Skin Colour or Clothing Taste?

          Finally there!

            It’s been an epic journey. I can’t believe I’ve just been sitting on a bus for the last 41 hours of my life. Ugh. I’m tired, but want to write down some of the amusing things that we made happen on the way.

            Yesterday we decided that Ed had to try his dare at least once for each leg of the journey. The first leg was to Atlanta, which we didn’t get to until this morning! There was an entertaining selection of options for Ed to choose from: an old black lady, several extremely fat plain looking white women, a past-it cowgirl and a shy bookish girl across from us. Faced with the forced choice Ed elected the girl to our side. I have to say, she was actually quite a sweet looking girl and I almost felt sorry for her.

            “Dude,” I whispered, “don’t use the word ‘Turbonegro’. People won’t get the whole prophet thing here, they’ll just shoot us. That’s what happens in America.”

            “Good point, dude.”

            Ed leant shyly across the aisle towards the girl. “Hello,” he said. She glanced nervously at him out of the side of her eyes, she didn’t turn her head or look up. “I’m… a prophet,” Ed continued, pathetically. He seemed extraordinarily nervous. “I’m out for revenge.” The girl looked back at her book and tried earnestly to pretend Ed didn’t exist.

            Ed sat back against the chair and sighed.

            “Dude, what happened? You totally crashed and burned.”

            “I think I’m in love.”

            Those were the last words of the night. I looked up to the heavens, closed my eyes, plugged in my ipod and forced the world to fade away.

 

*

 

            Waking up in transit is a strange experience. Somehow you expect to wake up in a fixed predictable location. This morning I woke in a sweat. The sun was pouring through the windows superheating me in my jumper. I stripped to a t-shirt and took out my book. It was mid morning and only a couple of hours from Atlanta. With the sun reflecting off the white pages of my novel I felt the excitement and life rouse in me again. I smiled and relaxed.

 

*

 

            At Atlanta we finally got out to stretch our legs. We wandered about, looking at plain, ordinary bus station things that were stationary. We were silent, comfortably so, caught in that slothful travelling state.

            Back in the bus I looked around assessing the new crowd for the next leg. Ed would have to pick one of them.

            “The talent is dire,” said Ed. It was true. There didn’t seem to be a single viable option. Even the shy girl had disappeared.

            We left it for an hour or so, to allow everyone to settle, and then Ed made his choice. He picked a black clothed red haired goth girl sitting just behind us at the back, staring out the window with headphones firmly lodged.

            “At least she’ll be a minx if I succeed,” Ed observed.

            He stood and cautiously turned to face her. If he could’ve had a hat in his hands he’d have kneaded it to a pulp.

            “Yes?” she asked, taking out her headphones and staring at him with fashionable disdain.

            “Er… if I told you I was the prophet of a well-equipped black man with a fast car would you sleep with me?”

            “Is the man black by skin colour or clothing taste?” asked the girl, unfazed.

            “Skin colour, I think… that is, he’s a Turbonegro.”

            “Fuck it then,” she said. Suddenly, though, her eyes popped. “Wait! Turbonegro? You should’ve said! I love those guys!”

            Ed turned to me. “Bollocks, I should’ve known,” he said to me, under his breath. He turned back to the girl. “So, will you sleep with me then?”

            “No.”

            “Thank god.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” he grinned, and retreated back to his seat. “Didn’t much fancy that,” he confided in me, “did you see her? Not pretty at all up close.”

 

*

 

            So it is that we’ve come to New Orleans. I’m staying at the India House Youth Hostel. I’m amazed at how well put together this whole place is. You’d never guess Katrina had ever struck. It seems lovely here, there’s a real thick exotic air to the place.

I'm Also a Prophet

          I’m in the New Jersey airport internet café. It’s been a long day already, as you can imagine, but it’s still only midday. The flight over here to the States was fairly uneventful. Until, that is, we got Ed’s challenge underway.

            “Now, do it now!” I said, as the air hostess was walking slowly along the aisle toward us.

            “Do what?”

            “Your challenge.”

            “Now?”

            “Obviously.”

            “I’m a bit tired.”

            “What?!” I was genuinely a little shocked by that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ed act so lame.

            “Oh okay.” The air hostess was alongside us now. Ed leant over toward her and spoke in an almost bored fashion. “Hi, I’m well-equipped, can I tempt you to join me in the mile high club?”

            “Join you?” she teased, and laughed. “I don’t think so.”

            “Go on!” said Ed, getting into it, “I’m also a prophet.”

            She laughed again. “I’d be careful, saying things like that on a plane.” She walked off.

            “Why is that life is never as they portray it?” Ed asked me.

 

*

 

            Touching down in America I felt that sense of excitement one always has when enveloped in the unfamiliar. Stepping out of the plane I breathed in air of a different fragrance and feel. Something inside me connected with days long past, when life had been dreamlike, deep and exciting. This would be an adventure.

 

*

 

            Two hours later we were finally out. There are so many checks these days, they don’t let just anyone in. I’m really not sure about the whole digital fingerprinting either. My fingerprints aren’t even contained in British computers, why should America have them? It really bothered me somehow.

            We went out to the Greyhound station to book our journey down to New Orleans. We hadn’t anticipated their response at all. It would take a day and seventeen hours to get there! We went back into the airport to see if we could get flights but last minute tickets were extortionate and we’d have to wait far too long to benefit from reductions. I didn’t note anything of immediate interest in New Jersey so we went back to the Greyhound and bought the tickets. We leave in a few minutes so I’m off now.

Packing

          This evening Ed and I packed for America. It took us about an hour.

            “Now what?” I asked.

            “Pub.”

PMA

“A man has free choice to the extent that he is rational.”

 – St. Thomas Aquinas

 

          This morning I walked into the kitchen. Ed was sitting eating a bowl of cereal. He looked up at me, impish as ever.

            “Ed, I have a small confession.”

            “What’s that then Tom? You really are a girl?”

            “I accidentally shagged Scheherazade.”

            Ed splurted cereal all over the table and started laughing uncontrollably.

            “Ed, this is serious.”

            Ed carried on laughing.

            “Ed… honestly. We’ve spoken about you taking things more seriously.”

            “Yeah, but Tom, you’re telling me you fucking slipped over on a banana skin and landed, stiff dick first, in PMA.”

            “What’s PMA, Ed?

            “Poor-Man’s-Annabell. And you know what PMA sounds like…”

            “Don’t fucking call her that Ed.”

            “Why the hell not? It’s true.”

            “Because it’s disrespectful, Ed, and because she’s in the room behind me.”

            “But you don’t say it’s not true. Don’t blame me when you call it an accident!” Scheherazade walked into the room wearing one of my shirts.

            “What accident?” She asked.

            “Tom very nearly slipped over and landed in a mess,” observed Ed.

            Scheherazade, oblivious, looked at me and said, “Be more careful sweetie.”

            I very nearly punched them both.

 

*

 

            Later, as I packed for the trip, I thought about it all. The sad thing was that I actually genuinely quite liked Scheherazade. I just couldn’t go out with a girl seen by others as PMA.

An Honest Joke

          My phone rang at midday today and I slowly picked it up, dreading the sight of Tim’s name or even worse, Fiona’s. To my relief it was Scheherazade.

            “I hear you’re going away, Tom.”

            “Indeed I am.”

            “Didn’t think you’d tell me eh?”

            “Oh God. Not you too!”

            “It’s a joke, Tom. You’re your own man; you can do what you like.”

            “Sorry, bad experience.”

            “You can tell me about it tonight. Let’s go out to celebrate your holiday!”

            The idea of celebrating it rather than being abused was appealing. I agreed. I’m off out in a minute. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.

It's All Just a Joke Really

          I had my second date with Fiona tonight. She texted me last night to sort it out. She couldn’t wait until Saturday. She decided we should go to the cinema. I’m not sure why anyone thinks that’s a good idea, especially for a second date. You spend over two hours sitting next to someone who is more or less a stranger, without being able to talk to them. Fine, you can tentatively try to slip an arm around the shoulders, or glance your hand against theirs, but only if you want to. What do you learn? At least I didn’t have to concentrate for that part of the date.

            After the film we went for a drink. After the compulsory discussion of the film she asked me my plans for the weekend.

            “I think I’m going to be doing a fair bit of packing.”

            “Oh, wow! How exciting! Where are you going?”

            “New Orleans.”

            “Wow, how simply lovely. How long are you going for?”

            “I’m not sure, maybe a month.”

            “What? That long?” she said, plainly concerned.

            “Probably.”

            “I see.”

            “Are you okay?” I asked. She seemed to be acting very strangely.

            “Of course,” she said. I watched her. She drew breath. “That is… not exactly. You could’ve told me.”

            “I could?”

            “Yes. Well, you know. We do matter don’t we? I’ll miss you.”

            “Miss me?” I asked, shocked. “You hardly know me.”

            “I know that, but don’t you feel a connection already?”

Sure, I thought, we really got down to the deep and meaningfuls during that film. “It’s okay, I’ll be back before you know it.” Once I’d said it I wasn’t so sure I needed to be encouraging her.

“Why are you going anyway?” she asked, a little petulantly.

I told her all about the adventures and explained this one. I began to notice, towards the end of the explanation, that she’d become very quiet and was shaking slightly.

“Is everything okay Fi?”

“Okay?” she said. “Okay?” she yelled.

“Calm down. I’m sure there’s no need…”

“There’s every bloody need. How can you talk about pursuing another woman right in front of me? Why would you be so cruel as to flaunt it like that in front of me? I thought we had a good thing going!”

“We’ve only had a couple of dates Fiona! Besides, it’s all just a joke really.”

“A joke!”

“The Sharona adventure I mean!”

“You don’t know what you mean, Tom. We’ll see if Timothy thinks it’s all a joke.” And so saying she stormed out leaving me to get home by eleven.

At least that’ll hopefully be the end of that.

Details

          “Alright,” said Ed, on my return home tonight, “I’ve sorted the tickets.”

            “How?”

            “I found some people online who didn’t need them anymore… But they only get us as far as New Jersey. We’ll have to catch the Greyhound from there.”

            “Fine. Been on a train yet?”

            “I do have a job, Evans.”

            “Really?”

            “I promise to do it in America. I’ll try the challenge on every piece of public transport we encounter until I succeed.”

Work, Work, Work!

          Nothing to report today. I’ve just been buried under all the work I have to finish by next week!

My Little Duck

          We decided last night that we’d be leaving for America this coming weekend, so I spent the day today working furiously. I ended up staying in Chambers until around eight. Ed was truly bored by this point so he agreed to come meet me in the pub. Scheherazade was about and managed to invite herself along. I was dubious as to the sense in putting her in the same room as Ed but I resigned myself to it.

            Once inside the local pub and in possession of the appropriate beverage, Ed and I stood at the bar discussing his latest target with Scheherazade.

            “Mate,” I said, at a break in his description of her, “she sounds like more effort than she’s worth.”

            “Ah, my good man, you’re missing the point once again.”

            “Let me guess…”

            “…she’s a hot chick.”

            “Excuse me!” A girl had come over to the bar to order a drink. She’d been standing behind Ed as he’d been talking. At this interruption he turned around.

            “Good evening,” he said, flashing a ridiculously over the top grin.

            “I didn’t wish to engage you in conversation, but rather to inform you that the female of our species is not fowl.”

            “Well now, that all depends on the specimen in question.”

            “I do not mean ‘foul’ as in…”

            “I know,” he replied, laughing. “But either way, you’re wrong.”

            Ed stared at the girl who returned his gaze steadily. She waited for him to explain and he waited for her to ask him to.

            “Explain yourself man!” I interposed, fearful of murder by gaping (in their case) or boredom (in mine).

            “It’s simply a question of culture,” he explained, “when an English man calls a lady a ‘bird’ or a ‘chick’ he is simply demonstrating his cultivated sense of European language and tradition,” he knowingly raised an eyebrow at the girl. “For example, in French one might address a maiden as ‘mademoiselle’ and as you are no doubt well aware that more or less equates to ‘Mrs Bird’ in English. Equally, consider Spanish, in which a girl is a ‘chica’ which sounds suspiciously like ‘chick’ to me! So there you are my dear, I simply sought to emulate our civilised continental cousins who themselves aimed merely to compare the fairer sex with the most graceful and elegant of creatures.”

            Now the girl raised an eyebrow at Ed: not an eyebrow of knowing, but rather one of reckoning. Scheherazade too looked interested; I’m not sure how I felt about that. Ed chose this moment to bugger the thing up completely.

            “So how about it? Fancy a fuck, my little duck?”

            The moment of brief admiration flash boiled away.

            Once out of sight Ed enlightened me: “She wasn’t my type,” and I nearly passed out from shock. “You know,” he continued, changing the subject, “until now I wasn’t sure you were a real lawyer. Aren’t you supposed to work this late every night?”

            “I’m sorry,” I replied, “you had doubts about the reality of my job?”

            “Don’t know what yer on about mate.”

Turbonegro

          The way my clerks have a go when I ask for time off you’d never know I was supposedly self-employed. Alright, I haven’t exactly been the model barrister in the last year, but I’m entitled to be that way. This morning I pushed the boat out and informed them I was taking up to a month off.

            “It eeez an amusing joke,” replied my head clerk, putting on an estuary French accent. “Eeeee cannot be serious.”

            “I think he is, Roger.”

            “No! Eeet cannot be!”

            “I am serious.”

            “I see.” He stared at me for some considerable time, appraising me. “So be eeet.”

            At least he was joking about it. I think.

 

*

 

            “I had a dream!” Ed said, as I walked in this evening. His last song adventure had resulting in our agreement that his next dream would lead us to the next song. “I was on a train with some of the other teachers from my school…”

            “So you do have a school then?”

            “…and I very nearly shagged one of them.”

            “How disappointing for you.”

            “Exceedingly.”

            We went online and searched Google for appropriate song lyrics. We found a band called Turbonegro who’d done a song called ‘Train of Flesh’ which seemed to be pretty much about needing a shag.

            “Well clearly…” Ed began.

            “I know what you’re thinking, Ed, but I can’t help noticing how circular this is. You dream of sex on a train, upon which we base a lyric search, which yields, guess what: a song about having sex on a train. You think this licenses you to go have sex on a train don’t you?” He nodded and grinned. “I don’t think so; the Rules would not approve.”

            “Fuck the Rules, mate.”

            “Dude! Check this out.” I’d found further information about Turbonegro. “A Turbonegro is a large, well-equipped, armed black male in a fast car, out for vengeance. We are his prophets.”

            “Sweet!”

            “Okay,” I said, “here’s how it’ll go. Every time you get on the train from now on you have to look for a chance to shag someone. If, and when, you succeed, you must afterwards say to the girl (or other life form): ‘Thank you. You should know that I did that in the name of the Turbonegro, a large, well-equipped, armed black male in a fast car, out for vengeance. I am his prophet.”

            “It’s on.”

Finding Sharona

“Free will. It’s like butterfly wings: once touched, they never get off the ground. No, I only set the stage, you pull your own strings.”

 – John Milton, The Devil’s Advocate.

 

            “Mate, did you get their number before we were kicked out last night?” Ed said to me, his opening gambit this morning. “Stay, while you’re at it, how did we get home last night, and, finally, why do I have a leaf in my hair?”

            “No; the bus; and… I’ve no idea, maybe you went out sleepwalking.”

            “Always the one with the boring answers eh? I’ll admit it, the leaf was just for effect, I picked it up from the windowsill. The question: what next?”

            “I’m going back to bed,” I said, and I did.

 

*

 

            I woke up a few hours later to the sound of Ed bursting through my door.

            “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “We’re going to find Sharona!”

            “What?”

            “That was the last song last night – My Sharona. We’re going to go find her.”

            “How? Who is she?”

            “Not she, exactly, just a Sharona. We’ll search MySpace and locate one. It’s destiny mate, romance and fate. What’s to think about? Anything has to be better than living your current pathetic single humiliating life.”

            “Thanks for that,” I said. “I’m not convinced,” I said. But I got out of bed and went to the computer with him.

            We looked up My Sharona on Google first and were amazed to discover that The Knack wrote their song about a real girl called Sharona. Moreover, the Sharona, Sharona Alperin, is still very much alive and kicking. Incredibly she’s capitalised on the situation and started a real estate company for rich professionals and stars. Her website even mentions the effect of the song on her life! Smart girl.

            We loaded up MySpace and searched simply for ‘Sharona’. In England there were two pages of hits. We quickly established that these were completely unacceptable. They were either too old, too young or just plain revoltingly ugly. Ed had the predictable urge to require my attendance to one of the totally inappropriate options but I reminded him of his selling stance of ‘destiny and romance’. He allowed my objection and we turned to America, reasoning that the Sharona population there would be rather more extensive. We were right. There were 46 pages of them. We spent some time going through them and eliminating possibilities. Eventually we located two close together in New Orleans. One of them had very scant details on her site, but seemed interesting, despite the lack of a picture. The second was just plain hot.

            “Alright,” said Ed, “that’s that sorted then. When do we leave?”

Wedding Rules Rugby

          “So who are you then?” I asked Ed.

            “Gerald Sotherby, second cousin, once removed, of Frederick Evedon, Lord Evedon’s nephew.” This was in fact a real person; we’d been doing our research. We simply had to pick someone so remote that they wouldn’t, surely, actually be in attendance themselves.

            We were in the pub, practising our identities and building up a reliable store of Dutch Courage. It was only six thirty and the wedding reception wasn’t until eight.

            “What do you do?” Ed asked me.

            “Well, you know, this and that,” I answered, “I attend functions and make sure certain events go down properly, that sort of thing.”

            “Perfect,” said Ed, “no one could doubt your socialite status.”

 

*

 

            At eight o’clock we attended the venue and were rather dismayed to discover a queue there. There were bouncers on the door taking names and referencing them against a guest list. We hadn’t anticipated that.

            “Shit,” I said.

            “I was afraid this would happen,” Ed said. “Time for plan B.”

            “Plan B? What’s that?”

            “Just let me do the talking.”

            “Oh Christ!”

            We got to the door and Ed gave a pair of names I’d never heard of. Sure enough the bouncers parted and we were allowed through without question.

            “Who the hell are we?” I asked, in a hoarse whisper.

            “Cousins of the bride.”

            “We’ll never pull that off!”

            “We’re in, aren’t we? Switch back to Plan A now, and they’ll never work it all out. We’re like criminal geniuses. No, scratch that, I’m a criminal genius and you’re just my fat white sinister cat.” He grinned.

            We wondered around in excitement for half an hour or so, thrilled at the prospect of free champagne and mischievous deception. Reality, as so often, did not live up to expectation. The reception was full of stuffy old people. The novelty of acting a pair of fools soon wore off. Eventually we located two women in their late thirties dressed as spring chickens. We made a bee line for them.

            “Good evening ladies,” Ed said.

            “Hello! And who would you two be? I don’t think we’ve met.”

            “Sotherby?” Ed said, turning to me.

            “Yes, Gerald. That’s you.” I flashed my eyes at him. “I’m Sandy Ross, pleased to meet you.”

            “Gerald and Sandy! Wonderful. I’m Jemima and this is Ellen.” She flashed a grin.

            “Drink then ladies?” said Ed.

            “Well thank you Gerald.”

            “Off you go Sotherby,” he said to me.

            I rolled my eyes and turned to the ladies, “he thinks it’s funny to call me by his name, some silly dominance complex…” but surely enough I went to get the drinks.

            On my return I was amazed to see Jemima’s hand resting lightly on Ed’s waist. He was gesticulating confidently and grinning from ear to ear. I stood next to Ellen and she smiled at me nervously.

            “So how do you know the happy couple?” she asked.

            “Well, we’re first cousins once removed of Lord Evedon’s nephew.”

            “Oh really?” she said. “How exciting!”

            “Isn’t it just.”

            “Well, that’s terrific. Let me see… if I’m the bride’s sister’s husband’s uncle’s daughter, does that make us related?”

            “I don’t know,” I said, a rush of blood and alcohol going to my head, “it rather depends on what you have in mind.”

            “I say!”

            I raised a cockily suggestive eyebrow.

            “We’ve got a couple of real young bucks here Jemima.”

            “Oh darling, don’t think I hadn’t noticed.”

            “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Ed said, slipping into a vulgar accent for the hell of it.

            “No, quite,” said Jemima, “not enough by half.”

            The evening progressed in this ludicrous fashion until the four of us were completely wasted. We’d retreated into a darker corner where Ed had contrived to get his hand most of the way up Jemima’s thigh.

Suddenly the DJ started playing ‘My Sharona’ by The Knack. Ed leapt to his feet and grabbed me by the arm. He dragged me onto the dance floor, which just happened to be empty. He played air guitar and head banged insanely. For a moment I stood there watching him in a state of stupefaction but then the two women came crashing after us and mimicked Ed’s dancing thereby destroying his attempted irony and making him look as though he were making a serious effort. Ed himself either failed to note the aura-shift or simply didn’t care. Something about the situation made me laugh. I let go and followed suit.

At once our scene was disturbed by a loud shout from across the room.

“That’s them!”

We turned instinctively toward the shout and saw two bouncers approaching towards us rapidly. Ed turned to look at me and grinned.

            “Time to cut and run Sotherby. It’s been a delight ladies, look me up sometime – Sandy Ross, at your service.”

            “Don’t go!” they chimed. But it was too late, we were scarpering.

            The next few moments seemed to go in slow motion. Ed turned to the approaching bouncers and set himself, legs and arms spread, like a New Zealand rugby player half way through that intimidation ritual. He extended one arm slowly, then stretched out his fingers, palm up, towards them. They paused out of confused admiration and disgust. Ed suddenly beckoned them in a Matrix-style move. They looked at one another and then started toward him again. I watched on in amazement and noticed that Ellen was clutching my arm. Everyone in the entire room, bride, groom, lordships and all had stopped to watch. There were muffled gasps of horror. Mothers clasped hands over their son’s eyes and scolded them for daring to laugh.

            Ed abruptly broke forward toward the bouncers. He faked to the left and the bouncer on that side went flying past him. The second bouncer made a comic dramatic dive for him. He caught Ed’s ankle at full stretch and Ed went crashing to the ground. The sight brought me back to life. I shook Ellen free and dashed for Ed. The second bouncer was on his feet but I threw champagne in his eyes. The unexpected happened; the two women started beating him with their handbags.

            “Jemima!” shouted an appalled old woman from the sidelines.

            “You can’t stop me now Mother, I’m not a little girl anymore!”

            I could barely take my eyes from this car crash. I span back and saw Ed grappling to free his ankle from the bouncer. I ran past him, sweeping him up by the arm and thereby freeing him. We sprinted out of the place and away down the road.

Dreams

          Ed got home this evening with a black eye.

            There was an awkward moment at first, we hadn’t really spoken since my outburst last night. I broke the tension by laughing at his eye.

            “Mate, no more bets involving Jane, alright? That’s a new rule. It’s now as good as inciting violence, which I understand is against the law.”

            It was my turn to laugh. “Fine,” I said, “but at least tell me you got the next song.”

            “Well, she wasn’t really in the talking mood.”

            “So?”

            “So, she punched me under a billboard. It was advertising The Game’s old album, The Documentary.”

            “How do you know it’s old?” I asked.

            “What do you mean mate? I’m as black as they come. I’m down with all that rude, sick shit.”

            “Right,” I said, “well ‘Dreams’ is clearly the best track on that album so…”

            “Mate! How the fuck do you know that?”

            “I too am down with the rude, sick shit, my nizzle. And further, dog, that song is clearly about following your creative dreams, alongside handing out the props to the most hippety hop characters of history. So, Ed, what’s your dream?”

            Ed had been laughing but this last question stopped him in his tracks. He looked suddenly pensive. He looked up at me. “It’s easy for you to have dreams Tom; you have means.”

            I laughed at him. It was all pure jealousy. “