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Shorts
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| Modern Man | |
| By alamo | ||||||||
| 01 April 2007 | ||||||||
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OK I know this is a repost and I am desperately sorry. I've reworked this (slightly) and it's still a short story. In fact I've tried to keep it a short story rather than (as you all suggested) having to wade into the (to me) murky and scary world of the script. There were a lot of (brackets) in my intoduction. That was brought to you by the company that manufactures all the things that keep your shelves up (Bracketworld). I'm sorry. That wasn't even funny. Forgive me, and review this piece, if it still needs to be a script then please let me know. Cheers They are sat in a dilapidated bus-stop, graffiti-covered, smashed glass at their feet. His face is half-familiar: they’ve seen him around at Uni, parties, clubs. They’ve been introduced, gotten to know him. But that was all about to change. Dave hummed along to his iPod, out of tune, smiling. He looked at the girls sitting next to him. Not bad, he thought, trying to store their images in his head for a later masturbatory fantasy. The things they would do, he thought. He tuned back into the music, started humming again. Fiona and Shannon chatted about mutual friends, bitching really, trying to ignore the atonal disfigurement of music that violated their ears. Dave reached into his long hair, scratched, and a white earphone fell down onto his chest. Tinny music escaped from the dangling earpiece. Grunge slopped out. Miniature guitars played a dirge. Something approaching singing floated around, sounding small. He turned to the girls. “You like it?” he said, pointing to his chest. For a second Fiona thought he meant his T-shirt, tight black with a witty slogan and a white skull. Shannon took it in, an opinion began to form in her mind. “Er… yeah. It’s alright,” said Fiona. “It’s my band.” “Oh… that’s cool,” said Shannon, wondering what kind of person would listen to their own music. “What are they called?” said Fiona. “My band? Ego-terrorist, he said. No trace of irony. Shannon stifled a laugh. “You know, like eco-terrorist, but to do with the mind, the Ego, like Freud and that.” “It’s a good name,” said Fiona, smiling. “Yeah,” said Shannon. “Deep.” She was joking, obviously, but Dave felt an almost magnetic attraction to the word ‘deep.’ “Exactly,” he said. “I mean, we were called Evolution? You know, with a question mark, but the drummer thought it was pretentious. But I was well pleased when I made that up.” “Understandable,” said Fiona, imagining herself far away. “I mean, it’s really thought-provoking. Evolution?” The thought spins Shannon away to other worlds, imagining amoeba, thinking what the fuck. Shannon thought, certainly provokes a few thoughts in me. “What do you play?” said Fiona, warming to the conversation. “Well, I’m singer-songwriter, and I play the guitar. I did play keyboards on a few tracks, but we thought, you know, ditch that electronic shit. It’s not the eighties anymore.” “Indeed,” said Shannon, allowing a second for the keyboards to sink in, hearing what he had created, feeling silly. “The music I write is the kind of music I’ve been wanting to get my hands on all my life. I’ve got it all on my iPod. When I listen to it, it just makes me smile.” “What do you mean?” said Fiona. “Just, like, I listen to music all the time. If I think it’s good, I enjoy it and everything, but it still kind of depresses me.” “Why? Because you didn’t write it?” “No, just because it isn’t how I would of done it.” Dave visibly puffed up at this, seeing himself in a stadium, a noisy crowd, his Heaven. “Oh,” said Fiona. “Yeah, it’s like nothing really compares to my music. Here,” he said, offering Fiona the earpiece. “Have a listen.” She wiped the earphone on her sleeve, then put it close to her ear, listening. “Well,” she said. “It’s good, but, I don’t know.” “What? You listen,” he said, offering the earphone to Shannon. She looked at it, raised it to her ear for a few seconds. “It’s not really the kind of music I like,” she said. “If people don’t like it, they just don’t get it.” Shannon’s opinion of him started to solidify. “Like, I wrote this song called Not Going Down, and it’s all about girls that don’t give head, ‘cos I just can’t stand girls that won’t give blowjobs. It’s like, limiting sexual experiences, I just can’t deal with it. And my girlfriend, well, my ex-girlfriend, didn’t like it. She didn’t understand it more like.” “Well… it’s quite… a complex idea,” said Fiona, struggling for those words. “Exactly. Having said that, I used to hate going down on girls. But then I met my ex and I just wanted to kiss her all over. Including down there.” The pauses between the last three words made it for the girls. Shannon was tensing her mouth, desperate to prevent the hilarity growing within her from exploding into laughter. Fiona, stoical, thought of funerals and bad fucks. “And when I started doing it all the time she got bored of it. She was like, ‘Will you stop eating me out.” Fiona giggled, Shannon sent an elbow into her ribs, simultaneously suppressing a belly-laugh. “No. It is funny,” he said. “I mean how can she get bored of it? She’s mad.” “Yeah,” said Fiona, teeth visible. “Definitely,” said Shannon, wiping a tear from her eye. “Think that was why we broke up to be honest.” “What, because of the song?” “No, ‘cos she was mental. Must be that, I mean, the sex was great. Not just for me. For her as well – I could tell.” Dave looked around, point proved. “Lucky girl,” said Fiona. “Anyway, it’s better being single. Playing the field. Doing what, and who, I want.” “It must be great,” said Shannon. “Yeah it is. Does get a bit boring though. I mean, after ten girls, you do get a bit bored with naked bodies. A girl takes her clothes off and I’m like, I’ve seen it all before, I need a bit more.” Shannon wondered what level of depravity would serve to excite this jaded fornicator, but then thought better of it. “So how many girls you slept with then?” said Fiona. “Well… twelve.” And then: to emphasise his point, Dave leapt up. “And most of them really,” he said, as the bus mowed into his skinny frame. There was a crunch, a crack, the noises of hissing brakes and rumbling engine. Fiona and Shannon looked at each other, quickly engulfed in noxious fumes. Their shared look spoke more than words. Incidentally, the words Dave never spoke were: “Loved it.”
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