Heya folks, Cunning Andre here. I'm using my schneaky second email addy because I wanted to try something a little different. As some of you know, I'm in the middle of writing my Great New Zealand Novel, called "Losing Hope". Below is a rough draft of the first chapter, intended for your reading pleasure (or annoyance, depending on how much you dislike complex sentence structures.) Feel free to offer criticism (or insults) via email, either through this addy or my Uni one ( aale002@ec.auckland.ac.nz ) As for complaints that this isn't really B&S content-well, you're right, in a sense. BUT, I should point out that the narrator, while being loosely based upon myself, has been significantly informed by my listening of Tigermilk, to the point of almost _being_ Sebastian (maybe Sturan should sue for infringement? :) ) Additionally, every word has been writen to the strains of B&S, which may quite possibly account for the more whimsical, dare I say "twee", characteristics of the piece. (Apologies in advance for the crappy layout, and the lack of italics, which would make some of the sentences make a little more sense than they otherwise do.) Chapter One An absence is not a thing to share your bed with. As has often been pointed out, in crass pop songs and by the sly grins of drunkards, absences do not keep you warm at night. But there is only so much room in one bed (even a super deluxe king-size bed bought as the result of some vague, atemporal anticipation), and absences are difficult things to push away. They cling to you. And what person in their right mind would try and compete with something that isnt there for space in a bed with someone who doesnt realise that both they and the bed they sleep in are haunted by an emptiness? Well, I dont know if they were in their right minds, but this story is a seemingly misguided attempt to answer that question. (Rhetorical questions have always bugged the fuck out of me. If you ask a question, expect an answer.) Perhaps its also a kind of confession, I guess, an attempt at a peculiarly mundane redemption; but dont expect juicy revelations or cringe-inducing, self-indulgent self-examination, because (and this is a secret storytellers dont want you to know, so pay attention) its all made up. Mostly. And the bits that arent are mine to own, not yours. Every story has to be about something, and this story is about Hope. Not the idea, but the person. Well, maybe its not about her but about her absence. So maybe it is about Hope the Idea. Or maybe its not even about Hope the Idea, but about me. Or about my friends and how crazy they all are. Or about the Big Questions: Life, Love, Lust, Longing, Loss, The Meaning Of It All (I couldnt think of another L word, but All has two ls, so that counts), or Well, its about something, Im sure of it. I just dont know what. I guess well find out together. Anyways, Hope. A name portending great things. An epic name, almost. Does that make me the hero? The only hero Ive ever identified with was Odysseus, in the time before the Battle of Troy. He really was quite happy just to stay at home with Penelope and Telemachus and plough the beach, but those crazy Greeks had other ideas. Yet even when he found himself far from familiar lands, fighting for a cause he didnt much care for, all he wanted was to go home. Home. Theres another magic word. Maybe thats what this storys about. Its certainly not about the hero getting the girl (whatever that might mean.) I met Hope at the end of my teenage years. She was working as a daytime duty manager in a franchise bookstore, a dead-end job for English graduates and other oppressed minorities. I had signed on as a counterperson as a way of answering my mothers silent, nagging complacence and my own steadfast conviction that I was destined for great things someday. Id already been working there for a month before we met. The most remarkable moments of your life seldom herald themselves before the fact, yet even now, six years later, the moment I saw Hope remains burned into the interior of my skull in every minute, mundane detail: the doorway to the tiny storeroom swinging open (to the left); the light bulb inside dark and unrevealing; the white of her blouse and the black of her skirt clinically leeching the tangibility of pale skin and red hair as she stooped to pick up a box of microwave cookery books; her smile and eyes calling me to respond; the spiky presence of Doug, the store manager, to the right of the door as his voice initiated an introduction to destiny It should go without saying that when Hope and I first met, there was no spark, no chemistry. I wasnt much of a lad at that point in my life, still adjusting to the dislocation from small town New Zealand to Aucklands buzz, unsure of myself around women that hadnt seen me hairless and naked; while she was recovering from the abrupt disintegration of a quiet but stable relationship. We were workmates, often the only two staff members on during the days. Wed also work many of the public holidays together, as we both lived within easy walking distance of the store, and had no social lives. Such folk are the prey of the rosters of store managers. Our work was seldom strenuous-a suburban bookstore makes its money after five p.m., not during the day. In the fast-paced rat-race that is low-paid franchise management however, that fact brings a pressure of its own. Her superiors would often remind Hope that her shifts were not archetypal examples of efficiency and profit, and she would pass such messages on to me (and whomever else might be working) in the form of half-hearted threats and breathed vulgarities. (Perhaps now is a good time to mention that, for all Hopes delicacy in appearance and demeanour, she could and did swear like a sailor. Mostly around me, apparently, although Im sure thats just a coincidence.) The days passed slowly, as they do when youre waiting for nothing in particular. Hope was, like most in the industry, entirely uninterested in reading, meaning that for us, interacting with customers was at best a diversion from putting those little price stickers on the backs of newly-received books. And at worst? Well, the service industry would be filled with cheerful, polite, committed, creative people if not for the prevalence of a certain type of customer we like to refer to, obliquely, as the problem customer. Excuse me, Miss, but I was in here the other day, and I bought this book (displays the latest Oprahs Book Club emotional paperweight.) Yes? replies Hope, Something wrong with it? Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. You see, I asked you, and I distinctly remembered asking you, for a book that I would enjoy, and you recommended this (shakes book like a cheap Taiwanese snowglobe, waits for significance of statement to settle upon the poor serving girl.) Hope raises her right eyebrow dangerously. You didnt like it? Ermm (blushes deeply, swallows.) Im sorry, sir, but its not exactly store policy to offer refunds or exchanges after youve already read the book Look, this book has far too much sex in it! Sex everywhere! And swearing all over the place. Felt like I was reading Playboy or whatever. Hardly appropriate for a widower my age, is it? Couldnt finish the damn thing, I was so embarrassed! (rocks back and forth on heels, snorts like a horse with pepper up its nose.) Ah, I see. Well, sir, Im afraid that there really isnt anything I can do about that says Hope, fighting back a grin. You damn well better do something, missy! I paid good money for this trash, I solicited a service from you, and you misled me! I want my money back! Im sorry, sir, but thats not really an option Isnt it, now? Well, wheres your manager? Just bring your boss out here, and well see exactly what can be done about this! The store manager wont be in til tomorrow night. But hell just tell you the same thing I have Nonsense! Ive been a loyal customer of your store for three years! Never had a problem like this before. Hell sort things out. Sort you out too, missy! Whats your name? At this, Hope simply turns and walks through the Staff Only door at the back of the shop. Problem Customer, walking stick and counter preventing pursuit, turns to me. Whats her name? Umm, not sure, let me think Dont give me that! Whats her name? She needs to be taken down a peg! Reported, thats what. Sorry, Ive only just started here. Dont know her name yet. Really? Well, whats your name then? Salvatore. Sal. Sal DellVecchio. Sal. Hmph. Figures. Bloody wogs and women ruining things...well, Sal, just you tell that little missy that I fully intend to report this to her boss! Get her fired! Just what she deserves. And wouldnt be surprised if you get a right talking-to from your boss as well! Dont know her name! Hmph. (wanders off out the door, still muttering.) You okay? Hes gone? Yeah, Im okay. Prick. Arseholes like that get on my wick, too. You did the right thing, walking away. Dougll say the same thing when he calls back. If he calls back, which I doubt. Shit. He sounded like he really was going to make a complaint? I dont think itll happen. Whats he going to say? That you wouldnt refund a dirty old mans money after hed gotten his rocks off? Hopes laugh is the first thing you really notice about her. Before she laughs, she seems somehow ephemeral, forgettable. But as soon as you hear that tinkle of silver bells, she suddenly bursts into your awareness, like sunshine through a cloudwrack. Thats probably right. Bastard couldnt keep his eyes off me. I didnt give him your name, anyway. Gave him mine, though. Wasnt thinking. I dont think itll matter. Like you say, Dougs probably going to be on my side with this. But its just one more thing to hold over my head at the next meeting. Fuck. I hate this shit. I really, really do. So, when did I fall for Hope? Honestly, even now, I dont know. I know that she was, and remains, a very beautiful woman. That she was petite helped matters (I have always had a thing for tiny women), as did her air of mischievous, elegant otherworldliness that bespoke of nothing so much as a slightly randy pixie. Rather predictably, perhaps, I dubbed her Tinkerbell in response to her (presumably pejorative) nickname for me, Peter Pan; and to me, Tinkerbell she remains. I do remember a day, sometime between Christmas and New Years, a day of no particular significance in itself, when golden sunlight slanted down through a dirty window housing a promo for the latest Barbara Cartland to set her aflame (Hope, that is, not Barbara Cartland), for what seemed like a thousand years, but was probably more like thirteen seconds, as she stretched up to tear down some green tinsel from the display; moving briskly, her burning hair tied up; eyes the colour of the late afternoon sky narrowing upon her goal; lips pouting slightly in determination; skin glowing like molten silver; the susurrus of the traffic outside lilting like a choir of angels; breath catching fire in my lungs; the world around her gradually fading to an inconsequentiality, leaving me ever more distant from her; and the strange, inescapable intuition that I was in way over my head. In what? In love? No. Not then. Not yet. On a night about three weeks later, I couldnt sleep, and I wasnt sure why. Id been avoiding caffeine and sugar all week (Im excitable at the best of times, but add stimulants to the mix and I start terrifying small children with excessive pupil dilation), yet I felt as though Id just mainlined half a kilo of arabica. At this time, Max TV was still subverting Aucklands musical tastes, so I flicked on the idiot box, hoping for a chance to indulge in what is perhaps my only unforgivable vice: DIY-karaoke. I like to think that Im a fairly rational, sceptical person. Many of my friends consider me almost too rational. But I have a few odd beliefs, and one of them is that, every now and again, when you least expect it, something will happen to you that is both entirely coincidental and profoundly meaningful. I dont know if we just construct the meaning of these events out of thin air, or if there really is some sort of order and purpose to what happens at times like these. What I do know is that many of us, myself included, perceive these omens in the world around us, and make life-changing decisions based upon them. Its hard to talk about these things without sounding like an utter fruitcake. What makes it even worse is that the particular omen I feel I witnessed that night seems so pop-cultural, so postmodern. Two songs by New Zealand artists I was particularly fond of at the time played, one after the other. First Prove You Wrong by Second Child, then Bic Rungas Bursting Through, both songs about needing someone who wasnt there, and being dazzled by the beauty of the things that that made you feel. Tacky? Tawdry? Mundane? Yup, all that and more. Specifically, the more was a realisation that the way I felt about Hope wasnt just a transitory attraction, but something I wanted to pursue. When I say pursue, I dont mean stalk. Whatever it was I was feeling, it was less about Hope than it was about the feelings she stirred within me, at least at first. We often think back to our young adulthood as a time of obsessional desires with random individuals. What we forget is that it is also the time we first learn of the extraordinary pleasure that comes from simply feeling something, anything. To be suddenly aware of the ability to experience an emotion so overwhelming it threatens your very sense of identity is one of those rare moments you can pinpoint in your past to say, I grew up a little that day. To learn that you might want to feel so strongly about another person is a surprise in itself. And no one was as surprised as me-there I was, a twenty-year-old university dropout, still living at home, faced abruptly with the realisation that my life would never be the same again, and that I would never want it to be. What to do in such a situation? How to respond to the emotional equivalent of the Kraken, rising unbidden from the deeps of my soul? Such a dark and doubtful presentiment of longing carries with it its own demand for action, for one to do what must be done, regardless the consequences. Only one thing to do, of course. I wrote her a hopeless, desperate letter demanding her acquiescence to the demons of my need, which I then slipped to her in a plain brown envelope, on the pretext that it was a late Christmas card. Right-o, that's all, Cunning Andre ________________________________ Irony is killing our generation. Freaky kitties do my head in: http://www.konstructiv.net/kitty_02.html _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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