2.four

“So when am I going to meet this amazing guy?”

   Molly fishes in her soup with her spoon.

   “I don’t know,” she says idly. “I’m not sure he’s ready to meet anyone yet.”

   “What does that mean?” I ask, realising just a little too late that my coffee is still way too hot. I hold the cup up and scrutinize it.

   “What are you doing?” asks Molly as she scoops out a cruton.

   “Looking for the thermostat.” I put the coffee cup back on the table. “So what’s wrong with this guy?”

   “Why does there have to be something wrong with him?”

   “Okay, what’s his name?”

   “Dean.”

   “Dean?”

   “Yes, Dean. I suppose you have some problem with that?”

   “Not at all. He’s one of the few people in the world who have their very own forest.”

   “Whatever,” says Molly. “Honestly, you’re such a bloody snob.”

   “At least it’s better than Rudolph.”

   “RANDOLPH.”

   “Right. So what’s Dean’s second name?”

   Molly clears her throat and has a mouthful of soup.

   “I knew it,” I say, clicking my fingers.

   “Knew what?”

   “His second name. It’s something really embarassing like Nancy or Colon, isn’t it?”

   “No.”

   “Is his second name Dean?”

   “Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid,” groans Molly as she drops her spoon in the bowl. “Dean Dean?”

   “Stranger names have happened.”

   “If you must know,” says Molly, “he doesn’t have a last name.”

   “Come on…”

   “I’m serious. He had one – which, incidentally, he hasn’t disclosed- but now he doesn’t.”

   “Aaaah…” I say, giving the coffee another try which makes me wince. “So, he changed his name by deed poll…”

   “Yes.”

   “…to Dean.”

   “Almost.”

   “How almost?”

   Molly sighs and spreads her fingers out on the table. She really doesn’t seem to want to talk about this but I must know. I must!

   “He changed his name to Virtual Dean.”

   I cough up some scalding coffee and put my hand to my mouth.

   “Virtual Dean? That’s not a name.”

   Molly shrugs, “Something to do with virtual reality or something. He told me that’s what his friends used to call him. One of his favourite films was ‘The Flymo Kid’.”

   “I think you mean ‘The Lawnmower Man’.”

   “Whatever. Anyway, I personally think he just started calling himself that to give himself a point of interest.”

   “Yeh,” I say, “Deans can be like that sometimes.” I take another mouthful of coffee. “I can’t drink this, it’s too low grade. I should have had orange juice.”

   “Anyway,” says Molly, “he’s nervous about meeting people I know.”

   “I’m not surprised,” I say, picking up the beverage menu, “with a name like Virtual Dean.”

   “I want to break him in gently.”

   Molly’s phone vibrates.

   “Speaking of which, that’s him texting me. I’ve got to go. Finished with your coffee?”

   “Virtually.”

   “I’ll call you later.”

   Molly gets up just as Murray enters the cafe.

   “Hey people,” says Murray, slapping the table with his rolled-up newspaper.

   “I’m just going,” says Molly.

   “Something I said?” chuckles Murray.

   “Not yet,” says Molly as she puts on her coat. She waves her hand and leaves as Murray sits down in her place. He looks at the remains of her soup.

   “Molly’s got a new fella,” I say, deciding to stick it out with the coffee.

   “Really? Anyone we know?”

   “His name is Virtual Dean.”

   Murray gives me a blank look, followed by a thousand yard stare, “Don’t think I know him.”

   “Well, at least you tried.”

   “Did you hear from Ruth?” he asks as he dips a finger in the soup.

   “She’s in Sydney visiting an old flatmate,” I say. “Did you hear about the funeral?”

   “Coy Johnson’s funeral? What happened?”

   “Apparently they gave him a big porn star send off in the U.S. They had him boxed up in a penis-shaped coffin.”

   Murray gives another thousand yard stare, “Penis-shaped…I wonder what they would have used to represent the throbbing veins…Strands of purple licquorice maybe…?”

   “They wanted to fire him into the furnace hatch…”

   “…Rhubarb strips…?”

   “…But there was a malfunction and he shot the other way straight down the aisle…”

   “…Stick-on purple felt…?”

   “…So instead of coming he went.”

   “Would you be able to find out for me?”

   I spin my coffee cup around between my fingers, “Anyway, Ruth didn’t go. She’s wiped the slate clean.”

   “Good for her,” says Murray.

   “That’s what I said.”

   “So when do we meet him?” asks Murray as he sniffs a fingerfull of soup.

   “Who?”

   “This Virtual Dean guy.”

   “You want to meet him?”

   “Yeh, why not?”

   “You actually want to meet a guy who calls himself Virtual Dean?”

   “With a name like Virtual Dean,” says Murray as he wipes his finger on the table, “it would be criminal not to.”

   I hold my nose and take a sip of the black stuff.

   “I wish this coffee was virtual.”

2.three

“I’m going to be straight with you,” says Pat Burridge as he leans back into the leather chair on the other side of the desk. “I didn’t get to run this company by smothering someone’s arse with my face.”

   “Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my legs so that I look relaxed yet serious.

   “Look at this face,” says Pat Burridge, placing a chubby finger on his chin. “Does this look like the kind of face that would be found associating itself with someone’s arse?”

   “Absolutely not,” I say. His whole face resembles an arse.

   “This is the kind of face that steps on arses, not smothers them.”

   Pat Burridge lets his fingers slide down the knot of his tie.

   “So you want to come and work here at Chariot.”

   “Absolutely,” I say.

   “Ever done sales before?”

   “Never.”

   Pat Burridge says nothing for a few moments. Instead he strums his fingers on the desk. Then he stands up and walks to the window which overlooks a railway line.

   “I’m going to be straight with you,” he says. “I make a shitload of money.”

   “Great,” I say.

   “It’s a lot of hard work going out into the field every day. You’ve got to be tough, a fighter. Bend people over and screw the cash out of them.” He turns from the window. “Do you think you’re up to it?”

   “Absolutley,” I say, although I’m fairly certain I’m actually not.

   “You’ll be taking a lot of crap and a lot of rejection. A lot of people can’t take a lot of crap and rejection. What about you?”

   “Oh, I think you’ll find that I take rejection on the chin and eat crap for breakfast.”

   “I like your style,” says pat Burridge. “But I don’t like your shoes.”

   He walks over and stamps one of his feet onto the desk.

   “Feel that,” he says.

   I slowly lean forward and touch the black leather with the tip of my finger.

   “Impressed?” he says.

   “I’m speechless,” I say, making sure my face stays beyond the orbit of his arse.

   “I thought you would be,” grins Pat Burridge with self satisfaction. “I had them hand built five years ago and they’re as good as new. Do you know that if a herd of buffalo on ecstasy came charging through this office and stamped all over our heads and balls, my feet would be the only part of you and I to survive because of these shoes?”

   “That’s dazzling.”

   “It’s like I’m wearing a pair of tanks.”

   Pat Burridge slides his tank off the desk and sits back down.

   “This business,” he says as he runs a hand through his hair, ” is all about manipulation. We are manipulated twenty four hours a day through visuals, soundtracks and stinks. They make us remember things and create impulses within us to buy what we don’t have. With me?”

   “I am indeed.”

   “Only the other day I was in a gents standing at the urinal sandwiched inbetween two men with massive wangers – and I’m no Snickers Funsize – and it immediately reminded me of that Paul McCartney song.”

   ” ‘We All Stand Together’?”

   “No, ‘Jet’. The point is I immediately found myself running to buy All The Best! Impulse is a mystical product of the unknown…”

   Pat Burridge hums to himself for a few seconds then looks me in the eye.

   “Now, let’s talk about the salary.”

   “Great.”

   “There isn’t one.”

   “I’m sorry?”

   “This is a commission only business. How much you earn depends on how much you sell. That’s why all of our field people have such a high level of motivation.”

   “I thought the ad said ‘40,000+OTE’?”

   “That is correct; forty thousand pounds On Target Earnings.”

   “‘OTE’ stands for ‘On Target Earnings’?”

   “Well of course it does. What did you think it stood for?”

   “‘Own Transport Essential’.”

   Pat Burridge guffaws into the air for an unflattering length of time. “This is a business-to-business operstion; having your own transport is far from essential.”

   “I see,” I say, feeling very foolish, especially seeing as I don’t even own a car anyway.

   Pat Burridge leans forward, “Still interested?”

   I know I’m going to regret this.

   “Yes,” I say, “I’m still interested.”

   “Top tits,” says Pat Burridge as he springs to his feet. he stretches a hand across the formica. “Lenny, our administrator, will set up an observation day for you.”

   I stand up and we shake hands; it’s like grabbing hold of warm plasticine.

2.two

“So what was her name?” asks Molly as she closes her phone.

   “I don’t think it ever got that intimate,” I reply as I stretch my legs out on Murray’s two-seater.

   Molly leans forward and picks up the copy of Vanity Fair from the coffee table. “He still has this? It’s nearly three years old.”

   “If I had a house I’d probably get a conservatory fitted like hers,” I say.

   “Surely you don’t fit conservatories,” says Molly, fanning the pages without looking at them, “you construct them.”

   The toilet flushes and Murray strolls in to the lounge fastening his belt.

   “Well, that one came out kicking and screaming,” he says.

   “Do you mind…” groans Molly wearily.

   “Don’t crease that magazine.”

   I look at my watch, “Are you ready now?”

   “Yeh,” replies Murray. “Just needed to throw some passengers overboard.”

   Out on the street, Molly checks her phone again.

   “I’m going to leave you two to your sordid evening.”

   “You’re not coming to the Cloisters?” I say. “It’s 3-for-1 Tuesday.”

   “I have to meet someone,” says Molly.

   “Mind you don’t get a dose,” says Murray.

   “I’ve just been sitting in your flat so it’s probably too late. See ya.”

   And with a wave Molly wanders off down the street. Murray and I start walking the other way.

   “Hey,” says Murray after a few moments, “Guess who I spent Saturday night with.”

   “Bruce Hornsby And The Range?”

   “Tanya Cole.”

   “Who?”

   “You remember…”

   Do I? I don’t think so…Oh, wait, yes I do…

   “Not Dustbin Tits?”

   “Please,” groans Murray, “why does everybody still have to call her that?”

   “It suits her,” I say, “or should I say them?”

   “Anyway,” continues Murray, “we spent a very romantic evening together and I found her nothing short of charming and attentive.”

   “Eeugh…” I mutter.

   “What do you mean ‘eeugh’?”

   “You’d better get yourself checked out, never mind Molly.”

   “So you’re saying she’s a slag?”

   “Come on,” I say. “She’s got ALL YOU CAN EAT FOR A TENNER tattooed on her navel.”

   “She explained that, actually,” says Murray defiantly.

   “Oh, really,” I say.

   “Yes. She used to sell nuts from a tray at illegal cage fights and one day her blouse got torn and she lost her price list so her supervisor wrote it on her stomach, only it was permanent ink.”

   I look at him for a minute as we walk. He seems convinced.

   “She’s desperate to get it removed,” he says quietly.

   “Who wouldn’t be?” I say.

   “It doesn’t make her a bad person.”

   “Certainly doesn’t.”

   “She’s very misunderstood.”

   “That’s just the way it is.”

   We cross the road as the Cloisters comes into view.

   “Anyway,” I say as I glance left and right, “I thought Dustbin Tits was going out with Sensible Pants?”

   Murray shakes his head as we reach the other side, “No, that was just a one off. Actually, I heard that Sensible found out he’s a quarter Scottish. Or is it an Eighth Scottish?”

   We arrive at the pub door, resplendant with smokers.

   “Really?” I say.

   “Yeah,” says Murray. “So now everyone’s calling him Reasonable Kilt.”

   “Has he started wearing a kilt then?”

   “No,” says Murray, pulling open the door, “but apparently he never wore pants either.”

2.one

I awake to find my face imprisoned in plastic and the nauseating fragrance of stale cigarettes making unwelcome progress in my nasal cavity. It’s dark and uncomfortable and I bring myself to an upright position. I don’t know where I am or where I’ve been. I put my hands up to my head and let my fingers crawl across the moulded aperture. I hear someone stir beside me and tentatively reach out and touch hair, then a face. I recoil as the face suddenly moves and I hear a low, sleepy female moan.

   I slowly stand up from what seems to be a sofa and get the feeling that I am much taller than I actually am. I pat myself down and realise that not only am I naked but it is pitch black and I don’t know where my clothes are. I pull at the plastic but it won’t move. I try and see through the slits in front of my eyes and then I notice a rectangle of muddy amber just ahead of me. I stretch out my arms and zombie over to it until my hands touch cold glass. I then get down on all fours and scrape along the carpet until I find some clothing and eliminate by touch what can’t be mine. After finding a pair of trousers, a shirt and some shoes I decide to sod the underwear and sweater and leave. I dress quickly and and turn back to the window. I feel along the sill until I find the handle. I ease the window and it slides sideways as far as it will go. I give myself a couple of deep breaths and pull myself up onto the sill and drag one leg up followed by the other. I wait there for a moment to listen for any movement. Then I count to five, missing out two, three and four, and roll out.

   A second later my fall is broken by lots of objects that break very easily and very noisily and, unable to grab onto anything, I find myself sliding off a ledge and hitting the floor right side first. A long groan finds its way from inside me as I lay there stiff as a board. The two slits in front of my eyes suddenly become lines of white light.

   “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” comes the northern female voice.

   “Where am I?” is all I can say.

   The voice is closer this time, “The bloody kitchen.”

   An arm pulls me up and leans me back against something solid.

   “Oh, yeh,” I say. “I was just getting a glass of water.”

   “Really,” she says flatly.

   “Yes.”

   “Well why didn’t you come through the door instead of climbing through the bloody conservatory window?” Her voice moves away again. “Just look at me bloody plates. And why are you still wearing that bloody Porky Pig mask?”

   “Is that what it is? It won’t come off.”

   All of a sudden the plastic gets ripped from my face and I shut my eyes to block out the kitchen strip light.

   “And,” she continues, “you’re wearing my blouse which, by the way, you don’t have the tits for.”

   I open my eyes gradually to let everything come into focus and look at the woman standing before me wearing nothing but an old Bay City Rollers tee shirt.

   “Bay City Rollers?” I say, straightening myself up.

   “Not again,” she says wearily. “You went on about this tee shirt last night for nearly a bloody hour while we were at it. I haven’t heard anyone prattle on like that since my first bloody husband. And all he ever talked about was bloody mushrooms.”

   “I don’t really like mushrooms,” I say vacantly.

   “Just as well the silly old bugger’s dead then,” she says. “Now then; are you coming or staying? Because it’s four o’clock in the bloody morning and I need my beauty sleep.”

   You’re not bloody joking either, I think to myself.

   “I reckon I could probably lie down for a bit,” I say weakly.

   “Right,” she sighs. “Well, come on then. Maybe this time you might be able to make it up the stairs.”

   She holds out a hand and I take it. I follow her out of the kitchen and we start up the staircase. As we get to the top she turns and gives me a kiss.

   “So what did your husband do?” I ask.

   “A hundred and ten into a traffic island,” she says and turns away, pulling me towards a doorway.

   “What was your name again?” I ask as we enter.

   “That’s funny,” she replies, “I was about to ask you exactly the same thing.”