Out in the middle of the forest somewhere. Probably can’t see it from
the air, GPS and cellphone both say “nuh-uh”. Completely overgrown with
greenery yet it looks like a town square, flat stone flags lying at odd
angles, corners pushed up by knobby, hairy tree roots like Gandalf’s
dick. Obviously old Roman work, aside from the stone benches, which look
like preformed concrete mixed with crushed seashells. The place isn’t so
buried in growth that people don’t come out here to feed the pigeons,
except they’re raptors of all kinds – eagles, small clouds of
gnat-falcons, a clique of buzzards sourly muttering over the latest All
Ordinaries index. Bad news. Bad news. A single Secretary-bird, stalking
the students who sit in a circle around the best bench in the square, a
circle (ten yards in diameter) in a square (eleven yards along a side).
None of them have the cojones to get any closer to –
– the man –
He’s The Man, obviously. Neat white Van Dyke beard, mirrorshades;
dressed in immaculate white linen, fedora, Powell Peralta Mark Gonzalez
skateboard under one bare foot, ready. Feeding long, stringy scraps of
raw meat to the buzzards with one hand. Sipping espresso from a
Torrefazione Italia mug stained with dried blood. When a student dares
get too close, The Man whips a strand of meat at the kid and the
buzzards swarm in, squawking and screeching loud enough to cover the
screams.
The Man has the look of a monument, a professor whose feet and shins are
so securely set in eternal tenure that he can say or do anything he
pleases. An imprudent young miss unbuttons the top of her starched white
chemise to expose part of what looks like a “Jungle Wa Itsumo Hare Nochi
Guu” t-shirt. The Man glares at her and she turns to a pillar of salt
wearing a “Jungle Wa Itsumo Hare Nochi Guu” t-shirt.
I drift around the edge of the circle and stand just behind salt girl,
pretending to examine the gore-streaked ribcages, Ipod cables, mossy
skulls, Doc Martens, shit-smeared colour comics, condoms and cracked
femurs that are strewn about while regarding The Man out of the corner
of my eye. He’s working up to something; I can tell.
“First,” he mutters; the birds fall silent; the students hold their
collective breaths.
“No… before first. Berashith: you’re all stupid. Get used to it.” A
couple of nods in agreement over this. He smiles and nods back. “Eh
bien! We make some progress. First, then, you need some regularity in
your sleep. Forget that ‘staying up until four in the morning’ schtuss;
it’s screwing with your brains. Second: too much crap in your diet.
Sugar, grease, saturated fats. Get rid of it. Third, you have the worst
possible taste in music. Fourth, no dress sense. Fifth, you all follow
each other around.”
His voice rises to a stridently tenor bray. “You can NOT get above
yourselves by imitating each other. You need to look outside your
piddling little peer groups, read something new.” Aside, to the buzzard
perching on the end of the bench, he says in Gilbert Gottfried accent
“Did I mention da bit about sleeping right? Yeh-yeh.”
He flings the empty mug at salt girl. Her head and right shoulder snap
off and shatter on the flagstones. Throws his head back and shrieks to
the circle of sky formed by the edges of the forest. “DYNAMIC TENSION!
SHAKE YOUR OWN HAND! DON’T WATCH LATE NIGHT TELEVISION! FUCK YOU IF YOU
CAN’T TAKE A JOKE!”
He calms down somewhat, takes a few deep breaths. Someone (not me) emits
a brief fart. “If you work hard you will be utterly innocent as you
sleep. No-one breaks the law as they sleep. No-one argues. No-one
fights. When the sun sets, you won’t find ME in bed.”
Uh, what?
“All night long I look in the mirror and ask myself: How long can you
stay awake this time? Have I got enough coffee? Is there any speed left?
WHERE IS THE REMOTE CONTROL?”
The assembled students murmur in admiration. I carefully lean to one
side and throw my voice, pitched post-adolescent squeaky, and ask
“What’s the LD-50 for caffiene, anyway?” (God! The way it comes out, I
may as well have said “gottle o’ geer”). Doesn’t matter – he hears, and
The Man pitches a conniption fit, grabbing the nearest birds to hand and
throwing them at the students, railing almost incomprehensibly at their
stupidity and lack of style. Feathers fly. He falls to the ground, lies
on his back spitting and kicking and drumming his fists on the stone,
caterwauling like a ninety pound baby with dinosaur colick.
Ohhhhhh-kay. I back away slowly as the epileptiform motion gets faster,
his arms and legs blurring, and then he explodes in a shower of grey
dust and dessicated bone fragments which arc out in all directions. The
dust settles. The birds have scattered. The students are completely
confused.
What a performer.
