What ever happened to the Jazz hoofer? That smartly dressed fellow you’d see wearing a classic tailored DB suite; that flaps, twists, wraps and rides about his crazy demeanour, like a cloak trailing the Cape Crusader. Saaaawish! Swish! This way and that with every sudden jerk, every daft pose that is part of his repertoire of cool jazz steps. And all beside the jacket itself is so wide. That’s the fit. The design accentuates the flow of motion. Besides, its’ a sharp cut, which wide lapels that make you look like some kind of Forties Chicago gangster…And the fat silk kipper tie, gaudily patterned, and those white-on-black spats. Or the stiff black shiny leather shoes, with the soles that enable you to slide from here to kingdom come, with a certain pazzas, glide and elegance! As if to give the illusion of running on ice. At some venues, its almost like the mob have turned out for their very own London fashion weekend. Like they’re all dressed to be heard. Sort of an eclectic statement on style…but with a Jazz orientation. You might even be fooled into thinking that is was the set for a new movie. Perhaps ‘Tap’, ‘Guy’s and Dolls,’ ‘The Cotton Club’, and ‘Duck Soup’ all rolled into one. To be more specific, a few of the girls have on those short black skirts, enabling you to see a lot more of what the legs are doing. Oh, and those black shoes with a small heel and buckle that fastens just above the ankle-the ones that look like tap shoes. Above the waist they seem to be wearing the top half of a leotard, only it has this extra piece of cloth that wraps around your body, and ties up at the back. The top itself is made of some cotton-stretch absorbent material-it has to be- it’s going to get hot! Then you’ve got hats, cravats, canes, garters, Argyle socks and britches, and even a monocle…Well what can I say…you don’t mellow to jazz! Dig.

Patrick

Picture the scene…A dark room, a wooden floor, an empty stage, set up in preparation for the performance of a young saxophonist by the name of Steve Williamson, or a very young pianist name Jason Rebello, or a skat singer named Cleveland Watkiss. At the other end of the room, directly opposite the stage is a raised platform on which stands a DJ box. The stage almost looks like a sort of modern art structure-a skeletal architecture in fact-just a lot of empty mike stands, some drums; and thick wires running back and forth along the ground. At the other side of the room, opposite the platform there’s a set of decks, behind which stand the ubiquitous Giles Peterson and Patrick Forge. Get the picture and you’ve got a dim recollection of Dingwalls 1988 or there abouts.

Gilles

Outside the sun could be shinning but at Dingwalls on a Sunday afternoon the joint is jumping, the crowd is hipper than thou and as I think Giles and Patrick would agree; its definitely a ‘we got the vibe situation”. Yeah, yeah, I was there!

But have you noticed how far some jazzuals memories will stretch when you talk about jazz-dance in Britain during the Eighties.

It’s like you get caught up in the romanticism, and you start to superimposed yourself on your favourite image of cool. Suddenly you’ve got an Afro-haired Chevy Chase playing hoops for the LA Lakers in Fletch, your girlfriend on the front cover of Vogue…and you in places that you never were. The Velcro tags’ in your head and everything sticks even the fluff.

Some of those goateed faces light right up, when you talk about the early days, and you know what’s coming next. Yeah, yeah, I was there-Electric Ballroom, 100 club, Dingwalls, Monday nights at the Wag (upstairs with Sylvester, heavy session….Whaat!) Breaking my knees and sweating so much, that no impressionable girl, or awe struck spectator in their right mind would stand within spraying distance…I must have washed the floor every week for a year. I lost weight in that room!

Truth is I’ve never even seen that dance floor at the Electric Ballroom. I’m not ashamed to say it…But in certain company truth just gets economised. Well know it is sometimes…everyone loves a legend. In which case I can lie with the same vague attention to detail as the rest of them.

That’s another thing…floors! Jazz dancers will take about floors the way newly-weds talk about bathroom suites. And it’s considered a real treat if you come across a wooden floor that’s been treated, sprung, or recently varnished-which means that there’s less stress on mileage on a slide. It all helps in the aesthetics and energy displacement. Dancing is hard work, and a little trick like the salt can help-but within reason. Nobody wants to spend a sunny afternoon countering gravitational pull. The steps are difficult enough as it is, without deliberately bring the stunt man factor into it.

Hey there’s Jerry from IDJ with that flat sole, sometimes tiptoe, almost boogaloo type shuffle. Done so fast that some of the kids got to thinking that all you had to do was shake in some kind of energetic fit, or throw yourself violently about the room out of time to the percolated snap! Crash! Pop!  Of indecipherable percussion that is Art Blakey’s ‘Messiah’-and in short you were doing jazz.

 Well I suppose you were in a rude and eager way.

 After all it’s up to you how you interpret your own self-expression in the dance. This isn’t Fame, you don’t need permission to rampantly stomp, grind and bump in every occupied direction. But don’t tell this to some of the die-hard, footage-watching, history-knowing, every-beat hearing, dare I say it, purists! Don’t tell the kid whose lungs are about to explode during the five second, thank-god almighty break of Michel Le Grand, that there’s no co-ordination to his/her stuff. What’s more, some of those guys and girls actually look like trained dancers. But would you believe it. They’ve never felt the urge to look in on Pineapple Dance Studios, let alone take a class…Sacrilege! Like this is a street jig. You’ve got to hustle, squeeze your sphincter, pain your groin and strain you’re a walk to get anywhere near really good. Have you ever seen Sandman Williams do one of those pretty and perfect pirouettes? Of course not! It just doesn’t look right. It’s just too Fred Astaire for a hoofer.

Jet Mag, 1955, by vieilles annonces

 You see, some dancers like to do a difficult move and make it look simple. That’s aesthetics. A hoofer does a difficult move and sweats for it. You know it was tough. He ain’t blowing for fun.

But before I run away with myself, don’t be conned into thinking that all the dancer are male. They’re not, but some of the moves are not exactly what a girl likes to find herself doing in public, unless she doesn’t mind sweating like a horse. For this reason serious dancers have been known to bring a change of garb. At the very least it a show of decency to fellow commuters if you happen to be going home by tube.

 But you still get the odd folk who are able to dance for hors to Tito Puente without so much as a wet shadow bleeding from under the armpits. Gosh!  The only thing I can think of is (and its highly speculative) sweat gland amputation! But that’s another story.

During a challenge, which is a bit like those old hip hop face offs, where some guy wearing a bandana came and stood two inches from your nose chewing gum, and expected you to respond in a non aggressive manner….Break dance in fact…(like really!) I’ll start again. During a challenge there are moments when the machismo element comes out…Like, for instance, when the crowd forms a circle and one or two egos start flying about-but it’s always friendly and good spirited. After all, jazz people are sensitive.

Hey there’s Eyvon, there’s Danielle. Danielle’s got this Latin style. It looks complicated-kind of film set jazz. Head held high, very precise, every elegant. Sometimes she’ll hold the hem of her skirt betraying a message of attitude. Jazz people often show attitude when they’re really getting into the dance. It’s what can make you stand out during a challenge-that and style.

And Eyvon, she dances like she’s possessed with the jazz spirit. Like the dances back in the Cotton club days, or somebody in one of those old black and white movies, where they Lindy Hop at 100 miles per hour. Everything looks so authentic, right down to her hand movements. She never misses a frantic bop beat. Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap! With her fingers stretched out, just so, occasionally stroking the air as if demonstrating how one would delicately stroke the keys of a piano. And her head cocked to one side like she’s listening to something you can’t quite hear. Perfect!

So what is the jazz dancer trying to do? Imitate tap? Create a free-style form of dance that grows from, and is part of the music? Well of course…it’s the visual extension! Its’ what you might see if the notes had a tangible form. But in a way they do. Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap! You mean does the jazz dancer aim to do physically, what the artist does with his/her instrument? To improvise and reach his zenith. To be exciting, daring even. To be raw in his/her perfection!

Incidentally, don’t be ashamed if you are still confusing jazz dance with vigorous jogging on the spot, or a berserk form of hopscotch. It takes a little time to get used to the steps. It took me a while to understand what was going on at first. But it’s the fastest way to a head rush I know of- and it’s legal.

 

The thing is, during the dance you’re not exactly supposed to be off balance. But you never know when the rush of adrenaline, the pump in your heart, the imploring screams of ‘more more!’ from friends will prove to great; and two moves later you’re a shamble on the floor.

You see the jazz dancer thrives on the danger of the dance. You get caught up in the excitement of the thing. You’re a street dancer-untamed, a mustang if you will. You never truly know whether this is gonna be the day you don’t make the turn, the hand spring, the jump, the splits from that three foot drop….ouch! And after all, I did say you don’t mellow to jazz.

But to be honest the street thing isn’t entirely correct. I mean of the dancers do like to mix in a little ballet, (sorry, I meant to say contemporary) and it works. You get a sort of graceful movement. It’s not so kinetically desperate looking. It’s explosive, it’s fancy; and it provides the perfect excuse to show off in a crowd. What’s more no-one can steal your style right off, because in normal circumstances you need wings before you can fly. These guys to fly!

  Rocky

I couldn’t really talk about jazz dance in London without at least mentioning an all-time veteran of jazz rooms, the only man to hoof effectively in trainers. Nuff respect to the man called Rocky. Rocky has more stamina than a drum soloist, more staying power than a held note, more sheer vitality than an aerobic tutor on Prozac, and more quickness than a man shouting ‘cool wet grass,’ while stepping over hot coals. No doubt the footwork helped during his earlier pro-boxing days. Talk about and Ali Shuffle.

Oh yeah, I suppose I should mention the chap Johnston, Everton and I danced against at the UK Jazz dance championship in Camden (1992). Suddenly, from out of nowhere he ran like a maniac at the wall, he ran up the wall, and flipped over backwards landing solidly on his spats. Pure Nicholas Brothers. A hard act to follow, but as an American gentleman at Tower records once told me: ‘Kid, you don’t mellow to Jazz’.

 pic, damian rafferty

pic Patric Forge

pic Gilles Petersen

pic damian rafferty

(Original published Straight No Chaser.)

The Sales manager Harry Dash had just gotten out of the shower. His super model anorexic girlfriend Marie was sitting in the breakfast nook sipping her coffee. She had a fashion shoot in Prague and was leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes. Harry and the model had just started dating. Harry stood in the mirror drying his blond hair and admiring his good body. He admired his chiselled jaw, his straight nose and his prominent chin. In two hours he was going to have to fire a man. It wasn’t personal. It was just business. The guy simply couldn’t deliver. And in sales if you didn’t deliver, then you were dead weight.

Harry’s girlfriend came into the bedroom wearing a pair of panties and one of Harry’s work shirts.

            F’Christ sake Harry. What the hell’s that? she asked, staring at the huge bulge beneath Harry’s towel.

            How about a quickie? asked Harry, smiling.

He stepped forward and let the towel fall.

            Harry you’re insatiable, said Marie.

For the second time in an hour she got down on her knees. Harry grinned at his handsome reflection in the bedroom mirror. He was 26. He had an appointment to see a potentially huge account at two o’clock. They were one of the biggest retail outlets in the country. Harry stood to make a big fat commission if the deal went through. He didn’t give a shit about world peace, world hunger, child prostitution, the ozone layer or global warming. As far as he was concerned he was the supreme master of his own universe. Get what you can while you can. Make hay while he sun still shines, and other phrases to that effect were Harry’s personal mantra. Next week if the sale went through, as it should, he was planning to put down the first payment for a brand new Porsche. It was the car he’d always wanted, well besides a red Corvette, but off course that would come, in time…He just had to figure out more ways of making more money. Yeah and maybe next week he’d take Marie or Vanessa, or Stacey to Rome for the weekend.

Oh oh, thought Harry. It’s going to be another glorious day.

Harry was driving his Ford along the freeway when all of a sudden a huge shadow appear out of the sky and in an instant everything stopped.

Shit I think I just stepped on something, boomed a voice coming from somewhere the clouds. Or maybe the voice came from space. Anyway it was a long way up above Harry’s head. (Have you ever try engaging with and ant? Well now you have some idea what Harry had to deal with). If you can’t see it is it real? Well Harry couldn’t see it so I guess…

There were two giant men standing above Harry, though of course Harry couldn’t see them, since in his world and in his mind, these men didn’t exist. Or maybe there weren’t men. Maybe they were gods…that’s up to you…but something was out there…maybe they were Harry and his buddy Marcus in the future….Jesus, is this one of those awkward stories that goes round and round and doesn’t seem to have any point?

And the first man, or the first god, or the first something lifted his foot. Squashed against the sole of his Moccasins was a tiny piece of grit barely visible to the naked eye.

             What is it? asked the second man, or god or force or whatever he was…

            I’m not sure. It looks like a bug of some kind.

             Hold on, said the second man.

He took out a paper tissue from his pocket, and passed it to the first man. The first man began to wipe the sole of his shoe with the tissue. When he was done he screwed up the tissue, threw it into the nearest trashcan and continued on his way. There end-eth some kind of new age hippie lesson…well any way, it made me think about stepping on the ants, destroying the ozone layer, and generally exploiting somebody somewhere, if only for a minute. 

 

pic dia bustu, the great buddha-magall

It’s several hours later and still wearing my suit, I heading up Clapham high street to a place called Munchies to console myself with something to eat. I find myself a table upstairs, right at the back, away from the other diners.

Are you OK? asks the waitress, trying to get my attention.

I nod, staring at her blankly, give my order, and then passing her back the menu, I ask where the toilets are. 

 

In the tiny toilet I lean heavily against the wall and stare intently into the white porcelain toilet bowl feeling a knot in my stomach, while my heart thumps rapidly in my chest. Coming out of the toilet I walk across to the sink, and splash cold water over my face and then stand by the door staring at my reflection in the narrow mirror, trying not to feel so sorry for myself. The migraine that started in the office is now much worse, despite having taken two headache pills that I bought at the newsagents opposite the train station. I take out the packet, push out to more pills and swallow them with a mouthful of water that I collect in my cupped hand. I rinse my face and by the time I get back to the table my food has arrived, but I’m too nauseous to eat it.

Leaving Munchies I’m still a little dazed and my head is still pounding. Blinking repeatedly in order to counteract the excruciating pain, I head up the street and cross the road and walk past a row of trees to get to Clapham Common.

Coming up to a bandstand the air wreaks of cannabis and I see a bunch of kids, with their bikes lying on the ground beside them smoking what appears to be a joint. One of the black boys, thin, bare-chested, wearing a dorag, who seems about my age, looks up as I pass and nudges a bare-chested boy with a white T-shirt draped coolly over his head. The second boy takes a hit on the joint and then passes it to a third light-skinned boy wearing a Bulls basket ball outfit and Timberlands boots sitting next to him. And then all the boys slowly get to their feet and start walking towards me.

I know you from somewhere, don’t I? asks the boy with the dorag, smirking at me, his eyes so slitty that he resembles someone who’s just woken up. 

I don’t think so? I say, too depressed to even look at his face.

Every time I move my head my migraine seems to get worse.

You don’t think so? says the boy imitating my accent. And then making a stupid face and turning to at his friends, he barks. Is that right Godfrey?

I don’t say anything. I look at the ground and smile nervously, and then when I realise that there’s no one’s actually stopping me, I start to slowly edge away. But the boy cuts in front of me, folding his arms and I gawp at the thick black Chinese or Japanese characters tattooed on his forearms.

Yeah you’re thingy’s mate, he continues.

I shake my head, opening and closing my eyes, still desperately trying to eradicate the excruciatingly sharp pain that seems to be slicing through my brain and stabbing my temples.

Suddenly all I want to do is get away from them. I glance at the boys getting ready run, but it soon becomes obvious that I’m far too scared to move. I go back to staring nervously at the boy that just spoke to me, who turns to his friends, and makes a gesture with his hands, causing the rest of the boys fall about in hysterics.  I look back at the boys, feeling dumb, scared and humiliated. Not too far away there’s a couple lying on the grass kissing and just beyond them to two little boys are flying a kite.

One of the boys shouts something at me in what sounds like patois and I stare back at him blankly, unable to decipher the content of what he’s saying.

Blood that’s a nice suite? interrupts the light-skin boy, his voice sounding  really croaky. I bet you’ve got a lot of doe, yeah?

I feel tightness in the back of my throat and my legs start to feel even shakier; the pain in my head now worse than ever, and my vision becoming blurred. Suddenly I belch and hold my hand across my mouth and the boys start to back off a little. I point at my throat and then jerk forward and bend over clutching my knees, and then to my embarrassment, I vomit everywhere. I hear the talking to one another above my head, though I’m too out of it to pay any attention to what they’re saying. And for the next few moments, I remain in a crouched position, shaking hopelessly, as globules of cold sweat slither off my brow.

You alright blood? asks the boy with the white T-shirt draped over his head. As he comes forward, he flops a skinny arm across my shoulder. Meanwhile his light-skin mate, sneaks up behind me, and deftly slips his hand in my back pocket, attempting to steal my wallet.

 

I push both boys away and angrily yell at them to piss off.

Get lost you fuckin’ dickhead, I say, completely freaking out.

For a moment I completely forget myself. And as the blood rushes I continue my crazy outburst:

Why don’t you do something useful with your life and stop of hassling people who are actually trying to make something of themselves? Just leave me alone, or I’ll call the police.

Of course the moment the words have come out of my mouth, I regret saying them, but unfortunately its far too late by then.

What d’you fuckin’ just call me? says, standing in front of me, snarling and flashing his teeth. 

Listen, I sorry it’s just that I don’t feel too….

Nah, nah, forget that shit…What did you just fuckin’ call me?

What you shaking for? asks the kid in the bulls T-shirt, edging forward and rubbing the knuckles of his right fist.

You fuckin’ pussy, says the other one. Think you’re better than us cause your rich mummy and daddy bought can afford to buy you a suit? Blood clatt, faggot.

I don’t say anything. All I can think is, I wish I could take it all back, every word that just came out of my stupid mouth. Christ, I must be out of my mind. I must have a death wish.

pic, Clapham Common bandstand, Mrs Gorman

It’s my second week in the office. Neil still insists almost hourly that he’s there to help me. Though in truth, most of the time he completely ignores. Every time I attempt to ask a question he turns away and I can’t work out if he’s doing it on purpose.  After a while I get the message and I don’t ask him any more questions. 

                                                            8

I’m getting the hang of things. In fact I can’t understand how everything seemed so complicated when I first arrived a month ago.

           

Neil wants to know what I’m doing. It’s the new campaign and for the past three days he’s been on edge. Most of the time I’m walking on eggshells. I explain that I’m doing exactly what he asked me to do

Just because you went to a university doesn’t mean I going to take your cheek, says Neil. You’re pissing me off. Remember you’re still on fuckin’ probation, right?

 Naturally I’m embarrassed. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done. I look around the office, then quickly duck down, and stare at my computer.

 Neil’s flare ups become much more common. Clearly the honeymoon period is over. Half the time he throws a fit at me for absolutely no reason.

It’s another day at the office and I’m grateful because for once Neil is in a splendid mood. We are getting on famously, and he even brings me back a cup of coffee around eleven-thirty.  As I sip my coffee Neil enquires about the type of music I listen to.

I’d have to say my favourite types of music are Rock, Jazz and Hip-hop. 

Hip-hop! he says making a face. I thought all you university boys liked classical music.

Neil sits back in his chair staring at the ceiling. He decides to tell a joke. He delivers the punch line and I start to laugh. The joke is in no way funny but as long as I’m keeping Neil happy my life will be sweet. Encouraged by my sucking up, Neil fires out a succession of racist jokes, each mildly less funny and more offensive that the last. Nevertheless I get the giggles. Neil looks through the gap between our desks with growing approval.

 A talk skinny white woman with long brown hair marches across to Neil’s desk and begins yelling at him.

Yeah, I’m a bit busy right now, I hear Neil say.

That wasn’t a request, says the woman in a loud stroppy voice. I want it on my desk by 4.30 or else.

Fine, says Neil, folding his arms and going red.

Thank you, says the woman standing there for a moment in silence, before turning and storming off.

Frigid bitch, mutters Neil as soon as the woman is out of earshot.

Who was that? I ask lowering my voice.

One of the Accounts Directors. She’s a real bitch.

Why what happened?

Keep your voice down, she’s standing right behind you.

I turn around slowly, but off course there’s nobody there. Neil chuckles to himself and shakes his head as if he can’t believe how dumb I am.

Anyway, so Yemi, what’s your first impression of this place so far?

I smile and tell him that it’s great. I confess that I’m eager to learn as much as possible. It’s the sort of stuff I expect him to hear, although it’s not too far from the truth. I do like the job and I do want to get on.

And what d’you think of me, as a manager that is?

You’re good.

            No come on, seriously.

            I’m serious, I say sheepishly.

After a few minutes Neil gets up, walks away and returns with two cups of hot coffees. He places one of the cups on my desk and then pulls a Kit Kat out of his top pocket and places it beside my cup of coffee. Surprise, I start to thank him and he puts his finger on his lips, winks at me and immediately walks away. Sitting back at his desk and grinning, he apologises for his recent run of bad moods.

You wouldn’t believe how busy I’ve been. But off course that doesn’t excuse my behaviour, he says placing his hand on his chest like a politician about to be sworn in to office. Then he spoils it all. Making a stupid face and speaking out of the corner of his mouth in a cartoon Jamaican accent: 

You know what I mean bred’ren?

Afterwards Neil suggests that one of these days the two of us should go out drinking together. I smile back at him warily, nodding my head, but I don’t commit to anything.

It’s another day and Neil is leaning on his desk on his elbows rubbing the top of his head. He’s just come back from the toilet.

Yemi!

I look up.

Had a brilliant night last night.

Yeah?

Yeah, quality.

Neil leans across his desk and beckons me closer.

Here feast your eyes on this, he says, lowering his voice to whisper.

As I look up I see him pushing a rolled up magazine through the gap in the files.

Keep it out of sight, says Neil chuckling. Oi check out the size of her tits on page seven.

I look around nervously. I notice that one of the girls to my right is looking across at me suspiciously. Trying not to look too obvious about it, I attempt to cover the porno with his other hand.

Go on, says Neil. It’ll only take you a second.

I look to my side. The girl across from is now whispering something to the girl sitting beside to her.

Great. Now everyone’s going to think I’m the office pervert.

I shield one side of the magazine with my arm and start leafing through the pages quickly. 

Page seven; I mutter to myself, while my foot shakes nervously underneath the desk.

Neil coughs and I look up for a second and then go back to scanning the magazine. Neil coughs again, this time louder. All of a sudden I get the feeling that someone is watching me.

 

What do you think you’re doing? barks a female voice.

Before I can respond a hand comes over my shoulder and grabs the magazine off the desk.

Is this what you call work?

I look up and see the Account Director from the other day, standing behind me.

Well? she says, her voice getting embarrassingly louder. Is this why you think we employed you so that you could sit at your desk reading muck like this?

I start to fidget. People are turning round to see what all the fuss is about.

Neil could you come over here for a second, says the Account Director. There’s something you need to see.

Neil stands up.

 

The Account Director shows him the magazine. Neil looks at me, crosses his arms and fakes a look of incredulous astonishment.

You know reading pornography in the office is a dismissible offence? he adds, sticking the knife in further.

I glare back at him.

I take it that this disgusting rubbish is yours? asks the Account Director.

I don’t answer.

Or perhaps you got it from one of the other lads? she asks, glancing at Neil.

I glance up at Neil, and scratch my left eyebrow. I still don’t say anything. I can feel sweat trickling down my armpits.

Well? she asks, staring at me, placing both hands on her hips.

I take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a frozen look of masked panic on Neil’s face and I almost want to laugh out loud. After all the crap he’s put me through he’s finally getting his come-uppence. As I open my mouth to speak I see him lean to the side and nervously try to signal me with his eyes. I lower my head and ignore him.

It belongs to me, I finally mumble. Neil had absolutely nothing to do with it.

The account director hesitates for a moment.

Well, put it away and don’t let me catch you looking at Pornographic material in the office again or next time you know what’ll happen, she snaps.

She gives me a disapproving look, hands me back the magazine and I hurriedly and gratefully stuff it into my bag.

Neil I’d like a word with you, says the Account Director.

Neil and the Account Director depart.  I can hear other people whispering behind me.

Thanks a lot Neil. Thanks a lot, I think as I stare at the screen on my computer.

 

It’s lunchtime and Neil calls me aside and accuses me of trying to drop him in it.

What the hell were you trying to do to me? he asks.  You nearly got me in a load of shit. Didn’t you hear me telling you to put it away?

No I didn’t.

You didn’t hear me?

No.

You’re telling me you didn’t hear me? What are you bloody stupid or something?

I’m not stupid.

You always have to bloody argue don’t you? What you think that because you went to university you know more than everyone else?

I was just trying to explain.

Did I ask you to explain? Did I?

No.

Remember mate you’re still on probation.

I’m sorry. I was only say….

Right, that’s it, he says banging his fist down on the desk. Don’t expect any more favours. And by the way the next time you come in late you’re getting a warning.

 

When I go to take the copy of Playboy out of my bag at 5.30 I notice that it’s gone. I don’t bother saying anything to Neil.

Neil’s moods seem to chop and change by the hour.  One minute he seems to be on a high and the next he’s grinding his teeth and stabbing a pencil into the note as he jogs down a message, and slamming down the phone and cussing the caller. When Neil isn’t making me feel incompetent, or screaming at me at the top of his lungs, he’s calling all the girls in the office useless tarts and slagging off the other managers. I never join in, though often I get the feeling that he’d like me to, and I sense that if I did, think might be a little easier.

Despite Neil’s raging temper (which my flat mates Miles has suggested is probably due to drugs), and the constant fear that he is about to physically attack me for no good reason, I still go out of my way to befriend him. I decide that while I’m at least on my probationary period, he’s the last person I want to annoy. And anyway, it’s quite possible that he’s actually a nice person. Doubtful, but possible…But all this changes when I’m standing by the coffee machine and I hear Neil slagging me off. Asking one of his friend: Why they had to go and employ a fuckin’ cocky Nig Nog?

I walk back to my seat and suddenly I have the feeling that every bodies watching me.

                                                            9

Everyone at work ignores me apart from a pretty Asian girl who came over and introduced herself to me on my second day I arrived. To everyone else I’m invisible. When I stroll along the corridor to the coffee machine, people nervously turn away. Or if they don’t turn away, they look right through me. At first I figure that I’ve done something to upset them. But after some time it becomes clear to me, that no matter how nice I am to everyone, nobody wants to know me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Neil waves at me from across the desk.

All right my man Yemi. You alright?

Yeah fine.

You look a bit down mate.

No I’m fine.

Just wanted to say. Keep the good work up. Carrying on like this and you won’t have any problem. I promise to personally put in a good word for you. Can I get you anything from the coffee machine?

No I’m fine.

OK take it easy homeboy.

10

I’m sitting around a table in the pub with another six or seven people. A girl that sits close to my desk in the office, actually the one who spotted me with the porno magazine, glances across and quickly looks away. I wait for her to look back, and when she does, I give her a friendly nod. The girl smiles back at me and she starts playing with her hair. I wink and she slides off, comes round and sits on the empty stool next to me.

You’re new, she say.

Yeah and you sit over by the window.

My names’ Caroline.

Yemi.

She holds out her hand and I shake it. Then probably because I’m a little drunk, I lean forward and plant a big soppy kiss on her cheek.

If you’re ever bored come over for a chat, she says grinning.

 

The rest of the night is spent doing Tequilas slammers until last orders or when the bosses tab runs out. The drinks keep coming. I am totally drunk. I stumble through Leicester Square with the rest of my work colleagues. 

On the tube platform I’m joined by other drunken office workers, and once we board the train a bunch of lads in the rear of our carriage burst into song. But they’re soon drowned out by another bunch of lads who break out in a relentless drunken football chant.

                                                            11

I’m back at work and my head feels like it’s was trampled on in my sleep by a herd of wild buffalo.

I’m sitting at me desk squinting through my half closed eyes, praying to God that the day will soon be over.  Every so often Neil looks through the gap between the files to see what I’m doing. When I realise that there’s no way that I can stay awake a second longer, I get to my feet and head for the office sanctuary…the bogs.

I’m sitting on the toilet in one of the cubicles when I’m woken up by the sound of someone snorting and then blowing their nose in the cubicle next to mine. I open the door slightly and see my section leader, Neil standing by the sink, rubbing his gums and then checking his nose in the mirror, Afterwards he sniffs, gives his fringe a quick flick and stuffs something that I can’t quite see into his jacket. I wait for him to leave making a mental note to mention what I’ve just seen to Miles. (who later informs me that Miles was probably taking coke). I flushed the toilet, come out of my cubicle and go over to the sink and check my own reflection in the mirror. I splash cold water over my face, then take a deep breath and turn to leave. Fortunately when I get back, Neil isn’t at his desk.

It’s 12.45 and I have the shakes. I am staring blankly at my computer screen. I have my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear and I am holding and in-depth conversation with a fantasy client. Out of the corner of my eye I see some of my drinking buddies from the night before, slouching lethargically towards the coffee machine. I give them a conspiratorial grin and rub my temples to indicate that I’m not having such a great time either. Then I wave because I think they mustn’t have seen me. Then I realise that yes, they did see me. And then it hits me: The flicker of panic in their eyes. The way they are staring straight ahead, casually avoiding me. In unison, it seems, they both raise their chins and walk straight past me. It’s official. Once again I’m the invisible man.

I start to feel depressed. I spend my lunch break eating in the office canteen alone. I look around and see people in twos, threes and fours smiling and chatting to each other. Afterwards, I wander the streets and window shop, alone. I walk slowly, partly because I’m depressed, and partly, so as not to aggravate my hangover. I stand outside a sports shop looking at the pairs of trainers on show, occasionally catching my pathetic reflection in the glass. 

                                                            12

Everyone at work comes down with the flu and I’m no exception.

I’m at home, sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet and a blanket. I telephone the office to say that I won’t be coming in. My voice sounds gruff and scratchy, and for once Neil is actually compassionate. He tells me to wrap up warm and take as long as I need to recover.

All right chief, he says. Just give me a call when you’re feeling better.

Chief, I think. Why does he keep on calling me chief?

 

Still wrapped in the Duvet I wander across to the large window in the living room, which overlooks the street below. Then I do an about turn and walk through to the kitchen and stand by the window, which looks onto the car park. I can’t afford to buy the usual anti-flu remedies like, Lemsip, Nurofen, or oranges for their vitamin C, so I simply don’t take anything. In actual fact the only real antidote I take for my sickness is rest and sleep.

I’m bored and restless. I go back to the living room, rolled on to my side, lift my knees to my chest and shaking, fall asleep.

                                                            13

The worst of my illness is passed. I drag myself out of bed, get washed and dressed and head off to work.

It’s 9.45 and I’m summoned to the Head of Department’s office.  She gestures towards a chair and I sit down.

You’re probably wondering why I wanted to see you. Or perhaps you’ve guessed, she says.

She pauses and when I don’t make any attempt to answer, she continues. 

You took some time off work, she says. But you didn’t inform your manager.

 I did, I say. I phoned in and spoke to Neil three days ago.

You’re sure about that?

I look across at her, trying to work out where this is going.

           

We’re sitting across from each other. Neil is wearing a new beige suit that makes him look a bit like an expat from a Graham Greene novel. 

 

 Repeat what you told me, the Head of Department, says to Neil.

I said that I was wondering if Yemi was coming back since he hadn’t been in contact with anyone. 

So you don’t remember me phoning to say I was ill, and you saying I should take as long as I needed to recover? I ask.

Absolutely not, says Neil. Didn’t happen.

I stare at Neil with my bottom lip quivering, curbing the urge to yell in his face and call him a liar.

What d’you mean it didn’t happen? I say, narrowing my eyes. 

Neil just smiles at me like I’m some kind of nut.

           

You sure you didn’t get confused and speak to someone else? asks the Head of Department.

Definitely not, I say.  I don’t know why he’s saying what he’s saying, because I definitely remember us having the conversation. He called me chief and said I should take as long as I needed to get well.

I’d never call you chief, says Neil.

So I’m making it up? I ask. So I’m a liar then?

Neil sits there arrogantly shaking his head. I’m baffled because I can’t understand why he’s blatantly lying.

Did you want to add anything? asks the Head of Department.

Not really, I say. Except that we definitely spoke on the phone despite what he’s trying to tell you.

Neil continues to shake his head and has such a supercilious look on his face, that it’s all I can do to stop myself from leaping out of my chair and throttling him. Then just to add insult to injury he says:

I swear on my grand-mother’s life. I don’t remember speaking to you.  Maybe you were feverish or something and you had temporary amnesia.

I glare at him, too angry to speak.

Neil will you excuse us please? says the Head of Department.

Neil stands up to go. As he turns and moves towards the door I notice that he’s grinning. And when he’s sure the Head of Department isn’t watching, he gives me the famous gladiatorial upside-down-thumb and winks.   

 

The Head of Department gives me a look like she’s on the verge of breaking into tears and long before she speaks I’m aware of the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, even though I’m not exactly sure what it means.

I don’t think it’s going to work out, she says. Neil said you were having some problems anyway. And then there was that incidents with the dirty magazines.

She pauses.

I think you’d probably be happier somewhere else. You needn’t bother coming in again. We’ll pay you till the end of the month. Neil’s gone to collect your things. If you need any further help with a reference, give us a call. If I’m not around, leave a message.

 All of a sudden I feel physically sick. I can’t believe she’s actually firing me. I’ve never been fired from a job before and I’m baffled because I can’t understand why I’m having such a terrible reaction. I never thought losing a job would be so horrendously hurtful. I can feel a lump in my throat and after every breath I take something seems to catch and I think that I’m going to start crying. I look down at my feet with my jaw shaking, and I start to notice that there’s a scuffmark on the front of one of my shoes. I keep looking down at my shoes until the feeling that I’m going to cry goes away. But in truth it never completely does.

Are you OK? asks the Head of Department.

I nod and force myself to grin.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, I mumble like a robot.

I’m heading through reception towards the lifts, and I begin to recall some of the funny looks some people gave me when I came in to the office this morning. I remember how one or two people were even uncharacteristically friendly and addressed me by name. Obviously now I know exactly why.

My legs feel strangely heavy and I don’t really know where I am. In a way I feel kind of drunk, but without any of the usual euphoria. It’s as if I’m surrounded by a big white open space.  From somewhere inside my head I can hear a buzzing sound. It’s a bit like the white noises you get when you first turn on a radio. As I’m waiting for the lift I see the Marketing Director coming towards me.

Popping out? he asks cheerfully.

I smile, trying desperately to hold back the tears. I step into the lift just as Neil appears with my stuff.

Yemi my man, says Neil.

I hold the lift door open but I don’t speak.

It’s been real, says Neil grinning.

Oh have I put my foot in it? asks the Marketing Director.

I smile weakly.

Keep in touch, he says.

He pats me on the arm and hurries away.

I look at Neil and for a moment I consider slamming my fist in his face or thrusting my knee in his balls. I can’t think of anything that would give me more pleasure. Maybe I should have a word with the head of department and tell her what a drug head he is, and mention all the disgusting stuff I’ve heard him comes out when he’s high on the phone. In the end, all I do is stand and watch his pompous-lying bastard disappear, as the lift doors slides shut.

Outside in the street I still don’t fully comprehend what has just happened. I’m grinning hysterically. I can already hear my mother’s imaginary voice yelling at me:

You can’t even hold on to a job. How are you going to survive? You see…Come home before you ruin your life.

I make myself taller and pull my shoulders back. I’m not ready to give in yet.

I look at the people walking down the street and I wish I could talk to somebody. Anybody. Just to ask them if it really happened. Suddenly life seems really awful. Less than five hours ago every thing was hanky dory and now all I have is the memory and sadly it’s not a very good one. Not to mention that I still owe some very bad people a lot of money and without a job there is little chance of me ever being able to pay them back. That’s another worry that I right now I really don’t want to think about. On the way to the tube I’m still asking myself the same confusing question: How in the hell did it all happen? How in the hell did I just get sacked from my brilliant Marketing job?

pic rush hour at waterloo, windscreen fly

My first impression of Clapham North:

I arrive sometime after ten having experience a particularly gruelling journey on the underground.  The journey from Bath goes smoothly enough, but on reaching London, things quickly descend into chaos. It seems that there is a tube strike, (with a skeleton service), and a voice comes over the tannoy system, informing passengers, they will be ferried by a replacement bus to the next station.

After waiting twenty minutes in the drizzling rain, our bus has still not arrived, and it is another ten minutes before a bus inspector jogs across to the street to tell us that we have been standing at the wrong bus stop. We are to go to a temporary bus stop around the corner. The one we’ve been waiting at is no longer in operation. A woman standing beside me enquires why nobody thought to tell us this before. And the inspector, (who seems totally clueless), offers up some ludicrously lame excuse, causing the woman to storm off mid-way through it.

In any event when we do finally board our bus, no sooner have we sat down, when the driver steps out from his cab, declares that the bus is out of service, and we have to get off again.

Back on the underground I board a train on the northern line, tired, but fairly hopeful that the next part of my journey will proceed without a hitch. No such luck. Apparently there is a signal failure on the line and at various intervals, our train grinds to a halt…stopping for around twenty minutes or so…before finally edging forward, stopping again, and then crawling at a snails pace into the next station. At one point while stuck in one of the tunnels, we hear a fast approaching train rattling up the track behind us; and the whole compartment suddenly goes dead quiet, as if everyone is either holding their breath, or dashing off a quick prayer to God. 

The journey is a sobering reminder that now that I’m back in the capital city, I will have to quickly adjusts to its peculiar and occasionally annoying traits. Having spent so much time away at college in Manchester, I have completely forgotten how frustrating it can be travelling from A to B by tube… particularly on the Northern Line. I lean my head against the window, grinding my teeth, having in my own mind received unassailable proof, as to why this particular tube route, is commonly referred to as the misery line. Finally at Kennington an announcement comes over the train station tannoy system: All Change. 

Walking out Clapham North station I am immediately taken aback by how deprived and run-down the neighbourhood looks…my sense of unease probably made far worse, by the obvious lack of adequate street lighting. I turn left and see a number of decrepit shops, all board-up and covered with grimy billposters. Then I hurry under a railway bridge, trying to ignore the revolting bird-shit running down the walls and splashed across the pavement. Police or ambulance sirens wail perpetually in the distance creating their own type of improvised urban symphony.

I turn the corner and walk into an area at the back of the council estate that vaguely smells of urine and trash. Ahead of me I see the entrance to my block, and I move towards the security door, searching for the appropriate entry button.

Then all at once, I hear a strange noise, and looking over my shoulder, I stare nervously into the car parks pitch-blackness. 

               Who’s there? I call out.

No answers, and readjusting the straps of my rucksack I wait nervously for the buzzer to sound.

Standing at the door a young dark haired white guy with a goatee, dressed in straight blue jeans, flip flops and a Crabs T-shirt, with a fat joint sticking out from between his knuckles. This is Miles, my new flatmate and landlord.

                So you made it, says Miles. Welcome to South London.

               Thanks, I say, noticing the extremely powerful smell of cannabis as soon as I enter the flat.

               Come in. Take a seat, he says, scratching the stumble on his cheeks with his dirty fingernails.

I move into the living room, which is sparely furnished, and has a few memorable film posters on the walls.

               So you’re Camilla’s friend? says Miles, sitting down on the armchair opposite from me.

               Who’s Camilla? I say after a while, trying not to stare at the joint in his hand.

                Sorry I was thinking of someone else. You’re a friend of Amy? he says, dropping a red lighter by his feet and picking it up again.

                I know Gorin, I say.

                Who’s Gorin?

                Sara’s sister’s boyfriend.

               Right. Right, he says nodding his head. Then grinning at me with his sleepy eyes, obviously stoned, but trying his best to look clear-headed for my benefit, he continues…Anyway; I’ll let you unpack. I was just about to take a bath, he says standing up and vaguely pointing at the door.

                OK…right.

                By the way, there are some cans in the fridge if you fancy a beer.

               Thanks, but I don’t really drink.

              You do smoke though? he says frowning, and then winks at me, as if he already knows what my answer will be.

               No, I say avoiding his eyes.

                No I mean…he says raising his eyebrows.

He puts his finger and thumb to his lips and blows.

               Not really, I say feeling self-conscious.

                Well if you change your mind I got a nice bit of weed. None of that horrible shit, that’s going around. This is pukka gear.

                Thanks.

                 And make yourself something to eat if you fancy it. There’s stuff in the fridge, cheese, eggs and what not.

               Thanks.

With that Miles grabs a copy Loaded Magazine off the coffee table, bows his head politely and walks out of the room.

I wait for two or three minutes and then get up myself. I look around at the four white walls, at the dark grey carpet, at the pizza box and the empty Foster can lying crushed on the floor. Then I go over to the window, lift up the net curtain, and look out at the deserted street below. Then grinning like a madman, I tell myself:

You made it. And what’s more you didn’t get murdered or mugged on the dodgy walk from the tube station. Welcome to Clapham.

 

Tuesday. Shepherd’s Bush. After a five-minute chat with the Director and I walk through the open plan office to my desk.

It’s my first day at the new job. I’m introduced to a Neil, whom I’m told will be my section manager. Neil leaps to his feet and enthusiastically throws out his hand.

Neil is wearing a brown suite, a paisley tie, and black shoes. He can’t be much older than twenty-four, but I notice that his hair is already thinning quite dramatically.

            Pleased to meet you, says Neil, squeezing my hand excitedly.

            Hi, I say, smiling back through the pain.

Right that’s that then, says the white haired Marketing Director rubbing his hands together. I suppose I should leave you two lads to sort yourselves out.

With that he strides off back to his office, which is a glass room, and reminds me of a giant gold fish bowl filled with over-grown plants, which seem to sprawl out from every corner.

7

The first week does not go well. I make a lot of mistakes. Everything I touch seems to go wrong. The first of my run of distasters begins when I almost break my neck racing down the escalators at Victoria. I limp into the office and Neil asks how I am, and whether I need to get some medical attention.

           Forget it, I tell him, shrugging my shoulders. I did it playing basketball. It’s nothing.

I get home from work about seven-thirty. My new flat mate Miles is sitting on the sofa watching TV.

            How’s the new job going? he asks.

            Pretty crap, I say flopping down beside him. Half the time I don’t know what I’m doing and even when I do I make a complete hash of it. The other day I pressed a button on the computer and jammed up one of the office printers almost two hours. They were nice about it, but I think everyone thinks I’m a dick.

           I’m sure they don’t. Why don’t have a word with your manager? I’ll sure he’ll help. As my mum always says, you don’t ask you don’t get.

Monday, another depressing day at the office. The moment I open my eyes my head starts pounding and my heart starts racing. I wash, get dressed and head up the road, wondering what can possibly go wrong today.

Along the walls there are peeling billposter and looking past the shoulder of the person in front of me I see a solitary mouse scurry back and forth between the tracks. The tube platform is heaving with bodies. I’m already desperately late for work, having queued for twenty minutes to buy a travel card. 

A train pulls in to the station. The doors slide open and a virtual wall of people rushes forward. I have barely moved an inch, when I hear a voice telling everyone to, Mind the doors. A moment later I hear a thump and train jerks into action, gradually pick up speed before rattle off into the tunnel.

Twelve minutes later another train arrives. The doors slide open and the same thing happens. People begin shoving and pushing me from behind. Someone steps on my toe. A briefcase slams against my calf, and as I try to move out the way, my jaw bounces off of someone’s shoulder. The train shoots off doors close and then all of a sudden a completely inaudible announcement crackles over the speaker system, while everyone stands about looking bemused.

I push through the crowd and walk to the other side of the platform. A train going the opposite direction arrives and I step into an almost empty compartment and take a seat next to some kids wearing school uniform discussing, The Simpson’s. 

It’s 9.30 and I’m freaking out because I was supposed to be in the office half and hour ago. I’m stressed out, because Neil has already warned me about getting in on time. Four stops later I get off the train, walk across to the other platform, wait for five minutes and take the train back to where I’ve just come from.

By the time we reach Clapham North the train is so packed that nobody else can get on. I sit there sweating, surrounded by smelly bodies, the person standing in fronts’ crotch inches away from my face.

At Kennington, the train stops in the station for a further fifteen minutes and people shift about anxiously, though nobody speaks.

Then all of a sudden I wake up with a start, just in time to hear the familiar announcement coming over the tannoy: All Change, all change.

People begin to exit from the train. I join them, dashing like mad through the tunnel to the opposite platform, where another train is waiting.

I arrive at work almost an hour and a half late. The moment I walk into the office, I can feel a migraine beginning. Neil calls me aside.

             Good afternoon. What time d’you call this? he asks.

Sorry there were problems with the tube again, I say, squinting and turning away from the light coming from the florescent panel above my head.

             Every one else gets the tube but they weren’t late. Why do you think that is?

             There were problems on the Northern line.

             Bullshit. Try getting up earlier.

            The trains were packed, I say, wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead.

           Pardon?

            Forget it. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.

            Good because remember you’re still on probation. If you want to be here next month you better pull up your socks. Next time phone if you think that you’re going to be late. Go over and get yourself a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you what to do when you get back.

            Thanks.

            By the way, if there’s anything you’re not sure about all you’ve got to do is ask, OK?

            Yeah.

            Don’t look so scared, you’re not in trouble.

            OK.

            Tell you what. I’ll over look it this time but you’ve got try and make more of an effort. That goes for your work as well.

            OK.

            And don’t forget. Any problems, I’m here to help you. 

 

I’m sitting across from Neil. Our desks face each other. Neil is chatting up a girl from one of the companies we do business with, peppering his conversation with lewd comments and sexual innuendo. If I cock my head and listen I can practically hear every word he’s saying. Through a slight gap between the tray of files and the computer on my desk I watch him with receiver plugged against to his ear, leaning forward on his elbows, chewing his nails and absentmindedly picking his nose.

As usual Neil takes a trip to the toilet and when he returns he starts snorting and rubbing his nose.

            So Yemi.

           Yes Neil.

           I hear you’re supposed to be clever.

           No not really.

          Don’t you have a degree or something like that?

          Yeah.

          I didn’t go to university.  

         Ah right…So how long have you worked here?

          I’ve basically been here since I left school.

          Yeah? So I guess you’ll pretty up on everything.

         You know I could have gone.

         Sorry?

         I could have gone to university…but well, you know, I decided not to.

         Right.

         Anyway it’s all shit isn’t it? University isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s probably just a waste of time.

        I don’t know. I liked it.

        Yeah I suppose it’s all right for some people. But its no substitute for actual work experience… How did you get in?

         A-levels.

         Yeah? he says with genuine look of surprise. I thought they had a special entrance thing for you people.

           How d’you mean?

          Just ignore me. I must be thinking of something else.

I arrive at work almost an hour and a half late. The moment I walk into the office, I can feel a migraine beginning. Neil calls me aside.

          Good afternoon. What time d’you call this? he asks.

          Sorry there were problems with the tube again, I say, squinting and turning away from the light coming from the florescent panel above my head.

          Every one else gets the tube but they weren’t late. Why do you think that is?

           There were problems on the Northern line.

          Bullshit. Try getting up earlier.

          The trains were packed, I say, wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead.

          Pardon?

           Forget it. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.

           Good because remember you’re still on probation. If you want to be here next month you better pull up your socks. Next time phone if you think that you’re going to be late. Go over and get yourself a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you what to do when you get back.

           Thanks.

            By the way, if there’s anything you’re not sure about all you’ve got to do is ask, OK?

            Yeah.

            Don’t look so scared, you’re not in trouble.

            OK.

            Tell you what. I’ll over look it this time but you’ve got try and make more of an effort. That goes for your work as well.

            OK.

            And don’t forget. Any problems, I’m here to help you. 

 

I’m sitting across from Neil. Our desks face each other. Neil is chatting up a girl from one of the companies we do business with, peppering his conversation with lewd comments and sexual innuendo. If I cock my head and listen I can practically hear every word he’s saying. Through a slight gap between the tray of files and the computer on my desk I watch him with receiver plugged against to his ear, leaning forward on his elbows, chewing his nails and absentmindedly picking his nose.

As usual Neil takes a trip to the toilet and when he returns he starts snorting and rubbing his nose.

            So Yemi.

             Yes Neil.

           I hear you’re supposed to be clever.

            No not really.

            Don’t you have a degree or something like that?

            Yeah.

            I didn’t go to university.  

            Ah right…So how long have you worked here?

            I’ve basically been here since I left school.

            Yeah? So I guess you’ll pretty up on everything.

            You know I could have gone.

             Sorry?

            I could have gone to university…but well, you know, I decided not to.

            Right.

           Anyway it’s all shit isn’t it? University isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s probably just a waste of time.

            I don’t know. I liked it.

            Yeah I suppose it’s all right for some people. But its no substitute for actual work experience… How did you get in?

           A-levels.

           Yeah? he says with genuine look of surprise. I thought they had a special entrance thing for you people.

            How d’you mean?

         Just ignore me. I must be thinking of something else.

 

Clapham, scot hussey

 

stress, n.icol

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1

1

I have been laying low in the city of Bath with an old boarding school friend called Gorin, a slightly eccentric character that I’d known for years.

 The last time we’d seen one another we’d both been pimple-faced seventeen-year olds, studying for our A level exams, hoping to gain a place at university. This was also the year Gorin’s parents split-up and his life took a dramatic turn. Towards the end of the summer holidays, I received an unexpected letter in the mail, postmarked West Germany. The letter informed me that Gorin had quit school, and was now living in the city of Munich, busking, and trying to make it as a bongo player. 

Sadly for Gorin, though wildly enthusiastic, his ad-libbed bongo playing was not a huge draw with the German public. So after four or five months of near starvation, living in a squat with a crazy Brazilian filmmaker he’d met in a bar, Gorin returned home to England to live with his mother, who was now romantically involved with a middle-age gentleman called Eric, whom Gorin at once took a passionate dislike to.  

 One evening while the three of them were having supper, the interloper, (as Gorin like to referred to him in his letters) brought up the subject of employment. Eric had an antiques business, and thought it would be a splendid idea if Gorin came to work for him.

Maybe in Gorin’s place I might have taken up the offer. He could certainly use the money. But as he went on to inform me, the idea only acted to increase the already widening gulf between himself and the interloper, who in his mind was a contemptible and wily old fox, trying through the guile of apparent generosity to steal his mother, and usurp the role of his revered father.

          Yeah there were hints of Shakespeare, Gorin mumbled sarcastically into the phone.

The next day Gorin packed his bags, scribbled a goodbye note to his mother and left home. He moved about working odd jobs, and spent two months scraping together a meagre living, as an employee in chicken factory, where the putrid stench of chicken excrement, and the brain-numbingly repetitive labour, (he wrote), sent him half mad. After that he went a lived with his father and stepmother for a while, before finally moving to Bath.  

Neither my family nor Gorin’s were extravagantly rich, unlike some of the kids at school, though Gorin did sometimes hint that his parents had one time been seriously wealthy. But I had come to the conclusion that, this claim was just as likely to be a product of his vivid imagination, as anything vaguely approaching the truth. In my mind, Gorin wasn’t so much a liar; he was more of a dreamer; or possibly just a believer that good things happened to those who continuously talk about them.

Back home, both of us lived in normal sized houses. Neither of us arrived at school in Chauffeur driven Bentleys or spent their holidays in Hawaii or Malibu or Aspen. And in any event, at school stuff like that hardly seemed to matter, though after Gorin left, I’d sometimes got the impression from his letters, that he was secretly counting on some rich relative to die and leave him a substantial fortune, or at least bail him out if things got desperate, (excusing the chicken factory episode of course). 

Of the twenty or so students in our year at school, sometimes I would come third over all, and Gorin would come forth and vice versa. Somehow the first two places always seemed to elude us. Nevertheless in my estimation Gorin seemed to be a genius. He had to be. I’d rarely, if ever saw him pick up a book, let alone study. And he had balls. Maybe balls isn’t the right word, but he had something.

Maybe we should start a business together, Gorin suggested, the first night I arrived in Bath and told him that I’d just quit university. 

It was sometime after 2am and we were sat in the living room, (Gorin was drunk), looking through a pile of old photographs.

           Yeah, I remember at school how sure of yourself you always were, said Gorin handing me a picture of that showed a group of us, skinny and shirtless, trying desperately to look tough, by the tennis courts.

           We’d make a great team, don’t you think? Yeah, I remember how you always had a lot of front.

            I don’t remember that, I said yawning and rubbing the back of my neck.

I was thinking that Gorin was possibly confusing me with someone else…in all probability himself.

I spent the first week at Gorin’s bored out of my wits, lounging in his front room watching television for hours, while he went to work as the manager of a nightclub. Once I borrowed his bike and rowed around the city, staring at the hoards of American tourists. Enormous big-boned women and tall, silver haired gentlemen dressed in shorts and sneakers, with cameras dangling from their wrists, milling about the cobble-stoned streets, having arrived on mass, curtsey of National Express coaches, like a sort of perverse D-day landing.

Then during the second week Gorin employed me to work as a glass collector and substitute barmen, meaning I worked the bar if things got exceptionally busy.  Sadly for my co-workers, I proved to be the complete antithesis of the Tom Cruise character in the movie, Cocktail, as I skidded back and forth over the beer sloshed floor, like a crazed ice-skater, bumping into people, clumsily filling glasses and over-charging all the customers; either because I had trouble remembering what they’d ordered, or because I couldn’t calculate the cost of a more than three drinks at a time under such severe pressure. (I.e. ten deep at the bar.) Anyway since most the punters were steaming drunk, no one complained. One particular group of lively lads, kept trying to buy me drinks, which owing less to the bar’s largely unobserved not-drinking-at-work policy, and more to my own distaste for any type of alcohol, I politely declined.  

The bouncers all looked like typical doormen…stony-faced and physically intimidating. Gorin told me that two of them were ex convicts, and one of them, a dark haired kid with crazy eyes and a Royal Marines tattoo on his arm, was currently on bail for attempted murder. He also mentioned that a week before a gang had come up from Bristol, and when the bouncers had refused to let them in, a scuffle had broken out and one of the bouncers had been badly cut on the leg with a Machete. None of this seemed to phase Gorin in the slightest, and after thinking about the story, I began to suspect that the part about the Machete had been exaggerated purely for my benefit, since I couldn’t imagine how someone come all the way from Bristol on the train and walk around Bath city centre with a Machete tucked under their arm.

Then on my last night working in the club, a fight did break out, and the doormen descended into the fray like the England front row during a Rugby match: head butting and eye-gouging and pummelling the shit out of anyone either too slow or drunk get out of the way. 

Anyway the bouncers and Gorin all got on with them like a house on fire. And at first I did my best to keep out of everyone’s way, though by the end of my stay, once I’d got to know the bouncer a bit better, they began to seem more and more like regular blokes, though of course I knew from the horrendous stories Gorin kept on telling me, that they anything but that. Anyway it was all completely new to me and I suppose I was a fairly overawed by the experience, particularly since up till this point in my life, all I’d really known was private school and the two years I’d spent at University, where the few clubbing events I’d attended were run by the students… Hardly a walk on the wild side. And of course there was the recent frightening episode with the crazy boys from Hume, the reason I’d baled and fled to Bath in the first place.

As for heading back to London, the thought was never far from my mind. Not that Gorin was pressing me to leave. In fact unless I brought the subject up, he avoided it completely. 

Now that you have some experience, he said. I’ll probably we able to get you a job through one of my friends in a bar if you’re interested.

I told him that I’d think it over. Though the truth was, my neck was already starting to give me serious jip from sleeping badly on his lumpy sofa. And in any event, since there were now three of us sharing a one-bedroom apartment, it was hard for me not to feel self-conscious about being in the way.

One night the three of us were chatting about life and what we hoped to be in the next ten years.

           I don’t know, I said.

           If you could choose anything in the world, said Sara, who was sitting cross-legged on the sofa between Gorin and myself.

           What about that book you said you were going to write? asked Gorin, placing his hand across the top of Sara’s thigh.

           What book? asked Sara turning to me.

           When we were at school, he used to write all the time, said Gorin. We’d be in the TV room and he’d be sitting in the corner with this little black book on his lap.

            Really? said Sara.

            It wasn’t a little black book it was a green exercise book full of crappy poems, I cut in. And I never wrote anything in the TV room. The prefects would have beaten me up if I had.

            Yeah you’re probably right, said Gorin.

            Really? asked Sara. So tell me. What was it like at your school?

So I told her about the freezing cold showers, the six o’clock morning runs, and the bullying bastard prefects… and then moved on to our cruel and vindictive Head Master, who would quietly summon us to his study one by one, and there in a fit of homicidal rage, beat us mercilessly with a long thin cane, in his twisted determination to turn us into English gentlemen. 

Then one evening Gorin’s girlfriend’s sister, a second year at UCL, phoned and mentioned that one of her friend’s was looking for a flat mate. I jumped at the chance, though because I had very little money, I was now faced with the dilemma of how to pay the first month’s rent; and the additional bond if it proved to be a necessity.

Anyway, once again, the gods appeared to be on my side. Gorin, proved to be like the yellow pages. A friend of a friend worked for a marketing recruitment agency. Gorin would give the friend call and ask if he would set something up. He’d even lend me some money to tide-me-over, until I got paid.  

So everything was decided. Things were looking up at last. All I had to do was get my arse to London.

 

 

 

pic by, 035/365, andyraino

 

Tony, A 42 year-old father of two, has recently been made redundant from his office job of fifteen years.

Due to the current credit-crunch? I say, sitting beside him on an uncomfortable blue plastic seat, with my note-pad resting on my knee. 

Well that’s what the bosses will have you believe, Tony says. You ask me it’s all part of one big conspiracy. Oh I know what you’re thinking. Wacko, right? Well of course I’m not denying that things are really tough out there right now. But I also think a lot of companies are simply taking advantage of the situation. You know, deliberately scaling down the workforce so that who ever they choose to keep on is forced to do twice the work, for exactly the same pay.

Today is the day Tony collects his dole cheque. This is a fortnightly affair. The two of us are seating in a Jobcentre in South West London. A florescent-lighted interior, with a dark blue-carpeted floor, white walls, hardly any character. On entering the space the very first thing I notice is how down-beat and dispirited everyone appears, especially the staff, who trudge back forth like lethargic patients in a geriatric ward. Calming Tijuana musak, the type you might hear in a fancy hotel or office lifts is filtered into the room from hidden speakers probably padlocked to the wall. Even the air seems stale. It is as if the air vents have somehow been jammed up in order to restrict the amount of fresh oxygen allowed into the building. Perhaps this is a deliberate ploy, to keep those forced to congregate inside, in a perpetual sate of near coma. Everyone seems to be moving at half-pace. And I cannot help but be reminded of the movie Enter the Dragon: ‘Men who longer care who they are or where they find themselves.’ The scene is also very reminiscent of the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. I’m referring to the insane asylum dayroom.

I ask Tony how he finds the staff. Whether they are helpful or not.

Right, says Tony. You mean the guys they employ to fob you off…The professional whipping boys…The arseholes that sound as if they’ve just got back from a £600 two-day seminar with the bullshit brigade.

At that moment a young kid wearing a soiled dark-green puffa-jacket shuffles across the room and wants to know if anyone has a cigarette that he can buy. He extends his cupped hand to reveal one or two loose change resting on his dry palm.

Few people respond and it seems that no one is prepared to take up his offer. Some nod and one or two move their eyes giving the impression that even this is more than his offer warrants. It is as if on entering the building these mostly young people have lost their will to go on, or at least function the way they normally would in their everyday lives, when they’re not zonked out on skunk weed or brain numbing alcohol…Like they’ve inadvertently wandered into a purgatory type ‘be-in’, or a temporary recess situated in deaths waiting room, where they will be forced to kill time before their lives begin again, an hour or two from now.

Few people engage in anything you could call conversation. And if they do turn or get up from their seats, it is only to look up at the numbers electronically displayed in red neon on the boards up on the wall. Or they slouch in their chairs with sleepy sullen expressions of pure boredom on their young faces, occasionally shifting forward to bite their fingernails, or  give one another furtive glances; or checkout the fit girls or the buff boys, who saunter past. One young lady has brought a thick novel with her, which she turns away from to check that her number hasn’t been called. She looks up, squints and then goes back to reading the tomb on her lap only to repeat this rather anxious ritual a moment later.

I look around the room and see an array of different people. Some well dressed. Some not so well dressed. Some are even wearing suites as if they are merely taking a few hours off from their normal day job. I cannot help but wonder if perhaps these well dressed folk are what the government nowadays refers to as, ‘benefit thieves’: people who work and sign-on at the same time to supplement their income. According to the adverts such swindler’s will not be tolerated, unless of course they happen to be in parliamentary office, and require the money to finance the building of a new moot, or a third mortgage, in which case an apology will probably suffice.

Or perhaps these men and women wearing business suits, are the latest casualties in our current global crisis, and they have yet to inform their loved ones, that through no fault of their own, their services are nolonger required at Goldman Sacks or Lehman brothers…Or maybe, just maybe they are simply attempting to give off an impression of sincere professional respectability, which I for one would be the last person to criticize them for.

Whatever their reason, I’m sure nobody really cares, except off course the staff at the job centre. Not all of them of course. It depends who you get when you’re number comes up. But if they do find out your working, you might lose your benefit or worse be taken to court and end up with a criminal record.

The place is packed to capacity. No doubt another noticeable feature of the current economic climate. The number of unemployed the media tells us is increasing steadily, 5million out of work by the end of the year the doom and gloom mongers would have us believe. This is the stuff that 1970’s Sci-fi movies were made of. The beginning of the end-Soilent Green/The Omega man/The Day the Earth Stood Still-The home-guard, city curfews…Mad Max-type vehicles, stolen Kalaschikow, balaclavas’ and home-made shanks and shivs.

According to the papers, people are losing their homes; petty crime is on the increase…marriages are breaking up. Civilization as we have know it appears to be crumbling before our very eyes. It is the decline and fall of the west, (perhaps). The end of the world as we know it (perhaps). The worm has finally turned, causing the Capitalist dream to become a nightmare, as predicted by the great nineteenth century thinker Karl Marx, (perhaps).  And whether you read the papers or not, skim MSN or pay attention to the foreboding TV news bulletins discussing Swine-flue and the War on Terrorism (sorry that was 2008-the age of misinformation) you will know that since the beginning of the year, food prices alone have more than doubled. Doubled!

 What about your wife? I say. Is she working?

Yeah, he says. Karen’s got a part-time job. But it’s still quite hard going, what with our two kids as well.

What ages are they? I say, shifting my position slightly and moving my pen towards the writing pad again.

Russell’s six and Tony’s nine.

Another Tony, I say looking up. Doesn’t that get confusing?

Yeah, he says smiling. Sometimes.

So how does Karen feel about you not working? I say.

Well obviously neither of us is happy about it. But what can you do? Believe me, it’s not as if I haven’t been trying to find work. I’ve even mentioned the possibility of going further a field.

Further a field, like where? I say.

Maybe some where outside London. Maybe even abroad, who knows? Of course it’s not ideal. But if it’s a choice between starving and feeding my family, I know which one it’ll take.

What does Karen think about you leaving the country? I say.

Well she isn’t exactly keen about it either. She says her father was absent a lot of the time when she was a kid and it affected their relationship. She’s adamant that she doesn’t want the same thing to happen with the boys. People do it all the time I tell her. What about people from Poland, Eastern Europe, Africa? I say. You think they like coming over here and leaving their families behind? You don’t think they’d rather stay in their own country if they had a choice? Sometimes you have no choice. Sometimes taking up from your roots is the only option.

What about retraining? I say.

I’ve thought about that, says Tony.  I was hoping I could get on a computer course or something with the jobcentre, but they say I haven’t been signed on for long enough. I’d take out a loan if I could, but then if you have over a certain amount of money the Jobcentre won’t pay you. Not to mention, the banks are not exactly dying to lend me money at the moment. Like most of us I have debts.

What about relatives? I say.

I guess I could ask my brother for a loan, he says. But I’m sure he has his own problems to deal with. We’ll just have to see.

Well at least if you retrained you’d have a few more options.

True, he says. But whatever I do I’m going to have to be careful. I don’t want to mess up my benefits. For one thing, we’ve got the mortgage to pay.  I make the wrong move and the next thing I know we’re out on the street, living in some council bed sit, or worse, we’re like that homeless family in that 60’s movie, Cathy Come Home.

The Ken Loach movie? I say.

I don’t know who directed, he says. But I remember it made quite and impression on me.

You could try and get a job in here, I say.

What with this mob? says Tony with a look of disgust. Do me a favour. I’m desperate but I’m not crazy.

I lean closer and ask Tony if it would be a mistake to suggest that some the positions at the Jobcentre have been filled by the poorly motivated.

You mean Clocker-Watchers? ‘Jobsworths?’ he says, raising his eyebrows.

Well, yeah, I say.

Yeah I’d say so. Yeah pretty much, he says. To be honest I don’t think anyone wants to be here. I mean look at them.

Then Tony tells me that he’s heard rumours that some of the more proactive Jobcentres have devised their own unique ways to recruit.

Really? I say.

Yeah, he says, coughing into his fist to clear his throat. Basically they try and collar anyone who looks as if they can stand the intense hate vibes.

Oh, I say, seeing the sarcastic twinkle in his eye.

And another thing, he says. Have you noticed the phones?

What about them? I say.

Well they’ve been pretty much ringing non-stop since I got here.   

Actually, I say looking up. I think you’re probably right.

Then it hits me that none of the staff seem to have noticed that the phones have been ringing non-stop either. It’s as if everyone in the building’s ears have become acoustically attuned to the continuous bring! bring! sound in a similar way that factory workers at British Leyland or people doing brain numbing work at some industrial unit become immune to the incessant hum of the machinery.

And you know what else? says Tony.

No what? I say.

A friend of mine once told me that when you work in a place like this, there are certain rules that you have to adhere to. That’s it’s a common feature in local government departments.

Like what? I say, getting ready to write down this new revelation. Maybe this is something I could base the whole article on, I think.

Like never pick-up a phone until it’s rang through-out the building for at least ten minutes, says Tony raising a finger in the air as if he’s listening for something. That’s the first rule, he says. Then once you’ve answered the call, in form the caller that they have unfortunately come through to the wrong department. Then offer to transfer the call. Then hang up the phone four seconds later. 

You’re friend actually told you that? I say.

Well no, not exactly, says Tony grinning. But nine times out of ten, when you phone these type of places, that pretty much how it seems to work.

Right now as I sit here observing the throng, one chap, A tall thin Trustafferian with long dirty blond locks, wearing a beige rainmack, dark tracksuit and high-top trainers is yelling at a the young black girl seated behind one of the desk about his non- existent giro, which according to him has been stopped for absolutely no reason.

I ain’t come in here to be fuck about again, says the young man placing his hands on the edge of the desk and rocking forward. I go through this every fuckin’ week and I’m sick of it. You hear me. I’m sick to death of it.

A tall security guard quickly approaches the pair and suddenly people being jumping out of their seats, excited by the prospected of a potential fight in the making, no doubt a prelude to rebellion and a retaking of the street- a return to the early 80’s, when the police were using peoples heads as bowling pins.

You tell ‘em brov, somebody shouts.

Suddenly the whole room seems to be talking at once.

When I get home I’m gonna build be a big spliff, I hear someone say.

Jesus Christ I’ve been sitting here for three hours, says a voice coming from somewhere behind me. Why are they taking so long?

Because they’re just as pissed off with this shit as we are, some body else responds. They’re on a go-slow in sympathy with us brov.

Christ waiting in here is like a job in itself.

It’s all part of the process. It’s designed this way so that eventually you get so piss-off, you go out and get yourself a job out of desperation.

Yeah I think it’s actually working, something says.

People laugh, touch fists and high-five one another.

Yeah but the worse part is when you get used to coming here, you simply stop caring, says stony-faced man scratching his uncombed Afro.

I look at Tony and he grins back at me. It is a smile of resignation. Like yeah, what do you expect. It is what it is. When the shit hits the fan, this is the last stop before they throw you out on the street and you go find yourself a shopping trolley. This is the difference between having a roof over your head and a hot meal, and living out the thin-years in the back of your clapped-out Honda, or under the motorway flying-over, or below ground in some rank makeshift rat-infested cardboard city.

Just then the red number in one of the neon displays up on the wall changes and Tony gives me a nod.

Wish me luck, he says, checking the number printed on the white ticket in his hand. Here we go again. See you on the other side. 

 

 

 

 pic1, the Damm family in their car, 1987 by Mary Ellen Mark

pic2 broken, Danny Hammontree

Bret first began sleeping with the apes when he was fifteen years old. He climbed into the zoo and go to the part where they kept the apes. At first he had to fight to be accepted. Being much weaker than the apes made this extremely dangerous. But Bret wasn’t stupid. He knew that though physically weaker, humans are smart with their brains; so he figured that what he needed to do was try and trick them. First he wore the monkey suit…though his chief concern back then was: what if one of the bigger apes mistook him for a female ape and tried to rape him.

When he did finally get in the pit, the last thing that any of the apes seemed to want to do was attempt to have sex. Mostly they’d lay around the place looking bored. Or rocking back and forth displaying signs of accute stress and parital insantity. Or they’d grunt at one another, grinning and flashing their teeth. Or they’d spend the day(dreaming of freedom) picking fleas and craps out of each other’s fur. They were especially gentle with the infants. And though he couldn’t figure the individual sounds that made up their language, after a time, Bret began to feel that by paying close attention to their eyes; he understood, more or less what they were thinking. To Bret it the apes were saying: Why are we here? What did we do to deserve such a pointless existence? And why are the human’s so wicked to us, particularly since apart from their lack of fur, and the fact that they like to walk around the place dressed-up in different coloured rags, when all said and done, they’re just another type of primate. 

Bret lied when he got to the hospital. He had a scar along one side of his cheek where an ape had clawed him. And one of his ears had been chewed to the point that it didn’t look like an ear any more. And his leg had been mauled, so he couldn’t walk right for days. 

Well it was a lesson. Not to wear the cheap monkey suite again. So he went out and got himself another suite; this one more appropriate. And things improved. Well slowly. There were still fights. But gradually bit-by-bit Bret gained the other apes acceptance. He wasn’t an ape of course. And he didn’t make the same mistake of trying to fool himself into believing that he was, despite the convincing suite. He was simply a person trying to bridge a gap, while walking around inside a costume. And despite mimicking their gestures and sounds, the apes seemed to instinctively understand this basic truth just as much as Bret did. Maybe it was his smell. You couldn’t disguise the human smell.  But he wasn’t regarded as a threat anymore, which was a step in the right direction. And in time some of the younger apes actually began to warm to him. And though he felt the more mature apes sometimes treated him with some derision; the younger apes were less jugdgemental and let him tag along, as if he were a slightly retarded but harmless sour-smelling friend.

 And anyway, Bret didn’t hold a grudge against the apes. Yeah they could have killed him, but he figured that were wild animals and that maybe he would have done the same thing in he’d been locked in a cage all his life, and stared at by dumb grinning men and women and their dumb grinning kids, as if being incarcerated, was all part of one big MTV extravaganza. And the place stunk. It was like a mixture of death and shit. And the apes themselves smelt of death and shit. And then after spending months and then years with the apes; Bret too began to smell of death and shit.

Sometimes he’d wear the suite and stand in the cage rattling the bars. He’d stick his middle finger up at the human’s and they’d laugh. He’d turn and show them his backside and they’d laugh. He’d poke out his tongue and they’d laugh. He’d fart and they’d laugh.

Jesus, he thought. It doesn’t take much.

And then Brett began to laugh. 

So what if they drive fast cars, he thought. So what if they build rockets and flight to the moon. When you take away the Plasma TV’s, the designer gear, and footwear, they all just funny looking life forms or bits of energy dancing around in timeless space.

sad chimp by dan1710

             

It’s the third week of my WeightWatchers programme and as usual around this time, I’m feeling hungry. My husband and daughter have gone to the MacDonald’s Drive-in to get something nice to eat. Today I will be eating a fat free boiled breast of chicken, with broccoli and brown rice. Afterwards I will wash the whole thing down with a glass of bottled water. And then tomorrow morning I will get on the scales to see if I’m making progress…So I turn the TV down low and stand there staring and the phone for a while. Then after checking my face, hips and waist in the hallway mirror, I sit down on the sofa and decide its time I made the call. We haven’t spoken in a while and I really need to know what’s going on. After six or seven rings she finally picks up. But I can barely hear a word she’s saying.

Sal, I say. What’s the matter? Why are you whispering?

Hold on, she says. I’ll be back in a minute. I think I heard a noise.

What kind of noise? I say.

Just hold the line a sec, she says.

Sally, I say.  What the hells going on over there?

Stupid jerk, she says.

Excuse me? I say.

I said that he’s a jerk, she says.

Who’s a jerk? I say.

My boyfriend, she says.

The weirdo, I say.

Not the weirdo. The futures trader. The one I moved in with. The one you met at Christine’s party.

Sorry, I’ve forgotten his name? I say.

It’s Eliot, she says.

Eliot, I say. Not the guy with the Ferrari?

Porsche, she says. He’s got a brand new Porsche Carrera.

So what’s the problem? I say. You sound like you’ve been crying.

Well he’s crazy, she says.  The other night he accused me of wanting to sleep with Jerry.

Jerry, I say smiling. OK, so who’s this Jerry?

Jerry’s his dealer. The one he buys his coke from.

Oh I see, I say. How much of that does he take?

A lot, she says. He even takes it to work with him.

You mean at the bank? I say.

Yeah. He does it at his desk, she says. He acts like it’s normal.

And what about you? I say.

No I’m fine, she says. Since the last time we spoke, I’ve really started to get my act together. I suppose for a while back there things looked pretty bad. But I spoke to the head booker at the model agency and she’s willing to give me another chance. You’re only twenty-three, she said. You’ve still got a bright future in this industry. For God’s sake, please don’t ruin your life. Believe me, you’ll only regret it later…So now you know.

Didn’t the two of you recently go away together? I say staring at the fading picture on the TV screen.

It must be the weather outside because Channel 5 is playing up again.

You mean the trip to California? she says. Yeah. The less said about that the better.

Why, what went wrong? I say, picking up the remote control and switching to another channel.

Well the wedding was great, she says. They had the ceremony on the beach. The bride was four months gone but you honestly couldn’t tell; she looked amazing. And then later, I’d say around, 9.30, Eliot said he was going to the bar. But when I went over to see, he wasn’t there. I even checked outside, but he appeared to have vanished.

And what about his friends? I supposed you checked with them, I say.

The only one I knew was his Tim, one of traders that he works with. But the last time Tim said he’d seen, he was apparently talking to one of the bride’s maids. So I found myself a seat by the door,  from where I could see most of the room, and some drunk movie producer, this total arsehole with a goatee, wearing shades, comes over to my table and tries to chat me up. So I mentioned I was waiting for my boyfriend, and the guy has the nerve to call me a prick tease. In the end I phoned for a cab and went back to the hotel suite alone.

So where was Eliot all this time? I say drumming my fingers on the arm of the sofa.

I’m not sure, she says. But I have my suspicions…Anyway he didn’t get back until around 4.am the next day.

Has he ever done anything like that to you before? I say.

Yeah, a few times, she says. I know that doesn’t sound good. But that’s the truth. Anyway he comes strolling into the hotel suite cool as a cucumber and sits down beside me on the bed. And when I got up to talk to him, he smelt of perfume.

Oh no, I say, scowling.

Yeah, she says. You can imagine how angry I was. You can imagine what I said to him. Of course he denied everything. He said I was imagining things…So later on, when he finally got out of bed, around noon, he told me that he’s going to make it up to me.

For cheating? I say rocking forward.

No, for being out all night, she says.

And he didn’t mention where he’d been? I say adjusting the cushions and settling back on the sofa.

He claims he got arrested. That he’d been sitting in the back of someone’s car snorting coke when the cops drove by.

Why didn’t he call you from the police station? I say.

That’s what I said…

Well I don’t know about you, but it sounds a bit fishy, I say.

I know, she says…but then again. You never quite know with him. He’s has this charm, which makes it almost impossible to tell when he’s lying…I dunno, maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe I just imagined the smell on his clothes because I was angry with him. Or maybe given the fact that I’d cheated once myself, it’s what I expect.

So he took you out to dinner? I say.

At the mention of the word my stomach actually groans.

Yeah. Apparently the place we went to is where a lot of famous celebrities hang out.

So was it nice? What was the food like?

The food was excellent, she says. It was a pretty swanky. God knows how he managed to get reservations. He must have bribed the Manager or something.

Why would you say that? I say.

Well that’s what he normally does, she says. Money talk and bullshit walks, he’s always telling me, she says.

Well, I guess he owed you something, I say.

Yes he did, she says taking a breath.  He certainly owes me something…Well the maitre-d sat us down. And you’ll never believe it. That famous actor… The one who played the cop in that movie?

What movie, I say frowning.

Training something, she says.

Training Day, I say.

That’s it, she says.

Denzel Washington, I say.

What? she says

You mean Denzel Washington, I say. He was also in that movie. Man on a Fire…The one where he drives the little girl.

Yeah that’s him. Denzel Washington, she says. He was sitting about twenty feet behind us.

The actor Denzel Washington? I say. ‘The’ Denzel Washington?

Yeah, she said. ‘The’ Denzel Washington…So I turn to my jerk-of a boyfriend, and I go: oh my God look, that’s Denzel Washington over there…Denzil Washington, where? he goes. No, I say. It’s not Denzil Washingon, you idiot. It’s Denzel Washington…I was a little tipsy from all the champagne…Piss-off, he goes.  It’s Denzil Washington. In fact why don’t you just shut up and eat before your food gets cold. I’ve got a headache and you’re starting to annoy me.

Well sod you, I thought.

So don’t tell me. You got up and left, I say.

No. I went over to his table.

You mean Denzel’s table, I say, smiling.

Yeah, she says. I mean it’s Denzel Washington, right? ‘The’ one and only Denzel Washington-So now, when I get back our table, Eliot’s pissed off with me, and he says that he wants to go home. I mean back to the hotel.

What time was it? I say. Not that it’s important.

Around nine, she says. We were supposed to be going to a nightclub later on. But we ended up sitting in the hotel bar all night talking to an old couple from San Francisco, she says. Eliot hardly said a word to me the whole time we were sitting there. It was embarrassing. He wouldn’t even look at my face. And the next day we checked out early.

What was he like on the plane? I say.

The same, she says. He hardly said two words to me. And then in the cab from the airport…hold on. He’s next door in the other room. He might be listening. If he knew I was in here talking to you…well let’s say he wouldn’t like it.

He doesn’t want you talking to you’re family? I say.

He doesn’t want me talking to anyone, she says.

So where are you now? I say.

I’m in the bathroom, she says. It’s the only place I can talk in private. He’s paranoid. And he gets so fuckin’ jealous. He always seems to think I’m up to something. Last week he grabbed a knife from the kitchen worktop and threatened to cut me.

Did you call the police? I say, touching my forehead.

No, she says.

Why not? I say.

I don’t know, she says. If you want the truth, I think I felt kind of sorry for him. And I guess the fact we’d both been doing a lot of gear meant that I wasn’t exactly corpus mentos. In fact later on, after we’d made up. I actually started to wonder if it had even happened.

But he didn’t actually touch you? I say leaning forward and rubbing my eyelid with the ball of my palm.

No, he waved the knife in my face and threatened to cut me. He was pretty out of it and he threatened to cut me and chop me up into tinny pieces. He said that one of his mates was a big time gangster, so getting rid of my body wouldn’t be a problem. Say one more word you stupid skinny model bitch and I’ll do it, he says. If you think I’m bluffing, just try me…

May God Sally! Why didn’t you tell me this before? I say staring at the picture of my seven year old daughter on top of the TV, actually shaking.

Oh yeah, and the other week we were coming back from Surrey and he fell asleep at the wheel and almost crashed his Porsche. The next day I had to go to see a doctor because my neck hurt.

You need to get away from him, I say quickly. You hear me Sal. This guy you’re talking about is obviously insane.

What? she says.

You need to break up with him, I say, shaking my head. I’m not exaggerating. One of these days he’s going to kill you.

Yeah. If I don’t kill him first, she says with a nervous titter. But you know what Irene? The crazy thing is, and I know it sounds mad. But I think I’m actually in love with him. Can you believe that?

I stand up and start walking towards the hallway.

Listen Sally, I say. You’re still a kid. You’re only twenty-three. It’s not like he’s the only guy you’re ever going to meet. You deserve better.

That’s easy for you to say, she says. I can’t simply just ignore my emotions. It’s like he’s got this weird hold on me…Like he’s inside my brain and he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

Don’t talk rubbish, I say. He just knows how to manipulate you. He just knows how to get inside your head.

Yeah I know, she says sniffing. It’s fuckin crazy huh? Maybe I just like the excitement. He’s certainly never dull. (she sniffs). Like last night he called me a useless frigid bitch because I said I had a migraine.

I’m not surprised you had a migraine after listening everything you’ve told me so far, I say. I’d have a migraine, I say forcing a laugh.

I walk into the kitchen and stand there, pinching my temples with my finger and thumb, wondering how any of this could have happened. Wondering how Sally has managed to get herself in such a mess.

Yeah but it wasn’t a real one, she says.

What was that? I say. I didn’t hear you.

I said it wasn’t true, she says.I made it up to piss him off. I wanted to get back at him for being such a bastard. But the only thing it did was to make him worse. He completely flipped. So I told him to stop acting like a retard and calm the fuck down, and then he hit me. He thumped me on the arm, so of course, being me, I had to hit him back.

Well I’m not sure if that was the right thing to do, I say looking at the ceiling. But anyway…So what happened after that? Did he calm down finally?

No he smacked me in the mouth and made my lip bleed, she says.

For God sake Sally, I say sliding open one of the cabinet drawers.

I haven’t smoked in weeks. I’m cleansing myself. I’m trying to get all the crap out of my system. But right now I could do with a cigarette. Right now I could do with some kind of distraction.

Listen I want you to do me a really big favour. Text me this Eliot guy’s address. Then start packing your bags and I’ll tell my husband to come and get you as soon as he comes home.

My crazy life, eh? she says. He said I didn’t tell him to calm down, he told me to calm down. Like he’s so tough. Like he’s some wise guy from out of a Martin Scorcese movie. Like I’m supposed to be terrified of him or something, she says sarcastically. Well I’m not terrified. Shit I’m not scared of a coke sniffing arsehole like him, she yells. In fact I’m going to go and tell the bastard to his face…hold on, she says, with a strange excitement present in her voice.

Sally…Sally! I say.

What? she says.

Don’t be offended, but did you take something?

What do you mean? she says.

You know what I mean?  I say rolling my eyes.

No, she says.

You sure? I say.

Course I’m sure, she says.

OK, I say.  If that’s what you say, I’ll have to believe you.

I hear Sally sniff and then she takes a deep breath.

            What? I say.

How did you know? she says. I didn’t think it was that obvious… I just had a couple of lines. I wouldn’t have but all evening I’ve been really depressed. I mean one moment he’s being all lovey dovey. Telling me how beautiful I am and how much he adores me. And the next he’s calling me a stupid bitch. It’s almost like he’s two entirely different people…One minute everything’s wonderful and the next its like he’s deliberately trying to hurt me…

Sally?

Yeah?

I’m not judging you. I just wondered that’s all.

OK…so now you know, she says sounding nervous. You won’t blab to mum and dad will you?

I take out a cigarette from the packet and hold it in my hand.

So you’re going to do exactly as I suggested? I say. You can stay here with me. Of course we’ll have to set some ground rules. I don’t want it to be like last time…Anyway we’ll talk about that tomorrow…And I’m sure you’ll need some cheering up. Tell you what. Tomorrow I’ll take the day off work and take you shopping. We could even try out that Spa in Covent Garden if you like.

You’d do that for me? she says.

Why not, I say. I’m your big sister, right?

Hold on, Irene…she says.

The phone goes quiet. I hear the sound of people talking in the background. Then after what seems like ages, my sister comes back on line.  And the strange thing is, she suddenly sounds extremely happy.

I’m going to have to hang up, she says.

Sally…I say.

Don’t worry I’ll be fine. Can you believe it? Elliot’s just proposed to me, she says. We just got engaged.

What in the bathroom? I say.

Christ Irene. Can’t you just be happy for me at least? Listen I have to go. Don’t mention any of this to mum and dad all right? Please.

But what about the stuff we just talked about? I say. And what about the death threats?

It only happened once. And you know how I get sometimes. I’m not always an easy person to live with. You’ve even said it yourself. I’ll call back in a day or two. Honestly I’ll be fine. I feel much better now. You’re my big sister and I needed someone to talk to. You can understand that, can’t you?

Just then, I hear a male voice; no doubt Eliot’s, mumbling something in the background. And then I hear a high-pitched screamed, followed by the sound of raucous laughter 

Sally, I say. Sally?

But my sister isn’t responding. I keep holding the phone to my ear and then all of a sudden I start to hear the sound of heavy breathing. It goes on for a while, and then the phone goes dead.  As I reached for a box of matches I hear a clicking noise and the sound of the wind howling. I put down the box of matches and hurriedly put the cigarettes away and slide the drawer shut. I can hear my husband and my daughter singing, I move towards the cupboard and take down three plates.

 pic Denzel Washington by liangwangmsn

Karen Wheatley phoned to say she was pregnant. I was gonna be dad. I was in a panic. I didn’t wanna be a dad. I couldn’t look after myself let alone a baby. There was also the fact that Karen was only seventeen years old. I was two weeks shy of my nineteenth birthday. Karen and me had been going out almost eight months.

Karen said she wanted me to meet her parents. After a month of putting it off I turned up at their house in Streatham. Her mum and dad were sitting on the settee in the living room. Her parents kept staring at me. They looked confused and angry. Karen’s big brother John was built like a brick-shit-house. He was sitting in an armchair across from me. He was smoking a fag and giving me filfthy looks. I was shitting myself.

 In a shaky voice I told the Wheatleys’ that if their daughter decided to have the kid I’d do my best to be a good father. Then in the heat of the moment, with every body watching me, I got carried away. I suggested Karen and me get married. I said we could either do it now, or wait ‘til after the baby, our baby, was born.

Karen’s dad stood up and paced the room. Karen’s mum put a protective arm around her daughter.

I understand what you’re saying Danny, but as far as we’re concerned, Karen’s far too young to have a baby, said Mr Wheatley.

            Anyway she ain’t marrying a little prick like you, Karen’s brother broke in.

He put down his cigarette and folded his arms.

            Now there’s no need to talk to the boy like that, said Mr Wheatley. 

Karen’s mum went to the kitchen and came back with a pot of tea and some custard- creams. I didn’t feel like drinking tea or eating biscuits. I was still thinking about what Karen’s Brother had said.

 After fifteen minutes I got up to leave. Karen walked me to the front door. So that was it. There wasn’t gonna be a kid after all. Karen gave me the address of the clinic where she was going to have the abortion. The whole thing was making me feel ill. Karen held my hand and half jokingly mentioned eloping. I shrugged as if to say it wasn’t realistic. Anyway I worked as a cleaner. I hovered offices. In truth, I couldn’t support a teenage girl and a baby. I hugged Karen and she started to cry. I did too. Then I left.                                                           

 pic a402ft, by rossmonteith