"Why do you have a beard?" asked my daughter.
"Elizabeth!" said her mum. There was enough warning in her voice that the elderly couple at the next table turned to look. When they caught my eye they turned back. Under the table somebody kicked me. I wasn't sure if it was Lizzie or her mother. It was hard enough that it might have been on purpose.
Lizzie ignored her mum and continued to watch me. She tilted her head as if she were looking for something hidden. "Do you have it because you don't like your face?" she asked.
I felt the kick again. I think Sarah was trying to tell Lizzie to knock it off and catching me instead. I moved my leg out of the way.
"I think a beard suits me," I said calmly. I fought the impulse to cover that part of my face with my hands.
"Some people grow a beard because they have something to hide," said Lizzie. "Something they're ashamed of."
She squinted her eyes. She stared at me with naked resentment.
"Stop it," said her mum, and for the first time Lizzie looked at her.
"I'm not doing anything," she said. "You're the one who keeps kicking him."
Sarah faced me. "Oh, god, Michael, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"
"It's okay," I said. "Everything's okay. And if Elizabeth wants to do this here and now then that's okay as well." Before I faced Lizzie again I rearranged my body language to appear at ease. I pulled my chair forward an inch towards her, leant back in it ever so slightly and placed my hands in my lap. "Lizzie, you can ask me anything you'd like to know."
"I thought I just did," said Lizzie. In case I'd forgotten, she reminded me. She spoke to me the way you talk to the retarded. "I asked if you wanted to hide your face behind your beard because you were ashamed of yourself."
The corner of my eye was twitching. I leant forward and put my hands on the edge of the table and willed it to stop. The desire to slap my daughter came and was pushed to one side.
"I grew the beard, Lizzie, because I like the way it looks on my face. I don't need to hide away, because I have nothing to be ashamed of." My eye twitched again. "I'm sorry about the circumstances, the way things turned out back then, but it was out of my control. And now I'm here to make it up to you."
Lizzie snorted, the international sign of derision and disbelief.
When she snorted, I remembered she was just a teenager. Just a hurt, confused, angry teenager. My angry teenager. I repeated myself, this time without the eye-twitching. "I mean it, Lizzie. I'm here to make it up to you. And this time I'm not going anywhere."
The elderly couple at the next table were eavesdropping. You could tell by the mechanical way they pretended to move food from their plates to their mouths. Elizabeth pushed her chair back, stood up, and walked out.
"Fuck this," she said as she passed me.
When she was gone, I dropped my head into my hands and let out all the breath I didn't know I'd been holding in. I looked to Sarah and with my eyes asked for help. The next table forgot their pretence and turned to see the broken man.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" I said loudly. Sarah didn't kick me under the table, but she probably should have.
"Nothing much," said the old man, and I had to agree with him.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Running on People
Aimee Tan watched her little brother pin a spider by the leg with his chubby ring finger, the only finger left on his right hand. From the treadmill she lost sight of the trapped arachnid, but she recognised the patient look on her brother's face. When he nodded, a single exaggerated movement that brought his chin into contact with his chest, she knew the spider had detached itself. The nod was the first sign that Joey was there. It reminded Aimee of training.
Joey lifted his head towards Aimee. "Mom?" he said.
"No Joey, no mom. It's just you and me, remember?"
When Joey figured out who she was his eyes and mouth folded into a smile."
Ai-mee!" he said, the syllables separated.
Aimee ran on. "Joey," she said. "Stay away from the treadmill. It's dangerous, okay?"
Aimee ran fifty yards before Joe answered back.
"O-kay," he said. After fifty yards more he dropped his head back to the floor to look for the limping spider. To himself he said her name again. "ai-mee, o-kay."
*
Training is all day, every day. Track for eight miles at six, breakfast blended and drunk before seven. The steam room and a demanding massage, and weights till half eight. Then she meets Coach. With two sleeps till the big race everything is double.
Coach greets her with a long kiss, then shouts at her for losing fractions of a second on the eight mile. He kicks her shoe into the exercise bike, swears and screams and belittles her commitment. He wants her to cry. After so long together Aimee is familiar with Coach. She bites her tongue and when he's done she heads back to the track, determined to prove something.
Her time comes back better than ever. Now, with Coach's plan, is the first time in her life she's had a good shot at gold. Coach shouts and screams and swears and throws shoes because together they demand the best. Despite her good time he's not happy with her technique. But with the marathon so close he forbids her to risk anything by going out to the track again. "Fuck it," he says. "It'll just have to do."
At session's end he asks her.
"How's your brother doing?"
Slowly, loudly, Aimee replaces the weights in the rack. Coach watches it all and says nothing to hurry her up.
"His name's Joey," she says.
Coach is responsible for Joey. A year back he shoved Aimee, hard, angry at her for skipping a meal; and she fell into Joey, who fell into the running treadmill. His hand was cut up, his head was fucked in. He was normal before.
"Joey's fine," says Aimee. "He'll be thirteen soon." She thinks slowly of spider limps. She punches Coach, hard, in the chest. He tensed before the blow, expecting it, and absorbed the impact. He takes a deep breath and lets it all out.
"Go get washed up," he says. "You stink something rotten. Then I want to take you some place nice."
Aimee headed towards the showers with the determination she had heading towards the track. On her way she checks the treadmill is switched off.
*
Coach took her to an Italian place, and allowed her tomato sauce with her pasta. There was a candle on the table, and he was wearing a suit. Romantic music fell softly from speakers on the walls hidden behind heavy curtains.
One subject dominated dinner talk. What Aimee had to do to win. After the food they split the bill, and when Aimee left her card in the waiter's tray Coach took her hand.
"Hey.," he said. "I love you, okay? I know that you can do this."
At one in the morning Aimee crept away from Coach's snoring bulk and silently dressed. She took her trainers out to the hall to put them on, so he wouldn't wake to the sound of laces tying. In night's light she made her way to the track. She would do whatever it took to take first place.
*
Coach trained her in what to say and what to do in the car on the way to the race. He stressed again and again how important it was that she talk to no one, and that before the starting pistol she remain in character. If they were going to pull this off it had to be absolutely perfect – there'd be cameras and people everywhere.
Aimee won the race. Two hours forty. Joey was there to help her celebrate, and so was Coach, with a paternal hand on Joey's low shoulder. Coach wrapped a foil sheet around her shoulders and told her not to drop, to keep moving, most importantly - to remember the act. Aimee picked her brother up and pulled his ear close to her mouth. "Sorry Joey," she whispered.
They interviewed her for the television.
"Aimee, with your performance today knocking seventeen seconds off your personal best, and your domination of the field over the final miles, you must have an eye on a medal in the London 2012 Paralympics? Would you like to say something about that to our viewers?"
Aimee nodded, a single movement that took her chin close to her chest. She slowly folded her eyes and her mouth up into a smile. She hated herself, she hated herself.
"Ai-mee!" she said. "O-kay!"
Joey lifted his head towards Aimee. "Mom?" he said.
"No Joey, no mom. It's just you and me, remember?"
When Joey figured out who she was his eyes and mouth folded into a smile."
Ai-mee!" he said, the syllables separated.
Aimee ran on. "Joey," she said. "Stay away from the treadmill. It's dangerous, okay?"
Aimee ran fifty yards before Joe answered back.
"O-kay," he said. After fifty yards more he dropped his head back to the floor to look for the limping spider. To himself he said her name again. "ai-mee, o-kay."
*
Training is all day, every day. Track for eight miles at six, breakfast blended and drunk before seven. The steam room and a demanding massage, and weights till half eight. Then she meets Coach. With two sleeps till the big race everything is double.
Coach greets her with a long kiss, then shouts at her for losing fractions of a second on the eight mile. He kicks her shoe into the exercise bike, swears and screams and belittles her commitment. He wants her to cry. After so long together Aimee is familiar with Coach. She bites her tongue and when he's done she heads back to the track, determined to prove something.
Her time comes back better than ever. Now, with Coach's plan, is the first time in her life she's had a good shot at gold. Coach shouts and screams and swears and throws shoes because together they demand the best. Despite her good time he's not happy with her technique. But with the marathon so close he forbids her to risk anything by going out to the track again. "Fuck it," he says. "It'll just have to do."
At session's end he asks her.
"How's your brother doing?"
Slowly, loudly, Aimee replaces the weights in the rack. Coach watches it all and says nothing to hurry her up.
"His name's Joey," she says.
Coach is responsible for Joey. A year back he shoved Aimee, hard, angry at her for skipping a meal; and she fell into Joey, who fell into the running treadmill. His hand was cut up, his head was fucked in. He was normal before.
"Joey's fine," says Aimee. "He'll be thirteen soon." She thinks slowly of spider limps. She punches Coach, hard, in the chest. He tensed before the blow, expecting it, and absorbed the impact. He takes a deep breath and lets it all out.
"Go get washed up," he says. "You stink something rotten. Then I want to take you some place nice."
Aimee headed towards the showers with the determination she had heading towards the track. On her way she checks the treadmill is switched off.
*
Coach took her to an Italian place, and allowed her tomato sauce with her pasta. There was a candle on the table, and he was wearing a suit. Romantic music fell softly from speakers on the walls hidden behind heavy curtains.
One subject dominated dinner talk. What Aimee had to do to win. After the food they split the bill, and when Aimee left her card in the waiter's tray Coach took her hand.
"Hey.," he said. "I love you, okay? I know that you can do this."
At one in the morning Aimee crept away from Coach's snoring bulk and silently dressed. She took her trainers out to the hall to put them on, so he wouldn't wake to the sound of laces tying. In night's light she made her way to the track. She would do whatever it took to take first place.
*
Coach trained her in what to say and what to do in the car on the way to the race. He stressed again and again how important it was that she talk to no one, and that before the starting pistol she remain in character. If they were going to pull this off it had to be absolutely perfect – there'd be cameras and people everywhere.
Aimee won the race. Two hours forty. Joey was there to help her celebrate, and so was Coach, with a paternal hand on Joey's low shoulder. Coach wrapped a foil sheet around her shoulders and told her not to drop, to keep moving, most importantly - to remember the act. Aimee picked her brother up and pulled his ear close to her mouth. "Sorry Joey," she whispered.
They interviewed her for the television.
"Aimee, with your performance today knocking seventeen seconds off your personal best, and your domination of the field over the final miles, you must have an eye on a medal in the London 2012 Paralympics? Would you like to say something about that to our viewers?"
Aimee nodded, a single movement that took her chin close to her chest. She slowly folded her eyes and her mouth up into a smile. She hated herself, she hated herself.
"Ai-mee!" she said. "O-kay!"
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Saving the world one person at a time. Starting with me.
Helen K works for Save The World on the streets of London, collecting direct debits. She's on Tottenham Court Road today. She's rolled the red SAVE t-shirt into a knot above her navel, and paired it with a dark green skirt that stops above the knee and cotton white socks that stop below the skirt. She has on a cute bonnet hat from the thirties with a large peacock feather that she found in a little vintage shop in Hampstead. She holds her clipboard behind her back when she approaches a potential giver and brings it out after they've stopped and she's initiated the spiel.
She jumps in front of a young man wearing an obviously brand new shirt and tie, carrying a sandwich from EAT and a Costa coffee. His name is Vincent and it's his second day in London, his first day at work.
"Hi!" says Helen. She has a big smile and she pushes her chest forward. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Vincent looks around in case Helen was talking to somebody else. She's hot! He catches a glimpse of the naked thigh between her socks and her hemline and her naked hips and drags his eyes up to hers. He's conscious of a thin layer of sweat on his upper lip and under his arms. "Um. Sure! That would be great. Uhhh. I'm Vincent, by the way."
"Hi Vincent! I'm Helen. Vincent, have you heard about Save The World?"
Helen brings out her clipboard and launches into her rehearsed patter.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Vincent, interrupting her. "I thought this was something else. I'm really not interested. Thanks, though."
Vincent walks off. Before he's back in the office he sees another girl in a Save t-shirt holding a clipboard, and crosses the street to avoid her.
*
Three monkeys are playing football. One of the monkeys has his hands over his eyes. One of the monkeys has his hands over his mouth. One of the monkeys has his hands over his ears. The football is a globe. The deaf monkey kicks it too hard and it bursts. The blind monkey picks up some of his own shit and hurls it at the deaf monkey. It misses. The monkey with hands over his mouth takes a black cab over to Tottenham Court Road and throws shit at a couple of girls trying to sign people up to charities. Maybe later he'll get a new football.
*
Some animal fuck just threw shit at Joe Yu, ruining his tie. He takes it off. He has another one back at the office. Joe left school aged sixteen back when anyone could become a dotcom millionaire and he created his own company. He sold it two years later for two point one million. He had an expensive wedding and a more expensive divorce to an attractive girl whose name he sometimes forgot. He joined Them & Eye, an international market research company, and quickly made associate director. He had a riverside apartment, a red sports car and a new attractive girl whose name he would sometimes forget. He also had just fifteen minutes a day to care about other people. He'd already wasted seven minutes of compassion this morning letting a hot girl in a short green skirt with thigh length socks take his space on the Central Line. God, he'd have to start taking the car to work again. Screw the company's environmentally friendly public transport policy. If he was lucky he could spend the remaining eight minutes this evening making his girlfriend think that she'd enjoy anal. He couldn't work out if it was worth having the caring time or not. Maybe he could trade it in for a bigger sports car.
*
Blonde was having her nails done in that Vietnamese place and talking to her brother Vincent on her Bluetooth. "Oh, yeah, they just jump in front of you, don’t they? You know they get a huge commission for everyone they sign up, on top of a great salary. It's such a con, really. No, you did the right thing. Giving money to those people is like throwing it down the toilet."
Blonde wondered if she should let her boyfriend screw her in the ass. He'd been hinting at it lately. Sometimes he could be a bit of a dick, but he was always real nice when he wanted to screw her in the ass. Maybe he'd get her a new car.
She asked the woman doing her nails what she thought. "Oh, that's right. You people don't speak good English. I always forget." She said it again, slowly and loudly, enunciating each word. "Should – I – Let – Him – Poke – Me – In – The – Heinie? Huh? What – Do – You – Think?"
The Vietnamese lady kept her eyes on the blonde ladies nails.
"For God's sake – it's like talking to a brick wall," said Blonde. "Vincent, what do you think?"
*
The Vietnamese lady was from Leeds. Her name was Sally Sutcliffe. She ran four successful beauty salons in Central London with a combined value of close to a million. She had a home in Notting Hill and several rental properties in Lambeth which were sometimes more trouble than they were worth. She only rented to Asian students, thinking they'd be less hassle, but even so. It was practically a full time job looking after them all. Just before this tart with the roots had come in she'd got a call from one of the girls in Brixton Hill complaining again about the broken downstairs toilet. What did she look like, a flipping plumber?
The blonde tart was giving her a headache. Sally put on her best Chinese Lady voice and told her to wait two minutes. She went out and lit up a Silk Cut, her seventh already this morning.
"Hi," said some bimbo in a funny hat. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"No," said Sally. "Eff off."
She jumps in front of a young man wearing an obviously brand new shirt and tie, carrying a sandwich from EAT and a Costa coffee. His name is Vincent and it's his second day in London, his first day at work.
"Hi!" says Helen. She has a big smile and she pushes her chest forward. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Vincent looks around in case Helen was talking to somebody else. She's hot! He catches a glimpse of the naked thigh between her socks and her hemline and her naked hips and drags his eyes up to hers. He's conscious of a thin layer of sweat on his upper lip and under his arms. "Um. Sure! That would be great. Uhhh. I'm Vincent, by the way."
"Hi Vincent! I'm Helen. Vincent, have you heard about Save The World?"
Helen brings out her clipboard and launches into her rehearsed patter.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Vincent, interrupting her. "I thought this was something else. I'm really not interested. Thanks, though."
Vincent walks off. Before he's back in the office he sees another girl in a Save t-shirt holding a clipboard, and crosses the street to avoid her.
*
Three monkeys are playing football. One of the monkeys has his hands over his eyes. One of the monkeys has his hands over his mouth. One of the monkeys has his hands over his ears. The football is a globe. The deaf monkey kicks it too hard and it bursts. The blind monkey picks up some of his own shit and hurls it at the deaf monkey. It misses. The monkey with hands over his mouth takes a black cab over to Tottenham Court Road and throws shit at a couple of girls trying to sign people up to charities. Maybe later he'll get a new football.
*
Some animal fuck just threw shit at Joe Yu, ruining his tie. He takes it off. He has another one back at the office. Joe left school aged sixteen back when anyone could become a dotcom millionaire and he created his own company. He sold it two years later for two point one million. He had an expensive wedding and a more expensive divorce to an attractive girl whose name he sometimes forgot. He joined Them & Eye, an international market research company, and quickly made associate director. He had a riverside apartment, a red sports car and a new attractive girl whose name he would sometimes forget. He also had just fifteen minutes a day to care about other people. He'd already wasted seven minutes of compassion this morning letting a hot girl in a short green skirt with thigh length socks take his space on the Central Line. God, he'd have to start taking the car to work again. Screw the company's environmentally friendly public transport policy. If he was lucky he could spend the remaining eight minutes this evening making his girlfriend think that she'd enjoy anal. He couldn't work out if it was worth having the caring time or not. Maybe he could trade it in for a bigger sports car.
*
Blonde was having her nails done in that Vietnamese place and talking to her brother Vincent on her Bluetooth. "Oh, yeah, they just jump in front of you, don’t they? You know they get a huge commission for everyone they sign up, on top of a great salary. It's such a con, really. No, you did the right thing. Giving money to those people is like throwing it down the toilet."
Blonde wondered if she should let her boyfriend screw her in the ass. He'd been hinting at it lately. Sometimes he could be a bit of a dick, but he was always real nice when he wanted to screw her in the ass. Maybe he'd get her a new car.
She asked the woman doing her nails what she thought. "Oh, that's right. You people don't speak good English. I always forget." She said it again, slowly and loudly, enunciating each word. "Should – I – Let – Him – Poke – Me – In – The – Heinie? Huh? What – Do – You – Think?"
The Vietnamese lady kept her eyes on the blonde ladies nails.
"For God's sake – it's like talking to a brick wall," said Blonde. "Vincent, what do you think?"
*
The Vietnamese lady was from Leeds. Her name was Sally Sutcliffe. She ran four successful beauty salons in Central London with a combined value of close to a million. She had a home in Notting Hill and several rental properties in Lambeth which were sometimes more trouble than they were worth. She only rented to Asian students, thinking they'd be less hassle, but even so. It was practically a full time job looking after them all. Just before this tart with the roots had come in she'd got a call from one of the girls in Brixton Hill complaining again about the broken downstairs toilet. What did she look like, a flipping plumber?
The blonde tart was giving her a headache. Sally put on her best Chinese Lady voice and told her to wait two minutes. She went out and lit up a Silk Cut, her seventh already this morning.
"Hi," said some bimbo in a funny hat. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"No," said Sally. "Eff off."
Saturday, 11 April 2009
The Regretted Protest of Heidi Lopez
The Regretted Protest of Heidi Lopez
(by Christopher James)
Heidi Lopez was bestest friends with Jesus Christ. In fourth grade, Jesus told Heidi to pull up her skirt and pull down her panties and show the school assembly her naughty bits. Miss Jones from 4J dragged Heidi through the hall and into a corridor and slapped her so hard she knocked the Lopez out of her. This was in eighty four, and even way back then teachers were not allowed to do that sort of thing.
Heidi prayed to Jesus to kill that wicked old witch and Miss Jones died in a tragic midnight miniature skinny-golf incident, her nude body found lying between holes eight and nine, her club near hole seven and her ball just an inch from the putt. Nobody knew why Miss Jones played miniature golf at midnight by her lonely naked self, and for most who heard the news it was odd enough behaviour to serve as an explanation for her winding up dead. But Heidi Lopez knew better.
That was the last time Heidi lifted her petticoats in the school assembly, and she vowed to never again ask Jesus to kill anyone, no matter how big of a witch they were.
(by Christopher James)
Heidi Lopez was bestest friends with Jesus Christ. In fourth grade, Jesus told Heidi to pull up her skirt and pull down her panties and show the school assembly her naughty bits. Miss Jones from 4J dragged Heidi through the hall and into a corridor and slapped her so hard she knocked the Lopez out of her. This was in eighty four, and even way back then teachers were not allowed to do that sort of thing.
Heidi prayed to Jesus to kill that wicked old witch and Miss Jones died in a tragic midnight miniature skinny-golf incident, her nude body found lying between holes eight and nine, her club near hole seven and her ball just an inch from the putt. Nobody knew why Miss Jones played miniature golf at midnight by her lonely naked self, and for most who heard the news it was odd enough behaviour to serve as an explanation for her winding up dead. But Heidi Lopez knew better.
That was the last time Heidi lifted her petticoats in the school assembly, and she vowed to never again ask Jesus to kill anyone, no matter how big of a witch they were.
Paper Chains
God's friend, Silvia, changed her last name to Chance. God never asked her why. He was sure she had her reasons but he preferred to imagine his own. Things happen, and we don't always need to know why. Silvia knew the importance of names. Her mother named her Short Face for seven years until she chose to grow a foot and a half in a single night. After that she was called Long Face.
One night a sheet from the Daily Mirror Sport Supplement containing pages three, four, sixty-eight and sixty-nine blew through an open bathroom window and hit Silvia Chance in her sex as she left the shower. Silvia looked down and was struck by two words that remained dry amongst the running ink. Abysmal Defending. She vowed to name her first son Abysmal Defending. Nine short long months later she did, for the words from the page, she said, and for the way he was conceived.
The father arrived in the maternity late, and insisted on a proper name for his son. Silvia was exhausted and belaboured and gave in to the man's demands and they named the boy Jonathon Jones, but whenever Silvia and Jonathon were alone she called him Abysmal, or Bysmal for short, and sung him old Sicilian lullabies to help him to dream in Italian.
Silvia and the father loved Jonathon Jones and raised him well with magic and discipline. They were not married, until one night the announcements page of the Islington Gazette landed on the father's open snoring mouth and almost suffocated him. The father woke up with a cough and a splutter and Kathryn Butkiss's marriage to Evelyn Spitpot pasted to his brow and he decided some time after the cough but long before the sputter that it was time to make an honest woman of Miss Silvia Chance. They married before the month was out, though Silvia kept her name, and Jonathon Jones, unbeknownst to Mister Jones, kept his.
'Do you think,' asked Mister Jones, 'that God will let a pair like us be happy?'
'Who knows?' said Silvia. 'God likes to take a chance every once in a while.'
The young child became a young man, and his spirit roamed further than his soul, and he began to wonder what he should do with his life. One sunny day, when he was hanging by a single long-sleeved arm from a yew in the neighbour's garden, a page from the Mumbai Telegraph wrapped itself around his dangling legs. The page had travelled many miles and was eaten by dust and weather and Jonathon Jones couldn't understand the unfamiliar language anyway, but he understood the picture of one small performing elephant upon the back of a larger performing elephant and resolved, like the performing pachyderms, to join the circus.
A circus came to town and it gave host to seven nights of World Famous shows and then it left and Bysmal the brand new Clown left with it. Bysmal practised pratfalls till his oversized pants were bare at the behind and then he stitched them back together with a long needle and thread and a measured eye and practised some more. He became known far and wide as the greatest clown the world had ever laughed at, and he thought he had everything a young big-top showman could ever want.
There was a night that the lion died, and the elephant died, and the horses that belonged to the Incredible Bareback Beauties died, and they feared the circus would have to close down under the pile of dead animals. A fire-eater pointed a soap scented finger at our hero and said 'It's because of him. I saw his name – he is Jonah Jonah. He brought down our ship.'
Jonathon Jones argued that his name was Jonathon Jones, not Jonah Jonah, but the circus folk could see no other explanation for the falling of their beasts, and Bysmal the clown was asked to leave. He donned his odd clown shoes and his peculiar clown hat and climbed to the platform from where the acrobats leapt and cried the tears of a cloud. He blew his red nose on a piece of paper that came to hand, and when he looked at what had come from his nose he found the paper was the lonely hearts column from the Roman Sun. Bysmal recognised words here and there from the lullabies Chance had sung him so long ago, and he wished he had an amore eterno to kiss and to hold.
He climbed down and found the Ringmaster and he hung up his water-squirting flower and his revolving bow-tie and said he was hitting the road and he wouldn't stop until he had found his soul mate. The Ringmaster was a romantic man when surrounded by dying horses and zebras and wished Bysmal well. The strongman and the lionless lion tamer asked him where he would go and Bysmal watched page after page of Le Metro fall from the sky and he said he would go to Paris. With the little money he had saved over the five years he'd been with the circus he bought himself a little yellow car that the previous owner said was fine as long as you parked it on a hill facing down, and he set off in the direction of France.
On the inside lane of the M6 a single page from the Yorkshire Post spread across the windscreen and obscured the view. PRINCESS KILLED IN CAR CRASH IN PARIS filled one half of the page. Things happen sometimes, and we don't always need to know why. Jonathon Abysmal Chance Defending Jones plowed the car into the back of a radio news truck, and God stopped flinging newspaper pages.
One night a sheet from the Daily Mirror Sport Supplement containing pages three, four, sixty-eight and sixty-nine blew through an open bathroom window and hit Silvia Chance in her sex as she left the shower. Silvia looked down and was struck by two words that remained dry amongst the running ink. Abysmal Defending. She vowed to name her first son Abysmal Defending. Nine short long months later she did, for the words from the page, she said, and for the way he was conceived.
The father arrived in the maternity late, and insisted on a proper name for his son. Silvia was exhausted and belaboured and gave in to the man's demands and they named the boy Jonathon Jones, but whenever Silvia and Jonathon were alone she called him Abysmal, or Bysmal for short, and sung him old Sicilian lullabies to help him to dream in Italian.
Silvia and the father loved Jonathon Jones and raised him well with magic and discipline. They were not married, until one night the announcements page of the Islington Gazette landed on the father's open snoring mouth and almost suffocated him. The father woke up with a cough and a splutter and Kathryn Butkiss's marriage to Evelyn Spitpot pasted to his brow and he decided some time after the cough but long before the sputter that it was time to make an honest woman of Miss Silvia Chance. They married before the month was out, though Silvia kept her name, and Jonathon Jones, unbeknownst to Mister Jones, kept his.
'Do you think,' asked Mister Jones, 'that God will let a pair like us be happy?'
'Who knows?' said Silvia. 'God likes to take a chance every once in a while.'
The young child became a young man, and his spirit roamed further than his soul, and he began to wonder what he should do with his life. One sunny day, when he was hanging by a single long-sleeved arm from a yew in the neighbour's garden, a page from the Mumbai Telegraph wrapped itself around his dangling legs. The page had travelled many miles and was eaten by dust and weather and Jonathon Jones couldn't understand the unfamiliar language anyway, but he understood the picture of one small performing elephant upon the back of a larger performing elephant and resolved, like the performing pachyderms, to join the circus.
A circus came to town and it gave host to seven nights of World Famous shows and then it left and Bysmal the brand new Clown left with it. Bysmal practised pratfalls till his oversized pants were bare at the behind and then he stitched them back together with a long needle and thread and a measured eye and practised some more. He became known far and wide as the greatest clown the world had ever laughed at, and he thought he had everything a young big-top showman could ever want.
There was a night that the lion died, and the elephant died, and the horses that belonged to the Incredible Bareback Beauties died, and they feared the circus would have to close down under the pile of dead animals. A fire-eater pointed a soap scented finger at our hero and said 'It's because of him. I saw his name – he is Jonah Jonah. He brought down our ship.'
Jonathon Jones argued that his name was Jonathon Jones, not Jonah Jonah, but the circus folk could see no other explanation for the falling of their beasts, and Bysmal the clown was asked to leave. He donned his odd clown shoes and his peculiar clown hat and climbed to the platform from where the acrobats leapt and cried the tears of a cloud. He blew his red nose on a piece of paper that came to hand, and when he looked at what had come from his nose he found the paper was the lonely hearts column from the Roman Sun. Bysmal recognised words here and there from the lullabies Chance had sung him so long ago, and he wished he had an amore eterno to kiss and to hold.
He climbed down and found the Ringmaster and he hung up his water-squirting flower and his revolving bow-tie and said he was hitting the road and he wouldn't stop until he had found his soul mate. The Ringmaster was a romantic man when surrounded by dying horses and zebras and wished Bysmal well. The strongman and the lionless lion tamer asked him where he would go and Bysmal watched page after page of Le Metro fall from the sky and he said he would go to Paris. With the little money he had saved over the five years he'd been with the circus he bought himself a little yellow car that the previous owner said was fine as long as you parked it on a hill facing down, and he set off in the direction of France.
On the inside lane of the M6 a single page from the Yorkshire Post spread across the windscreen and obscured the view. PRINCESS KILLED IN CAR CRASH IN PARIS filled one half of the page. Things happen sometimes, and we don't always need to know why. Jonathon Abysmal Chance Defending Jones plowed the car into the back of a radio news truck, and God stopped flinging newspaper pages.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
We'll Always Have Paris
Our train took us out of London towards the East, and to France. Every thirty miles the landscape was new. City begat suburb begat industrial begat countryside. I waxed lyrical about the fields of rape, and Maria's eyes reddened. I wonder if it was something I'd said. Something about rape?
Maria caught me looking, and laughed and waved my concern away with her hand. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Just thinking about the countryside gives me hayfever!'
'Oh god!' I said. 'I thought – well. No matter what I thought. That's some strong pollen, isn't it?'
Maria nodded. She'd reassured me, and now she could go back to watching the world outside the window as we left it behind us.
From a plastic bag filled with discarded sweet wrappers and half empty bottles of water I fished an overpriced magazine I'd bought at the station for the journey. It was called TV Puzzler. Bubbles of soap opera gossip sat aside word searches.
On page two I was asked to spot the five differences between two pictures of Paris Hilton and Sarah Silverman standing apart from each other on the red carpet at a movie premiere. On page one I was told that whilst hosting the 2007 MTV Movie Awards Sarah Silverman had told a number of jokes at Paris Hilton's expense, whilst Ms Hilton was in the audience. She had made the socialite and star of 2005 movie House of Wax cry.
'That's not very nice,' I said to myself. I noticed that in picture one Sarah Silverman was wearing a bracelet and that in picture two she was not. I got unreasonably excited by my discovery. I never normally spotted details like that. I wondered who Sarah Silverman was. She looked cute. She had to be better than Paris Hilton, right?
'Hey, Maria?' I said. 'You ever heard of Sarah Silverman?'
Maria burst. Tears exploded from her. She howled, she howled, I'd never heard anybody make such a sound before. It tore at my heart. She doubled over and howled for thirty miles.
I found a packet of tissues in the plastic bag and poked her helplessly with them. Before we reached the coast Maria straightened up again and calmed down. She took the tissues and did what she could to clean her face. Her cheeks and her nose and her eyes stayed red. Green mucus hung from her mouth and towards her ears. She wiped at it and moved it around.
'God, I'm sorry,' she told me. She looked sorry.
'Can I still blame it on that damned hayfever?' she asked.
Maria caught me looking, and laughed and waved my concern away with her hand. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Just thinking about the countryside gives me hayfever!'
'Oh god!' I said. 'I thought – well. No matter what I thought. That's some strong pollen, isn't it?'
Maria nodded. She'd reassured me, and now she could go back to watching the world outside the window as we left it behind us.
From a plastic bag filled with discarded sweet wrappers and half empty bottles of water I fished an overpriced magazine I'd bought at the station for the journey. It was called TV Puzzler. Bubbles of soap opera gossip sat aside word searches.
On page two I was asked to spot the five differences between two pictures of Paris Hilton and Sarah Silverman standing apart from each other on the red carpet at a movie premiere. On page one I was told that whilst hosting the 2007 MTV Movie Awards Sarah Silverman had told a number of jokes at Paris Hilton's expense, whilst Ms Hilton was in the audience. She had made the socialite and star of 2005 movie House of Wax cry.
'That's not very nice,' I said to myself. I noticed that in picture one Sarah Silverman was wearing a bracelet and that in picture two she was not. I got unreasonably excited by my discovery. I never normally spotted details like that. I wondered who Sarah Silverman was. She looked cute. She had to be better than Paris Hilton, right?
'Hey, Maria?' I said. 'You ever heard of Sarah Silverman?'
Maria burst. Tears exploded from her. She howled, she howled, I'd never heard anybody make such a sound before. It tore at my heart. She doubled over and howled for thirty miles.
I found a packet of tissues in the plastic bag and poked her helplessly with them. Before we reached the coast Maria straightened up again and calmed down. She took the tissues and did what she could to clean her face. Her cheeks and her nose and her eyes stayed red. Green mucus hung from her mouth and towards her ears. She wiped at it and moved it around.
'God, I'm sorry,' she told me. She looked sorry.
'Can I still blame it on that damned hayfever?' she asked.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Brothers and Sisters
From: Christopher James
To: tuesdayshorts@yahoo.com
Sent: Sunday, February 22, 2009 12:25:37 PMSubject: Tuesday Short
Dear Tuesday Shorts, please find below two short pieces and a bio, which includes a link to my website. Thank you for taking the time to read these. I hope you might publish them, and I look forward to hearing back from you.
Brothers and Sisters by Christopher James (99 words)
Sister Ramirez urinated hard and enjoyed it immensely. She lit a cigarette and stayed on the cold porcelain and sighed with the pleasure of the freshly deflowered. She would go back into the bedroom soon, but for now – aaaahh!
Brother Santos held his head in his hands. What had he done? If God didn't punish him for this the other Brothers would. They'd hold him down and make him bleed.
When Sister Ramirez left the bathroom the Brother slapped her hard and left.
The Sister went back to the bathroom and lit another cigarette. She enjoyed that one too.
Shrink by Christopher James (64 words)
Jonathon James once told the rest of the class that if they gave him a hundred dollar bill he’d stick his wiener in a hole in the dirt. Nobody gave him any money, but he did it anyway. He’s a psychiatrist now. I don’t know if the one thing has anything to do with the other thing. But he still charges a hundred dollars.
Bio Christopher James lives in London and travels the world. He is new to writing, and this is the first time he's been published in Tuesday Shorts. More, but not much more, of his work can be found here... http://christopherjamesstories.blogspot.com/
Brothers and Sisters will be published soon by Tuesday Shorts http://www.tuesdayshorts.com/8.html
Shrink will not be.
To: tuesdayshorts@yahoo.com
Sent: Sunday, February 22, 2009 12:25:37 PMSubject: Tuesday Short
Dear Tuesday Shorts, please find below two short pieces and a bio, which includes a link to my website. Thank you for taking the time to read these. I hope you might publish them, and I look forward to hearing back from you.
Brothers and Sisters by Christopher James (99 words)
Sister Ramirez urinated hard and enjoyed it immensely. She lit a cigarette and stayed on the cold porcelain and sighed with the pleasure of the freshly deflowered. She would go back into the bedroom soon, but for now – aaaahh!
Brother Santos held his head in his hands. What had he done? If God didn't punish him for this the other Brothers would. They'd hold him down and make him bleed.
When Sister Ramirez left the bathroom the Brother slapped her hard and left.
The Sister went back to the bathroom and lit another cigarette. She enjoyed that one too.
Shrink by Christopher James (64 words)
Jonathon James once told the rest of the class that if they gave him a hundred dollar bill he’d stick his wiener in a hole in the dirt. Nobody gave him any money, but he did it anyway. He’s a psychiatrist now. I don’t know if the one thing has anything to do with the other thing. But he still charges a hundred dollars.
Bio Christopher James lives in London and travels the world. He is new to writing, and this is the first time he's been published in Tuesday Shorts. More, but not much more, of his work can be found here... http://christopherjamesstories.blogspot.com/
Brothers and Sisters will be published soon by Tuesday Shorts http://www.tuesdayshorts.com/8.html
Shrink will not be.
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