a forty first story...'aliens, brothers'

ZAP!

ZZZAP!!

ZORRRRRRRRG!!!

ZZZARPP!

~

The Aliens had landed

And with scant regard for Box Office Ratings – it wasn’t even July 4^th!

~

..Anyhow

On the morning the Aliens arrived, earthlings were going about their daily business as usual.  They had no idea, beyond what they had seen in sci-fi movies (then considered fictional representations of extra-terrestrial encounters portrayed on the ‘silver screen’, or cinema), what was about to happen.

..When the Alien invasion got underway, the indignation the earthlings displayed might have been considered ironic in view of their own historical predilection for invading one another’s earthling territories, thereby continually redefining the earth map.

Mercifully though, once the Alien invasion was over, the chaos wrought by the Alien invaders had a far less damaging effect on earthlings going about their daily business than usually happened when earthlings invaded one another, as well as a far less damaging or, indeed, divisive effect on the earth map.

The numbers dead and wounded on each side looked like this:

Alien invaders: 5,345,327

Earthlings: 4.5

The number of hostages taken by each side, as follows:

Alien invaders: 0

Earthlings: 4,654,673

You see, the Alien invasion was a strategic disaster.

Other than their obvious physical disadvantages (they were only three inches tall, luminous pink, and armed with weapons with the same capacity for causing death as the average Nothern European Mosquito), the Aliens were committed to doing everything in groups of ten, and in these groups of ten, everyone of them had to hold equal rank, and had perform an equal function. 

It was how the equivalent of their DNA worked; it was in the very nature of the Alien invaders to do everything fairly and justly (and obsessive compulsively).

But of course, because of their very nature, they were easily over-powered and drastically outnumbered everywhere they landed – and they landed in armies of ten in a million different locations, scattered in precision manner across the entirety of planet earth.

~

So, why bother invading planet earth in the first place?

Well here’s why.

The reasons behind the Alien invasion of planet earth were these: the Aliens believed the earthlings on planet earth were behaving in anything but a fair and just manner –again, this went against the equivalent of their DNA – and that earthlings needed to be taught a lesson.  Moreover, the little, luminous pink Aliens shared the same galaxy, living as they did on the planet Korgg, floating on an asteroid belt in the Milky Way, and felt earthlings, who they had seen over thousands of years wreck their earth planet beyond repair and recognition, might soon do the same to Kluj (Mars), Zarkk (Jupiter), Klob (Saturn) and so forth, before dumping their weapons and piles and piles of waste on Korgg.

Still.

In the aftermath of the Alien invasion, earthling commentators condemned Alien conduct for what they termed a pre-emptive strike..(ahem!)

..And while earthling commentators and the earthling public at large continued to vent their indignation, earthling governments had to decide what in Jehovah’s name they were going to do with all 4,654,673 Alien prisoners of war.

~

Since many of the Alien spacecraft were intact, there were some earthling politicians who felt the little, luminous pink Aliens should all be sent back to where they came from.  However, others argued in equally typical earthling fashion, the Aliens should be put to use on planet earth (i.e. that they become slaves).

The earthling proletariat, famous for their desire to humiliate one another, largely agreed with the view the Aliens should be subjugated, denigrated, ranked as second class citizens, or anything that would make earthlings feel better about themselves in diametric opposition.  

Earthling politicians, who tend to be forced to sacrifice their ideals to stay in favour with the earthling proletariat, therefore came up with the idea of Alien farms.  However, the issue over what the Aliens were actually going to do on these Alien farms remained. 

In the end, earthling politicians reached an agreement with, appropriately enough, executives from Mars, Inc. (an earthling confectionery company), that the Aliens would be enslaved to package M&Ms – popular, multicoloured earthling sweeties – and Tic Tacs (once popular, multicoloured earthling sweeties).

~

At first, the earthling slave masters at Mars, Inc. had trouble ensuring the Aliens were productive, and they had to exercise restraint when reprimanding them for their relative inactivity – after all, there were a finite number of Alien slaves (the Alien slaves were not allowed to reproduce), and the Alien slaves were only three inches high, making them vulnerable to physical correction from someone perhaps seventy two inches high (not to mention perhaps forty inches wide).

Fortunately, sooner rather than later the earthling slave masters at Mars, Inc. realised before shift got under way every morning, the luminous pink Alien slaves would automatically form themselves into groups of ten.  Once the earthling slave masters had established that this was not an act of sedition, rather a natural habit, productivity started to rise. 

Indeed, after a couple of years, production was so efficient, Mars, Inc. had made some enormous cost savings on both lines of earthling sweeties, and started to think of more creative ways to use their little, luminous pink Alien slaves.  One was to dress the little, luminous pink Alien slaves up in M&M costumes and film them dancing to earthling music for earthling TV commercials (between thirty earth seconds and one hundred and twenty earth seconds of televised, corporate propaganda).

Slowly but surely the Aliens realised they were in fact becoming a valued part of Mars, Inc. and some of them even started to feel at home!

~

Some of them even started receiving other job offers!

For example:

Quality Sprinkles Ltd tried to recruit 1000 little, pink Aliens to make hand-crafted hundreds and thousands for earthling cake decorations.

Safe Sense were after 100 little, pink Aliens to test the strength and impermeable quality of their new contraceptive wear at their ‘laboratory’ (the Aliens were three inches long, four when they had their arms above their little, pink heads).

Meanwhile, a distant relative of the short lived Sharifian Caliphate attempted to order 10 little, pink Aliens to become part of his entourage.

And so on..

Mars, Inc. of course was having none of it.

~

Nevertheless, Mars, Inc realised the need to do something for their increasingly in demand Alien slave workers, and the little, pink Aliens began to be rewarded with little earth privileges here and there.

Although, many of the rewards received by their ‘workforce’ – the little, pink Aliens were now called referred to as workers rather than slaves as part of a sly public relations manoeuvre –  were impractical (Virgin Air Miles; clothes store vouchers etc), the (Alien) workforce at Mars, Inc didn’t seem to mind, and most tried to take advantage of them.  Indeed, shoppers in Macy’s reported a group of ten little, pink Aliens carrying around a loyalty card on their collective shoulder, as they marched in the direction of the Children’s Department; while regular flyers with Virgin Atlantic reported several times several groups of ten little, pink Aliens occupying the seat next to them, ordering all manner of duty-free. 

The little, pink Aliens were becoming accustomed to life on planet earth, and it was only a matter of time before they started to mimic the behaviours of their earthling hosts.

~

Yes, gentle reader, I am afraid so.

They were changing their colours!!

If we move the story on another five years, the little, pink Aliens resembled their slightly less little earthling hosts in all but the luminescence of their skin, although even this had taken on a rather dull shine. 

As their obsessive compulsive nature began to break down, the Aliens started littering and fly-tipping, and at the same time their rigid, and previously thought unchangeable belief in justice, fairness and equality also began to erode as the number of their individual possessions and rewards from Mars, Inc. began to multiply.

When, through the help of an earthling translator, a little, pinkish Alien calling himself Klum was asked in an exclusive interview on the David Letterman show whether he harboured thoughts of one day returning to Korgg, he was translated as saying he would rather stick his little, pinkish head ‘where the sun don’t shine’ (Executives at the aforementioned manufacturer of contraceptive protection, Safe Sense, smiled thinly at the irony).

No, the little, pinkish Aliens wanted to stay.  Life on planet earth was so much more fun without the confines of justice, fairness and equality, as well as a neurotic attachment to making the planet a clean and safe place to live. 

~

Next time, you are decorating the top of your sister-in-law’s second birthday cake, having safe (but hopefully very enjoyable) sex, thinking of building an entourage or simply eating a bag of M&Ms..

..Spare a thought for our little, pinkish brothers! 

For they have become like us.

a fourtieth story...'edgelands'

‘This’, said the Surveyor, gesturing with his free hand, ‘is what we call a Ribbon Band Development’.

Stephen stopped fiddling with the aperture settings on his camera and looked down on row upon row of red brick terrace housing, the bleak moorland rising behind.  He brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes.  The wind was blowing in gusts, and with it came damp air and the threat of rain.

‘..And, you are looking at what we call a Linear Town’, the Surveyor continued knowledgeably. ‘Difficult to service, unpleasant to live in, an economy that has dissipated to the cities – Leeds, Sheffield and so on – relatively high levels of petty crime, and some of the highest levels of recreational substance abuse in the UK’.  Stephen shuddered.  The Edgelands: the place of rust, brick dust, the place of ruin.  The place he had so long romanticised. 

The wind picked up once again.

‘Do you want to go down and have look?’, asked the Surveyor, before Stephen could get lost in his reverie.  Stephen felt the first dash of rain, and put his camera back into it’s hard, leather case.  ‘Yes, I think so’, he replied, ‘I think I would like to see for myself’.

~

As the Surveyor’s shiny, Red Ford Fiesta juddered down the stony track to rejoin the road into town, a sheet of rain splattered the windshield, and the cloud descended rapidly.  ‘In addition to the high levels of recreational drug use, I forgot to mention the weather!’, quipped the Surveyor jocularly, hunched over the steering wheel and peering through the downpour.  ‘What else can you do, if you’re forced to stay in doors all day?’.  ‘None of these people have jobs, of course’. ‘In essence, they don’t do anything’.  Stephen sighed.  It was clear the Surveyor had little or no sense of empathy for these unfortunate people, and little or no sense of injustice at local government for doing nothing to alleviate their misery.  Stephen wanted to ask whether the Surveyor believed in the Divine Rite of Kings, but thought better of it.

They were back on the tarmac road now, running smoothly, and sheltered from the rain.  On either side, the road was flanked by banks of peat and heather.  ‘What is it that interests you about these places, anyhow?’, asked the Surveyor presently, as he turned the windshield wipers off, ‘I am mean, why have you given up a day on the sofa, watching re runs of Coronation Street, to come out here?’.  Why exactly? wondered Stephen.  He knew it would be impossible to make the Surveyor see the stalwart romance he saw in these kinds of places, the austere beauty, the beguiling wilderness, the emotional resonance of the wastelands, Eliot, Larkin, Benne .. Stephen shrugged, ‘just curiosity, I suppose’.

~

In the middle of town, the Surveyor said there was a car park, and indeed this is where they stopped.  The car park was adjacent to a recreation ground: the grass overgrown, the goal posts hauled over, what once might have been a changing room, boarded up and decorated in graffiti.  ‘There’s no need to pay, by the way’, said the Surveyor, as they passed the coin operated parking meter with a huge gash in the side, already plundered for loose change, ‘Traffic Wardens don’t operate around here, and the police only turn up on drugs raids’. 

So, this is it, mused Stephen.  These are the Edgelands.

~

They hunkered low in their raincoats and trudged up the road through the centre of the town that also passed as a high street.  Half of the shops were closed altogether, the other half were closed to the elements if not the local populace; one or two of the flats above the shops were burned out, many of them were derelict, broken shards of glass hanging in the window panes. 

‘Fancy doing some grocery shopping?’ the Surveyor remarked sarcastically, striding on ahead of Stephen.  The rain was getting more persistent, and seemed as if it would settle in for the afternoon. 

‘Is there anywhere to get a cup of tea, perhaps?’, asked Stephen, his voice raised against the blustering wind.  The Surveyor turned around, a look of surprise on his manicured features, ‘you want a cup of tea?..Here?’, Stephen came level with him, ‘Yes, I would like that’.  The Surveyor raised his eye brows, and inspected his watch.  ‘Well, OK’, ‘but the only kind of cup of tea you’ll get here will be greased tea, you know that?’.  Stephen smiled.  ‘Perfect’, he replied and off they went in search of a tea parlour.

~

‘Urrrgh’.  The Surveyor grimaced as he took a tentative sip of his tea, Stephen’s dislike of the man was growing by the minute.  They had found a small café further along the high street.  Sure enough there was grease on the walls, grease on the tables, and grease in the tea. 

The Surveyor scraped the legs of his plastic chair on the tiled floor, also sticky with grease.  ‘Disgusting’, ‘absolutely disgusting’.  The Surveyors nose wrinkled and the sides of his mouth turned down.  Stephen put his cup of greased tea back on the saucer, where a brown pool of liquid had formed around the rim.  ‘People live here, you know?’, he remarked, a hint of irritation his voice, ‘and this is someone’s livelihood’.  The café was deserted except for Stephen and the Surveyor.  The old, grey lady who served them had disappeared into a back room.  The Surveyor swivelled around in his seat to make sure they were out of earshot, and leaning forward said to Stephen: ‘Look, let’s just get out of here’.

Stephen realised he was beginning to enjoy the Surveyors discomfort, hitherto masked by disdain.  Out here in the Edgelands the Surveyor was far away from the sanitised confines and clean lines of his eco-apartment, the suburban chic of the white, middle class community of professional men and women he came from; far away from the Friday cocktail crowd the Surveyor felt comfortable being among, far away from safety. Stephen relaxed back into his chair, and kicked his feet out in front of him. 

‘I’d like to stay another cup of tea’, he announced, feeling ever the antithesis of J Alfred Prufrock.

a thirty ninth story...'the curse of avaha'

Big Jim grinned.  Annie was laughing.  Big Jim had made her laugh, and he felt good.  He hadn’t always succeeded in making pretty girls laugh in the past, but this time he was doing just great!  Big Jim cupped his tiny beer glass in his big hands and took a big swig.  Annie was looking at him, Big Jim thought, in a lecherous way – he felt a big rush of excitement.  Then Annie leaned forward across the table, knocking her wine glass over in the process, and grabbed Big Jim by the neckerchief and pulled his big face towards her.  Big Jim closed his eyes, and they kissed.

~

They were an odd couple, Big Jim and Annie, but at least in some ways the exemplar of the good ole’ cliché, opposites attract!  Big Jim was of Native Indian descent: he was over six feet six inches tall, brown skinned, dark haired, and low browed; he had huge fists, legs like tree trunks, hulking shoulders and a broad chest.  He dressed in denim – head to toe.  Annie was white and middle class: she was a little under five feet two inches tall, fair skinned, red haired, and green eyed; she had tiny, feminine hands, short but shapely legs, round shoulders and a generous bust.  She dressed in low cut blouses, pencil skirts and when she started seeing Big Jim, she started to wear high heels more often – fair enough!

In spite of his gargantuan proportions, Big Jim, was kind and gentle.  Fortunately for Big Jim he was also born with an even temper and had only been in one bar room brawl in his life (his opponent ended up with his head through the plasterboard ceiling). Annie was feisty, and sharp but she thought she saw in Big Jim qualities that for all her natural intelligence she didn’t possess, namely calm.

Sometimes, Big Jim was teased about the colour of his skin and his race.  People would say things to him like: ‘You wanna smoke Pipe of Peace?’, and were often disappointed when Big Jim said that he did.  Big Jim got a toke on a load of free joints this way! 

Or, people would raise their right hand and greet him saying, ‘How!’, and were bemused when Big Jim smiled benignly and replied with ‘And how do you do?’. 

Big Jim was steady, and someone like Annie needed stabilising.

~

Before she met Big Jim, Annie had been a loose cannon.  She was the daughter of an entrepreneur – her father made a lot of money selling farm machinery – but Annie was sure from a young age there was no chance in hell she was going to spend her life visiting agricultural shows on behalf of her father.  Her father, being a hard headed and ultimately intransigent business man couldn’t understand her attitude and sent her off to boarding school to learn respect.  Annie, however, ran away.

‘nuff said.

So Annie fled to Indianapolis where she fell in with a group of struggling artists – at the time the only two galleries of any note in Indianapolis were the Indiana State Police Museum and the Indianapolis Motor Speedway Hall of Fame Museum – they had no chance!

However, over the next decade Annie’s artist friends started to do rather better for themselves what with patronage from various new openings including Indianapolis Art Center, Indianapolis Museum of Art , Indianapolis Artsgarden, and Indianapolis Museum of Contemporary Art.  Indeed, one of Annie’s boyfriends for a while was sculptor Robert Indiana, and Annie was in fact the inspiration for his signature piece: LOVE; Annie also dated a guy who worked at Indianapolis Zoo looking after dolphins.

~

Big Jim had been drifting from one menial job to another when he settled in Indianapolis and chanced upon Annie.  He had no idea who Robert Indiana was, nor did he care a hang for zoos or dolphins.  Up until settling in Indianapolis he had spent his whole stretch on planet earth just trying to get by, and stay out of trouble.

However, Annie bought with her the prospect of trouble. Even if Big Jim didn’t realise at first, or Annie, herself, for that matter.  Moreover, the cause of the trouble wasn’t Annie, or Big Jim, it was Robert Indiana, the famous sculptor. 

In 1964, Indiana came up with the idea of stacking the letters LO and VE on top of one another.  He painted the letters red and put them against a green and blue backdrop.  Indiana then did two things:  he stuck the image on an eight cent postage stamp, and made a series of sculptures using the same motif.  The result – international fame!  And a permanent reminder of his summer together with Annie, and what they shared. 

What they shared was of course, the sum total of LO plus VE – Love!  And this is what Annie hoped she could feel for Big Jim, she already knew she felt lust.

~

They had been dating together for two months when Annie decided to take Big Jim to the then still relatively new Indianapolis Artsgarden.  As fate would decree, there in the forecourt on loan from Israel, was Robert Indiana’s Hebrew version of his famous LOVE sculpture.  The Hebrew for love is AVAHA and consequently the sculpture meant absolutely zilch to Big Jim, but Annie recognised it straight away.  She stood motionless in front of the thing for fifteen minutes, while Big Jim loomed in the background, rubbing his big chin, trying to see what Annie was seeing through the aqueduct of seven years.

It was seven years since the summer Annie had spent with Robert Indiana.

There at the Indianapolis Artsgarden, with Big Jim, the year was 1980.

~

After they had trawled around the whole of Indianapolis Artsgarden hand in hand, Annie suggested they go

have a coffee.  ‘Me want to smoke Pipe of Peace’, Big Jim joked.  

Conveniently, the curators of the art space had put the coffee shop in the gift shop, and the museum exit through the back (whatever Banksy will tell you, this idea was not even remotely original thirty years ago).  In case you haven’t guessed already, the idea being you could sit, have an Americano, and look at affordable reproductions of the works of art you had just experienced in the gallery hanging on the gift shop wall.

Two for the price of two!

And this is exactly what was going through Big Jim’s mind at that very moment in time.  He left Annie to finish her coffee and lumbered over to peer at the art prints displayed near the checkout.  Remember, Big Jim was kind and gentle, even tempered and steady, but he wasn’t very bright, or more to the point, very fortunate (although the two are often, rightly, associated).

What did Big Jim do?  He returned not with an art print, but with a little postcard of Robert Indiana’s LO plus VE in red, on green and blue.  ‘It’s for you!’, he said with a big gesture (the only sort of gesture Big Jim was capable of), and put the little postcard in Annie’s feminine hands.

~

The aqueduct of seven years collapsed.

‘How?’, said Annie, a pained look shooting across her face.

‘How?!’, replied Big Jim, suddenly bemused, and rubbing his big chin again, 'But..' ‘How could you do this to me??!’, Annie whined.

The curse of AVAHA had struck!

‘But..I.. love you’, said Big Jim meekly, as he watched anger dawning on Annie’s features.

Annie scowled darkly.  It was the first time Big Jim had seen her scowl, and he felt his insides go gloopy. 

‘Jim’, she hissed, ‘it means nothing..it’s just four random letters of the alphabet assembled on top of each other!’

..the trouble had begun.

a thirty eighth story...'the letter'

Don was retiring.  He had been looking forward to the day ever since he first set foot in the foyer of the forty five storey Co-operative building as a fresh faced and eager twenty five year old.  He was now fifty four. 

Some things in life are a long time coming! 

Some things, however, are worth the wait!

~

Although Don’s leaving do involved the usual corporate schmaltz – a bland three course dinner, over sentimental speeches, a bouquet of flowers, the award of a Co-operative Tie and Blazer Combination Set – on his First Day of Freedom he got up after midday, didn’t bother shaving, had breakfast in his underpants, lit up a huge doobie and sat on his porch watching the world go by in his dressing gown; later in the afternoon, he put on his grey slacks, ambled to the record store, bought the first Stooges LP, grabbed a couple of tins on his way home and played air guitar around his living room for an hour before his wife returned.

On his Second Day of Freedom Don got drunk on an expensive bottle of English Harbour Antiguan Rum he found gathering cobwebs in his wine cellar, and wrote a provocative letter to his replacement – a thirty something know-it-all from some underwhelming business academy or other – and signed it with a flourish.  Sitting at his satinwood writing desk he felt like John Chamberlain and penned another letter, this time to his daughter, urging her to break off her engagement with her fiancé, a big, handsome and brainless washing machine salesman. 

Satisfied thereafter, he ordered pizza and popcorn and watched Paris Texas until he followed his wife to bed and clumsily tried to make love to her.

~

It was on Don’s Third Day of Freedom he began to feel a little restive.

For starters his head hurt like hell! 

And his tongue felt like sandpaper.

Moreover, he found the refrigerator empty of beer and his tobacco pouch empty of marijuana.

‘Gnnnnnnnr’, he groaned.

Then the telephone rang and his head hurt some more.  Don stumbled over his dressing gown and across the kitchen, in an attempt to pick up the telephone and stop the shrill chimes echoing around his skull.  Cradling the receiver in both hands, he answered: ‘Nnnnhello’. 

‘Hello, daddy’ – it was his daughter.  ‘Nnnhello, sweetie, how are you?’, Don replied, groggily.  His daughter was fine.  ‘Is Mom in?’, she asked.  Mom wasn’t in, and Don had to concede he couldn’t remember where she had gone.  ‘Can you tell her to call?’.  ‘Nnnyes’, said Don, feeling his throbbing forehead, before realising he needed to show a little more interest, ‘What it is anyhow sweetie?’. 

His daughter had chosen a venue for her wedding to the big, handsome and brainless washing machine salesman. 

With a sobering jolt, Don remembered yesterday’s letter.

~

After rifling through the miscellaneous receipts, scrap paper and personal documentation in his satinwood writing desk, Don hobbled outside to check his mailbox.  Nothing.  Surely he hadn’t actually sent the letter?  His heart was beating fast at the thought.  Oh Heck!

Back in his study, Don turned every drawer inside out.  Then he tried to recall exactly what he had done on his Second Day of Freedom.  Although his mind was a Liberal Mess, he did at least remember the other letter he had written to his mithering replacement at the Co-operative, and winced.

Next, Don had the idea to call up the mail depot. He drained a glass of Alka Seltzer and dialled the number.  ‘Welcome to USPS’, said a pre-recorded female voice, ‘Your custom is important to us!’.  Don frowned and rubbed his left temple.  ‘Please choose from the following options..’  Don tried to listen to the stream of information that issued forth, and in the end decided to press ‘1’ on his telephone keypad.  There were a couple of bleeps and then another pre-recorded voice, ‘You have chosen to find out more about our products and services!’.

‘JUST LET ME SPEAK TO A HUMAN LIFEFORM!’ yelled Don in reply. 

___‘Please be aware your call may be recorded for training purposes’, continued the pre-recorded voice oblivious to Don’s outburst.  ‘Now choose from the following options’.  Don’s patience snapped.  He picked up the machine and hurled it at the adjacent wall.  He would have to go down to the depot himself.

~

Don jumped in his saloon car and started the engine.  It spluttered and stalled.  He tried again.  It spluttered and stalled again.  Don gripped the steering wheel ferociously and bit his lip hard.  ‘C’mmon’, he chided, ‘C’mmon, you piece of shit!’.  The engine failed once more.  ‘‘Gnnnnnnnr!!’, moaned Don, catching sight of his reflection in the driver’s mirror, an angry mask of red.  ‘Goddamit!’

~

When at last the engine did come to life, Don wasted little time in getting off the start line.  He tore out of his driveway and headed into town.  Stuck to the dashboard with a piece of chewing gum (the nearest available adhesive) were hastily scrawled directions to USPS’ local mail depot.  At every junction Don would slow right down to scrutinise these handwritten instructions, before putting his foot through the floor upon ascertaining where to go.  It would have been exhilarating where the stakes not so high!

But the sense of relief Don felt on arrival at the USPS mail depot was huge.

Still, in his dressing gown and wearing a pair of soiled jogging bottoms, Don, hurried through the car park, past security and up to the main enquiry desk.  He was irritated to find a slow moving queue of seven or eight people, and at once became self conscious of his appearance, not too far removed from that of a Bowery Bum.  He kept his eyes to the laminate floor and every two or three minutes shuffled forward a few paces. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Don reached the end of the queue.  Behind a row of plexi-glass windows sat seven or eight check out girls, all seemingly young and vivacious, dressed in their USPS uniforms.  Don, trying to look like someone who could be taken seriously, smoothed back his thinning hair and set square his jaw.

~

‘How can I help?’, said a beautiful, young, Latino woman from her installed position behind the plexi-glass.  ‘Nnnnhello’, replied Don gruffly.  And then drawing himself to his full height, and trying to assume as much of an air of gravitas as someone is able to do in their dressing gown and soiled jogging bottoms, ‘I have a..request’. 

The beautiful, young, Latino woman, nodded, ‘OK?’.  ‘Yes, a request’, Don continued, ‘I would like to recall a lett..two letters I sent, accidentally, yesterday’.  How daft do I look? thought Don; how daft do I sound!?  The beautiful, young, Latino woman reached for a pen, ‘when did you send them?’ she inquired.  Don cleared his throat.  ‘Nnnhm, er, yesterday’.  ‘When yesterday?’ pressed the beautiful, young, Latino woman.  Don shuddered involuntarily, ‘Nnnhm, I, I..can’t remember exactly when..’ he conceded.  ‘Well..’

~

‘There’s nothing I can do then?’, Don asked, exasperated.  The beautiful, young, Latino woman shuffled her paperwork.  ‘Sir, you could send another lett..two letters by way of apology’.  ‘Apology!!’, choked Don.  ‘But I..don’t..want..to..apologise’, he found himself saying. 

The beautiful, young, Latino woman raised her eye brows and sighed: ‘Well, sir, I think you’re wasting our time’.  ‘Wa—‘, Don began, ‘Sir, with all due respect what are you doing here?  You look as if..’. ‘My daughter is about to marry an imbecile’, Don raged.  ‘I have to stop her, but I mean to tell her in person and not in a letter!!’.

There was only one thing for it.  Don would have to beat the mail van to his daughter’s house.

(he decided to forget about the letter to his mithering replacement at the Co-operative – at worst he reasoned he would be asked to return his Co-operative Tie and Blazer Combination Set)

~

So the freeway was clear.  Don knew he had a long drive ahead of him. But somehow, it felt absolutely necessary.  Bloody Antiguan Rum! he fumed as he scorched the tarmac in the outside lane.  And yet he felt more alive than at any time in the last twenty one years.  He wished he had his Stooges LP with him, but a brief and rather dangerous high-speed search of the glove compartment yielded an old Robert Palmer tape and Don decided it would do. 

And he started to relax.

He started to relax and enjoy the ride.  In his head Don had convinced himself the letter would still be at the USPS mail depot from where it might be sent out that evening to arrive the following morning, if so he would be home and dry – so long as he beat his big, handsome and brainless son-in-law to be to the mailbox. 

That shouldn’t be difficult, Don chuckled sourly to himself, ‘stupid fucking washing machines!’, and he got to remembering the first time he met his daughter’s fiancé. 

~

‘Hullo, Don’, this big, handsome and brainless man had said, ‘can we talk?’.  Don was in the middle of doing ribs on the family BBQ, and took a swig of his beer.  Still, he had guessed who he was conversing with.  ‘Sure, what do you want to talk about?’, he replied, imagining his son-in-law to be a Sports fan.  ‘Could we go somewhere, private?’ his son-in-law to be had asked. 

‘Nnuhuh’, said Don. 

Then they had gone out to the front yard and there, to Don’s disbelief and despair, the big, handsome and brainless washing machine salesman with the social poise of a caveman in an ape suit had beseeched him for his daughter’s hand in marriage – his bright, bubbly, and oh so pretty pride and joy!

How can it be permissible?, wailed Robert Palmer..

..Yet, his daughter had said ‘YES!!!’

~

For days, if not weeks, after his daughter’s engagement, Don half wished he had sent his bright, bubbly, oh so pretty pride and joy to a Nunnery before she had developed her sense of independence.  Anything he felt, or rather anyone would be better for her to spend the rest of her life with than HIM.  Don’s wife, of course, kept her thoughts to herself and was charm personified every time HE visited. 

Pish!

Don yawned, he’d been driving for eight hours straight.  But, in his imagination, the mail van driver was a red eyed, relentless maniac who would keep on through the night, in any weather, to deliver the LETTER.  Don simply had to keep going (by now he was on the ninth playback of the Robert Palmer tape), whatever and however he was feeling. 

(Furthermore, the imagined sight of his daughter’s face crumpling to tears or folding into anger and betrayal on receiving Don’s real sentiments toward her big, handsome and brainless finance made Don feel queasy.  He fumbled in the recess of his memory to bring back what he had actually written, the words ‘intellectual half-wit’ had definitely been used as well as ‘cave man in an ape suit?’ He prayed for it not to be so, and then realised he had actually described his daughter’s fiancé as something yet more insulting.  Cripes!)

~

Dawn was breaking when Don, driving wonkily, arrived in his daughter’s home town – the street lamps were glowing orange and no one was out.  He wound down his window to get a lungful of fresh morning air.  He had cramps in his hands and arms he only noticed now he was off the freeway and driving more slowly.  Nevertheless, he knew he had to be on the look out for a USPS mail van. 

~

Don parked fifty yards or so away from his daughter’s clapboard house and tip toed for reasons best known to himself to the end of her drive, and as quietly and carefully as possible opened her mailbox.  Inside there were two envelopes.  His adrenalin started pumping.  Come on, come on! he pleaded to some higher being that could have been God, or Abraham Lincoln. 

With a sharp intake of breath, he took out both envelopes, almost too scared to look.  Had his marathon drive been in all in vain?  Or had he beaten the red eyed, relentless maniacal mail van driver?

The first letter carrying a typed address, Don saw to be for his big, handsome and brainless son-in-law to be.  The other..

The other was NOT his letter.

‘‘Gnnnnnnnr!’, Don moaned as he tried to suppress his anger. 

Then again, perhaps his had not yet been delivered.

~

Don shivered.

He had been waiting for a good three hours in his car, and now he was cold, chill to the bone.  The one thing he had done in the intervening period was to move his car within direct sight of his daughter’s house in case the mailman came, or in case his daughter emerged without her big, handsome and brainless fiancé.  He worried they might go to work together – his daughter was a teacher, and he bet sod’s law, washing machine sales persons had to start early too.  ‘Why the hell would anyone go shopping for a washing machine at 8AM,’ he muttered to himself by way of reassurance. 

Why the hell indeed!

Nevertheless, had Don brought a pair binoculars with him, he would have seen his daughter draw the bedroom curtains at approximately 6.55AM.  He would have noticed her big, handsome and brainless fiancé through the kitchen window, making coffee at the breakfast bar.  He would have noticed his daughter in her front facing study searching for a pupil’s homework book.  He would have heard the neighbourhood dogs barking at the mailman!  He would have known something was about to happen!!

Don, however, had fallen asleep at the wheel.

~

‘Dad..

Daddy, is that you?’

Don dreamed he heard his daughter’s voice calling his name.  He dreamed she was tapping on the windshield of his parked car outside her house in her home town.  Or that she was trying to contact him from the nether world.  He smiled, and drooled some more. 

Then with a start he realised it was REAL!

~

BARP! He awoke to the sound of his car horn, his daughter’s exasperated but oh so pretty face looking in at him.  ‘Daddy’, she said again, her voice muffled by the car window glass, ‘What are you doing here??’.  Don opened and closed his mouth but no words came out.  ‘Is Mommy okay??! Does she know you’re here’, his daughter persisted.  ‘‘Gnnnnnnnr’, Don attempted to answer. 

..And then attempted a second time. 

‘NnnI need to talk to you!’, he managed. 

‘You need to talk?’, repeated his daughter, her look of exasperation growing. ‘I..can’t..I have to go to work now!!’. 

‘Didn’t you get my letter??’, Don asked, winding down the window, a little more alert than a few moments ago.  His daughter put her hand on Don’s arm, ‘No, I didn’t, wha_’. 

‘Good!’ said Don opening the driver’s door and leaping out of the car still wearing his dressing gown and soiled jogging bottoms, and taking his bewildered daughter by the arm, Don started to frog march her back into her house.  

‘Daddy, let go, I have to go’, protested his daughter meekly, but Don kept on until the reached the front door.  ‘DaddY!’, his daughter shouted, at last losing her temper altogether: ‘WHY are you here!!’. 

~

Don paused.  His daughter had not, it seemed, received the letter, and he realised he could say anything he wanted – it was his Fourth Day of Freedom, and he was a Free Man again.

‘Darling’, he began tenderly, ‘Darling, I w-‘, ‘I don’, ‘I think you are making a’, he hesitated, his daughter, his bright, bubbly, and oh so pretty pride and joy looked back at him imploringly.  ‘Darling, I came all this way..to say..’  A yellow school bus glided past the house, a swallow alighted on the roof above, a flower opened it's petals to receive the first of the morning sun.  ‘I wanted to say, I..

(a young girl in Victorian dress skipped joyously past the end of the drive)

..just..

(a bumble bee entered the newly open flower)

..want..

(Don's shoulders fell, imperceptibly)

..you..

(Don's daughter waited)

..to be happy.

~

His daughter's face crumpled (or folded), but it wasn't sadness (or anger and betrayal). 

It was because she was touched, deeply moved, because it was romantic, because it was a beautiful moment, a moment they would talk about for years to come, a moment Don's daughter would recount to her grandchildren, and Don's daughter's grandchildren to their own.

And, as is custom at such occasions, such heart-swelling and poignant life episodes, such expressions of agape love, of the human soul, of a father's selfless love for his daughter, of a daughter's patient and understanding love of her father..

There was only one thing for it:

Don and his daugther both started to cry.

a thirty seventh story...'happy friday'

I really should be doing some work this afternoon.

I am the Director of the Company, for chrissakes!

The Head Honcho!

The Boss!

The buck stops with me.

But, it’s Friday – Happy Friday!!

~

The reasons I cannot work this afternoon are multifarious (great word, no?!).

The first reason is I am hung over.  In the bar last night, my pal and I agreed beer is the Second Greatest Invention Of All Time (ever since the concept of time was invented).  Second after language.  Therefore, as a result of a combination of the two greatest inventions mankind has brought to bear, I am, today, rendered an unproductive member of the human race (we were also talking a lot, and lots of talk means more beer as fuel).

The second reason is I am going out again tonight for the birthday of a very close friend.  As a consequence of my over active adrenal gland at the thought of our evening together, and of the many other friends that will be there, I am excited.  Moreover, because I didn’t get a proper night’s sleep – thanks to mankind’s two greatest inventions – I am tired and excited.  A heady combination!

The third reason is more to do with my psychological make up than my physiological one.  I am an obsessive. A monomaniac.  People from all walks of life tell me this on a regular basis (from doctors to RN commanders – i.e. my parents).  At the moment, I am obsessed with writing, and I’ve found a way to write that requires little or no planning, and involves stream of conscience.  That is to say: I am submitting myself to the mediums I use and seeing what nonsense results.  It’s fun and easy, and passes the time when I should be doing other things (i.e. working).

The fourth reason is not for public dissemination, or the kind of ‘sharing’ gossiping (men and?) women appear to enjoy.

(it isn’t that I have piles)

The fifth reason is there is a cricket match going on, and I can’t help but follow proceedings.  Why? Because it’s England versus Afghanistan, there are no weapons involved, no need for drones, or Prince Harry; just a need for cover, and when the fielding restrictions are lifted, extra cover.

Harmless fun!

(Even more so if you’re at the game as you get to wave one of those giant rubber hands around when there’s a boundary).

The sixth reason is as private and personal as the fourth, but I will say it involves another human being, a human being with different reproductive organs to mine own.  Mine own are commonly referred to as the ‘crown jewels’, ‘wedding tackle’, ‘pork and beans’, ‘master of ceremonies’, ‘who who dilly’, ‘big Dick and the twins’ and so forth.

And the seventh reason is the final, and most sententious reason of them all:

I simply can’t be bothered.  

THE END

a thirty sixth story...'ice cream and happiness'

Here’s a short story about an Italian woman who moved to Glasgow, and earns a living running an ice-cream van.

Ding-a-ling!

Her name is Vanessa.  She hails from Padova, or Padua, the oldest city in Nothern Italy.  She is five feet tall, dark haired, sallow skinned, rotund and cheerful.

You have to be cheerful if you’re selling stuff to kids.

Even in Glasgow.

Or at least smile like you mean it.

~

Vanessa’s ice-cream van has five different jingles.  She uses them according to the neighbourhood she is driving through, or the day of the week.  None of the jingles have anything to do with ice-cream, but they are all familiar to you and I. 

Vanessa’s personal favourite is a plinky, plonky version of the Proclaimers hit, ‘I’m Gonna Be’.

Dum diddle, dum diddle, dum diddle, do da day!

~

Back in Padova, Vanessa’s father was a Gelatarian.  Throughout her childhood Vanessa was always to be found dipping her finger into various tubs and bowls, tasting her father’s new recipes.  Her father would ask her how they were, and Vanessa would lick her lips, nod her head vigorously and gurgle appreciatively.

As might not be expected of a Gelatarian, Vanessa’s father was in fact a very slight man.  But he had the most delicate hands capable of sculpting his ice-cream into the most beautiful and appetising shapes and swirls.

After school Vanessa’s classmates would come by and press their noses against the frosted glass of father’s Gelataria just to see for themselves. 

Being the daughter of a Gelatarian and living above an ice-cream shop, Vanessa soon realised bought her a certain cache with boys - in return for a Stracciatella with chocolate shavings, Vanessa could woo pretty much any boy she fancied.

~

The ice-cream van Vanessa runs today is, in some ways, a far cry from her father’s Gelataria.  Nevertheless, Vanessa is very proud of it, and isn’t given over to romanticism. 

Just as well since she lives in Glasgow!

Vanessa is also a business woman.  She is happy to sell Feasts and Magnums because she knows Glaswegians like them, and she receives their Scottish pounds gladly.  Vanessa is probably the only owner of an ice cream van who can make a stack of money when the sun isn’t shining.

Again, Just as well..since she works in Glasgow!     

~

Recently, something happened to Vanessa she couldn’t believe.  On Maundy Thursday of this year she received an envelope from the Royal Mint.  The Queen of the British Isles had recognised her achievement in contributing towards the well-being and happiness of the people of Glasgow.  When Vanessa told her father over the telephone, they both cried – they were so happy!

Milk, sugar and free range egg yolks: the recipe for a satisfied and stable community.

And don’t forget about the chocolate shavings!

Jazz in the Rose Garden - from Phil

My husband was mad about jazz.  Not the kind of experimental, fusion type jazz featuring atonal honking and other unlistenable elements, but the smooth kind, with lyrics about being a fool and dancing beside the water’s edge.  He loved the nostalgia, the special innocence.  I found all of it saccharine, sweetened with pretend emotions, not that my opinion meant much to my husband.  These days, we rarely went out to see live jazz, so last weekend was a Special Occasion. 

“I have tickets for Jazz in the Rose Garden,” my husband announced like he had won a prize.  So off we went that Saturday night.  I prepared us some sandwiches and hardboiled eggs, and we took one of those gin-and-tonics-in-a-can each too.  My husband had retrieved some old camping chairs from the attic days before so we brought those along with us.  When we arrived in the park, there weren’t many other jazz-lovers about.  Some members of the band were mooning about behind their music stands, scaffolding for the passé.  We settled on a position to one side of the rose garden not too close to the front but not at the back, of course.  Sipping G&T, I looked at the other people and the trickle of arrivals through the pretty arched gateway.  Most were our age, that is, resolutely middle-aged, although there were some younger people.  I suspected that, for them, this evening was just a little diversion from a hectic social life with cocktails and flirting.  I tried to summon some distaste for them, play my role, but wasn’t able to.  I was fascinated by their optimism.  I knew my husband would be thinking – what do you know about jazz?  Ever since our son had left the nest, as they say, my husband had no time for young people.  People no more than thirty-five, that is. 

By the time the air was cooler and the place full, if not crowded, it was time for the band to begin.  The conductor came forward for his preliminaries.  He was big, with a square jaw and elegantly styled grey hair.  His dinner jacket fitted beautifully; conducting a community jazz orchestra was not his day job.  The conductor spoke with a soft American accent, a look of wry amusement around the edge of his mouth as he introduced the band and the programme for the evening.  I was simultaneously repulsed by and drawn to him.  His ego masked the band behind with ease, yet he looked everyone in the audience in the eye and spoke like he was whispering directly into your ear. 

He turned and conducted the band through a tour of old standards, like he was pushing us along the Grand Canal in a punt, a recycled trip.  The conductor moved so little, I felt resentful towards his importance.  I didn’t understand how he could come to be the leader, why on Earth he mattered.  My husband was thoroughly relaxed into the music, even closing his eyes during some passages.  Closing his eyes!   After a while, a break in the dulcet sound, and the conductor came forward again.  He suggested that people got up to dance during the next track.  He called it that, a ‘track’, as though he was talking to record executives.

Almost immediately as the band struck up again, a couple stood up and began dancing together.  They were probably a similar age to my husband and I, but quite a different proposition to an outside observer, I would think.  She was slim, with a pink dress on and a cream blazer.  She showed plenty of her shapely legs.  Her hair was touched-up blonde, her complexion straight from a beauty cream advertisement.  He was dapper in chinos and loafers, a snappy sports coat the paragon of smart-casual.  He had professorial half-framed glasses, excellent cheekbones and dark hair with a striking grey streak extending backwards from his left temple, which served to give him a distinguished look.  The pair danced with practised composure, all the while gazing into one another’s eyes like they were actors on stage, which I suppose they were.  As I watched them, I felt less envy, more a kind of resignation.  I knew they were an intrinsically different kind of people to my husband and I, something altogether more glamorous and unreachable.  I wondered if they had any children. 

My husband took a good look at them too, and I tried to read his expression.  His scorn for such public displays of anything at all was a noose around his deeper sensibilities.  When we said goodbye to our son at the university halls of residence, my husband just grasped his elbow as they shook hands, politicians on a conference stage. 

Dancing continued through this second act, including some spinning around of toddlers by happy dads.  The affection between them made me far more jealous than the well-heeled couple.  I gazed at the dancing partners, ignoring the music until it ran out. 

Back in our vacated, vacant home, my husband banged around.  A retired man, he had little jobs to do, which he set himself.  He would work on them at odd times so it seemed like he hadn't enough hours in the day.  To me, it appeared that things such as descaling the cistern and putting National Geographic magazines in chronological order could wait.  Preferably until the end of time.

I went into our son’s empty room.  Not long gone, but long gone, if you know what I mean.  For now, anyway, we still had his band posters up and his old stereo still stood on a bookshelf, some CDs scattered around it.  He was presumably through with them, but I had a compulsion to listen to something other than jazz standards.

I put the first one to hand into the stereo, aware that I was pushing the buttons with my fingertip in that cautious way that mums do.  The CD was called ‘The Steal’, which seemed apt.  Turning the volume up as loud as it reached, I lay down on the floor and absorbed the thrashing sound and screamed vocals.  Incomprehensible as it was, I could imagine my son listening carefully, evaluating it intelligently like he does.  He had the maturity to take anything seriously, or perhaps you’d say the immaturity.  Staring at the ceiling until patterns emerged where there were none, I became aware of the door opening by the changing light and shadows cast.  My husband stepped in without a word and lay down beside me.  He grasped my hand down at my side and we listened to that album all the way through, thinking our recurrent thoughts and feeling old, old.