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 isn’t there for space in a bed with someone who doesn’t realise that both they and the bed they sleep in are haunted by an emptiness? Well, I don’t 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 it’s also a kind of confession, I guess, an attempt at a peculiarly mundane redemption; but don’t expect juicy revelations or cringe-inducing, self-indulgent self-examination, because (and this is a secret storytellers don’t want you to know, so pay attention) it’s all made up. Mostly. And the bits that aren’t 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 it’s not about her but about her absence. So maybe it is about Hope the Idea. Or maybe it’s 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 couldn’t think of another L word, but “All” has two l’s, so that counts), or… Well, it’s about something, I’m sure of it. I just don’t know what. I guess we’ll find out together. Anyways, Hope. A name portending great things. An epic name, almost. Does that make me the hero? The only hero I’ve 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 didn’t much care for, all he wanted was to go home. Home. There’s another magic word. Maybe that’s what this story’s about. It’s 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 mother’s silent, nagging complacence and my own steadfast conviction that I was destined for great things someday. I’d 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 wasn’t much of a lad at that point in my life, still adjusting to the dislocation from small town New Zealand to Auckland’s buzz, unsure of myself around women that hadn’t 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. We’d 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 Hope’s delicacy in appearance and demeanour, she could and did swear like a sailor. Mostly around me, apparently, although I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.) The days passed slowly, as they do when you’re 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 “Oprah’s 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 didn’t like it?’ ‘Ermm…’ (blushes deeply, swallows.) ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s not exactly store policy to offer refunds or exchanges after you’ve 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? Couldn’t 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, I’m afraid that there really isn’t 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!’ ‘I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not really an option…’ ‘Isn’t it, now? Well, where’s your manager? Just bring your boss out here, and we’ll see exactly what can be done about this!’ ‘The store manager won’t be in ‘til tomorrow night. But he’ll just tell you the same thing I have…’ ‘Nonsense! I’ve been a loyal customer of your store for three years! Never had a problem like this before. He’ll sort things out. Sort you out too, missy! What’s 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. ‘What’s her name?’ ‘Umm, not sure, let me think…’ ‘Don’t give me that! What’s her name? She needs to be taken down a peg! Reported, that’s what.’ ‘Sorry, I’ve only just started here. Don’t know her name yet.’ ‘Really? Well, what’s your name then?’ ‘Salvatore. Sal. Sal Dell’Vecchio.’ ‘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 wouldn’t be surprised if you get a right talking-to from your boss as well! Don’t know her name! Hmph.’ (wanders off out the door, still muttering.) ‘You okay?’ ‘He’s gone? Yeah, I’m okay. Prick.’ ‘Arseholes like that get on my wick, too. You did the right thing, walking away. Doug’ll 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 don’t think it’ll happen. What’s he going to say? That you wouldn’t refund a dirty old man’s money after he’d gotten his rocks off?’ Hope’s 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. ‘That’s probably right. Bastard couldn’t keep his eyes off me.’ “I didn’t give him your name, anyway. Gave him mine, though. Wasn’t thinking.’ ‘I don’t think it’ll matter. Like you say, Doug’s probably going to be on my side with this. But it’s 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 don’t 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 Year’s, 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 couldn’t sleep, and I wasn’t sure why. I’d been avoiding caffeine and sugar all week (I’m 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 I’d just mainlined half a kilo of arabica. At this time, Max TV was still subverting Auckland’s 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 I’m 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 don’t 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. It’s 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 Runga’s “Bursting Through”, both songs about needing someone who wasn’t 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 wasn’t just a transitory attraction, but something I wanted to pursue. When I say “pursue”, I don’t 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. 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