Forum Overview :: Cabaret Voltron

And again by fgpckt 02/16/2003, 11:04pm PST Jane is looking flaky. This seems to fit with everything else about her. The things I’ve been noticing. Thoughts swirl inside my head like a cloud of midges as I sort out my leads, give Jake and Sarah their cash, pack up my cello. Dean is nowhere to be seen which is odd, but perfectly alright. Quite, quite alright. —You ok? Jane opens her eyes and smiles, sloppier than usual but still recognisably the sharp-toothed Ellis leer. I go down the stairs first, in case she has any disputes with gravity, winds up on the losing side. Goodness, Stinky, how chivalrous. —How’d you like it? The music? —’Sgood, yeah. Liked it ‘part from the groovely love one. We are on the street now. Bright sheets of spotlit rain, pouring off the awning. I look around for Dean, nothing. Jane puts her arm around my waist and her head on my shoulder, murmuring something like ‘Home, James’. I put an arm around her and steer us around, like a learner driver doing three point turns, towards the taxis at the end of the street. Something has changed, I am sure. I have a sense of the old Jane as something that the new Jane is playing at, a mask she was putting on because it is the best one she knows. —Fairview Crescent, ta. Jane climbs into the cab, coordinated enough. I decide she isn’t as pissed as I’d feared. Remote and pensive, rather. A thought strikes me and I lean forward. —Could you go by Abel Smith Street? I have to pick something up. Might as well make the connection, if he turns out to be there. I can ring Dean for the rest of the cash tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have enough anyway, without Jerry’s cut. That would be nice. Jane raises a (plucked) eyebrow at me. She is looking better. —Won’t be long. You ok? Not going to chunder on the upholstery? Her lips quirk. —Nah, ’m fine. Nothing ‘side me but a slice of cheesecake, actually. Wouldn’ hardly make a stain. The taxi stops by a big tree, thrashing back and forth in the wind like kelp in heavy surf. The sky is orange from the city lights, impatient cloud battleships scudding past the top of a tower block. The rain has stopped. I step out of the cab and into the running gutter. Feel my shoe fill up, water trickling between my toes. —Shit. Jane chuckles throatily as I slam the door. Bitch. The tower looks like a cardboard cutout against the sky. I stop for a moment, look up. The top of the tower seems to come towards me against the livid sky. Falling, falling. I used to love that when I was young. See the building falling on you, feel the illusion of fear. Feel the reality of a wet foot, more like. The water seeps further into my socks. There is a light on now in the room Jerry had pointed out. I walk up to the main door, wet footsteps loud over the wind in the walled carpark. I’m still not sure what game Jerry is playing, but it isn’t hopscotch. Sleazy bastard. I try the handle. It turns, and I push it open. I can see the light in Flat 2, hear voices. I give the frosted glass a tap, take a step back. The door opens and I open my mouth to speak. It is a policeman. My heart starts beating very fast, loud in my ears over the wind outside. I note how exactly this policeman fits the mold, must have come fresh off the press. I observe his little cop moustache, oblong face, burly demeanour. I consider how he also seems to be somehow looming without coming any closer. Perhaps a technique they implant in them. ‘Your criminal type is weak, brittle like a breakfast egg. Stay close, and they may just crack, spill yolky guilt all over your hand.’ The taking-care-of-business side of my head, which has been tapping an impatient foot during the monologue, takes over. —Sorry, I, er, I was, looking for someone. Oh well done, says the soliloquist. How eloquent. —You knew the resident of this flat, sir? —Well not know, not very well, uh, or at all, no, — I am floundering. The cop opens the door wider, to give himself more space to loom. I see someone sitting in a chair, looking unhappy. Jerry. Shitshitshit. I smile, look the man in his narrow policeman eyes. —No. I just wanted some directions. We’re trying to get to Karori. Can you tell me how to get there? We’re in sort of a hurry. He looks at me (loom, loom). I look back, smiling. —All the way along the Terrace, sir, then turn left at the end, keep turning left until you go through the tunnel, then follow the second road you come to left up the hill. He looks at me one more time then closes the door on my thanks. The taxi driver starts his engine as he sees me. I am halfway across the carpark when the police cars pull up. My innards do lazy somersaults, the world narrows down to the space between me and the passenger door of the taxi. Five meters and closing. Doors slam. Heavy police footsteps, flashing lights, (just like at Blue Light Discos, where — shut up brain), three meters, Jane looking out the window, not too fast, not too slow, figures coming through the gate towards me, no concern of mine, they must be investigating some kind of crime, wrongdoing, or maybe just taking the fine night air. Nothing to do with me. Past me now, without more than a cursory glance. One, two, three steps through the gate, hand on the taxi door, made it and thank fuck for— —Simon MacIntyre. No. No way my name in a policeman’s mouth can be good. Pretend you didn’t hear, get in – —Simon. I turn, door open before me with its promise of sweet freedom at $1.85 min/km. The lights from the police car are in my eyes, I see a silhouette of someone coming towards me. Oh no. Brilliant. The very man. —Detective. You’re out late. Nice one Stinky. Fatuous and provocative at the same time. I hear Jane scrabbling around on the seat, don’t look down. —Detective Inspector these days, Simon. I wasn’t aware you had moved. I feel calm. Either because I am on familiar ground fencing with this bastard, or else my glands have coughed up the right chemicals. Yay glands. —You keep tabs on me? Don’t you have criminals to catch? —You never know what might come in handy. —Quite right. We match thoughtful stares for a moment. The wind dies down then sweeps back, making the leaves of the tree sound like a wave breaking above us. Jane pokes her head out. —I’m getting cold. —Wish I could chat, Tom, but I can’t. I get in and slam the door, shaking. The driver puts the car into gear and eases it around the rear bumper of the car in front, then powers up the steep bend. He seems as happy to be out of it as I am, even if he has made eight dollars in waiting time. —What was that all about? I turn to look at Jane. —Simon. You know that policeman, don’t you? Is there— —We’ve met. Something about this stops her next question, and she looks back out the window at the Terrace. She doesn’t seem as drunk now. —It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. She nods, and I sink into my thoughts. This isn’t the end of things, that’s for sure. What was Jerry doing there? What happened to his friend? And what were all the cops doing there? Couldn’t be a bust, they would have stopped me for sure, questioned me. Found three thousand dollars in my pocket. Jesus. Completely forgot about that. Would have looked really good, ‘I was taking my money for a walk, officer...it gets restive in the bank all by itself. Goes off its feed.’ —Was that why you got me up here? —Was what what? —Dean? Did you ask me to come up here just so you could spring Dean on me like that? Some kind of cheap-arse practical joke? —I thought you’d be … pleased to see him? She looks at me. —Well. She looks back out the window. The passing streetlights slide over her skin, faint mobile tattoos. —I suppose I was. For a while. He obviously wasn’t, though. He disappeared. People do that round me. Have you noticed? Just vanish? Fade away. —I’m still here. —Yes. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. Is ‘Wendy-Lou’ real? —Who? —The chiropractor. With the turtle. —Oh. No. Joke. I did want to see you, it’s been so long. I was afraid you might... —Vanish? I smile as the cab pulls up outside my house. —Something like that. Change beyond recognition. Mutate. —And have I? —I still recognise you. I pay, collect the gear, take her hand to lead her down the path. The blackberry needs a trim. —Ow. —Almost there. I fish my key out, slide it into the lock, push open the door with my hip. —Chez Stinky. —Well. Chez musty, certainly. She drops her pack by the door, walks into the front room. —Gracious. There’s a sight. —Isn’t it, though? The lights of the city are casting a vivid glow on the low clouds, filling the air in between with charged iridescence. It is a shitty flat really, apart from the view, but that makes up for a lot. -- Cup of tea? She nods and I walk through to the kitchen, put on the kettle, set up the doings. Milk and...one, I seem to remember. As I reach into the old fake dutch coffee grinder for my stash, I wonder if I care about whether I could recall how an ex-girlfriend had her tea. Or is it that I want to be the sort of person who could? Or that I want to be with the sort of person I could care enough about to want to — the yellow kettle clicks off, hooting at me in steamy derision. Jane accepts the tea with a smile and the joint with a raised (plucked) eyebrow. I have rolled it thin. She takes it between thumb and forefinger, inhales daintily. She looks out the window, before taking another toke and passing it over. She lets the smoke out in a slender stream, watching the coils hang in the air. A silence settles over the room like an old blanket, scratchy but warm. —Was it good to see Dean again? I ask at last. Jane thinks for a while. She doesn't seem pissed at all, now. Was she putting it on before? —Yes. No. —In that order? —Well yes, actually. He’s lovely, always has been. He was when... he left in Vietnam... He hasn’t changed. Or doesn’t seem to have. People don’t change. —Don’t you think? —Not really. The way they understand themselves does, though... like resolution? On computer pictures, where you get the rough picture first, then progressively finer... you know? She looks at me, frowning. I nod and pass the joint back. —Thanks. People don’t change, not really, but the things they do, do. The way they interact with the world changes as they understand themselves better. It’s the difference between doing something because of a vague feeling and doing it as part of a plan. —Personal development? —Well, sort of.. Do you want any of this? I shake my head. I am feeling calmer. I sip my tea. Ah, tea. The taste of clarity. —Go on. —So. The difference between people as they are and people as they become, is the difference between a collection of things happening and a story.. She takes a sip from her cup, leans forward for more sugar. I open my mouth, as the precursor to a yawn rather than a reply, but she holds up her finger and I close it again. —But. Meaning is retrospective. The challenge, as a person, as an individual, is to find an understanding of yourself that encompasses everything that’s gone before. A story. Do that, and every meandering aimless year becomes a piece in the great puzzle. Jane makes a circular gesture with her forefinger, encompassing my tatty lounge and with it (I am forced to presume) the awesome totality of space and time itself. —You place yourself. On the map. In the story. Hero and protagonist of your own personal saga. —I read a book where the main character’s name is ‘Hiro Protagonist’. She smiles. —Did it end well? I try to remember. —For him, yes. He got the girl, saved the world. Usual stuff. —Hmm. Jane sinks back in the armchair, takes a pensive sip. —So what’s Dean? Main character, comic relief, sidekick...? Jane grimaces. —I don’t know. I think I was too scared to find out. Or he was. Did you see where he went at the end? I shake my head. —I was pretty mean to him in Vietnam. Not deliberately, but I dumped him very fast which I met Oz. One minute all ‘La, la, loveydovey’, next minute ‘Pow, you’re history’. I shrug. —Happens. —Do you know him very well? I think about lying. Decide not to. —Yes. Very well, actually. Known him for years. We were at school together. She sits up, eyes wide. —Simon. You never told me! You knew all the time? You shit! I assume a repentant expression. —Would you have come up if I’d told you? —Well... probably. Maybe. Maybe not. —You would have missed me playing... And you said it was nice to see him again... Jane chews her lip, looks out the window. —Alright. Forgiven. For now. And only just. She mimes a very small gap like a sparkplug, with her thumb and forefinger. —Am I hanging by a thread? —Yis. Over an abyss. —Scary. And you? Have you changed? —Since when? —Since whenever. —Yes. Or I think I have, which amounts to the same thing. —Does it? —Sure it does. With me anyway. It’s the difference between wondering what it’s all about, and if there even is an ‘it’ for it to be all about, and knowing that there is an ‘it’, and what ‘it’ is. —And? —And what? —What is ‘it’? —Ah— She bites her lip, eyes sparkling. —Can’t tell you. I put down the tea and stand up, scowling. —Can’t? -- Trade secret. Sorry. -- …or WON’T? —You’ll never get it from me, oppressor of the poor!! She bursts into peals of laughter as I tickle her under the ribcage. Fending me off, gasping for breath she pulls her legs up to protect herself. —I’ll spill me tea!! I lean forward, lose my balance, sprawl between her legs, find myself kissing her. Jane’s lips are soft and warm on mine, startled and knowing, as though they have been planning this but are a little surprised at how it turned out. She kisses well, Jane. Or we kiss well. Everything makes sense between our lips. They communicate like doors between adjoining suites in a hotel. There is no sense of the falseness I had felt before. Of course there never was. That had always been the problem, surfeit of physical understanding, dearth of emotional. Jane pushes me away, breathing heavily. I open my eyes, blinking as though coming into the light from a dark room. Her fingertips are on my neck, lightly, possessively. Her eyes are on me too. —Is this wise? I shake my head, lean forward, kiss the end of her nose, whisper in her ear. —What would you rather be doing? She draws in her breath, slides her fingers round the back of my neck to hold me there, arches her neck for me to kiss. —As long as we’re... agreed... I slide down further in her chair, begin nibbling my way up her neck as she runs her fingers through my hair. My hands are on her waist, above her waist, finding the bottom of her shirt and sliding up the smooth skin inside, tracing a line up each side of her body, gripping it tight and pulling her towards me as our lips find each other again, resume their conversation. The phone begins ringing, a braying intrusion. I find myself listening, as much as I want to ignore it, like trying not to think of antelopes. Counting the rings. One, three, five. I always hang up at seven, for the same reason I dislike queues. At nine I can feel Jane vibrating with laughter. I sit up, look at her. —Perhaps you should talk to them? —You think so? —They want to talk to you... I give this thought a moment of consideration, (thirteen, fourteen) then nod, slowly. —They genuinely do. Fuck’em. Jane smiles as I flick a ‘V’ at the phone. It clicks into bashful silence. —Now. Where were we? —I think... She murmurs, —...we were about to do something foolish.... She presses her face into my chest, sends exploratory fingertips over my shoulders. I look over her head, at the city. The lights are the same, but the air has changed, taken on a glacial transparency. The low clouds have gone, replaced with a distant wall of cumulus, lit by the full moon. I shiver for no particular reason. Jane’s hands urge me down, and I surrender.

And again by fgpckt 02/16/2003, 11:04pm PST     Re: And again by Ice Cream Jonsey 02/25/2003, 5:04pm PST