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// Filed under: Verbiage on Wednesday November 02nd 2005, 3:03 pm I throw my coat on me, and myself out the door. Pulling my coat tight against myself, I stand on the corner, thinking. Throughout the smog, the people mill and wander, vague and faceless, mere constructs of a frustrated mind. Occasionally I half-glimpse a face or an idea I recognise, but the smog seems to be endless. Force of habit makes me reach into my coat pockets for my cigarettes, but they are not there. Swearing loudly, I pat myself down furiously, before realising I don’t really want a cigarette at all. Immensely annoyed with myself, for a reason I don’t quite understand, I shove my hands violently into my pockets. One hand brushes against something rough, and I pull it out. It’s another scrap of paper, torn from the same notebook, and written in the same, steady hand.
Goddamn, I think to myself. Notes, mysteriously appearing in pockets? This just gets more ludicrous by the minute. I fold the paper away again, into my pocket, and check the time on my watch. It’s getting close. Too close. I need plot development, and I need it now. Something grabs me, forces me to look up, across the street. Like a splash of detail in a generic sea, she walks past – the same dame from earlier. Her movements are smooth and assured and she turns to look at me, with eyes that I could swear for a second are the most perfect baby blue. She smiles, wryly, and disappears into the crowd. I stand there on the street corner, dumbstruck, as a wave of nausea slams into me. Around me, the storyline starts to boil and evaporate, plot threads, twists and turns billowing into the smog. If I don’t do something now, this may never end. Gritting my teeth, I make the decision I have to make, and, dragging resolution in my wake, I follow her. The people on the street ebb and flow around us, silent and seemingly sullen as I tail her down the street. She knows I’m there, I’m sure – but she doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t look back once, as she leads me onwards. Eventually she stops, at the mouth of an alleyway. Seemingly afraid of being spotted, she looks around in a wildly over-dramatic fashion, before stepping quickly into the alleyway and vanishing from sight. I sigh inwardly. Oh, please. Not the old vanishing-in-an-alleyway shtick. Knowing exactly how it’s going to play out, I step up to the entrance of the alleyway, and peer around the corner. Just like I expected – it’s a dead end. A pile of urban detritus litters the ground – cardboard boxes, empty beer cans and brown, rotting leaves arranged into haphazard piles by the wind. Of the dame, of course, there is no sign. I step into the alleyway, hands in pockets. “Oh, come on.” “And a good afternoon to you, too,” she says from behind me. If I hadn’t seen this a million times already, I’d probably be startled. As it is, I have to fight to keep the frustration out of my voice. “Vanishing in an alleyway? Reappearing behind someone? Come on. You can do better. You can do a lot better.” “Don’t give me that. You know The Rules.” “The Rules? What makes you think I care about the damn Rules anymore? Have you seen the word-count lately? This is getting out of control. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I need answers and I do not have the time for this!” I go to turn around, but the clack of gunmetal behind me stops me dead in my tracks. A fraction of a second later, the cold metal barrel of a Luger presses itself into the base of my neck, and I swallow hard. “Threatening the main character? Now who’s breaking The Rules?” Her voice is low and insistent. “Be quiet and listen. Behind that pile of crates there, is a door. Through that door, you will find what you’re looking for. You haven’t got a lot of time.” Pages of frustration boil over inside me. “Damn it! Why the hell are you doing this? You’re just a damn plot device! You don’t even have a name!” “I may be just a plot device,” she says, with a note of sadness. “But even a plot device can fall in love.” The cold metal pressure on the back of my neck disappears and silence drops in its place, only the hustle of traffic and the gentle, chill breeze remain. I want to turn around, but I know she won’t be there. I know what I have to do. Walking to the end of the alley, I shove the crates aside to reveal, as promised, a rusty iron door. I press my hands against the rough metal, and push gently. It swings open, creaking with protest, leaving a dark, shadowed doorway. Pulling my coat tight around myself, I step inside. The first thing I notice is the smell. The dark corridor is filled with it, a dank, musty smell, like old paper and dust mixed together. In front of me, a set of wooden stairs ascends into the darkness and, seeing nowhere else to go, I climb up them, to find myself face to face with another door. From beyond it, muffled conversation filters through. I bend down, put my ear to the door, and listen. “No, no, no! It’s not meaningful enough! Where’s the symbolism? Symbolism!” “I… I’m sorry, I just – I just can’t.” “Can’t? What do you mean, can’t? You listen to me, boy. I better see some new insight into the bleak existence of humanity in a desolate and uncaring universe soon, or there will be hell to pay!” “But I – ow! Ow! My grades! Stop it!” I’ve heard enough. Powered by a fury I didn’t know I had, I put my foot to the door and boot it open, splinters flying from the doorframe as the door is flung inwards. Inside I see my worst fears. Chained to a small desk is a dishevelled, bleary-eyed figure, his face sprouting weeks worth of stubble and holding a pen limply in his hand. The desk is covered in sheet upon sheet of paper, piled in haphazard stacks and spilling onto the cold stone floor. Behind him stands a beret-wearing monster, a thin, ascetic figure whose neat, fastidious, art-house-moustached face I know all too well. He looks down his perfect little spectacled nose at me, and sneers. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t our protagonist.” “Leave the boy alone, Professor. He doesn’t deserve this.” “Oh, spare me your moralising, you pathetic construction of last-minute creativity. Fools like you are always standing in the way of the Fine Arts! By the time I’m finished with this student, he’ll be seeing phallic symbolism in everything, and there’s nothing you can do about it!” Angry beyond words, I take a step closer, my fists clenched. “Uh-uh-uh,” he says, holding up a piece of paper. I recognise it instantly, and stop dead. It’s the final marking sheet for the class. “You bastard. You wouldn’t dare.” “Wouldn’t I?” he says, popping a slim, pretentious cigarette into his mouth and lighting it up. “Take another step closer, and I’ll fail him. I’ll fail them all.” My shoulders slump, the anger draining out of me. “That’s better,” he says, stepping closer, blowing a cloud of smoke in my face. He smiles indulgently as I cough. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn around, right now, and leave. And if I see you anywhere near the Arts in the future, well…” Suddenly I feel something thrust into my hand. The dishevelled figure chained to the desk is looking at me, eyes afire, and he nods, almost imperceptibly. I look down at my hand. He’s given me a heavy paperback book. The unit reader. The Professor halts in mid-sentence. “Oh, no,” he says, as I swing the heavy book in a wide arc, connecting heavily with his jaw. His glasses fly off into the darkness and he is flung backwards, slamming into the wall with a satisfying crunch and sliding to the floor, unconscious. I throw the book at his sprawled body. “And they all lived happily ever after”, I mutter, disgusted. Suddenly I remember the figure at the desk, and whirl around. He’s already standing up, the shackles falling away as he walks over to me. He’s wearing a thin, stained shirt and looks very cold. Without quite knowing why, I give him my coat. “Thankyou, Tim,“ he says as he slips the coat on, in one smooth, practiced movement. It fits him perfectly. “…Tim? But you–” “Me? Hah, no. You mean you hadn’t worked it out by now?” I shake my head, confused. He laughs, a cynical, jaded sound as he pulls out a packet of cigarettes from my coat pocket and lights one up, taking a long, deep pull on it. “Well, I guess we can’t all be detectives.” He looks at me for a while, a long, appraising gaze. “You did well, son. Don’t worry about it.” He stops, looks down at his watch. “Damn. I’d better get back to the office. Here. This is for you.” A wad of papers is thrust into my hand. “Listen, take care. I’ll see you around.” Turning on his heel, coat flying out behind him, he walks out of the room, tipping his hat to someone I can’t quite see on the way out. Then, like a long-lost memory, she enters the room, smiles at me. “Hello, Tim,” she says, her baby-blue eyes sparkling. “I’ve missed you.” “Hello…” I say, breathless. She hands me a pen. “What do I do with this?” I say, already knowing the answer. “You know what you need to do,” she says. “You’ve been doing it for pages, already.” I look down at the pieces of paper the strange, dishevelled figure gave to me before he left. It’s a detective-mystery, and it’s a damn good one, too. I sit down at the desk, and I finish the story. // 6 Comments
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Liz says:
November 2, 2005 at 7:45 pm
Edminster says:
November 3, 2005 at 5:29 am
Tinkling_Koala says:
November 3, 2005 at 7:01 am
Doomy says:
November 5, 2005 at 5:06 am
t3h (h4r says:
November 10, 2005 at 2:59 pm
Jim(i) says:
December 5, 2005 at 7:24 pm