle and puffed his way off Amanda and onto the
other side of the bed. “That will be all ... Amanda, you can leave now.”
And so with the upmost professionalism, Rachel Weisz, Miranda
Richardson, Elizabeth Hurley, Helena Bonham Carter, Keira Knightley,
Catherine Zeta Jones, Jessica Biel, Kristin Scott-Thomas, Emma Thompson,
Kate Beckinsale, Lena Heady and a grey scale Elizabeth Taylor, stood up, put
on some underwear, threw on a coat, and left like a minimum wage staff
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member. Renee Zellweger (a late inclusion) followed close behind. While she
was an American actress, the only film of hers that Cameron had ever seen
was Bridget Jones’ Diary, in which he thought she looked pretty hot and had
a perfectly convincing British accent, and one worthy of at least a tribute
wank. Joanna Lumley would miss out once more, reason being: crow’s feet
darling, crow’s feet.
“Well that was ... educational.” Smoke stood and hooked her spaghetti
strap handbag onto her shoulder.
“We all learnt something tonight didn’t we?” Cameron rolled himself off
the bed and made for the bathroom.
“Yeah, that you like fat girls and dinosaur rock.”
“She had body fat, but she wasn’t fat. Do you know how much Amanda
weighs? She’s 5 foot six and weighs 65 kilograms. That’s average weight
according to any doctor. And a music graduate. There’s a part of me that
likes to think she believed everything she was saying.” Cameron started
inspecting the complimentary toiletries provided by the Such and Such.
“Plump.”
“Is that what you would call her?”
“No, plump is what she has written on her business card. She left one on
the table. You should get rid of it, in case the hotel finds it.”
“Who do you think she works for?” Cameron called out biting into a
plastic soap wrapping. “And I already have her card. Hers, and about a dozen
others. I don’t need it.”
“Well I certainly don’t want it. Amanda, 42 ... 32 ... 46. 5 foot 6, 65 kg.
Seems rather dehumanising wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t modelling agencies use the same categorisation?”
Smoke offered no counter argument. “It has some other stuff on the back.
Some notes she’s made.”
“Well she is a professional. Read it. Find out what goes on in the mind of
a high class prostitute.” Cameron filled the bathroom with the static hiss of
the shower.
Smoke held the card by the corners maintaining the least possible contact
between her and an industry that at least fed its captives before selling them
on to high earning customers. “Cameron, floor 5, room 7. ‘Mr Forsyth’.
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Pervert.”
“Oh I wonder what that could mean.”
“Jeremy, hedonist, three, six’. How worse could it have been than what
went on just then?”
Cameron laughed. “Oh, you have no idea. It was Amanda that told me of
the fail safe system that prozzies like her use to categorise their kills.”
“Prozzies?”
“Or whatever you want to call them. She can diagnose us and be whatever
it is we want her to be. She makes a fortune. All her clients are either social
cripples, hedonists, perverts, or rescuers.”
“What the hell is a rescuer into?”
“A rescuer says ‘I hate having to see you like this, but if you have to earn
your money this way, then please let it be me. I’ll be the one that treats you
respectfully’. They’re the worst ones apparently. Nothing but drama.”
“Here’s one. Rescuer. Matthew, seven, one.” Suddenly Smoke no longer
needed to call out over the sounds of running water. The hotel room fell
silent. “Which means -”
“Judge not.” Cameron said to his naked self in the bathroom mirror. “For
in the way you judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of measure, it
will be measured to you.”
“Well that’s obviously her other client, in room one on the seventh floor.
No?” Smoke asked laying the card down on the desk top hoping her finger
prints wouldn’t rub off on either surface.
Cameron could still see himself naked in the mirror, his kingdom for a
bathrobe. “This building doesn’t have a seventh floor, Smoke. We’re on the
top floor now.”
“Misprint on a meaningless card then?”
“Some cards have more meaning than others.”
Consensual objectification of Amanda, or another girl on another night
for the sake of cheap pleasure was just Cameron’s way of dehumanising a
friend. “Not my Jane”. He used to say to himself. But was there a man out
there crying to himself with only the words ‘not my Amanda’ keeping him
company? Who cried for the legions of others that Cameron had purchased
fair and square? There was Amanda, Angela, Aria, Arianna, Abigail, Ana and
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Anne Marie, and those were just the A’s. Under J in Cameron’s little black
iPhone there were three Jenna’s, two Jessica’s, and a Jemima, but nowhere
among the J’s was there a Jane. He still couldn’t fuck his friends.
Cameron had been certain Jane was never really laughing when she
recalled a nickname, an overheard remark or a legendary tale of sexual
promiscuity. Talk re-empowerment all you like, but any true friend knows
when they are looking at a drawn on smile.
Was Cameron a better person than any of Jane’s sexual conquistadors?
And who had the high ground out of Jane, Amanda and Smoke? All three
use sex as a means to an end. Amanda was a professional just like Jane, doing
what she did for the gratification of others, in control at all times and with
limits cast in stone. But did Cameron feel bad for Amanda? Hardly. Smoke
gave herself selectively with less direct forms of remuneration in mind. They
all used sex as a means to an end. In his days as Hannah, his end game was
no more virtuous and a great deal harder to define.
“Well, regardless of what it means, I’m out of here.” Smoke said with her
heels thumping along on the hotel room carpet.
Cameron had been the social cripple with Jane, incompetent and awkward.
He had been the hedonist as Hannah, naive to the consequences and unaware
of his true self, seeking validation for a side of himself he thought existed
while being just one of a group of confused men learning to stand on their
own two knees. Then he was the pervert, looking for cheap gratification,
wrapped in self-acknowledged pessimism believing that if you can’t beat
them, your duty is to join them. So now he would be the rescuer. He wished
it could be Jane, but it was not her that was about to leave the room.
“Smoke!” Cameron tied his bathrobe and ran for the door. “You have to
stay.”
Smoke moved to one side, but Cameron blocked her path. Smoke wanted
to leave more now than she did when Cameron was mentally devouring the
last ten years’ worth of BAFTA nominees for best supporting actress, but she
would hear him out. “What’s in it for me?”
“Anything, just say.”
“Well, an apology would be a good start.”
“Sure.”
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Smoke paused in expectation. “Oh right. That was it!”
“I may need to work on my humility.” Cameron finally pulled his robe
shut, he had looked like a glazed pastry waiting for its white paper wrapping.
“Very well ... Mr Forsyth.” Smoke walked backwards, criss-crossing her
legs, watching him as she went. Cameron followed her with each step.
“Please. Call me -”
“A hypocrite.” Smoke slapped Cameron across the face but by the way
Cameron failed to flinch, Smoke would have been forgiven for concluding
that Cameron had paid heavier set women to do far worse to him on a weekly
basis. Smoke was obviously no relation to Smokin’ Joe Frazier, as Cameron
would have sustained more serious injuries from the careless turning of a
page from a broadsheet newspaper. “Cameron Forsyth, you aren’t better than
those you look down on, you aren’t even the same. You are worse, you’re a
hypocrite.”
That he was. Manipulating the consumer placebo effect for the benefit of
a global pharmaceutical company, all so he can throw his money at the only
people in the world left to gratify him. All he had done since moving to
London was to swap delusion for hypocrisy, one coping mechanism for
another. He sold the modern day consumer a series of lies and from the
proceeds, he bought them back the next day from freelancers with invented
names and body measurements on their business cards.
“There is something I need from you Smoke, but tell me your real name.
Maybe there’s a rock star couple out there that thought Smoke would be a
great name to call their daughter, but I doubt I’m looking at their spoilt
offspring.”
“All this evening you seemed so convinced I had nothing to offer you.
And it’s Becca.”
“And how many people call you that? ... Please.” Cameron gestured for
her to move towards the bed.
“Just family, and one or two friends I still have from school.” Smoke
backed herself further into the room, snagging debris with her heels as she
went.
“Please, turn the TV on.” Cameron gave Smoke the remote. “It’s painfully
empty in here.” Cameron took an ever faithful bottle of generic lemon
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flavoured soft drink from the mini fridge and sat on the edge of the bed.
Instead of running for the door, Smoke chose to remain standing and
switched on the more than adequate hotel television screen.
“Not that though.” Cameron interrupted. “Not MTV ... or MTV
Europe ... or VH1 ... or Fashion TV ... The Food Channel? Fuck off ... not
Fine Living ... or Entertainment TV ... none of the news channels either,
they’re all fake ... and for Christ’s sake, nothing religious ...”
“You know what Cameron? ... You pick something.” Smoke handed the
remote back to the hypocritical hypercritic.
“... crap ... crap ... crap ...”
“You’re not a fan of much are you?” Smoke took a bottle of water from
the mini fridge and sat on the opposite corner of the bed from Cameron.
“... crap ... buillshit ... lowest common denominator sensationalist
bullshit ... pitch corrected bullshit ...”
“Hey, I like that band!”
“Band? Six girls dancing behind the one girl that is only pretending to be
singing a song written for her by other people? That’s NOT a band.”
“Well I’m not watching Morgan Freeman narrate a history of the
Universe on The Discovery Channel. Now what do we need from each other?
You still haven’t explained that bit.”
“I’m getting to that. Ah yes! This is more like it.” Cameron bounced on the
bed happy with his choice.
“Star Wars?” Smoke asked with her mouth opened wider than anyone
else’s had been earlier in the evening.
“Empire Strikes Back to be exact. Only the best movie ever. What do you
have against Star Wars anyway?”
“Oooh ... let’s see. Well for one, it’s shit. But specificially, it’s contrived and
unrealistic.” A South African accent was starting to cut through. Cameron
could only sit on a trance, karaoke acting like a pro. “It’s not science fiction,
it’s an overrated western set in space. Sir Alec Guiness hated it, Harrison
Ford wished he had never accepted the role ...” Smoke held her hands out to
the screen imploring Cameron to see. “... it drove Carrie Fischer into drug
rehab and it killed off the perfectly promising acting career of one Mark
Hamill. George Lucas couldn’t direct traffic.”
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Cameron would not be deterred. He fidgeted on the edge of the bed like
he would have done on a vinyl seat at his childhood art deco styled cinema,
along with the other 8 year old boys, all smelling of potato chips and shit.
“That period produced some of the best films of our time, but Star Wars
gets all the attention.” Smoke’s voice was starting to rise. “The Deerhunter,
The French Connection, The Godfather, Cabaret, One Flew Over the
Cuckoo’s Nest.” The dispassionate faux English accent that she had worn like
an accessory all night had given way to her natural inclination towards
flattened vowels and a meticulous over separation of consonants.
Smoke stood back up. “Please tell me you’ve seen the Godfather? ... Al
Pacino, James Caan, Marlon Brando! Or Last Tango in Paris?”
“Nope.”
“Chinatown? ... The Last Picture Show? Tell me you’ve at least seen
Clockwork Orange.”
“How well do you know Led Zeppelin IV, Innervisions, Rumours, Wish
You Were Here, The Wall, Machine Head, Tubular Bells, Ziggy Stardust or
Blood on the Tracks?”
“Not very well.”
“I rest my case.”
“But that’s just music! I’m talking about cinema here.”
“Judge not, Smoke.”
“But you must have watched something meaningful from that period.
Maybe a horror movie? How about The Exorcist? The Omen? The Shining?”
Smoke was standing in front of the TV while she preached to the heathen.
As she stood over him, she stretched herself out even further, a member of
an alien species momentarily passing in front of her own back lighting.
“What about Close Encounters of the Third Kind?” Titles were thrown at
Cameron from the back of her hand, his presence seemed arbitrary, she
might as well have been alone in her living room, proxying anyone that would
listen.
Cameron muted the TV and allowed Luke to follow through on his naive
plan of flying away to a crowded and unfamiliar city environment, not having
learnt the real lessons in life, only to face his deepest fears. “Question: Before
Smoke arrived in London, what did Becca do back in South Africa?”
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Smoke clipped her hands onto her hips. “Answer: She was in her first year
at film school ... before she quit and moved here.”
“Grab some of this and calm yourself down woman.” Cameron threw
chocolate bars, soft drink cans and alcohol miniatures onto the bed. “And
when did Becca last watch a movie?”
“Years ago.” Smoke picked up a chocolate bar and looked at it the way an
old woman stares at her mobile phone for those 5 obligatory seconds before
inevitably answering it, while their eyes struggle to remember whether they
were long or short sighted. Sitting on the corner of the bed, she removed the
wrapping with both the desire and the guilt of a bishop readying a condom.
“Whose idea was it to give yourself a new name? Only prostitutes, porn
stars, pole dancers and popes change their names, and they only do it to sell a
fantasy to their audience.”
Smoke reclined fully onto the bed like an Egyptian mummy, her feet still
anchored to the floor, one hand holding a chocolate bar, the other an alcohol
miniature. Queen Nefertiti’s death mask said, “Ever had one of those friends
you just couldn’t live without, but at the same time you could barely stand
being around? And did it sometimes feel like you were living that person’s life
instead of yours?”
“I was his guitarist. What were you?”
“Makeup artist.”
“Edwardian period suits?” Cameron asked, but Smoke did not reply. If
Cameron had heard that in Johannesburg, there was a film school full of
institutionalised high brows, and a cafe packed with pretentious wankers
musing over art house movies they had never seen while they listened to
digital chewing gum, he would not have blinked. Smoke wasn’t blinking either.
“You were back in South Africa one day and that friend suggested that
you move to the UK and pursue the calling of some voice you never knew
you had?” Cameron joined her in the same flat pose, both awaiting formal
identification.
“ ‘Get into modelling first’. “ Smoke quoted her former mentor. “‘You
have such interesting bone structure, use your looks to get ahead in the
industry, then you can make a name for yourself in cinema ... just attack it
from a different angle ... it will be easier that way’ ...” Neither felt the need to
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look at the other. “What was your reason?” Smoke asked the light fitting,
“Did it sound right at the time, but your heart just wasn’t in it?”
“Well mine had something to do with finding out who I really was.
Something about allowing a controlling woman to lock herself up inside of
me. Has cinema died yet?”
“It’s on life support, terminally ill. Movies are just remakes now, sequels,
prequels and formulaic comic book adaptations.”
“We’re fighting a losing battle.” Cameron said, putting his hands behind
his head. “I can’t save music and you can’t save film. But we’re just as fake.
Validation is losing to gratification, clarity is losing to delusion, faith is losing
to despair, information is losing to bullshit, love is losing to hedonism, good
is losing to evil, the coffee is losing to the milk and the fire is being engulfed
by the Smoke.”
As they filled up, Becca’s eyes became the bottom of a pair of dirty
espresso cups seen from above. Discoloured and motionless blobs of
undissolved sugar and dregs.
“Don’t delude yourself. It’s Smoke that’s the phoney. She’s not an artist, an
actress or a performer. She’s a nobody in a nothing industry. Modelling isn’t
an art form. It’s a contradiction. If art can’t be functional, and if clothing
serves a function, then fashion can’t be considered art. You were forced out
of a true industry you lost faith in, so you fled to one that was even worse
with someone else’s name tag and someone else’s dream glued on to it. Come
Monday morning you’ll be starting up a computer and moving data round on
a spreadsheet, hoping that your phone rings, but it will just be Nameless ReCon Protocol Droid GR-286 calling to remind you that your timesheet needs
to be faxed in a day earlier this week because it’s a bank holiday weekend. You
aren’t remotely happy. How can you be? How can anyone be passionate about
working for someone else? You’re just withering on the vine.”
Cameron stood up. Becca was still staring firmly at the ceiling.
“There’s one film I know from the seventies that you should be familiar
with. The Wicker Man. Have you seen it?” With her body still, Smoke’s eyes
traced Cameron across the room. “Someone is lured to an island to find
something that was never there in the first place, just so they can be stripped
bare and sacrificed for a non-existent higher good.” Cameron folded his arms
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and stood by the mirror left for the benefit of those exhibitionists that stay at
the Such and Such Hotel. “Now tell me Smoke, what was Becca’s favourite
movie?”
After a period of internal consultation, Smoke finally breathed out an
answer. “I have been informed that it was Taxi Driver.”
“Does she know it well?”
“Apparently word for word, line for line and scene for scene.”
“Becca, I know you can hear me. I want you to run that movie through in
your head for me.” Cameron called out from the bathroom, where he had
started to run the shower again. “And don’t stop until you get to the end!”
Cameron walked back to the bed with a standard issue white hotel towel
that was dripping with cold water.
Cameron outweighed Smoke two to one, so pinning her down was the
simplest of tasks. The only danger presented to him was the occasional
flailing of heels and assorted bracelets. In seconds, the towel had been double
folded over her face and was being twisted from beneath. Water trickled onto
his hands and soaked into the mattress. Smoke tried to tilt her head back,
tried to scream, tried to breathe and tried to fight back.
“Keep running the movie, Becca! I know you can hear me!” Smoke
managed to turn herself around, but Cameron found the grip easier to
maintain. He pressed his knees into the small of her back, pressing her face
to the pillow, twisting, extracting. Smoke’s breathing was turning into a
shallow twitch.
Smoke’s heels battered Cameron’s back, but she was only treading water
and her muffled screams failed to resonate through the hotel walls with any
clarity. Screams were considered the rule rather than the exception in an
establishment such as this. Twisting and pressing out more of Smoke’s
diluted blood, Cameron could feel her head relax. Her neck lost its tightness
and her arms no longer flapped in pointless resistance.
Turning her over, Cameron removed the towel with all the care of a
plastic surgeon removing a set of bandages. The layers of wet paint that were
Smoke’s foundation had trickled down the side of her face and had formed
adventurous contemporary art. The towel was stained by the sediment of
cosmetic products and generous amounts of blood. Smoke was staring right
230
at him, ice cold and not breathing.
Understandably worn out, Cameron opened another bottle from the mini
bar and regained his breath. He wiped his forehead with a fresh towel and
sipped some overpriced bottled water, like a tennis player about to serve out
the match.
Her clothes were then peeled from her skin, her heels detached and her
jewelry respectfully removed. Smoke was a textile wrapped over human
scaffolding. She was then placed neatly on the centre of the bed, hair was
brushed back away from her face, legs were straightened and fingers were
linked. A clean sheet was draped respectfully over the body, her eyes were
closed and her body was shrouded. The bed had been made with her in it.
Finishing the shower he had started hours earlier, Cameron was clean, like
his conscience. He put on the same clothes he had been wearing that evening,
having not planned on staying in the hotel for anything more than a simple
session with his favourite fellow musical aficionado. After one last look at, he
pulled the curtains open and left an envelope under Smoke’s handbag.
On the street, the early morning sun hung low on the London horizon,
held down by pollution, as he was driven home to his unnecessarily
comfortable flat on the inner edge of London’s rotten core. His taxi driver
said nothing, no eye contact was made and no conversation was attempted,
but the radio was allowed in. It was after all just a harmless interview between
a radio DJ and a former TV motoring show host. Stuck behind the protective
glass, Cameron joyfully listened to the consequences of his actions.
“The problem is that people aren’t
listening to music the right way.”
“What is the wrong way?”
“When you look at it when you should
be listening to it. When you hear only
the surface level touches and confuse
them for creativity. Now musicians need
stage routines, videos, wardrobes and press kits.
It’s what the industry refers to as ‘the complete
package’. David Bowie, John Lennon and
Bob Dylan had none of those things and were
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out of tune during their best work.”
“As Sir Francis Bacon said:
‘There is no excellent beauty that hath
not some strangeness in the proportion.”
“Now everyone is in tune and rigidly in time.
Turning them into a fake Rembrandt
or a faux Van Gogh. Nothing is beautiful.
Nothing teases you by being human to the ear.”
“Aye, too much Vorsprung durch Technik.
You say all this now, but you weren’t
always an aficionado. Were you?”
“Aye. Far from it. We all have some CDs
hidden away which we’d feel embarrassed
to tell others we bought.
I used to listen to Celine Dion and Bryan Adams.”
“You, of all people?”
“It’s a hard sensation to describe.
It’s like you were talked into liking
something, you just went along with it,
never appreciating the real thing.”
“Not given the right reference points.”
“Aye. There was so much great music
around me and I was blind to it. Beauty
was all around, but I failed to see it.”
“Aye. When did you finally see it?
Or shall I say, ‘hear it’?”
“I was waiting to see my lawyer, about
to settle a score with someone I once
trusted. But then the strangest sensation
came over me.”
“A religious epiphany?”
“Oh religion has nothing on this!
This was a musical epiphany.
While I was waiting, the temporary
receptionist at the legal firm
started played a song.”
“Piped in Muzak?”
“It came from behind her desk,
on a vinyl record player.”
“Those things arrived on the Ark!”
232
“Aye. But I was tight and I was tense
and when I heard that needle rip across
the vinyl, it was like an electric shock.
I hadn’t heard that sound since
I was a child. I think I was re-born.”
“I wish I could have that. But music was the
very thing that caused my accident.
We were on location in Germany,
I was testing the new Audi, really firing
it up one of the autobans, when the stereo
system just fired up without any warning at all -”
“- we don’t have to -”
“No. No. It’s fine.
I’ve come to terms with it.”
“The press said you were drunk.”
“Which I wasn’t.”
“And that you were -”
“The sound was just phenomenal.
I thought a tire had blown out,
or that something had
exploded inside the car.”
“So you lost control.”
“Aye. I swerved. At 200 kilometres an hour.”
“Are you sure you’re OK to -”
“- the ambulance crew later told me that
it was something called Black Sabbath.
Whatever that is.”
“It’s a metal band from the -”
“- and I still get nightmares from it.
Some mornings, I wake up with that
song playing in my head, reminding me.
Then Car Show gets bought by the Americans
... new line up ... everything. And I’m that guy
that needs to use the hand rails in public toilets.
A piece of TV trivia. A Wikipedia link.
Music might love you, but it hates me.”
Much to his driver’s annoyance, Cameron had been leaning forward with
his face pressed to the plastic screen from the second those two accents
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started up. He was less than five hundred miles from the border, but the
cougar and the predator each had a purr that felt out of place in a city that
was the second habitat for the Commonwealth boat people.
Cameron did indeed feel he was in possession of more power than he
previously had. He had given Gemma a new life and was granted his act of
poetic vengeance on his attacker. Voices in the cathedral choir were singing,
and the parts of the larger ensemble followed the lead of their conductor’s
will. His forgiveness had been returned in kind and a blow had been struck
against the common enemy. That of bad music.
As the former misguided political activist and decommissioned chartered
accountant thanked her Audi A4 loving guest and pushed further into her
Saturday morning radio show, Cameron’s eyes remained wide open. And on
the fifth floor of the Such and Such Hotel, room 7, Becca’s eyes snapped
open too.
Cameron could picture it so clearly:
Having watched a movie for the first time in years, the first thing Becca
would see when she opened her eyes would be that same morning light
defusing its way through the whiteness of her shroud. Wrapping it round
herself, she would stand up and survey her surroundings and eventually open
an envelope. In it, she would find an airline brochure and a signed cash
cheque for 2000 pounds.
With no one to order her otherwise, she would grab something to eat and
then eat again. She would not only forego her morning makeup routine, she
would forget it for all time. There would be no more fake overly pale
foundation and no blanket eye makeup pinching her face like a tourniquet.
Her naturally black and wavy vintage cinema curtains would later reclaim the
ground previously lost to the electrically pressed blonde vertical blinds. Her
clothes would start to look like clothes again and they would hug a body that
was once human and nourished, not the transparent attempts at status that
had clung to plastic mesh. The colour on her cheeks would return, helping
her skin to resemble that already beautiful black woman who had left her
dream behind at international departures.
As his cab left him at the foot of his flat, Cameron felt another light shine
on him. It was too strong for even London to absorb or to deflect. It wasn’t
234
the light one sees pouring through the stained glass windows of cathedrals
that charge for entry. It wasn’t the light that traces the movements of the
underaged and the under-nourished while they parade themselves for the
amusement of withering middle aged fashionistas. It the red light that powers
an egoist’s views of his self-superiority, just before a thirty five year old
classically trained musician brings him to orgasm through the reading of a
potted history of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, clumsily printed from
Wikipedia. A night from his past was being lit from a new angle. It was that
unforgettable night of misspelt imitation rum, incomplete playing cards and
Dark Age corsetry.
“Why music? And why did you bring me into this?” Cameron asked the
hypothetical other as he walked into his artificial flat, surrounded by plastic
souvenirs he had gathered on the shallow brick road to translucent
achievement. Disregarding it all, he packed a suitcase. “Josh, you cunt.”
235
Chapter Fifteen:
Director’s Cut
(Year: 0 A.D. Plus one hour)
“For the last time ...” Cameron suffered some momentary whiplash as he
looked up in despair. “... it’s not classical music!”
“Then what is it?” Josh asked hanging his top hat on the antique hat rack
that stood in the hall way of his flat. It was no less pretentious than the head
that had carried the hat throughout the course of the day.
“I study ‘Contemporary Music in the Classical Tradition’.” Cameron
emphasised every word, hoping it would get through this time. His chest
puffed out slightly as he said it out loud, his pride still there, but only just.
“Never heard of it. Will these do?” Josh rummaged through a set of
kitchen drawers and produced a stained pack of cards. Thoroughly aged, it
stood twice the height of any brand new pack still in its box, its sepia tones
having seen many an alcohol stained table top.
As Josh rattled the drawer back in, Cameron caught a glimpse of some of
its other contents. There were at least four fashionably designed wine bottle
openers all with a particular gimmick of functionality designed primarily to
catch any aspiring pretenders off guard. What those pretenders would not
have seen was the army of plastic spoons Josh had acquired from the dessert
counters of various fast food outlets.
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“I’m yet to meet anyone that had already heard of that music before I told
them about it.” Cameron said as he put his bag down on the floor and took
his place at the kitchen table. “Only those directly involved with it know what
it is. And don’t worry, the deck doesn’t even need to be full.”
“Sorry, Cam ...” Josh strutted naturally around his kitchen. “... but if
you’re studying how to write music that no one has even heard of, then you’re
writing the wrong music.”
“It’s not all about popularity, some things are more important than
pandering to the market.”
Josh cackled. “Nothing is more important than your market. They give up
their time. They sit through your music. They have to want to be there.”
“And what if it’s fake?” Cameron looked down at Josh’s suspenders
hanging over his pinstripe pants. He was in casual mode and could let his
guard down for Cameron. The frilled silk shirt had been replaced by the
blandest of white t-shirts.
“Then the same applies.” As always, Josh had taken on a potential
criticism and reclaimed it as an attribute. “Give them what they want and if
they don’t know what that is, help decide it for them. I bet they don’t teach
you that.”
“Get rid of the kings. That’ll leave twelve of each suit.”
“Do they teach you how the music industry works? How media works?
Kings gone, now what? Or, how to be a self-employed musician? Or anything
that might relate to a real life existence?”
Cameron could only slump further into one of Josh’s kitchen chairs.
“Take out another thirteen cards at random and we’ll get started.”
“I’ll bet you they don’t tell you that artistry promises the same as banality.
You can shift the piano, tune the piano or play the piano. Shifting it and
playing pay the same. If you have a talent, you’re fucked.”
Josh didn’t shuffle cards like a normal human being. He would rather die
than subtly overlay one pile over the other in the name of keeping the cards
in decent playing condition. He had to attempt - and fail at - every croupier
cutting technique he had ever seen from every gambling movie made since
The Cincinnati Kid. “This is so exciting, I’ve never seen Contemporary Music
being created before! And you tell me that other music is fake.” The cards
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bent in Josh’s hands. “You gave me the impression you knew what you were
doing. I thought composers hunched over their pianos, or sat on mountain
tops writing into their manuscript pads.”
It was almost the next day by the time that tortured pack of cards had
been through a montage of shuffling scenes from The Sting, Oceans 11 and
eight different James Bond movies. The name was Wanker ... Pretentious
Wanker.
“If it looks a bit contrived, it’s because I’m trying to learn something.”
“Look what they’ve taught you to believe in at that place.” Josh reached
behind him and took two weathered glasses from a fake laminate wooden
cupboard and placed them on the table next to a plastic bottle. “They have
you believing in elitism in a subjective field. But there’s no true value in
anything, just what you can make people like and what you can make people
believe.”
“So it’s perfectly self-justifying to sell a placebo instead?”
“Isn’t that what we’re making now?”
“I’ll only know when the piece is played. But I hope it fails.”
“Well, when I saw what was going on at Uni, I decided I had to get out.”
“No, you got out when you ran out of women to fuck.”
Josh sighed wistfully like a man-whore fondly revisiting a honeymoon for
a woman whose name he couldn’t remember. “But they’re just so ... sweet and
innocent. Lost. Afraid ...” Josh’s sideways grin almost re-emerged on the
other side of his face as he poured the first glass. “... and in desperate need
of guidance.”
“Why were you looking at me when you said that?”
“I think he was looking at me.” Cameron heard a voice behind him. A
young woman then sat between the two of them. She was dressed as a female
representation of Josh, a television adaptation of a Jane Austen generalisation,
with heavy makeup and facial piercings to help appeal to a younger
demographic.
“Cheers.” Josh and Cameron emptied their glasses together.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” they both cried. Their opinion of ‘Rum’ with the
backwards R was unanimous.
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Hi Jesus? ... yeah it’s Peter here ... great thanks ... just a quick word. He’s writing his next
piece now, but something seems to have come up. It’s this friend of his, I can’t find his name
anywhere. He’s not in the book. ... What book do you think I mean, Jesus? THE book.
The one we keep up at reception. ... Tracey wrote a Macro ... I know, she’s great like that.
Hello, it’s Peter at reception here, I was wondering if I could be put through to someone
familiar with the creative arts ... not really your department, right ... OK, what about acts
of a generally miraculous nature? ... right, well who is available? ... Well, this comes from
the top and I need to speak with- ... yes, THAT Peter, THAT reception. ... Crucified
upside down if you really want know, YES, how good of you to remember. ... So now that
I have your attention, you can start by being more helpful and putting me through to
someone who has experience in writing music of the - hang on, it has a name, here we go,
Contemporary Music in the Classical Tradition ... no, neither had I. Well, who do we
normally use?... Oh him! ... I have his file here now, child prodigy, kidney failure in his
thirties, gambling debts, played cards too. ... Can he write music quickly? ... Great, well I
think that’s our man then. Get him on the line and tell him we go live in ten minutes.”
“Hello, Peter speaking ... YES Hello! ... look, thanks for doing this at such short
notice. ... if you want a job done properly, give it to a German right? ... sorry, Austrian,
actually your file said German. I’ll have Tracey change that when all of this is done. ... Just
waiting for our friend’s file to print. ... At least I thought it was printing. ... Tracey? ...
Did anything come off the printer? ... OK, I’ll try it again! ... So like I was saying, we’re
keeping things running as they normally would with him. He’s just surprised us all by
deciding to write the whole thing in one clump. No, this won’t be a miracle as such. We’re
just maintaining what we like to call ‘A Series of Ongoing Third Tier
Interventions’. It carries a longer maturation time, there’s a lot of coding at our end but
the payoffs are worth it. ... Have you worked with others like this? ... Oh wonderful ...
First card is coming soon. ... Sorry? ... Yes, I’m familiar with the circumstances of your
death ... no you’re right, nothing was done at the time, remember people didn’t live very long
in those days ... well now’s your chance to write it. Have you written much in this style
before? ... it’s called ‘Contemporary Music in the Classical Tradition’, heard much of it? ..
Oh good, I was worried no one had heard of it at all ... OK, I’ve got his details in front of
me now, his name is Cameron Forsyth and - oh you’ve written for him before as well? ...
How long have you been writing for him? ... I wish you said so. Well anyway, just make
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sure that what you write is good. ... One moment, Caller – Tracey, you simply MUST see
this, that page I tried to print, it’s only gone and printed itself on both sides! ... I know,
outrageous! ... Pin that up somewhere so that everyone that arrives gets a good view of it. ...
Sorry, Caller, but when all you have around you is a glorified phone book and a set of
gates to look at, you have to make your own fun. ... Now just make sure you’re always a
few notes ahead of the guy turning the cards over. You write the music and we’ll make sure
the cards match the notes.
“What the fuck is this?” Cameron asked, looking under the glass for the
hole that must have been burnt into it.
“It’s a form of alcohol, and highly effective too.”
“As what? A cheap alternate to ordinary napalm?”
“Brain cells won’t kill themselves you know.”
“Where are Josh’s manner?” Cameron asked. “I’m Jezebel … Josh’s
seamstress.”
“Cameron. His guitarist. We’ve met.”
“Six of clubs.” Josh carried on, not wanting to highlight the fact that he
had so many friends that he couldn’t to keep track of them all.
“Globules, a month or so back.” Cameron avoided looking directly at her.
“You were both at another table conducting business with some other group
of Globulites, so I didn’t intrude.”
“Oh I love, Globules” Jezebel said proudly. “But greetings to you now,
Cameron.” Jezebel said flicking her dyed black horse tail of a hair style
around her face. Hair doesn’t grow as black as that through nature. It didn’t
just look dyed, it looked drawn on with a felt pen, almost wet to the touch.
When it was finally reined in, it parted obliquely across her face, like any good
wig bought over the internet. “That’s a nice name you have, Cameron, I have
a cousin by that name.”
“Two of Diamonds.”
“Does he work for Josh too?” Cameron tilted his head to look up from
his pen and paper.
“No ... the young lady does not.” She replied, gathering Josh’s rings from
the table and placing them in a draw string pouch. All parts of her vintage
corset dress stretched and groaned like the rigging of a ship from the same
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low budget made-for-television period drama, the one where the untrained
American actors spoke like either James Bond or Crocodile Dundee,
depending on their character’s social positioning.
“Right, so he’s a she.” Cameron was still focusing on the task of decoding what Josh was calling out, but he gave Jezebel another look. She had
the whitest skin he had seen on a human being. Even in the relative dim of
Josh’s poorly lit flat, her skin was almost iridescent. The freckles on her face
had been powdered over, but not those on her forearms. She was a ginger in
disguise.
“Five of hearts ... Seven of hearts.”
Jezebel began pouring another glass of nail polish remover and looked at
Cameron like a shopping mall psychic. “Cameron, you do know you have an
androgynous name, don’t you?”
“All thanks to Cameron Diaz. I thought she was the exception, not the
rule.” He looked towards Josh in the hope that he might offer a supporting
statistic in his favour, something made up on the spot and too much trouble
for Jezebel to disprove.
“Queen of Spades.” Not exactly the ultimate argument winner.
“So tell me, Cameron ...” Jezebel went to hand Cameron the newly filled
glass. “... did you ever ask your parents what you might have been named had
you been born a girl?” When Cameron reached for the glass, she kept hold of
it, now staring right into Cameron’s eyes. “Isn’t that one of those things
everyone asks when they’re young?”
“Fine, yes I did.” Cameron fell back slightly when Jezebel released her grip.
“King of diamonds ... four of spades ... nine of diamonds.”
Cameron had never been so pleased to hear Josh’s voice fill a room. He
focused back on his notebook and deciphered the cards Josh had called out.
He still felt Jezebel looking at him when she asked: “What was the name they
would have given you?”
“Hannah.” Cameron replied without missing a beat. He hadn’t heard the
name out loud since he was eight.
“Beautiful name.”
“Ten of diamonds. This isn’t going too fast is it?”
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Cameron wasn’t sure if Josh meant the cards or the psychoanalysis. “I
don’t think I’ll be the best subject anything too deep. I’ve had a less than
normal day.”
“Maybe it’s just the right time.” Jezebel suggested.
“Whatever we do, do we have to do it in silence?” Cameron tried to shift
the focus of attention away from himself. “Josh, shall we put some music on?”
“Go for it.” He answered. “What have you brought this time?”
“Just a few CDs. One second.” Cameron took an unidentified personal
compilation CD from his bag and fed it into Josh’s impressive stereo. For all
the fake antique touches in Josh’s flat; the hat rack, the oval dress mirror and
the chaise lounge which was just a normal couch with one of its arm rests
missing, the stereo was an anomaly. It was modern and plastic, with a digital
display that lit the flat better than its introverted light bulbs, and it could
actually push out sound beyond a ten foot radius. “This is drinking music of
the first order.”
“So, Cameron.” Jezebel rose her voice over a song that originally stored
itself on vinyl, made during an age when it was also the preferred material for
household kitchen floors. “You remembered your name so easily. Have you
ever ...? How best to put it ...” Jezebel pivoted her chair away from Josh and
looked at Cameron with her chin resting on the palms of her hands. “Have
you ever been made up to look like a -”
Jezebel was stopped dead in her tracks. The first song on Cameron’s CD
had ended and the second song had begun, he had been momentarily saved
by the weather that flowed throughout the flat.
“King of Hearts ... Two of - two of - ...” Josh was similarly and
uncharacteristically dumbstruck.
“Josh? Are you going to finish that sentence or what?” Cameron looked
up and saw that both of them were immobilised, momentarily fixed on the
details of the tablecloth, all of them worthy of any psychiatric ward.
“She hasn’t even touched the Rum.” Cameron clicked his fingers in front
of her, but she failed to respond to stimulus. As the music played, he lifted
her index finger off the table and let it slap back down.
“Skip to the next track.” Josh managed an audible whisper. “Skip ... to the
next track.” His voice even lost some of its American accent.
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Cameron dashed across the laminate floor. “Done. It’s done.” Josh and
Jezebel snapped back upright. “What the hell was all -”
“- Cameron.” Josh took a breath. “Promise me you’ll never play that song
ever again.”
Cameron sat back in his chair. Josh and Jezebel both looked at him with
an added degree of seriousness. He had blasphemed. He might as well have
farted in a confessional booth, pissed in the holy water or travelled to AIDS
ridden Africa with a box of condoms and a safe sex manual. Unsure of who
to reassure first, he simply said: “Mental note: No Black Sabbath next time.
Fuck, I never knew some rain and a simple guitar riff would be so
problematic. Where were we?”
“Two of spades.”
“And we’re done.”
Jezebel had moved Cameron into the lounge once his CD had run its
course. She had replaced it with something of her own choosing, an endless
playlist of predictable collages of machine assembled digital sequences. Not a
single note had been physically created in the open air, not a single drum had
been struck by hand, and not a single melody had been brushed onto the
canvas by an artist’s own inherent sense of judgement. It was an argument
between a fax machine, a tube station turnstile and an ATM.
“Now try to close your eyelids, but at the same time, raise your
eyebrows ... good.” Jezebel said, brushing coloured shadow onto Cameron.
“You’ve got nice eyes, by the way.”
“Do I?”
“Lovely and blue, a bit like mine. You mean you haven’t stopped to
notice?”
“I’m a guy, I don’t look for things like that.”
“Well, women do. Shall I get you some shoes for you to try? ... Hannah.”
“Yes, get them.” Cameron demanded. “Get them now.”
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“I’ll bring everything I have.”
Josh walked into the living room with his period accurate suspenders still
looping over his pinstripes, the Victorian equivalent of matching ‘Wigger
Chains’. “Good luck with that musical travesty we created.” Josh said handing
Cameron one of the two glasses he was carrying.
“Yeah, totally. Three ... Two ... “
“One!” And they drank. “So what are you going to call it?”
‘The Unpredictability of Random Events’ ... sounds very academic. ... How did everything
else go? ... nice ... so the music wasn’t difficult to write? ... even easier you say? ... uh huh ...
uh huh ... Oh, one thing before you go, just some legal nonsense ... you don’t own the
copyright to this piece, nor will your name ever be associated with it. Intellectual copyright
belongs to Cameron Forsyth while on earth. All rights to the distribution and sale in all
mediums including digital download and live performance are reserved and may only be
rescinded with the express written consent of both respective above mentioned parties. ...
Yes? ... Well I’m not entirely sure, we do have a department that deals with jobs similar to
this, I can flick them a copy of your CV and work experience ... you’ll need to go through
a bit of paperwork with them ... oh nothing too serious ... a background check ... maybe a
typing test ... have you heard of the Myers Briggs Personality Test? ... well you’ll need to do
one of those ... to help you get a foot in the door, you might like to consider a touch typing
course and getting a basic handle on alpha numeric data entry. ... I’ll keep looking out for
you but things are a little quiet right now and there’s plenty of uncertainty in the market
place what with the current state of global affairs and all this talk of economic uncertainty
and- ... Hello? ... are you still there? ... Hello, can you hear me?... Tracey, there’s nothing
wrong with our phone line is there? ... because he just hung up on me ... that’s never
happened before.
Jesus! Hi, Peter here ... all done. I think we nailed it. Artists though, a funny bunch I
must say. That guy we used, he even sounded a little ungrateful, still a bit bitter about his
kidneys giving out in his thirties ... I know, that’s what I told him. But I must say though,
he had a nice taste in music. ... I’ve just come off the phone with him and there was a cello
line playing in the background and it sounded wonderful ... better than wonderful even. ...
Would ‘inspired’ be too strong a term? ... No I didn’t ask him for the name of it, wish I
did. If only I could have heard it better too, there was this noise in the background, like
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something I’ve never heard. It sounded like ... like there was a women’s volleyball team
training in the background ... huffing and puffing, groaning and slapping. ... Oh you know
it well then!? ... Is that what is was? Riiiight ... I always thought we recalled it. ... right ...
right ... One other thing, Jesus? ... call me a bit old fashioned and a bit set in my ways,
but ... well, what about this whole business with the women’s clothes? Where do we stand
on that? ... Yes, THAT Joshua! Exactly ... should we be at all worried? ... Jesus? ... are
you OK? ... Mary? ... Sure, hold the line ...
“You’re right, they take a bit of getting used to.” Cameron’s feet were
shaking in his first experience in a pair of heels.
“Better sit down, once I’ve finished tying you in.” Jezebel was binding
Cameron into a corset dress with her knee in his back, the contractions
getting stronger. “They’ll feel just as good on your feet sitting.”
“In a corset?” Cameron ran out of breath. “Is that even ... possible?”
“Just keep your back straight and try to breathe slower.”
Cameron sounded like old floorboards when he sat himself down on the
fashionably threadbare sofa. The corset pinched him in half like a wasp, but
the heels fit his feet perfectly.
All the while, Josh had been lurking in the background happy to see what
a seamstress and a guitarist could do to kill the time. “All going well?” He
asked as he poked his head into the lounge, making no effort to direct the
question to either of them in particular. “I’ll just be on the phone, to my
solicitor.” Even though he lived in a dusty three bedroom flat on the damp
side of a hill on the edge of inner city Wellington, Josh still needed legal
counsel.
“Does this solicitor of yours ... actually exist? Or is ... he just a business
card ... in your pocket?” Cameron said between breaths. “The straps ... I’m
noticing them now.” Cameron flexed the arches of his feet, the leather base
rubbed back at him. A buckle pinched his skin but he liked it, ‘this must be
what real women go through’, he thought as he leaned forward with a
painfully straight back holding his elbows and knees together. Jezebel saw
him smile.
“Up!” Jezebel walked towards him, holding out her hands. “Try to stand
again, but this time, listen to the music. You won’t wobble this time. I
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promise.”
Cameron listened to the musical hypnosis. “You’re right. Both feel
different.” Cameron stood firmer, shoulders went back, his hands rested on
his navel and one hip took high ground over the other. “But is it the music
doing it to the clothes or is it the clothes that are doing it to the music?”
Jezebel reached out for Cameron’s hands, like any good marionette. “Now
close your eyes.”
Doing as he was told, he stood with his feet crossed on a tight rope
swaying with her. His physiology now altered from the ground up, he talked
to his new friend and no one would corrupt her from him. Feeling Jezebel’s
hands, Cameron and Hannah were together at last.
“Finally!” ... “Sorry to have kept you waiting all these years.” ... “All that
matters is that I’m here now.” ... “I’m sure we’ll have time to get to know each
other.” ... “what do we do now?” ... “To be honest, I don’t know, it’s been a
long day.”
“WHOA!” ... “Careful” ... “Nearly fell over, stop doing that!” ... “Stop doing
what?” ... “Just focus on the music playing in the room, not what’s playing in your head,
otherwise we’ll fall over.” ... “Sorry, I didn’t -” ... “Well, just don’t drift from it. Save
that other stuff for your own time.” ... “Can we balance this somehow?” ... “Not
with shaved arms, plucked eyebrows and earring studs. That comes next. You’ll either keep
it a secret and look awful, or look decent but be known everywhere you go.” ... “Will my
family understand?” ... “You don’t need them to. But, you can’t just tell some of them.
To tell one is to tell them all. People are tolerant, but only when it’s someone else’s son,
brother, cousin or nephew. And you might not be allowed near any of the children.” ...
“Will anyone understand?” ... “Unlikely. You’ll be a freak in the eyes of conservatives,
a conversation starter for apathetic normal people and a lifestyle trophy friend to bleeding
heart liberals and leaflet radicals. And good luck getting a girlfriend. To every girl you meet,
you’ll be that ‘friend who dresses’ and they aren’t looking for that.”
Cameron felt a natural melody run through his head. He had needed one
last hit. So not surprisingly, and not for the last time, Cameron and Hannah
lost their balance. Falling to his side, he thumped into the padding of Josh’s
unconvincing antique chaise longue. With the feeling of Jezebel’s fingers on
his, he waited for her to fall on top of him, but when he opened his eyes, he
was alone. Jezebel had vanished and all Cameron had was a female voice in
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his head.
“What an educational evening we’ve had.” Josh said slouching into a wing
back chair.
Cameron drunkenly writhed around on the dusty carpet of Josh’s lounge
like a family pet with an itch it couldn’t scratch. “I think I’ll ... er ... yeah.” He
eventually performed a passable effort at detaching the two halves of the
corset and loosened the straps, buckles and every other piece of makeshift
rigging that had kept him restrained. “I think I need to go home, it’s been a
long day.” Cameron said, stretching himself back into a beetle shaped male.
“So, do I just leave all these things here for her?”
“I’m sure she won’t mind if you held onto them for a while. You seem
quite keen on them.”
Cameron lumbered his way home with a bag on each shoulder. One held
what he hoped would be the worst piece of music ever made, but would only
help him write an obituary for the only thing he had ever cared for. The other
contained a kit set persona for a live-in blow up doll, a proxy ambition and a
readymade excuse to avoid who and what he cared for most. Music hung
from one shoulder and Hannah sat proudly on the other, one falling silent as
the other learnt to speak. Neither would be seen in the same place at the
same time.
“I could have looked better.” ... “I know, I guess I’ll need to work on that.” ...
“And do you have to keep singing to yourself?” ... “Sorry, but I like to carry my
music around with me where ever I go.” ... “One of the many things we’ll need to
work on.”
Back in his present day mind, Cameron could only picture Jane, living in
her own fake world, responding to the desires of others, her true path in life
unclear to her. Her own impulses and her need for gratification having
diverted her from music and into a life as a common sexual service provider.
While a score needed settling between him and Josh, Jane had to be rescued.
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The hard way, the way he had rescued Becca.
But Jane lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, choosing as always to listen
to the music.
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Chapter Sixteen:
Meaningful Pieces of Paper
(Year: 10 A.D.)
Cameron stood in front of a partly opened door wearing dark glasses and
a haircut skilfully short enough to be considered a haircut but not well
enough that it might be called a style. It was 6pm and he was right on time.
He had phoned them, emailed, and pursued those of the finest quality. He
had visited them, hosted them and purchased them out of natural male
impulse. He was more nervous than he had been the night he burst out of an
Edinburgh front door for the first time grappling at clothes that were not his.
But he was as ready as he could be for what he needed to do.
Cameron pushed the apartment door further with a knuckle and stepped
inside.
She was sitting as she waited for him, reclining in a lounge chair in a small
but adequate living room. Her hair had given up the losing battle and had
finally yielded to a hairdresser skilled in the hedge trimming arts. Her glasses
had been retired for contact lenses and she appeared to have put on the
amount of weight all normal women do when moving from 20 to 30 years of
age. But her smile was timeless and still wider than the face that hosted it. It
almost seemed genuine and Cameron did well not to smile back.
As she uncrossed her legs and pushed herself out of the chair, Cameron
had to remind himself that despite appearances and the surge of nostalgia
that now hit him, he was looking at a phantom, a forgery and an imposed
identity. Jane was living underneath that fake veneer, made out of another
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person’s will.
Jane walked towards him for the customary ‘business first’ phase of their
appointment. Cameron’s hands clenched inside his jacket pockets, in one was
an envelope with the agreed fee while in the other, he held an airtight plastic
shopping bag. He would hand her the envelope first. She inspected it and
seemed happy. “Mind if I put something on?” she asked.
“Wear as much as you like.” Cameron replied with a slight English
inflection to help disguise his voice.
Jane laughed. “I meant music. Do you mind?”
“There’ll be time for that after. When I’m done.”
“Please. I insist.” Jane tapped on a remote control and filled the apartment
with sound. It was the sound of horse hair dragging across cat gut suspended
over a resonant wooden frame. The melodies were packed with silences,
skilfully placed pockets of air, human variations in tempo and shifts in
dynamic. There was amplitude, magnitude and attitude.
As comparable as Jane was to Amanda from London, she had a face
Cameron could not objectify. But now he had to, just this once. He was only
here for her. He had to free her.
“Tell me, Typhanny -”
“It’s Jane.” She moved nearer. “Typhanny ... that’s just the name I put in
the paper. Privacy.” Jane soon had her hands on Cameron’s chest and moving
upwards. “Please, it’s not even sunny outside.” Both sets of hands were now
locked in place over Cameron’s sunglasses, which refused to budge. As the
two of them held their pose, Jane smiled again out of bemusement, this
wasn’t the first social cripple she had hosted but she couldn’t remember
anyone being so protective of something as meaningless as seasonal eyewear.
“Not my Jane.” Cameron muttered as the cello rambled its own stream of
consciousness. His hands became weak and his poorly constructed disguise
came down.
When she saw him, she did not leap back. She slowly pulled her hands to
herself, but did not cover up. Politely stepping back, Jane squinted and took a
moment to study Cameron’s face. After all, her ten years had lasted just as
long as Cameron’s. She managed the slightest of smiles despite the list of
questions she must have had.
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Cameron put his hands back into his jacket pockets but lacked the
necessary will to brandish anything. Rustling the air tight plastic bag, he tried
to walk nearer, but could not move even one measure while the cello was
busy finding its own solo catharsis. It was a singular melody, not the packed
cathedral choir full of voices or the multi layered orchestra under its
conductor’s command.
Plan A was looking decidedly shaky. Reaching for a Plan B, all he could do
was preach from a subjective position. “Years of practice and study and you
end up here. This is no one’s calling. “
“Do you know where everyone from our year at music school is right
now?”
“Hadn’t thought about it.”
“Call centres, reception desks, supermarket checkouts, restaurants, cafés,
warehouses and fucking bookshops. The lucky ones work in arts
administration.” Jane stood firm, crossing her arms. It didn’t work as a
defensive gesture as it only added to her sex appeal. “And two decided not to
leave the education system at all, still stuck on the island.”
“But there’s something more fulfilling that you’re ignoring.”
“A career in music? What do you want me to do ... take up the more
wholesome job of struggling cello teacher? Going from one audition at a
pathetically underfunded and unrecognised orchestra to another ... only to
watch some 16 year old in a short skirt sing one verse and one chorus from a
meaningless pop song ... so Joshua fucking Carmichael can make another
million off her ... they’re the real whores and people like Josh are their pimps.
I’m using sex to sell sex, but they’re using sex to sell music ... and using music
to sell anything from anyone willing to purchase the advertising space.”
“Could you put some more clothes on before we have an intellectual
discussion about all this?”
“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed? This is my home and if I’m
arousing you the wrong way, then that’s your issue. And anyway, what
wonderfully fulfilling jobs did you have when you were overseas? While not
being a whore.”
“Offices mainly.” Cameron paused to reflect. “Fuck all an hour to stop a
screen saver from appearing on a computer monitor for a bank that paid
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seven digit bonuses to its managers, the same year they convinced their
governments to give them a twelve digit bailout.”
“Who was fucking who there? I wonder.”
“More recently, I helped a multi-national sell a generic chemical to a
global audience of millions so that their own bodies could produce the
chemical that actually does the work. Earnt a fortune.”
“Not exactly the moral high ground then is it?” Jane sat back down on her
lounge chair. While she might have been the one looking up, she was the one
in control. “Would you say it’s any better than what I do? You’ve paid for this
before.”
“Once or twice.”
Jane laughed. “Men never do it just once or twice. It’s always fine when it’s
someone else’s daughter or sister or niece or whatever the hell I am to you.
But did you see Harvey Keitel at the door when you came in? This isn’t Taxi
Driver. No one is keeping me here. I own this place, and I keep everything
that’s left over after tax. Who’d you live with in the UK? The virgin fucking
Mary?”
“I’m not an adulterer.” Cameron said, assuming that his claim was true
but then he thought of those fanciers from Loops. He’d seen many a
wedding ring clink against the cheap alco-pop they used to buy for him and
he had felt those gold band cold on his skin as they all played make believe.
“I don’t ask why they are here and they don’t tell me.” Jane said looking at
Cameron, still updating her image of him. “I don’t judge them for being
married, that’s between them and someone else.”
Cameron finally managed to move off his spot and took a gentle walk
around Jane’s living room. Apart from the sounds that still circled, he couldn’t
sense anything from Jane’s musical past. “OK then, Miss Balanced, where’s
your old cello?”
“Come.” Jane stood up and led him to another door. As she did, Cameron
caught himself looking her up and down again in delicious three dimensions.
Her frame rate was smooth and her pixel count was off the chart.
Jane looked like the women men painted onto the sides of vintage
bombers. Vintage style lingerie in off-white with a high waistband and solid
cups worthy of grande lattes. She was not, nor would she ever be the
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magazine definition of 21st century beauty. Her body was not the kind to be
handed a bar code, an adult content warning and a plastic foil; or force fed an
eating disorder, a drug habit and return directions to the front of the nearest
catwalk. Her looks were her own and she worked with what she had. Any
genetic asymmetry served as her own ‘strangeness in the proportion’,
irregular genes being those cards left out of the pack, ensuring uniqueness
and the avoidance of bland perfection.
Walking into Jane’s bedroom, Cameron honestly expected and desperately
wanted to see a room void of personal touches containing only the most
obvious of sex industry clichés. But there were no mirrors, no coloured light
bulbs and no red lace curtains hanging over the bed like mosquito nets
designed to keep the diseases at bay.
Instead, a bust of Mozart sat on one nightstand while Beethoven gave
him a knowing glance from the other. Well-thumbed and yellowed editions of
required repertoire filled a bending bookcase, and the walls were lined with
pages of scripture, musical scripture. Manuscripts belonging to famous works,
skewed, not corner to corner and quantised, but patched together with an
artist’s hurried genius. Verse after verse and chapter after chapter from the
apostles themselves.
Jane stood in the centre of her bedroom room, happy to let the walls do
the talking. Not having seen a musical score in years, Cameron walked slowly
towards a section just to touch one of its pages, like it were an unfamiliar
animal. He too used to coat the walls of his own bedroom with manuscript
during his student days, but he had chosen to tear them down years ago
during his act of apostasy.
“All cello pieces?” Cameron asked rhetorically as he pressed his finger
against the wall, which softly pushed back. The sheets must have been four or
five layers thick. To some, a padded cell; to others, a sanctuary.
A Brahms cello sonata fluttered until it was caught in the firmer structures
of Bach only to escape again in the guise of just another Beethoven
masterpiece. Dvorák’s career defining concerto watched it all from the
opposing wall.
Jane was living around music and her love of music. She didn’t read over
lines of musical genius just to escape the reality of life, or play it just to numb
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herself to the reality of her station. She was letting music into her life to
enhance and beautify her own small part of the world. Surely the aim of
anyone so musically inclined.
Jane’s cello hung on the wall, posing at eye level, proudly overlooking the
bed she would lie on by the hour. Not a grain of dust marred the polished
naked and bronzed body, standing with its dignity intact. An average
instrument, well used, well-loved and appreciated, mortal, but living a life it
would always remember. It was not the vintage Stradivarius that locked itself
in a vacuum, sealed in a state of constant preservation never to breathe in the
open atmosphere, hiding from the outside world, waiting for the right buyer
to magically appear. Jane’s cello was as virginal as she was.
“So you play music in here as well?” Cameron scratched the grill of one
of the small but modern stereo speakers that were bolted to the walls. He
could only state the painfully obvious.
“Clients like it. I like it too.”
“What kind of music?” Again, only the stupidest questions were
forthcoming.
“Real music. Classical mostly. The music I grew up with and the music I
relate to the most.” Jane took a robe from a cupboard and wrapped herself in
it sparing Cameron from further embarrassment.
“But the two of them together like this. How?”
“I’m not afraid of either of them. I’m not afraid because I know what
each one is. Some people can’t handle music, while there are some that can’t
handle sex. You have to give in to each of them. You have to experience
them before you can make up your mind.”
“You would never have got on very well with my old flatmate. You would
have fought, like sex and religion.” Cameron stood in front of Jane’s cello,
resting his finger on the top of the question mark shaped scroll.
“I’ve made up with music.” Jane continued. “It is what it is and I am what
I am. I play the cello -”
“Fucking well too.” Cameron stood with his back to Jane, dragging his
index fingers down the length of the cello’s neck.
“- and I listen to the music of the past, without the pressure to be
anything. Now I’m just a devoted listener and a private worshipper. I don’t
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preach it, I don’t evangelise and I don’t judge others for their inferior tastes.
I’ll never have a nice thing to say about religion or radio pop, just as the
religious and the fake will never have a nice thing to say about me.”
“But she feels the same as you.” His hands held the edges of the cello’s
rounded body and sat comfortably on its waist. “She believes in the personal
experience. Whether it’s love, or music or faith; they are experienced at the
individual level. And in that moment of personal experience, there is
objective value. When you make something into an industry, you kill it. Music,
faith or sex. When you use them to sell something else, you kill them. They
stop being art, virtue or love, and instead become gratification, judgement
and pornography.” Cameron touched his forehead against the scroll and
closed his eyes. “Why didn’t you follow me?”
“When you got up to leave the bar that night, I got up too.” Jane
answered but the question had been phrased not just for her. “But your
‘friend’ ...” This time, Jane did make the uncharacteristic and sarcastic physical
punctuation. “... told me he would handle it. Told me you were going to come
back in. Told me you would contact me when you got settled in the UK. That
was the last time I talked to him. He didn’t tell you that bit, did he?”
“There’s a lot he didn’t tell me. He was just making sure he got his way.”
Cameron replied. “Just in case I changed my mind. I thought I needed to
leave without any links to home, and Josh made sure that included you. I was
his to own and his to use.”
“That guy’s been running your life. He’s your pimp and you’re his whore.
He manipulates religious belief, he manipulates sexual desire and now he’s
even working his magic in the music industry.” Jane sat down on the bed and
leaned back. “It’s people like him that are killing music. But they can’t touch
me in here.”
Cameron joined Jane on the edge of the bed, feeling the surface that had
played host to so many on its regular open mic nights. Same female vocalist,
different male microphone.
Lying flat, Cameron saw another familiar sight, still more pages of
manuscript, but these were exquisitely hand written. “Are those mine?” He
asked.
“You always produced the best -”
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“- wallpaper. Speaking of old scores ... musical scores, student
compositions, your own compositions ... not, you know.”
“Yeah I get it.”
“Do you still have your old compositions from Uni?”
“All that old music school stuff is at Mum and Dad’s place in Hamilton.
Maybe in a box full of junk at home.”
“Find that box. There’s a score to a particular piece of music that’s
currently trapped inside a commercially recalled gang bang involving a
talentless all girl pop group in a five star hotel room in Europe. They’re the
most valuable pieces of paper in the world.”
“What’s so great about them?”
“It’s proof that you need to go back into music.”
“And proof that you’re right?”
“It’s proof that you wrote the greatest piece of music I have ever heard.
It’s a life changer and more people need to hear it. Whatever you say about all
this ...” Cameron felt the bed covers like it were the soil of a foreign planet.
“... you need to acknowledge your ... other talents. You need to find … the
Waikato Scrolls.”
“When do you need them by?”
“As soon as you can give them to me.”
“Wellington to Hamilton is a bit of a road trip.”
“But I saw your car keys in the other room. You’ll be back in no time.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Jane grinned in admission. “I drive an Audi.”
“An A4 too, I’ll bet.”
“How did you guess?”
“I just thought you would be the one to appreciate comfort and handling
at a sensible entry level price bracket.”
“You’re right there. But it’s also friendly on the environment. Which is
surprising given -”
“- how firm it feels on the road.” Cameron joined in to create the perfect
unison. Jane then thumbed a remote control.
“Speaking of German precision, is that Bach?” Cameron asked.
“Johann Sebastian.”
“Sweet.”
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“Suite number four.”
And for an hour, they stared at the ceiling and chose only to listen to the
music.
“I could go a beer.” Cameron stated as he pulled himself away from
Bach’s loving grasp. This was the longest Cameron had spent voluntarily
listening to music in ten years. But for the music, it was an hour of pure
silence and mental solitude; no rhythmic tapping of a friend’s persuasive
opinions and without the backing track of society’s expectations. “Queen
Vic?”
“Give me two minutes while I change into something not so immoral.”
“Do you have a bin for this?” Cameron asked emptying the redundant
plastic bag from his jacket pocket.
“What kind of deranged mind takes a plastic bag to a sex appointment?”
“OK, I think things have gone just about far enough.” Cameron declared
on arrival. It was hoped that ten years could have been further thawed out in
the familiar piss stinking goodness that was their beloved Queen Victoria, but
even the Queen had sold out. The global movement towards style over
substance had now added acts of regicide to its bloated résumé
“What kind of pathetic name for a pissatorium is Bistro 102?” Jane asked
in full earshot of the roaming waitress - a tender, lean strip of veal, with a
soft complexion, wrapped in a black uniform and lightly seasoned by a
perfect smile. Obviously a student.
“I get it.” Cameron huffed as he felt the Queen’s fake red brick walls.
“They’re trying to be clever. The street address is 102 and it’s in the student
district, so they’ve made it to look like the name of an academic paper.”
“Oh, the creativity. Even the menu looks like a degree certificate.” Jane
began to read through the appetisers the way a five year old reads quantum
physics. “What the hell is ‘Garlic bread under seasoned hexagons of roast
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tomato and pesto’?”
“I can reliably inform you that pesto is an olive based concoction one eats
when attempting to look knowledgeable. Vinaigrette is a mixture of vinegar,
herbs and your choice of canola, olive or soya bean oil. A roux on the other
hand -”
“You learnt that while you were finding yourself did you? Sorry, Cam, but
I want a fucking sandwich followed by a fucking beer.” A diner with an acute
sense of taste and a heightened sense of hearing sniffed in response to Jane’s
verbal starter.
“Then you’ll be wanting ...” Cameron ran his expert eye over the menu. “...
the ‘Tablet of sirloin beef under nestled inside of freshly baked rye bread
with accompanying sesame seeds, caramelised shallots and julienne
asparagus’.”
“Who the fuck is Julian Asparagus? Was he in our year at school?”
“And it’s not spaghetti anymore, apparently it’s ‘Spinach and ricotta
seasoned with tomato and basil on a nest of homemade pasta’, lovingly
garnished with an inflated price tag.”
“Grilled bread as a side order? Let me guess, that’s toast, right?”
“You’re picking this up just fine. But, the moral of the story is that this
place is near full. Where we’re sitting now, weren’t they the old toilets?”
Cameron asked, adjusting the jacket on his chair.
“And the stage is now the bar and where the old bar was is now used for
those uncomfortable looking wicker seats. Don’t know where the actual
toilets are.”
“I imagine they have a place for the marinating of porcelain concaves
with salt infused urate vinaigrettes and the poaching of lean fillets of recycled
protein.”
“What’s that photo supposed to be of ?” Jane pointed to the now
obligatory black and white progressively out of focus depictions of
accessories to the customer’s self-image. A fellow patron looked over with the
standard ‘imagine having to ask’ look on his face.
“I believe that is an action shot of flour being sieved. Behind you is a
similar one involving dough being rolled.” Cameron replied.
“When did that all start?”
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“It started in Edinburgh about five years ago. First it was cutlery, then it
moved on to body parts and now it’s come back to kitchenware. Put a frame
around it and you can sell it as art, put it on a menu and people will call it
cuisine, give it tits and people will think she can sing, teach it at a university
and people will call it an education.”
“And why do I have two knives and two forks? I’m not Vishnu.”
“Are we ready to order?” A waitress teleported in front of them and asked
with the aim of subduing their cynicism.
“Yes.” Jane began. “I’ll have the ... spinach fetu-seen?”
“- fettuccine -” A different self-elevated food critic corrected Jane out of
reflex.
“- with brazed onions and baby carrots on a bed of -”
“- She’ll have the pasta and I’ll have the crab, thanks.” Cameron forwent
any encyclopaedic run down of its fundamental ingredients and atomic
composition.
The immaculate waitress with the same hairstylist as Hitler snapped the
menus together and began to goose step her way through the dining room.
“Oh, waitress?” Jane called out. Bistro 102’s ranking officer spun on her
heels and stopped to attention at their table. “What ... er ... beers do you
have?” With the rattling of cutlery and the sniffing of higher tastes, Bistro
102 sounded like a group of teenagers spray painting their own status
symbols onto the outside walls, to the disgust of so-called normal people.
Someone had asked for beer in a plastic fabricated bistro with aspirations of
emulating what it had seen on that pinnacle of culture - the television.
Customers with palates cultivated by cable food and lifestyle channels and
every DVD Gordon Ramsay and Jamie Oliver had ever released had been
slighted by a simple customer request for a form of alcohol that suffered
from negative cultural associations. For decades in New Zealand, beer was
the sticky substance you felt under your feet as you walked across a crowded
rugby club rooms. It soaked into the expired betting slips that confidently
predicted events that had failed to materialise, like the bullshit promises of
those at the other end of the glass.
The walls, the floors and the black and white photography were sanitised
and disinfected to the point that they could not support organic life or any
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other kind of culture. One could even have eaten off the staff members. On
another day, Cameron might have seen that as a challenge worth undertaking,
purely for the sake of scientific enquiry of course.
“I think I’ve just figured out why this place is so popular.” Cameron
pointed Jane to one of the flat screen TVs that had been pinned to a pretend
brick wall.
Each of the three flat screen TVs inside The Queen Victoria - sorry,
Bistro 102 - were switched on and were holding their audience captive. It was
the much anticipated finale of Pro-Chef Australia. Corporate Shane was
about to go head to head with housewife Margo, both of whom had their
eyes fixed firmly on the prize of making it in the food industry. 26 other
hopeful mediocrities had fallen by the wayside and had returned to their
boring lives in offices, classrooms, households and assembly plants.
Open mouthed like household goldfish, the patrons stared at the glass
with only token animation. 10 years ago, the old Queen Vic customers would
do something similar, but they didn’t need a television to help them.
Inebriated on escape then, now they were being dumbed down by that media
invented term for fantasy we refer to as ‘reality’.
“So many shows on TV revolve around something the viewer can’t
actually sense.” Out of habit, Cameron disregarded the waitress as she placed
his plate. “Everyone is a food critic now and anyone with a frying pan is a
chef. You can’t sense food through a TV, but look at them … they’re
watching porn, trying to associate themselves with a celebrity chef and a load
of do-it-yourself Michelin star bollocks.”
“I always thought it was Mitch-a-lin.” Jane shifted her napkin and
rearranged the table presentation thinking it was helping the waitress place
her plate. “The tyre company, it sounded as plausible as the Tony Awards
being sponsored by Tony’s Tyre Service.”
“It is the tyre company, but you say it Mee-sha-larn. Ask everyone in this
place what a Michelin star is and they’ll know, but they would never have
eaten the kind of food that deserves one.”
“Just playing make-believe.”
“They all have a vicarious eating disorder. They want it but they can’t have
it. They’ll never taste it, feel it, eat it or smell it. But they’ll still be obsessed by
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it.”
“So what I’m eating now ... is it any good?”
“It’s alright.” Cameron lifted and separated elements of his dish like a
pathologist. “Look at them. Delusional. Hearing what they want to hear.
Believing what they want to believe and confusing the imaginary voices in
their heads for the truth.”
“So what is the truth then?”
“For them, it’s whatever the likes of Josh want them to believe. But for
me, it’s the fact that you’re a genius.”
Bistro 102 fell silent. The judges’ verdicts were due on the contestants’
starters. Malcolm, a fat and straight - but gay dressing - man proclaiming to
be a widely hated food critic took a bite from Shane’s dish. All mouths in
Bistro 102 gapped open and saliva glands tightened sympathetically, if only
they could taste the dish through the TV screen, but Malcolm refused to
regurgitate it down the camera lens. They were hanging collectively on every
pretentious description for a substance that in 24 hours would be just as
much shit as the words used to describe it.
“Shane?” The food critic started with a look on his face suggesting he had
both ejaculated and defecated into his pants in one clean movement.
Shane looked ahead like a condemned man. The polished hardwood
studio floor contained no trap doors, but Shane feared for his very life.
Previously eliminated contestants looked on from the surrounding balcony,
feeling every muscle contraction. The biggest obstacle that stood in Shane’s
path was the subjective opinion of someone who had spent a few short years
crafting a public image through the considerable eating and discussing of
food, but little time actually spent creating it. With his career carved out in
London, he had returned to his home country with stories from abroad that
had easily substituted for actual knowledge. Malcolm was a fourth tier
Unconscious Bullshitter of the highest calibre.
“... that Shane ... is to die for.”
“What would he know about dying?” Cameron interrupted as he tried to
avoid a glance from one of the TVs.
All those on the studio balcony and in Bistro 102 shared Shane’s relief.
The next judge to savour Shane’s starter was the obligatory hardnosed ‘bad
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cop’ executive chef with the no nonsense attitude.
“To doy for indoyd.” He said bouncing on his toes, with a series of hand
gestures better suited to National Sign Language Week. “The meeksture of
floyvas and spoycees. Shoyne ... thees eez a Troyumpf. With a capital Toy!”
Shane’s story was relatively simple. He had been desperate for a change of
lifestyle and was willing to give up his career for a new start, he had prayed
night and day for his chance at a new life and there he was, face to face with
his moment of truth.
The live footage cut away to a biopic piece of Shane rolling dough, slicing
apples, whisking this and grinding that. Some reverb infused new age
sentimental ambience, coated in a glaze of classical strings on a bed of pure
banality ran its course as Shane drizzled his voice liberally over it. His onscreen self looked to the Sydney skyline and to the horizon just past it. Every
contestant had told a similar life story and Shane’s would sound straight
forward, even banal to anyone that heard it. All except one.
“I was on my OE in the UK when I was working at this firm. My colleagues were all
nice people, but somewhere deep down I felt like I just wasn’t one of them. Subconsciously, I
felt I could be so much more. Then one day, my line manager walks up to my desk with
something he thought I needed to see. It was just some meaningless email he needed a paper
copy of for the hard file. He’d shown it to another of his colleagues and the two of them
could hardly stop laughing all day. They even pinned it to the notice board as the current
front runner for the most interesting thing that had ever happened anywhere near their office.
All it was was a page that had managed to print itself on both sides. That was all they
were getting carried away about, a double sided piece of paper. THAT was the moment. It
was THEN that I said to myself: ‘You know what Shane? ... I think it’s time we found
out what we’re really on this earth for. If we don’t do this now, we never will.’ Who knows
what really happened? Maybe some idiot was just playing a prank that day and put the
page back inside the printer ...”
“Turn the fucking sound up!” Cameron yelled at the head waiter. The
other patrons looked at him as if during the Queen’s Christmas Day speech
he had heckled: ‘show us ya titties!’.
“... but it was that simple piece of paper that changed my life forever.”
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“Cam, what’s going on?” Jane asked cutting her ‘fettu-seen’ into pieces
that she could fit onto a spoon. “I thought you -”
“Shhh. I know this guy. Well actually, I’ve never met him in my life. But
he’s going to win it. I know it.”
“Well, he’s picked Lamb Vindaloo with stuffed Paper Dosa for his main ...”
The same customer who was blessed with the ability to say ‘fettuccine’
correctly couldn’t help but interfere. He dared to question Cameron’s
knowledge. “... which is a bugger to get right and given the pressure situation,
I don’t like his chances.”
“Have you tried cooking it before?” Cameron asked smelling blood.
“No, but a friend of mine -”
“Have you eaten it before?”
“No, but I know this guy who -”
“Then see this?” Cameron held his thumb and forefinger a millimetre
apart in front of him.
“Yeah what’s that?”
“That’s exactly how much fuck I give for your opinions, mate.”
“... So I left Edinburgh and after some soul searching I discovered my first passion in
life - cooking. As a child, I had always loved cooking alongside my Mother on weekends.
But I just forgot about it when adulthood arrived. There was never a shortage of other
people to tell me what to do. Going to the UK to seek my fortune sounded great at the time,
but you just never know what you’re going to leave behind when you decide to chase
something else. So I thank God for that moment in that office.”
“Christians.” Jane snapped. “There’s always one isn’t there?”
“Hear him out. They’re not all lunatics.”
“... I don’t think I would be standing here in the Pro-Chef kitchen on grand final night
were it not for the actions of others, and of course that simple life changing piece of paper.”
The two contestants were then seen live, chopping and peeling and boiling
and blanching and roasting and searing and dicing and splicing. You name it,
they were doing it, anything to make them look like the pros they were not.
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But true to prediction, Shane looked to have bitten off more than he
could chew with his choice of dish. It was in fact an overly ambitious
decision, given the pressured environment of a televised cook off. With all
the advanced techniques and processes laid out before him on his tablet
computer, he had forgotten one of the simplest of tasks. Shane looked up
through the harsh studio lights, and to the mezzanine floor where his friends,
family and fellow contestants were looking on.
“What is it, Shane?” Tawnee asked from the balcony out of genuine
support. She was the most recently eliminated contestant, her fate having
been sealed with an under-seasoned duck breast and some unimaginative
presentation. Her dream of establishing a global empire of organic food
stores would have to wait another day, and probably indefinitely until the
world’s population comes down by 50% to allow for such a purist approach
to something as simple as nutrition.
“I forgot to soak the lentils.” Shane sighed. A medley of groans came
from all corners of Bistro 102. Not soaking the lentils? Hanging is too good
for him. “Any ideas, Tawnee?”
“Contestants, you have just foyve minutes to ployte up and present your
moyn course!” Looks of concern were exchanged on all fronts. Surely
Shane’s God would not abandon him within inches of his goal; to implant
the desire, to inspire him, to motivate him, only to leave him jilted at the altar.
The fastidious and technically more accomplished Margo raced back into
action, grating some finishing touches. Shane was unmoved with his head and
hands stuck to the marble kitchen top.
“Shoyne? What are yoyl doyn? Shoyne? You all royt, moyt!?”
Shane, with no other option, tried his luck with the first voice in his head
he could find.
Hello and welcome to Heaven, you are speaking with ... um ... Peter how may I help you
as I look across the lovely vista of the Sydney skyline. ... No, I am afraid that I cannot put
you through to God at this current point in time, may I try another extension for you? ...
One moment please, Caller, I shall find out who is available for you. ... Hello there, Caller? ... yes, I have talked with my supervisor ... no my supervisor is not God, nor is God my
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line manager or my line director. It seems that you are calling to speak to someone extremely senior in the organisation and at such short notice ...
... I might however be able to help, but I will need to know one or two things first ... what is
your chosen faith? ... I see, and how devout a Christian would you say you are? ... quite
devout? I see ... Have you considered upgrading your belief to a more modernised, efficient
and broadly encompassing faith system? ... No, no it’s nothing like that at all. We call it
our Faith Consolidation Policy and it’s really quite simple. ... Hello, Caller? ... I’m sorry
one moment please, Caller, there is a lot of noise in the office. Some one seems to have left
the television on ... and as you know, it can get a little bit hectic in any office on a Friday
night in Australia as I again look across Sydney harbour for a lovely view of the House of
Opera.
... And what is your name? ... Shane ... what a wonderful Australian name you have, may
I call you Shoyne? ... I am very sorry, it shall be Shane then ... once we are finished with
the processing at my end, Shane, you will be entitled to contact and receive guidance from
those representing Mohammed, Buddha, Vishnu, Zeus, Apollo, Maui and Joseph Smith
should your preferred prayer target not be immediately available. We call it our Roaming
Faith Service. ... I am sorry, Shane, what did you just say? ... you are an actual
Christian? ... I am sorry I had assumed that you were- ... no, I meant that- ... please
Shane, I must ask you to calm down. You are talking to me in a way that reminds me of
the way our common ancestors were fired at by the Turkish army on those beaches of
Gallipoli. S’truth and lest we forget ...
... all I am asking from you is a simple statement to the effect that you are willing to accept
the validity of all faiths ... no, you will not be forced to convert to one of them as such, just
something saying that you accept that belief is a relative experience and that specific
religions are cultural bi-products of the same evolutionary impulse. All of us here at the
call centre - I mean in heaven - have the same policy ... Oh dear, you are not willing to do
that? Well, Shane, I must regretfully inform you that your prayer on this occasion will not
be answered.”
Shane stood up slowly. Now he really did wish the floor would open up
beneath him.
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“How’s it going down there, Shane?” Brett asked, not remotely bitter
about losing an elimination test to Shane in an earlier episode when his Pan
Seared Pigeon in a Goat Cheese Broth was comprehensively blown off the
plate by Shane’s Foie Gras Ravioli - a highlight of Pro-Chef Australia, season
5.
“I don’t know what to do guys. I’m sorry.” Shane said as if they were to
be his last mortal words.
“Oy da noyl oyther, Shoyne. Better start proyng.” Tawnee offered.
“Thanks, but I already tried that.”
“Are you still there Shane? ... Shane, can you hear me? ... Great! ... You spoke earlier
with my colleague Surav, er ... I mean Peter. Now you are speaking with ... Murray, and
for the purposes of customer support, feedback and better training going forward, may I
ask you one or two more questions? ... Was your unsuccessful prayer related to work, family
or love life? ... Well stone the crows! By the many arms of Vishnu and the seemingly
infinite test centuries of Sachin Tendulkar! Why on earth didn’t you say so?! ... One
moment please ... Now Shane, you have exactly 5 minutes left but if you do as I say, that
will be plenty. Are you still with me Shane? ... Now what was the problem? ... HOW
THE HELL DID YOU FORGET TO SOAK THE LENTILS?! ... Very well ...
listen closely. I learnt this trick from, er, a friendly Indian backpacker I met while I was
consuming a few cold tinnies as we both shared a majestic view of Hair’s Rock ... yes that’s
what I said, Ayers Rock ...”
“Told you he had bitten off more than he could chew.” The slightly more
drunk fellow patron politely informed Cameron.
“Oh ye of little faith.” Cameron’s confidence was still perfectly intact.
“Watch and learn or I shall cast ye down with the vegemites.”
“You seem confident, Cam.” Jane finally bothered to get involved. “All
losers in my eyes, if you’re willing to go to those lengths just to be shot down.”
Jane was incurious as to the outcome of the TV show, but she was showing a
growing curiosity in Cameron’s own curiosity. It was all together curious.
“Contestants, you have 10 seconds left. Noyne, Oyt, Seven, Seex, Foyve.”
As Shane and Margo stood to attention. ‘The Three’ took turns sampling
the two life defining creations, trying their best to give off only the most
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ambiguous of facial expressions.
The bullshit artist food critic consulted the hard-nosed executive chef,
raised by apes in the Serengeti having learnt his trade by cooking what he had
killed with his own bare hands. He in turn sign-languaged something to the
normal and nice chef that would always offer a few comforting words of
encouragement to a contestant just before he kicked them out the door.
It would therefore come down to the food critic to deliver the final
verdict. The man who had never set foot in a kitchen in his life was about to
hold the lives of two people, and the attentions of a few million viewers on
the tip of his bullshit stained tongue. By coincidence, he was the only one in
the studio wearing a suit.
“Margo ...” He began, throwing his hair dramatically across his face. “...
your dish was perfect. But only perfectly nice, that’s all. On Pro-Chef, we’re
not looking for nice food, we’re looking for innovation, inspiration and that ...
how should I say it? ...” The world could see the backs of his eyeballs as he
bounced on his toes. “... cutting edge. Genius only comes round every so
often and I think I’ve just been privileged to see it at work.”
The camera panned to Shane who was standing with tears in his eyes.
“What Shane managed to do here, on live television, was nothing short of
God-like. Margo ... you and every one of the contestants standing behind me
can cook, but Shane invented, he managed to create something from
seemingly nothing. He made all the complicated techniques seem trivial and
turned the simplest into the most important. It was nothing short of inspired.
And that ...” A pair of designer glasses was adjusted. “... is what defines a
genius from those who are just technically good at something. It separates a
creator from a memoriser of recipes and pre-packaged thoughts. Not
everyone can create without looking like they are even trying. To be able to
do that, meets all my criteria for the term ‘genius’.”
“Noyl what do yoyl have to soy about that, Shoyne?” asked the veteran chef,
who had reportedly eaten one of his own junior cooks alive just for burning a
scallop. He was struggling to contain his own excitement and banjo twanging
accent.
Clearing the tears from his eyes, more a believer than he had ever been,
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Shane answered. “Some days ... I don’t even think I’m the one doing the
cooking, but that there’s something or someone else doing it for me. When I
don’t know what I’m doing, that’s when I know I’m doing it the right way.”
“So ...” Cameron turned round to see his vanquished foe at the other table.
“All he did was wrap the lentils in paper and microwave them. That took no
skill at all. What’s so special about that?”
“Don’t ask creativity to justify itself.” Cameron stood up and walked to
the counter, pulling a credit card from his wallet.
“You can pay, Cam. I need to take a piss.” Jane left Cameron at the fake
wooden structure housing the cash register and stepped away to the Ladies.
“And it’s the final of NZ Fame Factory tomorrow night.” The air brushed
Maitre’d said to Cameron as he worked the till with the second nature skill of
an Ibiza DJ.
“I know. I’ll be there for it.”
“Who do you think will win?”
“Crystal. And I don’t think it. I know it.”
“That should be fun.”
“Oh it will be.”
Throughout the evening, the Maître d’ had skilfully pretended not to have
seen Jane cut her fettuccine into pieces and spoon them into her mouth. As
he peeled the receipt he gave Cameron something else to ponder. “I hope it
can match the excitement of this morning’s Champion’s League final.”
“Yeah, just like the old Queen Vic, never any fucking toilet paper!” A not
so mysterious voice was heard backstage. The renovation budget for Bistro
102 didn’t allow much for sound insulation. Its walls were thinner that its
pastry.
“Go on.” Cameron kept the Maître d’ on topic.
“Oh yes ... the game went to ... what’s it called? ... extra time ... yes, and
then they had to take turns scoring goals from the dot on the pitch where -”
“- Oh come on. They’re called penalties. You don’t have to pretend for my
benefit.”
The Maître d’ leaned forward, broke from character and continued. “Yeah,
so it goes to penalties right and just as the ref blows the whistle for the dude
to take the final one, the Brazilian goalkeeper guy sees something shiny on
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the ground - right - and decides that that’s where he’ll dive. To that exact spot,
eh. And that’s exactly where the ball gets kicked to. He takes the ball right in
his chest, and his team wins. Turns out ...”
“Yep, here it comes.” Cameron looked downward in resignation.
“... that shiny thing on the ground that had caught his attention was a
crucifix. The same crucifix he threw down at the end of the World Cup semifinal 5 fucking years ago, mate. It was at the same ground as that game, you
know, that time when -”
“- Poland miraculously won. I know it well.”
The sound of the hand dryer in the ladies’ toilets came to a halt, meaning
that someone’s hands were now slightly less wet, or that a Boeing had landed
outside.
“Cam, why are you kneeling on the floor?”
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Chapter Seventeen:
Coda
“Name?”
“Raymond Dawson.” Cameron replied.
“One moment please.” An upright posture stimulated a switchboard into
action. “Yes, Mr Carmichael, please ... yes, hello sir, I have a gentleman here ...
no, he didn’t say what it was regarding ... Raymond Dawson ... oh lovely.” The
posture swivelled back. “You can go through now, Mr Dawson.”
“Thank you, Tracey.”
The receptionist whipped her head up. “How did you ? -”
“- It’s written on your uniform. It’s the only one you have.”
Tracey looked down at her upside down name tag like it were a familiar
stain. “Well, you can go through now, Mr Dawson.”
“Please, call me Cameron.”
“Are we happy with that outfit the way it is?” A voice called out from one
corner of the soundstage.
“Deliriously so!” Josh could be heard shouting back in his out of place
American accent, holding court while also talking on his mobile. “Crystal, you
look great! ... what network? ... great ... for how long? ...”
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Surrounded by a team of makeup artists, Crystal couldn’t have been more
than 15. Younger than the legal age of consent, she was still a resource on the
right side of industry exploration and exploitation. Sitting on her chest from
the end of a chain was a stone that gave the host its name, which had in turn
been given to her by her caring mentors and life managers. They were such
giving people.
“Can you remember the words, Crystal?” Another voice called out, one
that Cameron hadn’t heard in years. Its sound caused him to sweat. “Head up,
dear. Try to stand upright. I know they’re hard to wear, but this is the big
night.”
Cameron walked up to Josh’s pale skinned redheaded assistant. She had
foregone the period dresses of ten years ago, but her face still needed holding
up by the tension of her own hair, like the laces on a corset she’d handed out
as a gift.
“Yes?” She asked.
“What do you think Jezebel? All this time and that’s all you have to say.”
She tried to look past Cameron, fixing her attention back to the more
important Crystal.
“Nothing to say since the time I tore you to shreds in my bedroom in
Edinburgh?” Cameron said to the side of her face. “Just after that ride in the
A4. Still hurts though, doesn’t it? Good. Shall I whistle a tune and remind you?
Oh, the times we’ve had.” She appeared unfazed; silent but courteous, not
showing enough emotion to appear either guilty or innocent in her role in an
act of musical deicide. “Are you here just in case Crystal needs that added
strength? In case she needs a reassuring hand to hold onto? Josh can’t be
everywhere can he?”
“I’m sorry.” She finally turned round to face him.
“I don’t need your apologies, I need you to -”
“- No! I mean I’m sorry, I don’t know what you are talking about.” Josh’s
assistant hurriedly looked around the studio while clicking her fingers in the
air.
But it was Crystal who innocently rode to Jezebel’s rescue, breaking
Cameron’s concentration with an attempt at singing. Cameron was nauseous.
They were playing a dirty war, no rules would be followed. No United
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Nations moratorium existed for the humane use of saccharine sweet
mainstream adult contemporary. Josh and Jezebel were clearly going for the
jugular on this one. There was evil everywhere.
Hearing the fourteen year old Crystal sing an easy listening ballad
describing the subtleties of love was as convincing as if she had chosen to
sing ‘I Did it My Way’. A child prodigy is supposed to display their talents
playing Chopin or Liszt at the age of 8, not by parading their barely formed
body in a miniskirt, halter top and thigh boots with matching puppy fat.
“Can I call my Mum?” Crystal asked out to the glare of the studio lights,
but no one looked up from their respective tasks.
“What for? You’ll be fine.” Josh called out while still on the phone. “Sorry
not you ... carry on ... yes, Tuesday is good, but we’re booked Wednesday.”
“I want to talk to my Mum.” Crystal was just a figurine on a sound stage,
bombarded by studio lights like the microwave friendly TV dinner she was.
“Can I?”
“Will someone give her a fucking phone!” Josh finally caved in.
“Where’s Raymond?” Josh asked to anyone within blast radius. “I was told
he was here.” It was Cameron who was nearest to him, watching him offstage prepping his costume; the tail suit, the circular glasses, the hat and the
cane. Elaborate frills were pulled from under the cuffs of antique sleeves and
rings were pushed past effeminate knuckles.
“Cam?”
“Josh, I know what you did. I know what you are.”
“Love to sit and chat, Cam ...” Josh countered as he steadied his hat in
place. “... but it will all have to wait until the end of the greatest television
event of the decade.”
“I know everything about you Josh. But why music? And why me?”
Josh stood fixed, but unafraid.
“Look, I don’t have time for this shit Cam.”
As Josh looked past him, Cameron felt a hand on his bicep. Josh’s
bodyguard held him in place while Josh’s assistant gave Josh’s image
consultant, Josh’s manicurist and Josh’s wardrobe designer further
instructions as they went back to work on Josh’s singer.
“Places, everyone!” a floor manager yelled out. Josh scurried while his
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bodyguard kindly helped Cameron find his way back to the reception area. It
was from there, alongside Tracey, that Cameron saw the rest unfold.
Once the indulgent opening titles had subsided and Josh had flattered the
Fame Factory’s audience into submission with their non-existent musical
knowledge and appreciation, a series of teenagers with various selling points
performed their sweated down reductions of songs that were already too
small to taste. Three minutes and thirty seconds used to be the longest any
radio station would play, now televised talent shows can’t stand anything
more than a minute and a half.
Then it was Crystal’s turn. She made her way to centre stage and the lights
dimmed. Like those before, her image was projected onto the large screen
behind her with her allocated premium rate number underneath. The
mysteriously invisible back-up band started. The ‘band’ being a pre-recorded
backing track, one level of technology above those found in Japanese karaoke
bars. Under the studio lights her makeup glistened, her smile shone and her
hair reflected just so. But the crystal was a dull blank stone, polished to
perfection but unable to reflect. It was no crazy diamond and it would never
shine on.
In the reception area, Cameron felt no shame in cupping his ears while
Tracey more discretely leaned on her desk with her index fingers under her
hair.
Mercifully short, Crystal’s performance ended to triumphant applause.
The ranks of similarly aged fans leapt to their feet with their unsuspecting
parents at their sides. Some even wore their own imitation crystals, bought
from junk shops and as fake as the real thing.
Ushering her off stage, Josh regained the focus of attention and issued
the command: “Our lines are now open, so get voting!” A commercial break
ensued; if they had not been told what to buy into already, they were given
ample reminder and further suggestions. The audience was being billed twice,
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once for the right to participate and again more subliminally. Ad break
merchants were paying to practice their own art form, that of convincing
people they don’t know to buy things they don’t need with money they don’t
have.
“Over the course of the last 12 weeks ... the number of you ... the viewing
public ... that have taken an active interest in helping to fulfil the dreams of
others ... has been truly humbling. More than 2 million votes have been cast
over that time, showing just how much you all care.” The crowd cheered at
the mention of their philanthropy. Cameron just performed the simple
mathematical equation of multiplying two million votes by the one dollar
received from each. No democracy charges the electorate just for taking part.
Josh opened his arms as the final contestants gathered around him,
nervously standing on stage awaiting public judgement. Standing out from
the usual suspects was the one that had what the music industry refers to as
‘The Complete Package’. The others were just kids with microphones packed
under some makeup and a dream. The complete package was always going to
win.
After extracting further tension from his audience, Josh put them out of
their misery. “Ladies and gentlemen ... the winner ... of Fame Factory ... is ...
Crystal!”
Delirious that her dream was now a foregone conclusion, Crystal stood
was on the brink of tears. But it was Josh who took all the credit, holding her
like a belonging, not around her waist, not with a hand lightly on her shoulder,
but wrapping her bicep. Just another accessory to a runaway ego and just
another recruit for a larger cause. Music’s grave was being desecrated in front
of Cameron’s eyes and he appeared powerless to stop it.
“Crystal ... please ... speak to your fans.” Josh held the microphone to her
mouth like he was feeding an abandoned animal. In her excited state, Crystal
could do little more than whimper and purr in reply.
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“So, who’d love to hear an encore?” Already mindful that the clock was
ticking on Crystal’s yearlong half-life of fame, Josh coaxed the crowd like a
firebrand preacher. Lifting his outstretched arms, he summoned them and
willed them to imagine forces that weren’t present and to hear talents that did
not exist, placed there only by digital placebo and willful self-delusion.
The assembled masses cheered back in auto-tuned unison. The signs
made from cardboard and crayon by Crystal’s invented supporters fanned the
flames. Both the market and the product were mimicking each other, and
each hung blindly from Josh’s fingers.
Cameron felt sick as he saw them creating a God in their own image. And
the manufactured false idol was handed back her microphone and placed on
the stage one last time.
... Hello you are speaking with Suraj … I mean Peter, this call may be recorded for
training purposes… how may I help? ... Mary! How are you? ... sure, no problem. I can
do that, one moment. ... I shall put you through now, as I look across the lovely Babarian
mountains – yes, that’s right, the Bavarian mountains ...
“Is that rain?” Tracey asked turning away from the screen trying to catch a
glimpse of the weather outside.
“I think you’ll find that it’s coming from inside the sound stage.” Cameron
walked nearer to the reception desk. Now he couldn’t take his eyes off the
screen.
It started off as a static ambience, mere background noise, a light dusting
of rain, a sombre thud from a church bell and a distant clap of thunder.
Then three divinely distorted notes were heard, forming the tritone interval
once known ironically as ‘the devil in the music’.
I don’t think anyone is picking up at their end, Mary. ... I can hang up and try again- ...
OK ... OK, I’ll leave it ringing. I’ve got it. ... For how long, Mary? ... Hold please ...
“Do you know what that is?” Tracey asked.
“It’s the ring tone for a mobile phone that was rather foolishly switched
on, but specifically ...” Cameron’s puffed with pride. “... it is the opening riff
275
to the song Black Sabbath ... from the album Black Sabbath ... by the band
Black Sabbath.”
“Yeah, my flatmate has some of their stuff on vinyl.”
“Oh dear.” Cameron said leaning forward on the reception desk. “Looks
like her auto tune is starting to break up ... and badly too.” Cameron could
hardly contain his joy. “Come on, Crystal.” Cameron called out to the
television. “Next line, dear. Next line. Ooops, there goes your backing band,
should have got a real one perhaps.”
With her voice in digital tatters, Crystal’s backing CD had similarly been
reduced to a worthless plastic disc on a 100 millisecond repeat cycle, just a
billion ones and a billion zeroes unable to stand in a straight line. With no
computer program to flatter her, and with no ‘band’ willing to ride to her
rescue, the audience quickly realised that: 1) Crystal can’t actually sing, 2)
singing is not Crystal’s strong suit, and 3) Crystal is no good at singing.
With her face still shining under the studio lights, she bit down over the
gloss of her bottom lip. Giving up the pretence, she put her hands behind her
back. This only made the situation worse, as it meant the microphone was
now right next to the phone she forget she still had in her back pocket, the
one that was now doing all the talking. Cameras panned around the room
looking for a better shot than the one of a 14 year old on the brink of a
televised nervous breakdown. What they found were dumbfounded teenage
followers and a statuesque television presenter. A young man by the name of
Ozzy Osbourne was holding the floor and was refusing to yield.
“Aren’t they going to cut to an ad break or something?” Cameron asked
Tracey, starting to feel pity for Crystal.
“Are you kidding? You can’t buy television as good as this. Her entourage
isn’t exactly stepping in.”
Through the malfunctioning auto tune and the aggressive vocal correcting
fluid, Crystal finally managed to say “I’-m s-o-r-r-y” before running from the
stage. Josh was only conspicuous by his absence. All that remained of either
of them was Josh’s top hat and cane, which sat on the stage like a set of
props to a magic act, or a Las Vegas kick line.
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Days later, the television network would issue an official apology saying
how regrettable it was that a well-meaning talent show had been corrupted
from within. It also affirmed that such events form the nature of live
television, that the main intention of a show like Fame Factory was to serve
as entertainment and that it was not stated anywhere that the performers
need actually be able to sing. Businesses that had purchased advertising space
throughout the series voiced no objections. While the decision was made not
to extend Fame Factory into another season, the money spent on the votes
cast would not be refunded. The show’s producer and host, Joshua
Carmichael, could not be reached for comment.
Within minutes of Crystal’s tearful flight from the stage, the reception
area was flooded with disillusioned teenagers. And they were angry.
Apparently their rights had been infringed, their collective intelligence had
been insulted and their newly discovered principles had been mercilessly
attacked. All those cardboard signs had been drawn up for nothing. Dance
routines had been copied for no constructive end and the purchasing and
wearing of junk shop crystals had been a waste of their valuable time and
pocket money.
Away from the crowd, one face caught Cameron’s eye. Her makeup had
been rinsed off and her clothes were decidedly sensible. Wearing only trainers,
jeans and a t-shirt she was standing still with her alter ego in a shoulder bag,
one that should have been used to carry textbooks.
“Crystal ...” Cameron said quietly not wanting to arouse the lynch mob.
“Did you throw your medallion away?”
Crystal nodded. “It’s Claire. ... You know, crystal clear? ... They thought
Crystal sounded like a pop star. That’s all I ... wanted to be. What do I do
now?”
“Don’t chase a dream until you know that it is yours, and when you find it,
never sell that dream away. Judge yourself as you would judge the world.
Don’t take a light from someone who doesn’t smoke. Don’t ruin coffee with
too much sugar. Stay away from recruitment agencies. Never get a lift home
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from a man who drives an Audi A4, because not all A4 is the same. Stop
listening to Celine Dion, she may have a good voice but her own music sucks.
Never underestimate the consequences of your smallest actions. Don’t hate
the sinner, hate the sin. Never choose digital if analogue still works and never
give yourself a fake name.” Claire was already drifting off. She would have to
learn it all through life experience. Success comes from good judgement,
which comes from experience, which in turn comes from bad judgement.
Living through the worst day of her life earlier rather than later would only
serve her in the long run, her sense of judgement refined by one level. She
was already one step ahead of those still hounding Tracey at the reception
desk. “But the most important piece of advice I can give you is this ... never
follow the advice of others.”
“Unless of course he is crazy, because he’ll be one step closer to being a
genius.”
At that, Cameron left Claire to fend for herself. She would blend back
into the crowd, unrecognisable to the masses, but she would do it as an
individual.
“Claire!? One last thing.” Cameron said turning back. “Can you give me
my phone back, please?” When it came to mobile communication, Cameron
always went for comfort over features. Rather than carry a personal hard
drive with him, he preferred the feeling that he wasn’t carrying his entire
living room in his pocket. No more obtrusive than a packet of chewing gum
or a bar of chocolate, it could also slip neatly into the mini skirt pocket of
any 14 year old puppet, should the need arise. He then immediately called
Jane.
“Jane! Where are you?”
“I tried to call you, do you not answer your phone or something? Anyway,
I’m back at my place, looking over all my old manuscripts. Fucking hell, the
nostalgia.”
“Yeah, whatever. Any solo cello pieces?”
“A couple.”
“Hum them to me.”
“You hum me the melody you’re thinking of and I’ll see if it matches
anything I have.”
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“You know I can’t sing for shit and it was ten years since I heard it. I’ll
recognize it when I hear it.”
“OK, how ... about ...” (Straight forward first year composition attempt at
experimental classical. Mostly dire. Lacking in form or any melodic originality.)
“No ... keep going.”
“What about ...” (Painfully lush, saccharine sweet, cliché ridden, faux
romantic references to older works by long dead masters.)
“No, definitely not that.”
“Well that’s all I have.”
“This doesn’t make any fucking sense. You must have it somewhere. Is
that everything?” Cameron crouched on the floor in the middle of the lobby
with his head between his legs, still surrounded by idiots, oblivious.
Then she stared at the ceiling and listened to the music.
“What’s that? What are you hummng?” Cameron asked nearly lifting
himself off the ground.
Jane continued. Standing outstretched with her head tilted back, Jane kept
the melody flowing, sight singing from the pages of handwritten manuscript
that had watched over her while Cameron was too busy running to the other
side of the world hoping to ‘find himself ’. “Cam, this is your music. It’s from
the pages you gave me to paper my bedroom. I’ve had this on my ceiling for
ten years. It’s the first and last thing I see every day. Whenever I’m here with
some guy, I see it. Half the time, he’s looking at it too. But I haven’t played it
through since the day you gave it to me.”
“That’s it. The greatest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know you made your wallpaper like this, but did you really just write all
your music by writing down anything that looked good on the page?”
Cameron sheepishly cleared his throat.
“So it isn’t mine then?” Jane asked.
“No. Worse still, it’s mine. But you played it and that’s the important thing.
You played your role perfectly. Get your cello off the wall, I’m on my way to
your place now.”
“Can it wait an hour?”
“Why? What are you ... oh right ... got it.”
“Yeah, I’ll be exactly one hour.”
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“Fine. When you’re done, meet me outside Eden, I need to say good bye
to someone.”
Cameron ran out of the studio lobby. He couldn’t wait for Jane to finish
with the social cripple or the hedonist or the pervert or the rescuer, or
whoever it was that would pay to lie on his back to look at Cameron’s
calligraphy. He had to hear this nameless piece now more than ever. There
was one place that might still have it. It was a long shot but he was a 5 minute
walk away from the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
‘Eden’ still existed. The sex industry doesn’t just pack up and leave for a
recession or a debt crisis. It’s not waiting for things to pick up, not waiting for
permission, not waiting for some all-important call from a line manager. It
doesn’t wait for all of the lights to turn green, it actually prefers red and even
works fine in the dark. It’s the perfect industry for any economic climate. In
times of prosperity, people want to have fun. In times of shortage, those
same people want to forget and to escape.
It fills the void in the human mind in a way only religion can rival. If
you’re not obsessed with one, then you’re probably obsessed with the other.
And if you are obsessed with both, then you are deeply conflicted. The
religious person who deprives themself of sex is a sexual anorexic. Through
their own deprivation, they are pretending to hate it, their virtue only defined
by their obsession. You can’t have your two Marys sitting side by side, so one
was virtually erased from official record in the name of protecting the brand
of the other.
The owner of Eden was the same man from that day at ground zero, year
zero. He was one of only two people on the street to have stayed working for
the same company all this time. The other was the current occupant of the
church further up the road, both assured of their job security until death, and
both with booths that could be made ready at five minutes’ notice, should a
client feel a sudden urge.
“Pop Star ... do you have it?”
“Hang on.” Where would one go to complain about lacklustre customer
service from an adult shop?
The faces on the walls were as different as they were the same from those
ten years ago, differing in only the strictest genetic sense. The pouting body
280
parts, the oily skin tones and the contorted poses; all identical and totally
unnatural. The names of the girls had changed marginally in ten years, with
the help of some promiscuous swapping of letters here and there. The Gina
looked like it was giving way to the Tina. The Cindy was evolving into the
Mindy. People were selling their stocks in all forms of Jenna and were buying
into the Jessica. There were less Saints, but more Angels. Last names of
Brook, River, Ocean, Woods, Hill, Rose and Rain; Sun, Star, Nova, Moon,
Venus, Jewel and Flame; names taken from nature, names borrowed from the
elemental, names designed to teach us how natural it is for a woman to be
spit roasted, double penned, gang banged, blow banged, cream-pied, fish
hooked, rodeo thumbed, bowling balled, wedding caked and donut glazed.
The owner returned. “That’s not exactly a classic you’ve gone for.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“Then -”
“Who am I to judge?”
“Indeed.”
“Not my preferred era, y’see, all this modern stuff doesn’t capture that
same vibe, y’know.”
“When porn went mainstream, it lost its shock value. So it had to find it
somewhere else.”
“Uh-huh ... porn used to be sleazy, didn’t it? Just seeing two hairy people
fucking on your TV screen was all it took. Now they’re so heavily waxed and
prepped that it just doesn’t look like sex anymore. It’s this ... other thing.”
“It’s called gratification and it’s happening to everything. You name it, it’s
already lost its edge. Porn is just the sex by numbers, fetishes, sizes and
niches.” The bald head belonging to a corporate tax lawyer and loving father
of three teenage daughters looked over a particle board shop partition. A
taller, ganglier gentlemen from a similar income bracket kept looking at the
ground, but fed an ear in Cameron’s direction.
The owner who had seen the world come and go from his own vantage
point added: “The golden age is over, my friend. They just aren’t making ‘em
like they used to.”
Cameron stood holding the case in front of him with both hands. “I was
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told they recalled this. How did you manage to keep your copy?”
“That’s a trade in. Technically, this shop doesn’t own it. Booth on the left.
Knock yourself out.”
Cameron started to take his marching orders, then, not thinking to keep
his voice down, he broke the sacred covenant of adult shop etiquette and
spoke clearly from a relative distance. There was one more thing he had to
ask.
“It’s a long shot, I know ... you probably don’t even remember. But the
guy who traded this in, what was he wearing? ... Elaborate Edwardian period
suits? ... top hat, cane, frilly shirt ... crap like that?”
“It was ten years ago ...”
“Like I said, it was a long shot.”
“But I do remember it. She looked perfectly normal.”
“She.” Cameron chuckled to himself. “It had to be, didn’t it?”
“Oh, we do get a few come in from time to time. This is only the second
time I’ve rented it out once since she handed it in. It’s been buried down the
back of the storage room all this time.”
“Booth on the left, you say?”
“Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“I know I will.”
Cameron was hardly hanging on every word that Charlotte, or any of the
other characters uttered. In all the time since that first viewing, he had only
tried to revisit the cello line in his head, trying to remember more than just
the memory of having heard it. The so called action was insignificant. If he
had tried to picture the actual footage, he might have mistakenly recalled
moves from a totally different film. The content was as interchangeable as
any radio station playlist. Foreplay ... oral ... penetration ... oral ... novelty
position ... money shot. Intro ... verse ... chorus ... bridge ... modulation ...
chorus ... fade out ... purchase. Temptation ...sin ... guilt ... confession ...
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reaffirm ... temptation ... sin ... shame ... confession ... reaffirm ... donation.
But ten years of nostalgia had not dulled its edge. There was sex
everywhere, but there would only be one cello line like this one. Its
uniqueness made it art and by being so, it had successfully mocked the
millions that had tried to emulate it. It was everything Cameron had hoped to
rediscover.
The hoarse growling, the flicking between timbres, a low registered moan,
a high pitched shriek, a softer subdued mid-range hum; legs wrapping the
body while the finger board was expertly rubbed. Cameron was convinced
more than ever that this piece was the greatest thing he had ever heard, and
he was certain he would never hear anything to rival it. And all of it was his.
As the bow bit into the strings for the last time, and the scratch marks
were dutifully delivered, music had co-existed with sex. Art did not feel
inferior to the lowest common denominator of human impulses and desires.
And then he heard her voice, just like he had the very first time, when
music itself had left him.
“I knew you would come.”
The film hadn’t finished, there was still that pointless scene squeezed in at
the last minute out of blatant ulterior motive. The voice belonged to the
uncredited young nobody whose role it had been to tease the audience
enough to provide a launch pad for a franchise title. She had never been seen
in the industry up to that point, and had not been cast in anything since, but
Cameron knew that face better than he knew his own.
Charlotte quickly covered herself in the presence of the uninvited guest,
and Cameron smiled when he saw the face of the technically under aged
actress.
“Astrid!” They both called out. Cameron waited as Charlotte ran and
hugged her. His initial attempt at reaching a hand out to her was met with the
reality of flat screen plasma, which pushed back at him like the pages on
Jane's wall. “Look who it is. The virgin, with the friends in high places.”
“I told you that you would see me again.” Astrid's English was as broken
as ever and her colours were suffering from some typically clumsy industry
standard digital cross formatting. She lacked the extra three inches of height
and her devotion to Cameron’s favourite band that would be given to her on
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arrival into Cameron’s pokey one bedroom flat in Edinburgh, but he could
still see the same soft focus love on the screen. He had tried his best to
commit to memory every curve and nuance of that woman from ten years
ago; the lips he had always compared to his, the eyebrows with their hard
wired look of curiosity, the slight and balanced frame he had wished might
have been his on weekends, the elbow length hair that lay across her
shoulders, the lightly tilted head, and those eyes that had looked down on him
so lovingly when tears had filled his own. These were necessary details, like
those found in any good monologue for solo cello.
“You are a musician, stripped naked. But now I am here, to give back to
you what you lost.” Astrid was once again the figure in black that stood
before him, her blouse too low for any office, but far too high for music
industry themed group sex. And with a hand held to her chest, she was
playing with something, it was her ever present crucifix. “You stopped
listening to the music that comes from within. In favour of the words that
come from outside. From the mouths of others.” As she spoke, Astrid’s eyes
swapped between Charlotte and Cameron. Looking into the camera might
normally be put down to a debutant’s nerves, but this eye contact felt
deliberate; certainly enough for someone to base a decade long obsession on.
With each passing flicker Cameron grinned.
“So what about ... him?” Charlotte and Cameron both referred to their
self-appointed life coaches, their own incarnate devils.
“He’ll always be somewhere, and others just like him. But you know how
to protect yourself now. You just have to keep listening to the music.”
As the modest list of credits rolled in total silence, including a musical
credit to a man calling himself ‘Daymond Rawson’, Cameron knew what had
come back to him. Furthermore, he had felt it return. Whatever our friend
Charlotte would take from that encounter (once her arse had sufficiently
cooled down, of course) would be for the historians and aficionados of the
European wing of the global porn industry to mull over in due course.
For just the second time in its history, the tissues at Eden carried tears.
Then, he made to leave.
“Cameron! You know I can’t walk out that door!”
“But I have to leave. I have all I need now. I’m sorry, but this is where you
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will be staying now.”
This time, it was Astrid who was feeling things moving too quickly.
Cameron would leave her in one of only three places she had ever existed;
the one bedroom flat in Edinburgh, the recalled DVD and the hastily
constructed confession booth.
“Then go, but you know where to find me, if you need someone to talk
to.”
Cameron had written the greatest piece ever composed. But the source of
his genius, that occasional visitor into his subconscious mind, like all voices,
alive or dead, would have to remain a mystery to the outside world. To
explain it would be to negate it, to try to define it would be an attempt to
limit it, and to seek to pass it on to others would be to refuse the greatest gift
one could ever receive. There are secrets best left untold.
To be inspired is to give yourself up to something else. It does not happen
consciously, but only when those in real control decide that it is time. If one
could control inspiration, it would not be inspiration. You may try to chase it,
study it, package it and sell it, but the nearer you are to the chapel, the further
you are from God.
As an experience, I am subjective. But as an entity, I am an absolute truth.
As varied as you are as people, I am the birth right of all those who listen
with an open ear. I am something you would do well to want in your life, for I
am all around you. And if I decide to, I will speak to you, and if pleases me, I
will speak through you. I will follow you wherever you go, and be there for
you in moments of self-doubt. I will lead you wherever I like, but not to a
place from which I cannot protect you. I am the link to the higher self, and
the passage out of insanity, for believers and non-believers alike. Whether
you believe is not important to me, I exist regardless of what you think.
There is no God. There is only music.
I am music, I am your music and I am the music of those around you. I
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cannot be valued, served or sold; nor can I be measured, taught or compared.
But without me, your life is a worthless and uneducated one.
Cameron emerged from his booth with a glow brighter than normal. He
looked impassively over the iconography on the shop walls and the captured
Saints in their own stained glass, all part of an industry sustained by false
prophets. He would not censure, nor would he evangelise, as his was not to
cast judgement on even the most plastic coated of institutions.
After calmly rolling back the tactfully placed curtain that hung between
the street and Eden’s main doorway, his next step was matched as Jane walked
towards him. She had met him this time, on the night time streets.
Holding her left hand, he felt her fingers caressing imaginary strings. Then
as they walked, he caught himself humming. It was a simple melody, a single
line, uncluttered; not from the past, but from the present. It was of the
moment. It was a newborn and it was alive, crying in his head, bearing his
name. It was immaculate and it would cry forever unless it was written down,
for it longed for only one thing. To be heard by all.
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Acknowledgements
The inclusion of the names of famous people is not intended to depict
them in any negative light. Nothing written about those people is to be
necessarily considered as fact outside of the confines of a fictional novel, nor
is it designed to be commercially exploitative of their public image.
The character of Joshua Carmichael, specifically as he is presented in Part
One, is based entirely on Damian O'Kane (circa 1995). He has my un-ending
gratitude for allowing me to depict him as I have done. All other characters
are fictional, any similarities are entirely coincidental.
In the mid-nineties I read a story in a magazine about the 1973 film, The
Wicker Man. It claimed that Edward Woodward returned to the island that
the film was shot 10 years or more after the production of the movie and
found the crucifix that was stripped from him in the film's final act. After
extensive searching online for the source of this claim, I can only conclude
that this story is unlikely to be true.
As far as my reasoning can determine, God and Heaven do not exist,
though I am absolutely sure that music does.
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