Distracted Times
written by: David Milner
The sky was a massive slab of coal. No stars in sight. His little face illumined by the pinch of light from his phone, he licked his dry, tired lips.
my narcisits – the word bringing succour – she only contacs when
she want something like money ok i say i understand she is
biutiful I always wait for her to make up mind now she tell
police on me that I follow her to work when I don’t know wer she
work. That I hit her in street she says she has witness that I
kick her shin and ankels she tell lies to the courts to get me
deported Then she still send photos not nakeds in bikini and
thong licking lollipop. Is fun She is confused she say she wats
to love me. I am ill she is all time in my head
“What the hell are you doing?” The voice startled Dorin, “You’re not paid to be on the phone!”
“I sorry…I need…” Dorin faced the fat man with the crooked face. In two years now, he could never remember the name this supervisor had, was Bob or Rod or Nob, or God! Last week, one night coming into the shift, he’d asked the geezer, just being friendly, how his lovely wife was doing? Hahaheehe
“What you laughing at?” The fat man had his big fists on his fat hips. Dorin worried that his thoughts were running loose.
“Sorry, my father he tex me joke….”
“Mate, forget it, put the phone away – that. That!” The fat man pointed twice at the floor polisher, “…is what you are doin’ now.”
Dorin drew the cuff of his sleeve across his mouth, put the phone in the pocket of his blue overalls. A tune rang out…from fat man’s top pocket. “Crack on, you,” he said at Dorin before answering it. Then he turned and walked silent on his rubber-soled shoes, big-talking into the phone. Dorin would have spat on the floor, but he be the one to clean it. And everyone say fat man was a piece of shit. Bought his wife from internet, a Latvian, and he beat her ass. Yeah so. The fat goose had a wife.
The lightweight FP 303 floor polisher vibrated little Dorin across the dancefloor of death…. Hahaheehe. Bye bye baby baby bye bye.
Resembling a figure drawn in charcoal coming to some form of life, Dorin stepped off the bus. His bicycle stolen by scumbags, he was forced to use the public transport to and from his various work sites. His hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark (second-hand) Helly Hansen, the short collar up over his boyish ears, head bowed and wet at the nostrils, he shuffled his weary legs toward the beacon of light coming from the mini mart. He needed food and drink. He breathed in the cold, damp air, shifted his eyes like a nocturnal woodland creature looking for predators or prey. A couple of bodies in the distance. A car passed, Uber maybe taking someone home after a good night. Nothing to worry about. Images of home, of family, of Papa, came to his mind. He had many of Papa’s recipes, simple things, Balmos, Drob de Miel, Jumari to make his mouth water. Oh, Pappy, no time, no fucken pots and pans! Hahaheehe.
Dorin would be thirty-two on his next birthday. Papa, at this age, was married to Mama, and they had three daughters. Dorin came later, baby of the family. Time was running out on Dorin to keep a woman to call his own. Papa was seventy years now, and looking old since Mama had died, but he had a woman. Friend from old days to clean house, share his food… share his bed.
There were several people, at first glance eight or nine, in the shop, which was unusual this early hour of the day. Abdul was behind the counter, and the one they called Geronimo, serving a tattooed guy tobacco. He could smell disinfectant chemicals, and this pleased him. The Asian dudes had a good business here. In this area full of scumbag druggies, they kept the place clean. So tired now he couldn’t close his hands to make fists, Dorin shuffled, unnoticed, to the refrigerated shelves where the packaged meat and pies were. He picked up two pies, meat and potato, like always in this walking dream, knew he’d eat one of them cold, put the other in the micro when he got back… Hahaheehe. Then he heard a voice. It was the voice she used when she wanted something. The voice as real as she was real. Lisa, like the hiss of a snake. Lisa. Sometimes she used another name. Dorin put the two pies back on the cold shelf.
She was at the counter trying to get something for nothing, some favour out of Abdul. Lisa had the dark magic skills. Shielded by a rotating rack of greeting cards abutting the magazine shelves, Dorin kept a worried eye on the proceedings. Blonde hair close to her scalp in the black-woman style, she was wearing blue denim jeans and a light-coloured canvas jacket too big for the size of her. She was small all over. Older than she looked. The type of body he craved and ached for. So obvious now, the cornrow-ho with help of some junkie boyfriend or pimp had stolen his bike. Revenge, for that night when things went so wrong, no fault of his own. Grinding his teeth, Dorin watched. No use confronting her. Lisa’s people carried blades and screwdrivers. They were takers, take and more take. He was better than this fucken scum. Dorin had plans, ideas, they… had stolen his Triban 700 road bike. No brains, they would have sold it for drug money. No police involved, too many questions.
All he had wanted was to reach out with kindness. She was always around, going with Kurds, Somalians, do anything you want, people said. Dorin was only wanting what she was willing to give. Like quid pro quo, help each other.
The rain was heavy that night, back in the summer. After a shift office cleaning that finished early, kind of midnight. She was standing in some shop doorway, arms folded, staring at the rain. Dorin circled on his bike. The rain stopped. He bought pizza, all the toppings, French fries, coleslaw, cans of cider for her, Dorin had his Grolsch, and a big bar of Galaxy for pudding. A midnight feast, she said. Dorin was a vampire, from Transylvania, living by night! Was nice. At the flat, he put the heating on, so that Lisa could have a hot bath, much water as she liked, no problem.
They should have had sex before the spice. Before he’d handed over fifty pounds. It was the Spice. He didn’t know this poison. Thought it was normal smoke. Everything turned to shit so fast. Like heart attack. The cornrow-ho laughing, putting her clothes back on, laughing in his face. He stuffed pizza into her mouth to shut her up. Grabbing her neck, shaking it, dragging her from the flat. Out of his mind.
He watched her now. Not so hard, remembering the nicer part to that night. Abdul was smiling at her, shaking his head. Her charm not working on him. Then she was leaving the shop. What was the use hiding? Hiding on the street? He would not confront her. What was done is done. The stolen bike, the spice, nothing but misunderstanding, forgotten… They could be friends, no? He’d say Hi, ask if she had pills for sale. Trembling with determination, Dorin crossed the linoleum, passing the counter. He heard one of the guys calling, “Hey, Dorry…” as he left. Dorin quickened his pace, called her name, put his right hand to her left shoulder. She turned toward him. He did not hear what she said. The blow to the back of his head sent him to nowhere but the thwack of his right knee, breaking his fall on the concrete. He heard the words, “Dirty Albanian Pervert.”
…..Dorin is on the top deck of the night bus, three seats from the front he sits. He is eating a tuna sandwich. A blur of passengers on their feet, closing the windows, but the choking mist is coming in, more and more… the mist forms into a shape that is almost human….
“Little man… hey, can you hear me…?” Looming above him the giant Geronimo, his long black hair shinning like silk. Dorin tried to speak through his tingling lips.
“Oh…Oha…”
“I’ll phone for an ambulance, yeah, Dorry?”
“Your hair is so nice.” Dorin said, his left arm tangled in the strap of his shoulder bag as Geronimo helped him to his feet.
“Come into the shop. We’ll get you an ambulance.”
“No… No need… I okay… hahahee.”
“You’re bleeding from the back of your head, Dorry.”
Dorin felt a rush of warmth near his left ear. Voices floated around him. A car passing pumping techno. Geronimo’s long hair shinning like silk. The bright light in the shop warmed Dorin’s heart as Geronimo gently lead the way to the counter. Abdul was speaking at him now…
“Shouldn’t mess with that skank… she’s bad news all day long.”
“I didn’t touch her.” Dorin heard himself saying, “It was the Spice.”
“He needs ambulance… hospital treatment…” Geronimo said to Abdul.
“No. No ambulses… need bandage for head, I can put myself on, no problem.” The two men looked to one another as Dorin continued, “…from first aid training with Saint Joan’s ambulsance.”
“It’s a proper gash, mate,” said Abdul.
“Cunt wears signet rings, innit.” Said Geronimo to his colleague.
“A bandage, please, and packet of Nurofen and cans of Grolsch.”
Pressing a handful of tissue paper against the back of his left ear, little Dorin limped up the steady gradient towards the place where he lived. He could hear the rattle of tin in his shoulder bag – something to smile about! Hahaheehe. He took two Nurofen. At the flat there was lots of codeine. A thin, grey-haired Rasta man was passing. He stopped at Dorin’s side. Then handed him a slim leaflet before moving on. Dorin looked at the leaflet: on the front, a white cross and in black the words, Purpose of Life.
“Righteous.” The man called out.
Dorin stuffed the leaflet into his right-sided pocket. He crossed his fingers for luck.
Scum. Was right he’d show the scums. At the door of flat C, searching in his pockets for the key; the flats this block going letter G… G String, hahaheehe… Last month for him, now rents increase messing with his plans. He’d show these scums. Working three jobs on five hours to sleep. Four jobs counting eBay and marketplace business always nice profit turning. Dorin fucken saw a deal. Building up capital… his ideas, his plans. His purpose in life.
He’d show the spice girl bitch. Door open. Show them all.
Closed the door with his back against it. Then he passed out.
Daylight was no barrier to sleep. Exhaustion was the barrier to sleep. His mind not shutting down correctly. Dorin stands by the rectangle-shaped window facing east, in the 15 by 11 feet – so the lettings agent say – of his living room. Last month for him now rents increase messing with his plans. Watching his neighbours coming awake this time of morning. Same man same dog he walks. The window (he thought) vibrating to the sound of a train; maybe himself vibrating full of codeine and Dutch best lager, hahaheehe… he moves rightwards through the string curtain of beads into the tiny kitchen. Annoyed, because he didn’t know what had happened to the meat pies he had bought? He opened the door of the fridge, got a can of Grolsch, his second now so far. He had passed out at the door. Dorin put his fingers to the back of his left ear, congealed blood that felt like plastic, picked at it, idly, blood on his fingers. Dirty hands, he had not washed, fuck it. He drank from the tin can. No working today. A handful more of the codeine… not fit to work today. If Zicky the builder ring, I don’t be answering… not today, too fucked…
“Why is shower bust all the time?” Francesca demanded.
“It just is, love,” Chloe replied, and knew what was coming next.
“It’s him, stupid with the eyes,” Francesca twisted the left side of her mouth and began to jerk her hands and wrists, adding, “he breaks it.”
There was little point reminding Francesca that the person she was imitating was suffering with Bell’s Palsy.
“Hold your nose, get in the tub for once, girl.”
“I hold more than my nose. I put my body in that dirty thing.” The neurotic princess was on form this morning. Chloe roared with laughter.
“And you walk around this place in bare feet, Chloe.”
“I’m hardly a leper!”
“It is not hygienic for you. Over hallways up and down stairs.”
Chloe sighed and ran her eyes over the long-legged, pretty thing standing in the doorway to her top-floor bedsit. “You fancy a cup of coffee, girl?
Perched on the edge of Chloe’s armchair, door keys between her pale, slender fingers, Francesca looked as though she were about to say the rosary.
“What do they want… these producers? …Be myself? Who else can I be?”
At the small worktop by the sink, pouring boiled water from a kettle into the cafetiere, Chloe silently shook her head. There was no easy or ready answer to console the poor mare. In Chloe’s opinion, Francesca was a perfect candidate for just about every reality show going. She had the requisite amount of self-absorption. She had the looks; her skin was alabaster smooth to die for (the bitch!), she had the desperation that passes for, or presupposes, malleability. Maybe she was too self-conscious? The camera picks up on such things…
“Café au lait, my dear.”
“Merci, ma Cherie,” replied Francesca.
Her deep blue eyes created the illusion that she was looking right through you to something more interesting or salient to her needs; vacant one moment, then piercingly cold as though she were calculating your weight and worth down to the very last penny you owned.
“Are you rehearsing tonight, or…” Chloe opened, though Francesca wasn’t listening.
“I’m always myself. Always. Would you not agree with this, Chloe?”
“Definitely. As you said, babes, who else would you be?”
Within a few days of moving into the property, it was patently clear, though hardly surprising, that Francesca was lonely for female company. In the six months since, Chloe had grown fond of the part-time model / actress / dancer / fledgling influencer. They’d spent many a night slagging off men generally, and women specifically. Francesca plotting up with a bottle of Bacardi, which she hardly touched herself, likewise the Ganja, saying she was stoned by the fumes alone. It was catty fun all the same, weaving their “witchery tales”, sharing personal narratives, and fuck-loads of Dick Pics. Francesca’s family were Catholic, though she insisted that they were descended from an aristocratic line of Prussian protestants and she had been named after a great, great aunt – a mezzo soprano who married an Italian duke (there were old photographs somewhere). In all these months, she had never mentioned her parents. Not once.
“I thought we might go out.”
Her skin soft and lucent against the dull rooftops and cold grey skies, evoking the image of a poverty-stricken Polish princess in exile, Francesca was standing at the window, coffee cup cradled in her hands.
“Where out?”
“With Jonathan.”
“Oh, him the Shrink.”
“He’s an occupational therapist!”
“He wants to get into my mind, and my pants!” Francesca cackled, turning her head from the window.
“You said he was sexy.”
“He’s a nice piece of ass, I said.”
“That’s a start…and he’s getting crazy about you, girl.”
“Crazy about me, I can do without right now. And why we only go out with him, Chloe?”
Francesca’s eyes firmly focused now, protecting the terrain of her psyche against friends and foe alike.
“Well, the offer still stands,” Chloe replied, as she shuffled in her socks to the sink.
“I am rehearsing tonight.”
Dismissing Francesca as a pretentious wannabe would have been easy. And wrong. Behind all the truly camp attributes Francesca (perhaps unknowingly) possessed there was a cold determination, and an almost otherworldly sense of entitlement that was… quite spooky.
Chloe hadn’t introduced Francesca to her girlfriends.
Numb all over, which meant also numb to the cold of the flat, Dorin, wearing his sexy Calvin Klein boxer shorts, grey woollen socks, and an old Eminem tee shirt, nestled his arse into the coarse fabric of the multi-coloured super-sized bean bag he’d bought on a shopping trip (with Francesca) to Ikea. For her that day, he had bought scented candles and a big duvet. She was having her period, he remembered. Always excuses… for him. It was 09:17 flashing red on the digital clock, and Zicky hadn’t phoned. Dorin swigged from his can of Grolsch, popped another codeine. He picked up his phone from the small plastic table at his side. This time, she would be at the posh family house where she worked. There was no answer. He didn’t leave a message. He stared at the two cardboard boxes packed with business leaflets in the corner of the room. All to be delivered by the weekend. And fucken would be! Dorin had an uncompromising attitude to work which matched the uncompromising attitude all the shits he worked for expected.
Now he opened his Dell laptop, already his heart rate quickening…. logged on consciousness shift ctrl to his inner being….
Papa would not understand this.
My narcissist demands that I wear boots
when we have sex. Our thing is SPECIAL???
Dorin pressed the palm of his right hand onto his bald pate, held his tongue between his teeth because this could be a man faking as a woman….
Yes, I comply. I enjoy having sex with him. Look forward to it.
When I suggest that I remove the boots???
I’M BEING BORING. Frigid. Like I’m the one with a problem.
He comes on my boots (natch!)
Sometimes only one. We watch as the semen trickles.
He watches as I wipe and clean.
Long as it’s CONSENSUAL!!!
Dorin was horny for boots, leather, suede, zips buckled plastic any fucken boots…
O.E.D definition – Fetish (psych.) abnormal stimulus, or object,
of sexual desire. My Narcissist is a manipulative, charismatic,
sexual predator obsessed with asserting authority.
I am a dog beckoned to his whistle.
Dorin did not understand every word of this posting, was not for sure who had sent it, did not care. He relaxed his body into the super-sized bean bag, slid his boxer shorts to his knees. Donald Trump even Andrew Tate said damaged crazy women were the best fucks.
Come on my boots…
Francesca was sitting on the lower deck of a bus which was taking her to Crouch End, or as she had christened it, Cracowchend. She liked to take the seat situated above the back wheel as it was a little elevated. She felt safer, less panicky on the lower deck. It meant she was nearer the driver, so that any attentions from stupid men could be dealt with quicker. She also reasoned that a terrorist type of stupid would naturally take the top deck, and just maybe this would give her a better chance of survival. It was a strategy; enough to turn down the stress of travelling on a bus, enough to keep down the internal rage she felt towards the coughs and stinks of other people. The world passed by the same.
Her phone had started to vibrate in the small leather handbag she was clutching on her lap. This would be a call from the Beth Frobisher. And the Beth Frobisher was going to wait. No need to answer the call, just to speak with Beth and tell her she was running late. It was school holiday time. For Bonfires Night, or whatever they were celebrating this week? Adam was not at his little school. Lucy was just two years. Like it would kill the woman to spend ten minutes more with her young children? Harry, Beth’s eldest from her first marriage spent his time half and half between his father’s house in Highgate and Beth’s. Harry was fifteen. And could not keep his big brown eyes off her… Oh, she flirted with him, a little, a little. Where
was the harm in this? She would always smile with thoughts of Harry; like going up to his room to masturbate, fantasising about her. It was a natural thing.
The heels of her black leather bootees clacking efficiently on the pavement, Francesca checked her phone as she approached the double-fronted house that was home to Martin and Beth Frobisher. Beth hadn’t phoned. No. Beth was standing, arms folded, at the bay window, looking out, her dyed blonde hair swirled to an ice cream peak. Francesca gave a little wave from the short path leading to the front door. The wave was not returned. Beth had vanished. And appeared, opening the door, smiling fresh breath, the usual pleasant words exchanged. Francesca stepped into the delicate warmth of the Frobisher house and, like a wind-up toy, she was removing her bootees – a strict house rule, this – by the third step. She could hear an unfamiliar voice booming from the kitchen. Beth was also speaking, “The bus diverted, I expect, all the roads dug up for no good reason.” Then, “All is well.” Like it was a statement from the government. And why would things not be well? In this warm, large house, with its five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a husband making big money in the finance world.
“They are divine, Francesca!” Beth’s large brown eyes (like her son Harry’s) fixed for a breath on the cute bootees. The booming voice in the kitchen, now joined by the noise of the children singing wheels on the bus go. Proud of her eye for footwear, Francesca replied, “I bought them at weekend, from Selfridge store, Oxford Street, wasn’t going to wear them today but could not resist, Beth.”
“They’re lovely – never out of fashion, the ankle boot.” Francesca curtly nodded approval. Beth had modelled back in her day, so they were sisters in this. “Come through to the kitchen, darling.” Beth’s backside was way too big for the skiing pants; like so skin-tight you could see the cellulite? True, she had lost the bulging weight after giving birth to Lucy, thanks becoming to the dance workouts and pelvic floor exercise Francesca had put her through. Back to size 12 now, Beth Frobisher was looking… and big bums were the thing now.
“This is Francesca, I don’t think you have met, have you?” Beth was introducing the nanny to her friend, as Francesca stepped into the open space of the kitchen, the biggest kitchen she’d ever known; it was homely, so Beth had said, and it shone so magazine style with all the best things.
“Hi there, it’s Pamela,” the friend was saying, waving her fat hand.
“Francesca,” said Francesca, inwardly recoiling, like to ward off something diabolic and, recoiling more at her own cowardly revulsion, managed to say with a smile, “Pregnant?”
“Eight months gone,” Beth said.
“And not before time!” said the friend. Both women laughed, while Francesca made a sound approximate to laughter: a piggish snort that hurt the inside of her nose. The boy was in a corner of the large kitchen, on the floor, in his own world with a Transformer toy. And the little doll, Lucy, having climbed off the wooden chair she’d been standing and singing on, was now tottering toward her, “Famca Famca spayt oggie… ock…”
Whoops and words a swirl of noise bouncing off the kitchen walls, (And please no, do not let this woman friend of Beth ask me to touch that belly).
“Spayt oggie Famca… spayt oggie ock…”
“Are you taking your dance class this evening, Francesca?”
“She’s very pretty, Beth, striking resemblance to Marion Cotillard.”
“The actress who played Edith Piaf?”
Francesca’s strange, primal feelings were not directed towards the woman. No, it was not that.
“Francesca is a dance tutor….”
“Yes, you mentioned.”
Eight months? Eight months. A body living in the womb. The body pulled out of all shape, and maybe never getting back to shape? The struggle on hot days breathing for two. The stitching. She had compassion. Compassion and desperate pity for all women.
“It’s not for people with learning disabilities, as such, am I right, Francesca? Francesca?”
“No, it’s not,” Francesca replied quietly. She needed a long drink of cold water. Martin and Beth were not buying bottled water. It was water from the tap now, filtered into a jug.
“Some of them have drug addictions. Substance misuse.” Beth Frobisher continued.
“I see, I see, very good.” The friend nodded.
“Isn’t that right, Francesca?”
“No. Some, yes, but not my students, Beth.” Francesca opened the door of the fridge freezer.
“Spayt oggie ock Famca,” the little doll was clinging to her right leg.
“Stop that, come away, Lucy.”
“Oh, she fine… my legs are strong, Beth.”
“Dancer’s legs!” Beth’s friend said.
“Oh, to be that slim, again….”
“I can’t remember that far back.”
“But she doesn’t blooming well eat, Pamela.”
Oh, and here it is, smiled Francesca, pouring the filtered water into a glass tumbler, here is Beth Frobisher going to be telling her she can eat some of the leftovers, from some dinner party whatever, like the vegetarian lasagne, or moussaka….
“Spayt oggie ock… spayt oggie ock…”
Yes, they will be reading from the little book called Space Dog Shock, when Beth and Pregnant finally left the house. Reading it, singing it, dancing it, even the boy, Space Dog Shock all over the soft fat furniture; but first she was getting her sweet ass under that hot, sexy shower!
With the bandage neatly wrapped on his wounded head, Dorin studied his reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. He was washed and shaved and sprayed with the Lynx all over, hahaheehe. Things were not so bad. What did he owe the world now, but his true self? And the bandage on his head was giving him an idea: he would wear the trendy, stylish jacket he’d bought from the charity shop in Victoria; and put with the dark slim fit trousers from H and M Francesca had once said she liked him wearing. He would go to her, to the community centre where she held her dance steps to a better you class.
Propelled through the mesolimbic pathway of his brain, this warrior for love goes forth.
Wearing black retro leotards and matching part wool part polyester leg warmers, Francesca and Richard were limbering up before the rehearsal began in earnest. The other performers (in the troupe) were scheduled to arrive later.
“So, I still wait to meet her friends.”
“Apart from Nice…”
“Apart from Nice Ass works NHS, yes.”
“And… this after… how many…?”
“Richard, head not so forward…”
“O… kay.”
“…make your belly button and chin…”
“Align?” Richard offered, feeling less than flexible or unified with this Himalayan yogic exercise.
“This is six months now.”
“It’s a matter of compatibility.”
“Is what?”
“Many people curate their social lives…”
“Yes?”
“And in the company of her… more established girlfriends your very being, Franca, might pose a threat.”
“A threat? Like I am going to devour her friends?”
“In a sense…”
“Like I’m a lesbian vampire?” The lithesome young woman whooped with laughter.
“You have a confrontational personality, darling.”
“This I like, Richard!”
“Have a go with Nice Ass NHS. Get him to spend a bit of money….”
“Fuck his brains out. Steal his Pin number.”
“You don’t have to go that far, you dirty cow!”
Overflowing with joy, Francesca clapped her hands, lifted her right leg through a battlement jete, and straddled Richard’s long slim back, “I’m Ice, Ice Baby…” she sang, note perfect!
“God ‘elp us!” Richard intoned.
The two friends laughed spontaneously, and rolled across the exercise mat, onto their backs wriggling their arms and legs like children playing beetles… a firework exploded in the dark sky above…
And Francesca gave thanks to the stars (dziekuze gwiazdom) for bringing Richard Merry into her life. This tall, distinguished-looking man was her acting tutor, her mentor, and more than this, she had told him often, he was her Guru. She did not try to analyse Richard. He was an actor of experience in the classics, in Chekov, Strindberg, with film and television credits to his name. (Could be IMDB’d!). Francesca felt she had made a connection, something beyond the everyday. Working on a show with Richard was a kind of deliverance… Justice tasting sweet for all the crap she had been through, with the haters, and trolls, the stupid men in her world. Whatever happened with this show, wherever it was going, she was in it! She felt like a presence to herself. Crazy. She was the lead role!!! And if Richard was prepared to believe in her, then why burden herself (and fellow performers) with doubt.
The ground floor of the building was hexagonal in shape. The first floor was circular, of pale coloured wood and glass, like a gazebo. Several windows of shapes and sizes shedding light across a small concourse, dotted with blue metal benches and raised, red brick flowerbeds. Dorin figured the architect was Scandi whatever. Two nights a week – Dorin had checked online – the community centre stayed open till later in the evening for the classes. Different classes and activities, one class even for knitting. It was mainly women. A refuge-type place. The only other time when Dorin had visited he did not feel welcome. This time he would walk straight up to reception, head high, eyes front, tell them who he was and for what he was there. He had no mind to cause trouble, did he, like set the place on fire? The fireworks exploding in the night sky might do that anyways! Hahaheehe.
Dorin had time. No matter where, what his destination, Dorin was early. Just something he was. He’d bought a tuna tomato baguette and four miniature bottles of Smirnoff. Francesca did not like the smell of alcohol. Dorin figured he’d be okay with vodka. He sat on one of the metal benches, his feet barely touching the concrete beneath, and ate his big tuna baguette ravenously. He opened two of the bottles, clasped them in his left fist, and threw back his head to swallow the liquid heat. Good times. People crisscrossed his path. None of them much noticed the sky full of colour and sparks as random fireworks exploded from where Dorin could not say, all directions, balconies, rooftops, gardens… One geezer, tall cockney in suit shirt tie stopped before him, “A’right, Napoleon… how’s it goin’?” he laughed. Dorin laughed back, opened another miniature, “Good times!” The geezer walked away laughing… whoosh fizz crack boom.
“My name is Dorin Dragavei, I am here to see Francesca Danza, please.” Dorin announced, trying to stop his eyes becoming totally fixed on the Japanese, twenty-year-old, dark, shiny hair, straight sexy fringe like a Manga babe. The other woman on reception desk was a Beanie hat, nothing more.
“Ah, yes,” the Japanese girl smiled, straight at him, “you here for rehearsals?” She asked, still with the smile. And for what? For Rehearse she say? Maybe this girl’s English not so good. Dorin lifted himself taller onto his toes and began again…
“My name is Dorin Draga.”
“Room Three, you’re after.” The Beanie hat interrupted waving her left arm, “Down the corridor. Room Three.”
“Yes, Thankyou… I am go there now…”
Dorin heard the music, and his heart sank. One Direction! One Erection is what Dorin thought. Music for teenage girls. What was it with Francesca and the boy bands? She is Thirty-Three!
The silly music setting him on edge, Dorin held his wounded little head to the narrow window of the door. And what he saw, gripped him with terror. Where was… Why is… No women? Abominably captivated, his staccato breath smudging the small glass pane… What kind of dance class is this? Old men. Strange old men. Francesca was wearing a black cap, her ponytail whipping across her shoulders as she swayed and grinded her vagina moves, in a black leotard cut high to the hips and low over her small pointy breasts. A tall, grey-haired man, fifty years old, Gay, wearing exac same leotard as Francesca’s, right up his ass crack, making exac same vagina moves? Next to him a very black man, fat, sixty, same leotard, same fucken moves. Dorin was getting short of breath, could not tear his eyes from the strangest one; the strangest man in the floppy blonde wig, moving like a total gay in silver boots; couldn’t see his face behind the big round sunglasses. He was wearing pink football shorts. Disgusting!
Bandaged head pulsating, Dorin marched past the reception desk, his eyes straight on the glass entrance, “I wait…” he called to Japanese and the Beanie, “tell her I waiting outside.”
Why had he come here? WTF. Francesca was not pleased. But, whatever misgivings she had shrivelled in the night air at the sight of him. He had a bandage on his head. He was wearing a military tunic, diagonally buttoned to his waist, stupid bright red tunic? She had no words… didn’t know how to…
“Dorin.” She managed.
“Francesca.” Said Dorin.
The little patch of bald head was making the bandage look like a giant foreskin. How many people had seen him like this; all the people now, passing by, seeing him with her? It was time for an energy boost. Without fuss she brought from her handbag a small can of Carabao. Normally, she would take sips…
“You are thirsty, after your dancing?” She did not care for the harsh, questioning tone of his voice. There was something very not right about this boy.
“Shall we go to… quiet place, Dorin?”
“You say where, Francesca.”
He took a step closer to her. He’d been eating. Fucking tuna stink on his breath. Francesca seemed to be a head taller than him; had he got smaller? Wearing the stupid tunic he looked like a little drummer boy. She noticed that he was limping.
“What happened to your head?”
Somehow, Dorin had not figured on this question, “I fell… from my bike.”
“I thought you said it was stolen?”
Yes, he had. And it was.
“I find it.”
“You found it?”
“I had forgot that I lend it to friend.”
“You have a friend?” Now she was being harsh and did not wish to hurt him; though she guessed that she had touched a nerve of truth. “I’m playing with you, Dorin, of course, you have friends!”
“Are you my friend, Francesca?”
“Yes,” she replied automatically, her heels striking the pavement, marking time, striding ahead as though she knew where they were headed. The little fellow was a mess. A mess of a heart exposed to the elements. Dorin’s family were old coal mining people, peasants.
“Is Friday night…” he was running out of breath, “and…I say…”
“It’s Thursday, Dorin.”
“Is…?”
“Thursday.” She turned to face him.
Dorin came to a halt, “I don’t know tomorrow from today.”
The whoosh of the firework piercing the sky made Francesca shriek. She placed her hand on Dorin’s shoulder, “What is this Bonfire they celebrate, I forget?”
A strand of hair, the strange night light bringing out its coppery tint, had fallen across the deep blue of her eyes. She was so beautiful. He dared use his finger to sweep the strand back. “You’re so funny, Dorin.” She said, looking into her handbag, like everything was normal.
“She wrote a book called SCUM.”
They were seated on a wooden bench in the grounds of a church, Dorin half listening to Francesca, as though he were drinking in the words without tasting them. He wished he’d bought more vodka.
“Scum?” He said, letting his eyes drift over the light shine of the tarmac leading to the doors of the church. The tarmac not so long laid, he thought; and easier than laying a woman! Hahaheehe
“Society for Cutting Up Men, Dorin…What’s funny?”
“What she doing cutting up men?” He sneered and burped.
“She write the book I’m just telling you.” Francesca was lighting a cigarette. Dorin glanced up at the darkened white stone of this church, up to the spire, and he wondered how many women, nuns there had been raped to death by soldiers back from battle, holding on to the faith, prepared to give up their lives in the name of God.
“Is it cold tonight, you think, Dorin, more than normal?”
“You want me to hold you?”
“No. No thankyou… I smoke… She shot Andy Warhol.”
“Who did?”
“Valerie Solanos! You know, Andy Warhol? Soup can guy? Famous, Famous artist from the sixties?”
“I heard of him. Homosexual.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Not a problem. I just say.” Francesca took a long drag of her cigarette. “This is musical show?” Dorin added.
“It’s a dramatic piece. A real play, with scenes, dialogue.” Her beautiful blue eyes brilliant with greed. “And Richard, the director, he is…” Dorin followed the movement of her features as she laughed like a whore, “He is playing Andrew Tate…” She was clutching the air, stamping her feet, her mouth wide open, catching breath, driving him crazy. “Playing Andrew Tate like he’s Taylor Swift!”
“What is this?”
“It’s Genius!”
Dorin wanted to slap her face. “It is not right. Andrew Tate as Taylor Swift, what is this?”
“It’s theatre, Dorin.”
She was fading from him with all the moods he was desperate to have of her. Growing stronger with greed, with hope… And not so clever that he had to tell her one time the difference between Muslims and Hindus!
“We will be…. the word is Juckstapose…”
“Yeah, Taylor Swift…” Dorin drifted in, jealous of the smoke in her mouth that he wanted to shut, all this Taylor Swift shit.
“Juckstapose past events with events like MeToo of the present day, yeah?”
“Yeah…”
“I am doing so much research.”
In all these months of getting nowhere, spending his money, for no more than a glimpse of thigh over black stocking tops, a peek of tit. Being so desperate to know what it would feel like to be her when she was young, touched by no man. Now he was seeing her. This woman sat next to him in this moment. She hadn’t changed.
“Remaking this feminist icon…”
She had changed him. Bringing him to see the things he was most afraid of.
“I mean she already is icon! Shot Andy Warhol for screwing her over – Bang!”
He had no brains to hold her beauty. Not a man to win. The prize of this world always beyond his reach? He loved her and hated her. Hated himself for all the things he would never have.
“Richard says I was born to play this woman!” Francesca shrieked her head back with laughter, stamping her sexy booted feet.
She was a virus crept into his brain stem.
“I am getting married.”
Now she was shut up. Her beautiful eyes unable to conceal the doubt.
“You? I mean, you are, sorry, getting married?”
“Is so,” he softly replied.
“But … Married? When? Who?”
“From home.”
“Romania…?” Dorin gently nodded his bandaged head. “What is her name?”
The first syllable caught in his throat, “…Inna, is her name.”
“Inna.” Francesca lowered her eyes; a common name, she thought. “You have photo?”
“No… Not…” Dorin stared straight ahead.
“She is pretty, yes… Dorin? You cry?”
“Love is making me sad.”
“Oh, my poor sweet baby…” Francesca wrapped her arms around him, bringing him tight against her taut body (hurt his head but no problem). Her phone started to ring from her handbag, “Oh, leave…leave it! We celebrate with our tears….” He loved the smell of her handbag.
Under a canopy of exploding fireworks in a sky turned the colour of mulberry wine Francesca and Dorin strolled arm in arm toward the underground station. Francesca, adhering to the pretence, demanded of Dorin that he “keep in touch” and to tell her “Everything, Everything” about the plans for the wedding. Later (alone at the bedsit) she crossed herself for saying “Goodbye, Dorin” when she should have said Goodnight.
He watched. (A ghost of this artificial light). His eyes remorseful through the space left behind as she neared the entrance of the station. He noticed the tall, suited black man looking her up and down, checking her out, and catching her eye. Agonising moments stretched over, Hey baby, come to bed smiles. The world beyond his reach, Dorin Dragavei, not cunt Justin Bieber, not big black guy world doing its stinking thing.
Would she ever let him go? Be free from him? His mind made up now. She was easy, easy target. He would go quiet into anonymous sites. To a different thinking space. All his photos of her. Go dark. Invisible. Dangerous. There were men same as him all over the world. Waiting. He would not be free of her. He knew her real name was Felicja Korzeniowski.
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