One More in the Name of Love
All the shampooing had made her hands dry, dry and cracked – Jack noticed this as she put in his buttonhole – a white carnation – his wife to be. His wife to be in about an hour’s time who was wearing her white dress right in front of him, daring fate to be bad to them, whose hands were cracked, who had returned to her old work so they could pay for their marriage and he could still work minimal hours in a job he hated, didn’t have to up them any further to pay for a marriage that was technically two children too late. Robbie and Jennifer.
All this because it had felt time. Because it had felt time and he had not wanted to work more hours in a job he hated and she hadn’t wanted to. So she had washed hair again – a job that she didn’t mind and painted in those months to him as a wonderful way to meet interesting people there were all the old dears who now preferred pink rinse to blue and of course sometimes it turned purple when they made the change to that new favourite colour – a craze that was sweeping the Saga nation.
It had felt time, so he had gone down on that knee. A knee – the lonely knee asking for partnerhood.
Sarah had told them, the purples and pinks and lilacs, the reason she had come back to them: the kids were now in nursery. And she and Jack were getting married, so she needed a bit of cash. So the oldies had told her how to have a cheap wedding. In their day you wore your mother’s dress and the dress doesn’t matter but oh! If it’s a nice one.... You must have the best. One had made her veil. One had altered her mother’s dress because Sarah’s hadn’t left one. Mrs Bee and Mrs Wick and Mrs Mendlesham and Mrs Row (pronounced Roe) had made cupcakes, delicately iced – wedding iced – cupcakes – and had fought and finally been persuaded to make a layer each of the big cake. They all had gardens with flowers. They all picked them. Dorothy arranged them (Mae helped). They were all invited – of course they were. And so now Sarah’s cracked hands were carefully angling the buttonhole that Mae actually made your one – look, she’s got quite good. Isn’t it beautiful!
It had felt like time, and so, eleven months ago, he had proposed to her. She had been in the kitchen, had turned with oven gloves holding a lemon meringue pie, and he’d been on that knee. She had dropped the pie as he asked, so her first response was a swearword, but the next one was yes. Well, oh, oh!, and Yes! And it sort of felt like they were holding on, some of them, for this wedding - not that they’d all go once it was over, no! – they would then hold on for the happy marriage, to watch the happy marriage and support that long marriage. Robbie and Jennifer (3 and 4) called them all Aunty and sometimes cheekily said hair colour rather than names. Auntie Purple. Light purple. Auntie Mauve. The oldies would smile, and say you do have a lot of names to remember, don’t you, but everyone had seen those little smiles. Once, Jennifer even said, after that, “Yes, Aunt Angela.” Yeah, that hadn’t been Aunt Purple, that was Aunt Angela she’d said.
And so, now, eleven months later, he was going to be waiting up the aisle – up the end of the aisle – surrounded by a plethora of flowers grown from seeds from every catalogue you could mention and every page and then cut and kept fresh in moist kitchen paper while his lace veiled bride walked towards him in an adjusted dress and they were going to marry. A piece of paper. An official seal on what was de facto truth anyway. But it mattered.
And his speech,
(and her speech,)
(and – he had made sure – his best man’s speech)
was going to be in praise of old people.
All this because it had felt time. Because it had felt time and he had not wanted to work more hours in a job he hated and she hadn’t wanted to. So she had washed hair again – a job that she didn’t mind and painted in those months to him as a wonderful way to meet interesting people there were all the old dears who now preferred pink rinse to blue and of course sometimes it turned purple when they made the change to that new favourite colour – a craze that was sweeping the Saga nation.
It had felt time, so he had gone down on that knee. A knee – the lonely knee asking for partnerhood.
Sarah had told them, the purples and pinks and lilacs, the reason she had come back to them: the kids were now in nursery. And she and Jack were getting married, so she needed a bit of cash. So the oldies had told her how to have a cheap wedding. In their day you wore your mother’s dress and the dress doesn’t matter but oh! If it’s a nice one.... You must have the best. One had made her veil. One had altered her mother’s dress because Sarah’s hadn’t left one. Mrs Bee and Mrs Wick and Mrs Mendlesham and Mrs Row (pronounced Roe) had made cupcakes, delicately iced – wedding iced – cupcakes – and had fought and finally been persuaded to make a layer each of the big cake. They all had gardens with flowers. They all picked them. Dorothy arranged them (Mae helped). They were all invited – of course they were. And so now Sarah’s cracked hands were carefully angling the buttonhole that Mae actually made your one – look, she’s got quite good. Isn’t it beautiful!
It had felt like time, and so, eleven months ago, he had proposed to her. She had been in the kitchen, had turned with oven gloves holding a lemon meringue pie, and he’d been on that knee. She had dropped the pie as he asked, so her first response was a swearword, but the next one was yes. Well, oh, oh!, and Yes! And it sort of felt like they were holding on, some of them, for this wedding - not that they’d all go once it was over, no! – they would then hold on for the happy marriage, to watch the happy marriage and support that long marriage. Robbie and Jennifer (3 and 4) called them all Aunty and sometimes cheekily said hair colour rather than names. Auntie Purple. Light purple. Auntie Mauve. The oldies would smile, and say you do have a lot of names to remember, don’t you, but everyone had seen those little smiles. Once, Jennifer even said, after that, “Yes, Aunt Angela.” Yeah, that hadn’t been Aunt Purple, that was Aunt Angela she’d said.
And so, now, eleven months later, he was going to be waiting up the aisle – up the end of the aisle – surrounded by a plethora of flowers grown from seeds from every catalogue you could mention and every page and then cut and kept fresh in moist kitchen paper while his lace veiled bride walked towards him in an adjusted dress and they were going to marry. A piece of paper. An official seal on what was de facto truth anyway. But it mattered.
And his speech,
(and her speech,)
(and – he had made sure – his best man’s speech)
was going to be in praise of old people.
Tea Caddy Jefferson Airplane
NB the picture has no relation to the story. But I know it's important to have visuals. I will find a better one later.
It was hard to be quiet with Caddy going on and on about Jefferson. We were in the kitchen. She hadn’t cleaned the stuff up yet, nor started on dinner. I’d been out ploughing.
“Where is he? He just walked out the gate.” And then, “He might have got lost.”
“He’s sixteen years old,” I said, and in my mind I said his age in words to emphasise my point. He’s sixteen years old now.
She said, “He gets confused.”
I just wanted to be quiet and think. He was sixteen years old but he did get confused and it had been several hours since we had last seen him. So I wanted quiet to think: I’d understood the situation. I’d got it right off. Now I needed the quiet. But she wouldn’t calm down.
“What if he went somewhere,” (obviously he has) “Just got in a car,” (we live on a farm) “And followed someone.” (There’s something.) She turned in her pacing and then started to fill the bowl for the dishes. She squeezed the Fairy in dramatically.
Followed someone.
He’d walked out the gate, which was open. Who’d opened it meant maybe someone he could have followed. A visitor to the shop who had gone the wrong way, or someone who was lost, or a paedophile who had found us on Facebook. That was what Caddy was thinking.
“These people, they find us on purpose. Or they could do.”
She watched the news while she pickled and did baking. Made all the stuff that we sold in the shop. It wasn’t what I was thinking. I farmed in the daytime, and slept in the night. Watched Friends in the meantime – or Scrubs: when we had dinner. I didn’t let her turn the news on unless maybe if there’d been an important story and she wanted an update. Breaking news: Well I am standing outside insert location. I am still standing outside location. Nothing has happened, but now I’ve found someone new to say the same thing the last ten people said: This is a Terrible Tragedy.
“It’s been too long, and you know it. I know he’s sixteen but....” She waited with the Marigolds in one hand. I looked at the ring that was on its finger and suppressed a smile that she’d misinterpret. (Instead I furrowed my brow.)
He’d walked out the gate which was open and was missing. And he wasn’t the only one that was missing. She’d have been here and eating by now. I stood.
“Come on,” I said, and now Caddy shut up.
I picked up a torch from the hall as we walked out and she did the same, followed me down our track driveway. Because Betsy was gone, and where did she go to? We walked down in the half dark.
Always the same. Right by the gorse hedge, and my torch flashed over the stagnant water. There they were, Jefferson and Betsy. I grabbed a twig to whip her.
Jeff was sat leant into the gorse bush, maybe waiting for the stars now the sun had gone. He smiled and said, “I followed the cow.”
“Yes,” I said, “that you did and you found her. Now let’s get her turned round.”
It was hard to be quiet with Caddy going on and on about Jefferson. We were in the kitchen. She hadn’t cleaned the stuff up yet, nor started on dinner. I’d been out ploughing.
“Where is he? He just walked out the gate.” And then, “He might have got lost.”
“He’s sixteen years old,” I said, and in my mind I said his age in words to emphasise my point. He’s sixteen years old now.
She said, “He gets confused.”
I just wanted to be quiet and think. He was sixteen years old but he did get confused and it had been several hours since we had last seen him. So I wanted quiet to think: I’d understood the situation. I’d got it right off. Now I needed the quiet. But she wouldn’t calm down.
“What if he went somewhere,” (obviously he has) “Just got in a car,” (we live on a farm) “And followed someone.” (There’s something.) She turned in her pacing and then started to fill the bowl for the dishes. She squeezed the Fairy in dramatically.
Followed someone.
He’d walked out the gate, which was open. Who’d opened it meant maybe someone he could have followed. A visitor to the shop who had gone the wrong way, or someone who was lost, or a paedophile who had found us on Facebook. That was what Caddy was thinking.
“These people, they find us on purpose. Or they could do.”
She watched the news while she pickled and did baking. Made all the stuff that we sold in the shop. It wasn’t what I was thinking. I farmed in the daytime, and slept in the night. Watched Friends in the meantime – or Scrubs: when we had dinner. I didn’t let her turn the news on unless maybe if there’d been an important story and she wanted an update. Breaking news: Well I am standing outside insert location. I am still standing outside location. Nothing has happened, but now I’ve found someone new to say the same thing the last ten people said: This is a Terrible Tragedy.
“It’s been too long, and you know it. I know he’s sixteen but....” She waited with the Marigolds in one hand. I looked at the ring that was on its finger and suppressed a smile that she’d misinterpret. (Instead I furrowed my brow.)
He’d walked out the gate which was open and was missing. And he wasn’t the only one that was missing. She’d have been here and eating by now. I stood.
“Come on,” I said, and now Caddy shut up.
I picked up a torch from the hall as we walked out and she did the same, followed me down our track driveway. Because Betsy was gone, and where did she go to? We walked down in the half dark.
Always the same. Right by the gorse hedge, and my torch flashed over the stagnant water. There they were, Jefferson and Betsy. I grabbed a twig to whip her.
Jeff was sat leant into the gorse bush, maybe waiting for the stars now the sun had gone. He smiled and said, “I followed the cow.”
“Yes,” I said, “that you did and you found her. Now let’s get her turned round.”
Keep, Sell, Charity, Throw
Don't forget - it's here - the audio version of this story. For your free download go to: http://jaxburgoyne.bandcamp.com/.
Hotel in the Present Tense
The air is suffocating in the room. The CO2 and O2 are being crowded by CO. CO pushing in between the spaces till the O2s – O2 and CO2 – cannot roll over and can’t breathe.
The family that is crowded into this cheap motel room – and made it cheaper by paying for double occupancy then slipping the children in (Laura talking to the manager and overreacting to his humour while Tara, Jamie-Lynn and Kris-Curtis ran in under Marcus’ arm and dived onto the bed. The manager had seen and Laura had seen he had seen and had faked a Splenda-sweet smile. The manager had known the fakery and hadn’t cared. He was still making money...).
The family that has crowded into this cheap motel room isn’t doing so well now.
The initial feeling of cockroach-success had worn off a little when they took off their soaking clothes – soaked from the walk from their gass-less car – and hung them over the heaters and turned them right up. (The stars scrawled on the fridge didn’t matter.) And worn off more when Laura saw the iron and board and took them out.
Laura had started to clean the stars off the fridge for kicks but then stopped because it seemed wrong to be working when she didn’t have to – even though it was a whim – and also because she quite liked them. And they’d turned the TV on and watched 2 and a Half Men, flicked over the news and then stopped on Ghosts of Girlfriends Past which had only just started.
Laura hadn’t ironed long – had soon showered by the mould and got into bed and then they all huddled under the blankets with her and Marcus in one and the kids all in the other as the gas heater did its work.
They fell asleep without informing the TV and now the TV and heater are talking just to themselves. Laura murmurs in her half-sleep trying to push away the talking – words and growl – and pulls Marcus closer because even though she had to flirt with the manager and was so lowered by this that he didn’t even want her, they’re inside and warm and getting warmer and he is warmest. Marcus leans back into her, just enough so that their bodies are fully in contact but not pushing her.
The TV is talking and the heater is growling. It’s an inhuman conversation on various subjects – the latest film releases and who’s married who and now the latest price crash at Martin’s – and the heater has always one reply grrrrrrrr-rrr.
The family isn’t breathing.
The family that is crowded into this cheap motel room – and made it cheaper by paying for double occupancy then slipping the children in (Laura talking to the manager and overreacting to his humour while Tara, Jamie-Lynn and Kris-Curtis ran in under Marcus’ arm and dived onto the bed. The manager had seen and Laura had seen he had seen and had faked a Splenda-sweet smile. The manager had known the fakery and hadn’t cared. He was still making money...).
The family that has crowded into this cheap motel room isn’t doing so well now.
The initial feeling of cockroach-success had worn off a little when they took off their soaking clothes – soaked from the walk from their gass-less car – and hung them over the heaters and turned them right up. (The stars scrawled on the fridge didn’t matter.) And worn off more when Laura saw the iron and board and took them out.
Laura had started to clean the stars off the fridge for kicks but then stopped because it seemed wrong to be working when she didn’t have to – even though it was a whim – and also because she quite liked them. And they’d turned the TV on and watched 2 and a Half Men, flicked over the news and then stopped on Ghosts of Girlfriends Past which had only just started.
Laura hadn’t ironed long – had soon showered by the mould and got into bed and then they all huddled under the blankets with her and Marcus in one and the kids all in the other as the gas heater did its work.
They fell asleep without informing the TV and now the TV and heater are talking just to themselves. Laura murmurs in her half-sleep trying to push away the talking – words and growl – and pulls Marcus closer because even though she had to flirt with the manager and was so lowered by this that he didn’t even want her, they’re inside and warm and getting warmer and he is warmest. Marcus leans back into her, just enough so that their bodies are fully in contact but not pushing her.
The TV is talking and the heater is growling. It’s an inhuman conversation on various subjects – the latest film releases and who’s married who and now the latest price crash at Martin’s – and the heater has always one reply grrrrrrrr-rrr.
The family isn’t breathing.
"I'm sorry, the lotion hasn't worked."
Things to include:
Canada, umbrellas in the snow, reluctant but inevitable homosexuality, Spiderman, an alternate, sacrifice, “I’m sorry, the lotion hasn’t worked.”.
I had been unable to persuade Ben to come inside. He was wearing the suit and determined to stay in role, despite it being three below zero.
“Ben!” I called through the wind, “Come inside and put some clothes on. It’s three below out there.”
He turned and looked at me. “There’s no need to worry, Christian,” he shouted.
“Chris!” I shouted back. But my preferences didn’t matter at this time – he was speaking the language of heroes.
“There’s no need to worry, Christian,” he shouted “because my spider-suit protects me from the elements.” Ben beat his chest heroically and stood tall in the howling wind that was piling the snow up against him, leewards.
“You know you’re sounding more like Superman at the moment – are you sure you’re not in the wrong costume?”
‘Spiderman’ hesitated, but he had to admit it. “You’re right, Christian,” he shouted, “You’ve caught me in a deception.” He paused to pull his hair out of his mouth and re-tie it back with his elastic. “Spiderman is in trouble,” he shouted, “and needs our help. Aliens have captured him and plan to kill him. Their harvests failed and their gods demanded the ultimate sacrifice: the life of their king. But their kind is beloved, so they plan to use Spiderman as an alternate sacrifice.” He paused for a long breath, and then continued with his exposition, while I tried to think of a way to get him inside. “I would fly to his aid, but the aliens have created this gale, and filled it with kryptonite-laced snow!”
He paused for another breath so I jumped in, shouting “So hadn’t you better come inside and get changed?”
Ben had assumed a heroic pose: arms outstretched and crossed in front of him, trying to protect himself from the snow, but it was overcoming him – he was starting to hunch over, his knees starting to bend. But he heard me, and stood straight with a fresh determination.
“No!” The wind whipped his ponytail into his face. “The world cannot know that Spiderman has been captured. His enemies would run riot and Aunt May would have hysterics.” He stared emotively into the distance.
John stuck his head into the porch. “Chris, hurry up and get him inside before we all freeze to death. We’re a care home; we’re supposed to care for them.”
“I’m trying.” I said.
“Well I’m closing the inner door. You should put a coat on. And I think you’ll need these snow boots.” He chucked a thick coat and a random pair of boots to me and closed the door.
Ben was fast becoming a snowman. Shit. I opened the door John had just closed. “Wait.” John turned. “Make a bucket of hot cocoa.”
He looked me up and down in my coat and boots. “You need backup?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Well have fun,” he said. “Hot drinks will await you.”
I went back into the porch, closed that door, took a step outside and the wind crashed into me, blowing the hood up as I struggled with the zipper. I angled my body so I didn’t just get blown away, and started wading through the snow. I was getting him in.
“But Superman!” I shouted, “If you pretend to be Spiderman, who will pretend to be you? The people need to know you’re here, and your enemies will run amok!”
Ben swung round at his waist to full face me – his legs knee-deep in snow. “My enemies are all in jail” he said scathingly. “No, I have to help my friend. The people will understand.”
The wind changed direction and my hood got blown down, and snow battered into my face. I tried to avoid eating it while I struggled with the hood.
Ben moved towards me and plonked his hand on my shoulder. “You have to help me.” He struck another ‘Superman being weakened by kryptonite’ pose. “We need to protect me from the snow long enough to regain my energy and then I can fly up and get him.”
It was freezing and I was being pummelled by snow... “How are we going to do that?” I asked.
Superman pointed to the porch. There, the umbrellas. Bring me two.”
“Ok!” I went back as quickly as could, picked the two that looked biggest and strongest – a red one and a blue and white one – and then waded back out till I stood beside him and his ever increasing mound of snow. “How are we going to control them in the gale?” I asked.
This was a salient point. “We must first combine our strength to open them, and then you must hold them, and have faith, until I have gained enough energy to fly. Then you must have faith until I get back.” He looked into my eyes with unshakeable belief.
“Ok Superman.” I said.
We put the blue and white one down on the snow and turned to face the wind, so that the snow pile was not in front of us and the blue and white one behind us. We started to open the red one, but our hands got in the way of themselves, and then the wind caught it as it was half open and pulled it from our grasp.
“NO!” shouted Superman, and started to wade after it. It flipped and span and finally wedged itself into the snow, and then he could start to gain on it. I watched and then saw the blue and white one being rolled along on top of the snow by the wind.
“Superman!” I called, pointing at the second umbrella. I was stuck in the snow. But he was too busy struggling with the red one and my words were being whipped away by the wind. He mastered the red one and looked round just in time to see me dive and catch the blue and white.
“Well done!” he shouted, and we both cheered, thrusting our umbrellas into the air then swiftly having to grab them with our other hands to stop us losing them again. We both waded back towards where the snow pile had been – it was now blown away but the holes our bodies had made still half-remained. It was freezing. I didn’t have gloves on. He was wearing a spiderman suit and probably didn’t have any shoes on. We needed to get inside.
“We need to do this better,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “I have a plan.” I paused to allow a suitably heroic response from him but he was listening no reply was coming, so I continued. “We need to coordinate our efforts to the utmost level.” I paused again for dramatic effect.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean,” I said, “One: we impale the blue and white one into the snow so it doesn’t blow away. We can’t use it – it’ll only hinder our efforts – but we mustn’t lose it.” We did this. “Two,” I said, “You hold this red one with both hands and I will try to open it. Then once it’s open we’ll wedge it into the snow and I’ll try to control it. You’ll have to crouch, but hopefully that’ll give you enough protection to regain your strength. Then you go get Spiderman.” He nodded solemnly. “But once I shout, you must come back whether you’ve got him or not, because I can’t hold it for long, and I could get blown away if I lose control.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll get him.” We shook hands, and he grabbed the red umbrella firmly. He looked at me and I nodded and started pushing. But the wind pushed back.
“I can’t do it!”
“You have to,” he shouted. “And quick, I’m losing my strength. You have to do it.”
It was bloody freezing and he’d been out there for ages. I pushed with all my strength, the umbrella almost looking like it would tear, and then a momentary fall in the wind allowed me to push the umbrella open. The wind rose again, but I managed to push it over the catch while Ben wedged it into the snow in front of my left leg. I held on with all my strength, leaning over and pushing the umbrella out and down, watching as the fabric pushed in and the metal started to bend.
Superman closed his eyes and crouched behind the shelter we had created, eyes closed, finding his inner strength.
“Quick!” I shouted, as I was tiring quickly. “Quick!”
He opened his eyes and said “Ok, I’m ready. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I said.
And he leapt up and ran. Jumping up and down, bounding over – not wading through – the snow. Watching him, I lost control of the umbrella. “Superman!” I screamed, and he ran back towards me, grabbing the other umbrella and pulling me to my feet.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve got him and I’ve got you.” He grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me along as we waded through the snow, until we got to the drive, which had been salted, and then we ran into the porch.
“We did it, Superman,” I grinned, gasping, as we caught our breath.
He turned and looked at me, breathing heavily – now a weaker being. “Superman’s gone, Chris” said Ben, “And so’s Spidey. It’s just me now, Ben.”
“Oh,” I said, as I took off my boots and banged them against the doorway, “So where have they gone to? To the Bat Cave to see Batman?” I took the coat off and hung it up.
“No,” said Ben, “They’ve gone to explore their reluctant but inevitable homosexuality.” Obviously Cat had got to him again.
“Well,” I said, clapping him on the back, “We’d better get you in and dry then, ‘cos I don’t think you have superpowers.”
“No,” said Ben, “I don’t. I’m cold and wet.”
“Me too,” I said, closing the door.
“Yeah,” he said, “You gotta love Canada.” And that was me he was quoting.
Canada, umbrellas in the snow, reluctant but inevitable homosexuality, Spiderman, an alternate, sacrifice, “I’m sorry, the lotion hasn’t worked.”.
I had been unable to persuade Ben to come inside. He was wearing the suit and determined to stay in role, despite it being three below zero.
“Ben!” I called through the wind, “Come inside and put some clothes on. It’s three below out there.”
He turned and looked at me. “There’s no need to worry, Christian,” he shouted.
“Chris!” I shouted back. But my preferences didn’t matter at this time – he was speaking the language of heroes.
“There’s no need to worry, Christian,” he shouted “because my spider-suit protects me from the elements.” Ben beat his chest heroically and stood tall in the howling wind that was piling the snow up against him, leewards.
“You know you’re sounding more like Superman at the moment – are you sure you’re not in the wrong costume?”
‘Spiderman’ hesitated, but he had to admit it. “You’re right, Christian,” he shouted, “You’ve caught me in a deception.” He paused to pull his hair out of his mouth and re-tie it back with his elastic. “Spiderman is in trouble,” he shouted, “and needs our help. Aliens have captured him and plan to kill him. Their harvests failed and their gods demanded the ultimate sacrifice: the life of their king. But their kind is beloved, so they plan to use Spiderman as an alternate sacrifice.” He paused for a long breath, and then continued with his exposition, while I tried to think of a way to get him inside. “I would fly to his aid, but the aliens have created this gale, and filled it with kryptonite-laced snow!”
He paused for another breath so I jumped in, shouting “So hadn’t you better come inside and get changed?”
Ben had assumed a heroic pose: arms outstretched and crossed in front of him, trying to protect himself from the snow, but it was overcoming him – he was starting to hunch over, his knees starting to bend. But he heard me, and stood straight with a fresh determination.
“No!” The wind whipped his ponytail into his face. “The world cannot know that Spiderman has been captured. His enemies would run riot and Aunt May would have hysterics.” He stared emotively into the distance.
John stuck his head into the porch. “Chris, hurry up and get him inside before we all freeze to death. We’re a care home; we’re supposed to care for them.”
“I’m trying.” I said.
“Well I’m closing the inner door. You should put a coat on. And I think you’ll need these snow boots.” He chucked a thick coat and a random pair of boots to me and closed the door.
Ben was fast becoming a snowman. Shit. I opened the door John had just closed. “Wait.” John turned. “Make a bucket of hot cocoa.”
He looked me up and down in my coat and boots. “You need backup?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Well have fun,” he said. “Hot drinks will await you.”
I went back into the porch, closed that door, took a step outside and the wind crashed into me, blowing the hood up as I struggled with the zipper. I angled my body so I didn’t just get blown away, and started wading through the snow. I was getting him in.
“But Superman!” I shouted, “If you pretend to be Spiderman, who will pretend to be you? The people need to know you’re here, and your enemies will run amok!”
Ben swung round at his waist to full face me – his legs knee-deep in snow. “My enemies are all in jail” he said scathingly. “No, I have to help my friend. The people will understand.”
The wind changed direction and my hood got blown down, and snow battered into my face. I tried to avoid eating it while I struggled with the hood.
Ben moved towards me and plonked his hand on my shoulder. “You have to help me.” He struck another ‘Superman being weakened by kryptonite’ pose. “We need to protect me from the snow long enough to regain my energy and then I can fly up and get him.”
It was freezing and I was being pummelled by snow... “How are we going to do that?” I asked.
Superman pointed to the porch. There, the umbrellas. Bring me two.”
“Ok!” I went back as quickly as could, picked the two that looked biggest and strongest – a red one and a blue and white one – and then waded back out till I stood beside him and his ever increasing mound of snow. “How are we going to control them in the gale?” I asked.
This was a salient point. “We must first combine our strength to open them, and then you must hold them, and have faith, until I have gained enough energy to fly. Then you must have faith until I get back.” He looked into my eyes with unshakeable belief.
“Ok Superman.” I said.
We put the blue and white one down on the snow and turned to face the wind, so that the snow pile was not in front of us and the blue and white one behind us. We started to open the red one, but our hands got in the way of themselves, and then the wind caught it as it was half open and pulled it from our grasp.
“NO!” shouted Superman, and started to wade after it. It flipped and span and finally wedged itself into the snow, and then he could start to gain on it. I watched and then saw the blue and white one being rolled along on top of the snow by the wind.
“Superman!” I called, pointing at the second umbrella. I was stuck in the snow. But he was too busy struggling with the red one and my words were being whipped away by the wind. He mastered the red one and looked round just in time to see me dive and catch the blue and white.
“Well done!” he shouted, and we both cheered, thrusting our umbrellas into the air then swiftly having to grab them with our other hands to stop us losing them again. We both waded back towards where the snow pile had been – it was now blown away but the holes our bodies had made still half-remained. It was freezing. I didn’t have gloves on. He was wearing a spiderman suit and probably didn’t have any shoes on. We needed to get inside.
“We need to do this better,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “I have a plan.” I paused to allow a suitably heroic response from him but he was listening no reply was coming, so I continued. “We need to coordinate our efforts to the utmost level.” I paused again for dramatic effect.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean,” I said, “One: we impale the blue and white one into the snow so it doesn’t blow away. We can’t use it – it’ll only hinder our efforts – but we mustn’t lose it.” We did this. “Two,” I said, “You hold this red one with both hands and I will try to open it. Then once it’s open we’ll wedge it into the snow and I’ll try to control it. You’ll have to crouch, but hopefully that’ll give you enough protection to regain your strength. Then you go get Spiderman.” He nodded solemnly. “But once I shout, you must come back whether you’ve got him or not, because I can’t hold it for long, and I could get blown away if I lose control.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll get him.” We shook hands, and he grabbed the red umbrella firmly. He looked at me and I nodded and started pushing. But the wind pushed back.
“I can’t do it!”
“You have to,” he shouted. “And quick, I’m losing my strength. You have to do it.”
It was bloody freezing and he’d been out there for ages. I pushed with all my strength, the umbrella almost looking like it would tear, and then a momentary fall in the wind allowed me to push the umbrella open. The wind rose again, but I managed to push it over the catch while Ben wedged it into the snow in front of my left leg. I held on with all my strength, leaning over and pushing the umbrella out and down, watching as the fabric pushed in and the metal started to bend.
Superman closed his eyes and crouched behind the shelter we had created, eyes closed, finding his inner strength.
“Quick!” I shouted, as I was tiring quickly. “Quick!”
He opened his eyes and said “Ok, I’m ready. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I said.
And he leapt up and ran. Jumping up and down, bounding over – not wading through – the snow. Watching him, I lost control of the umbrella. “Superman!” I screamed, and he ran back towards me, grabbing the other umbrella and pulling me to my feet.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve got him and I’ve got you.” He grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me along as we waded through the snow, until we got to the drive, which had been salted, and then we ran into the porch.
“We did it, Superman,” I grinned, gasping, as we caught our breath.
He turned and looked at me, breathing heavily – now a weaker being. “Superman’s gone, Chris” said Ben, “And so’s Spidey. It’s just me now, Ben.”
“Oh,” I said, as I took off my boots and banged them against the doorway, “So where have they gone to? To the Bat Cave to see Batman?” I took the coat off and hung it up.
“No,” said Ben, “They’ve gone to explore their reluctant but inevitable homosexuality.” Obviously Cat had got to him again.
“Well,” I said, clapping him on the back, “We’d better get you in and dry then, ‘cos I don’t think you have superpowers.”
“No,” said Ben, “I don’t. I’m cold and wet.”
“Me too,” I said, closing the door.
“Yeah,” he said, “You gotta love Canada.” And that was me he was quoting.
Because he's my Idol
(DISCLAIMER: the photograph is not an accordion. I'm pretty certain it isn't. I didn't have a photo of an accordion, sorry.)
“Why have you brought me a harmonica?” asked Topher when the accordion player strode in. “It’s supposed to be a Fitzgerald party. They didn’t have harmonicas in the Jazz Age.” He brandished the champagne bottle he was holding with dramaticised anger.
Ninety percent of that statement was wrong, thought Tina, sitting leaning against the piano. However it was a Fitzgerald party. Her drink was a Cosmopolitan, not a crème de menthe, but at least she was wearing an elegant dress and leaning against a piano. The human piñata, as yet still full of sweets, was an obvious anachronism, but it set the right tone.
The accordion player surveyed the exaggerated mess (Topher had spent most of the night exaggerating it) and saw yes, there were only two guests, or one guest and one host as was actually the case. No-one was in the toilet. Tina leant either wearily or sultrily against the baby-grand until the player decided that as he’d get paid regardless he would stay, and asked, “What would you like me to play?”
Topher shouted, “Despair, a song of despair!” and then intoned, “No, ennui, we need ennui.” He waved the champagne bottle again as he said this and a slight fizzing became audible. The accordion player moved slightly so that he wasn’t in an as the crow flies position. He pivoted as he shuffled so that the door was still behind his back, which amused Tina slightly. The player seemed to be thinking of circuses and madmen (welcome to the funhouse) as he tried to work out what to play, hands fiddling with his instrument’s case.
“I don’t know...” said the player.
“Auld Lang Syne,” said Tina. “Can you play Auld Lang Syne?”
“I don’t know the words,” the player hedged.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Tina.
“No,” said Topher, “It’s perfect. And nobody’s here!”
It was perfect.
The accordion player nodded his assent. He fiddled about a bit finding the right key and then started playing. None of them knew the words, so the player played, Tina held her drink and fiddled with the olive on its stick, and Topher jumped around dancing. He appeared to be doing a jittery robot to the trance hardcore remix of ALS. The player kept moving surreptitiously, trying to avoid Topher noticing that he was avoiding the cork pointing at him – the bottle remained in Topher’s hand. The man had clearly put Topher down as some kind of nutter but he wasn’t – just had too much time and brain for thinking. Tina classified him as too TV. TV melodrama with a twenties tint. He was a performer who performed Fitzgerald, and tonight was a classic.
Dance away the heartache. Who was is who wrote or just sang that? Chris Rhea?
The accordion player had repeated the tune a couple of times, and Topher had almost tripped on the bin and banged his shins on the Ikea coffee table a couple of times. The player started to slow down as he entered his 3rd repetition, and Topher took this as a rallentando to finis. He stopped dancing and started intentionally Formula One-shaking the bottle.
“Uh, you need to...” said the player, clearly thinking of the wire holding the cork in, and this transmitted itself to Topher.
“Ah yes,” he said. He untwisted each side of the cage a little, then a little bit more, and the cork began to escape. Topher gave the bottle one final double handed shakeup and then whirr-swizz BANG! the cork and its cage pushed free of the bottle and pinged off somewhere but not into any glass because they didn’t hear that crashing sound. Tina didn’t see where it actually went because her eyes had gone to the frothing spewing champagne coming out of the bottle.
“Wheeee!” said Topher happily.
The accordion player just stood there – he’d been frightened into an abrupt halt by the champagne cork flying. But it was probably a relief; his tension had been palpable - now it was over. Tina reached behind to where her clutch was on the piano’s keys. It had been helpfully quiet during the accordion recital – the clutch had settled by then – but now the grand played a couple more notes as she unclipped the bag and took out her chequebook and a pen.
“Who shall I make this payable to again?” she asked.
“Sean, Sean Cook,” said Sean Cook. “With no ‘e’.”
“Well thank you Sean,” said Tina. She handed him the cheque and he said thanks and exited hastily. He left his coat and scarf behind. And the accordion case. Tina hoped it wasn’t raining. It didn’t seem to be, but unless the rain was driving you didn’t hear it here, three floors up and five floors down and underneath a balcony. She couldn’t hear neighbours banging on the walls either, which was good, but then it had only been three playings of Auld Lang Syne.
Tina unlanguished herself from the piano – poor Sean hadn’t waited for her to show him out. She picked up and folded his coat and scarf and put them on a chair that was by the door, first removing the streamers from it. If he didn’t come back in a minute she’d call him tomorrow. She figured she’d have to call. She would have been surprised at the speed of his exit, but she realised not everyone liked the twenties.
Topher was necking what little champagne was left in the bottle. Tina finished her Cosmopolitan than then reached now under the piano. She took out two baseball bats.
It had been custom-made so as to be shaped like a person of indeterminate gender (they’d gone for no genitals rather than two sets) and was of no race or creed – it was yellow blue and pink striped as piñatas often are. The frilled tissue paper style of the stripes indicated that this person had very bad eczema, but there was nothing else determinable.
“Come on, Topher,” Tina said, smiling. “It’s Hammer time.”
“Why have you brought me a harmonica?” asked Topher when the accordion player strode in. “It’s supposed to be a Fitzgerald party. They didn’t have harmonicas in the Jazz Age.” He brandished the champagne bottle he was holding with dramaticised anger.
Ninety percent of that statement was wrong, thought Tina, sitting leaning against the piano. However it was a Fitzgerald party. Her drink was a Cosmopolitan, not a crème de menthe, but at least she was wearing an elegant dress and leaning against a piano. The human piñata, as yet still full of sweets, was an obvious anachronism, but it set the right tone.
The accordion player surveyed the exaggerated mess (Topher had spent most of the night exaggerating it) and saw yes, there were only two guests, or one guest and one host as was actually the case. No-one was in the toilet. Tina leant either wearily or sultrily against the baby-grand until the player decided that as he’d get paid regardless he would stay, and asked, “What would you like me to play?”
Topher shouted, “Despair, a song of despair!” and then intoned, “No, ennui, we need ennui.” He waved the champagne bottle again as he said this and a slight fizzing became audible. The accordion player moved slightly so that he wasn’t in an as the crow flies position. He pivoted as he shuffled so that the door was still behind his back, which amused Tina slightly. The player seemed to be thinking of circuses and madmen (welcome to the funhouse) as he tried to work out what to play, hands fiddling with his instrument’s case.
“I don’t know...” said the player.
“Auld Lang Syne,” said Tina. “Can you play Auld Lang Syne?”
“I don’t know the words,” the player hedged.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Tina.
“No,” said Topher, “It’s perfect. And nobody’s here!”
It was perfect.
The accordion player nodded his assent. He fiddled about a bit finding the right key and then started playing. None of them knew the words, so the player played, Tina held her drink and fiddled with the olive on its stick, and Topher jumped around dancing. He appeared to be doing a jittery robot to the trance hardcore remix of ALS. The player kept moving surreptitiously, trying to avoid Topher noticing that he was avoiding the cork pointing at him – the bottle remained in Topher’s hand. The man had clearly put Topher down as some kind of nutter but he wasn’t – just had too much time and brain for thinking. Tina classified him as too TV. TV melodrama with a twenties tint. He was a performer who performed Fitzgerald, and tonight was a classic.
Dance away the heartache. Who was is who wrote or just sang that? Chris Rhea?
The accordion player had repeated the tune a couple of times, and Topher had almost tripped on the bin and banged his shins on the Ikea coffee table a couple of times. The player started to slow down as he entered his 3rd repetition, and Topher took this as a rallentando to finis. He stopped dancing and started intentionally Formula One-shaking the bottle.
“Uh, you need to...” said the player, clearly thinking of the wire holding the cork in, and this transmitted itself to Topher.
“Ah yes,” he said. He untwisted each side of the cage a little, then a little bit more, and the cork began to escape. Topher gave the bottle one final double handed shakeup and then whirr-swizz BANG! the cork and its cage pushed free of the bottle and pinged off somewhere but not into any glass because they didn’t hear that crashing sound. Tina didn’t see where it actually went because her eyes had gone to the frothing spewing champagne coming out of the bottle.
“Wheeee!” said Topher happily.
The accordion player just stood there – he’d been frightened into an abrupt halt by the champagne cork flying. But it was probably a relief; his tension had been palpable - now it was over. Tina reached behind to where her clutch was on the piano’s keys. It had been helpfully quiet during the accordion recital – the clutch had settled by then – but now the grand played a couple more notes as she unclipped the bag and took out her chequebook and a pen.
“Who shall I make this payable to again?” she asked.
“Sean, Sean Cook,” said Sean Cook. “With no ‘e’.”
“Well thank you Sean,” said Tina. She handed him the cheque and he said thanks and exited hastily. He left his coat and scarf behind. And the accordion case. Tina hoped it wasn’t raining. It didn’t seem to be, but unless the rain was driving you didn’t hear it here, three floors up and five floors down and underneath a balcony. She couldn’t hear neighbours banging on the walls either, which was good, but then it had only been three playings of Auld Lang Syne.
Tina unlanguished herself from the piano – poor Sean hadn’t waited for her to show him out. She picked up and folded his coat and scarf and put them on a chair that was by the door, first removing the streamers from it. If he didn’t come back in a minute she’d call him tomorrow. She figured she’d have to call. She would have been surprised at the speed of his exit, but she realised not everyone liked the twenties.
Topher was necking what little champagne was left in the bottle. Tina finished her Cosmopolitan than then reached now under the piano. She took out two baseball bats.
It had been custom-made so as to be shaped like a person of indeterminate gender (they’d gone for no genitals rather than two sets) and was of no race or creed – it was yellow blue and pink striped as piñatas often are. The frilled tissue paper style of the stripes indicated that this person had very bad eczema, but there was nothing else determinable.
“Come on, Topher,” Tina said, smiling. “It’s Hammer time.”
Headcrash @ Birdcage 21st July 2010!
I'm performing at The Birdcage on 21st (Headcrash - cheers Russell!). It's probably a tad early to promote this. But I feel excited. I'll post again if anything changes. (Mental note - must finish a story by then - these guys have heard WHMS.) (The picture is me in the US when I went out with Jess. Don't I look special.)
Wymondham Festival 6th July - the Wymondham Arts Centre @ 7.30 with Jess Morgan
News! - Jess and I will be performing on this evening at the Wymondham Arts Centre. Thanks Jess and thanks Wymondham! I've just finished creating some very special leaflets (still need to copy them though) which I will hand out if any of the audience are interested. There are 3 versions, each with a different story of mine in it. Excitement galore!
