Chapters 11-15

11.
Inevitably, morning came. Inevitably, it was bright. Inevitably this new day was a symbol of Al and his friend’s new lives. They met, that morning, in the kitchen. Both having a cup of coffee, Al’s friend with a cigarette as well. Today, they had decided to go to the cafés and drop off their forms, this, they were not looking forward to, once the café had them it was out of their hands, Al and his friend would be able to do nothing at all, just wait for a call, to see if they had gotten the opportunity of whoring their wares of making coffee and serving it for the money, which they needed, they needed money bad, really bad. They were still getting the dole, at least they would until they got jobs. Then, then they were on their own. Apart from Clarence with them, he was going to help. They could tell he was going to be helpful, as, unlike the two of them, Clrence is not musically hopeless, in fact, he’s quite the opposite, which would seem to be musically hopeful, but in actual fact he is rather talented at music, playing various instruments and proficient in guitar. Not only did they want his help, they would not admit it, but they needed it. They needed outside input, somebody to help them get along with it. Al looked at the ceiling and felt contemplative, sipping his coffee again, thoughts ruched through his head, he wondered, hope and feared. He was still scared. Still more scared than he had ever been before, completing the forms was just the first step, the first step is always the hardest, he had always been told, but, he was thinking, it doesn’t make all of the other ones really fucking scary. “Do you think we’re actually going to do this? I mean be able to play music, be able to write songs, y’know, actually fucking do this” Al was clearly stressed, his tone was in that of desperation, he had not gotten over the fear of real life. “Y’know, Al, you worry too much, of course we’ll fucking do it, every musician you’ve ever listened to started the same as us, no fucking idea what to do, and they learned, they taught themselves, and the learned, we’re in no way any different to anyone else, of course we’re going to find it hard, but who gives a fuck? We do fuck all else with our lives, saves us from moping around like usual, doing fuck all with our lives, living in squalor, getting up in the morning, looking at the sun, and shutting it out. The only way anything gets done is by doing. Let’s get some fucking doing done, huh?” Al’s friend was present a confident façade to Al as to increase his confidence, truth is, is that Al’s friend is having the same doubts, and the same ideas as Al, they are both in the same boat, just one is pretending to be the captain. The spiel seemed to be working, since Al looked somewhat encouraged, as if he may be able to do this “Yeah, you’re right, when are we going to drop off those applications? We need to do it as soon as possible really, get our foot in the door, so to speak, y’now ‘do some doing’ or whatever the fuck stupid phrase you used.”
“Yeah, okay, well, let’s get dressed, then get in to town, then do our shit, we can drop off the applications, and hope for the best. In all likelihood we’re going to get places at different cafés, which would fucking suck, but hell, at least we’ll both have jobs. We’ll be the british fucking picture, started with nothing, worked and got something. Except we’ll be shouting fuck you at Britain and being our own people, not defined by the place we are from. We can do this, Right, I need to get fucking dressed. I need to get dressed right fucking now” Al’s friend ran down the hallway, and slammed the door to his room, they were both, at that moment in time in jogging bottoms and a scummy old t-shirt, Each with some cheap brand logo nobody’s ever heard of on it. So, they decided to get dressed. Well, Al’s friend decided they were going to get dressed, and Al complied. With Al’s friend already upstairs, Al had the job of following him, coffee in hand, he went to go out of the room, however looking down at his cup, he realised there was very little coffee left and the kettle had only just boiled. A refill is in order, Al thought. So he chugged down the last of that cup and put another 2 spoons of instant coffee and 3 spoons of sugar into his cup, and filled it almost to the brim with hot (not quite boiling) water, with just enough space left to have a splash of cold water, so that is was cool enough to drink. Al took a sip, and out loud, quiet as it was, he muttered “mmm.” Off he traipsed to his room down the hall, and entered quietly, the door already slightly open, and closing it gently as he went in. The room was messy and small, small, and messy. It had clothes strewn across the floor, and books on the shelves, in no particular order at all, and his laptop on the bed. A small, single bed, that fit Al comfortably, but not comfortably enough for Al to be comfortable. It was like sitting in a chair moulded for somebody else’s back, except this bed was shaped for two people, and Al had to fill the void with only himself. He still missed Heather, or, if not her, the way she made him feel, warm, wanted, important, rather than the unimportance he feels from day to day, night to night, filling the void with coffee and whiskey. Not to fill the void with playing music and working as well. He, to some extent looked forward to being distracted from his emotions, and thought that emptiness was probably quite good inspiration for a song, however, the task at hand was quite pertinent, dressing into a false skin. He stripped down to his underwear, which he had not changed since the night before. No need, he thought, not like anyone was going ot see them, not like they were dirty, and, in the worse case scenario, if he were to get hit by a bus, as so many people say is a reason to wear fresh underwear every day, the half used underwear he is wearing would reflect his life, half used. Only wearing a pair of boxers, he looked at himself in the mirror, at his stringy physique, he looked at his body, his thin legs, his small amount of flab on his stomach, he looked at himself, and he wanted to punch the mirror. No wonder Heather fucked someone else, he thought. “No wonder she went and fucked some other prick, then used it as a fucking excuse to fucking break up with me, no fucking wonder she wasn’t satisfied by me. No fucking wonder I’m alone” thoughts of these thought circled his head as he looked at himself, not in narcissism, but in disgust. Hate for himself was one was to put it, another was a loathing, a disgust at what he had become. It was not incurable, just difficult to understand, difficult to fix. He needed somebody. He needed Heather. He needed somebody, just somebody. That’s all he fucking needed, somebody to hold him, tell him it’s alright, or some shit along those lines. He found a pair of jeans on the floor, when he bought them they were that nice indigo colour, but they had now faded to some extent, with wear and tear apparent from the top to the bottom. Howeve,r they are levis, and it is well known, to Al at least, that you wear levis jeans until you literally cannot any more. This was partially something he had instilled in him, but also because of the fact he could not afford new jeans, especially not now, having spent all of his and his friend’s money on a guitar, a guitar they had not actually attempted to play yet. He found a shirt on the floor too, it was gingham checked and black, it was one of his favourite shirts, a Ben Sherman, a very nice shirt. It did have 2 buttons missing and a coffee stain on the sleeve, but they were Al’s missing buttons and Al’s coffee stain, so he liked it. It was nice for him to have. He pulled on a Harrington style jacket as well, and a pair of old trainers, battered to pieces. He looked in the mirror again at the false skin he had put on, and now, rather than thinking thoughts of self disgust, he simply shook his head, and headed for the door, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. The smell and taste comforted him a lot. It helped. He walked back down the hall to the kitchen, where he found his fried, sat, smoking a cigarette and sipping on the same cup of coffee he was drinking before he got changed, in the same cup and with the same taste. Al’s friend was now wearing a pair of stonewash jeans that were a little bit too tight, but only slightly, and not because they were tapered, or fitted like that, just because he had been swimming in them a few times, and they had been washed many, many times in his life. He had a scruffy t-shirt bearing the insignia of a man opening a book, it was khaki, and the man was block black, with no shading. Al liked this t-shirt, and thought it suited his friend well, he was also wearing his bomber jacket, Al’s friend hardly ever didn’t wear a bomber jacket. He was also wearing a pair of battered trainers, like Al’s they were just some battered tennis shoes, the brand did not matter since they were rather generic looking, and, had been battered and dirtied so many times they were a greyish colour as opposed to whichever on they were bought in. They both sipped their coffees slowly, in silence, whilst Al’s friend lit another cigarette, a battered one, as usual, with the zippo he used most often, though, he always kept a disposable lighter in his pocket as well, just in case there was a situation where a nice lighter would be unnecessary, though, these occasions did not occur often. After finishing their respective consumable, they sat back, and sighed in tandem, accentuating it by puffing out their face as they did it. Al’s friend now decided to speak, partially to break the silence, and partially, as speech is often used for, to communicate what he was thinking. “Shall we get a fucking move on then?” With that, they grabbed the application, and their wallets, and walked towards the door, both scared as hell. Another step on a journey they were taking into uncertainty.
12.
Having dropped off their applications, they were back at their humble abode, sat down, together again. Al was sat with his laptop in front of him, yet again drinking another cup of coffee, and Al’s friend was there, smoking another cigarette, it was battered again. Al looked up from the screen and wondered why he had never asked this question before “Hey, why do you always smoke some battered cigarette you pull out of your pocket? Surely they taste like shit or something, I don’t know”
“Well, you see, I don’t smoke straights” Al looked confused, his friend continued “A straight is a term for what used to be known as a tailor made cigarette, in other words, one you buy in a packet, such as Marlboro or whatever, they come in packs of ten or twenty usually, characterized by their long and reasonably thick nature, you know? Please tell me you know what I fucking mean so I don’t have to hit you”
“Yes, yes, I know what you mean now, and the point is..?”
“Well I smoke roll ups, cigarettes you make yourself, made out of tobacco, rolling papers and a filter or something, thus named because when making you roll the tobacco into a cylinder type shape and wrap the rolling paper round it and seal in, you know?”
“I’m not a fucking idiot, get onto whatever point you’re trying to make”
“Woah, calm down love, you asked.”
“You are actually a prick” Al’s friend smiled. “I make roll ups before smoking them, and put them in various pockets, so that I don’t have to tediously roll them every time I need a cigarette, as, when I need a cigarette, I am usually stressed, and as such, do not want the annoyance of having to roll before having one, and before you fucking ask, I don’t put them in a tin as I don’t have one, and I’d look like a fucking dick if every time I wanted a cigarette I pulled one out of a fucking tin, so, in short the reason they are battered is that they’ve been in my pocket for fucking ages” Al was still confused, not by his friend’s actual actions now, but his reasons behind them “You’re really fucking weird”
“And you’re not? Cry me a fucking river. Email Clarence, we need to learn how to play this fucking guitar and write a song. I dunno, we need to get shit done, and get off of our arses, which have been abused in that we have sat on them for far too fucking long”
“Okay, I can do that, what should we say? Something along the lines of “ Al was typing whist speaking now, and speaking slowly, to keep up with the typing “Hey Clarence, what’s going on, want to hang out this evening and you can teach us some guitar or something? Thanks –Al Huh? Does that sound alright?”
“Sounds fine, just don’t make it sound like you want to fuck him.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“Okay, so you didn’t sound like you wanted to fuck him, but you sounded really, really fucking needy, just be a bit cooler, not cool like James Dean, but cool like I dunno, someone smooth. Fuck me, I’m not some genius”
“Okay, whatever, I’ve toned it down… and sent.”
“Right, what are we going to fucking do whilst waiting for him huh? May as well wait to be taught to play from scratch, so there’s no fucking point in pulling that guitar out. I dunno”
“Okay, Well I’m going to put a shot of whiskey in my next coffee, you want one?”
“Fucking go for it.” So, Al filled and turned on the kettle, as his friend sat there still smoking, and pulled out a half empty huge bottle of whiskey and poured a shot into the bottom of two mugs, then poured the boiling water in, and mixed in the coffee, two spoons for him, one for his friend, three spoons of sugar for him, two for his friend, he set the cups on the table and they both took a sip. Sitting in the room, in silence, they both thought, as they had separately before, about the prospect of the fact they are going to be writing music. They are going to be attempting to create things which not only sounds pleasant, but retain their integrity, this was important to both of them, to Al because he wanted to still retain who he is, even when lost amidst the insanity and difference in the world of music, and Al’s friend wanted to, as he would put it “Not fuckin’ sell out, I’m going to be me, I don’t give a fuck who doesn’t like it. Fuck them. Fuck them all.” Waiting for a reply from Clarenc was tedious, and they had both finished their whiskey coffees, and, as such, were sat, doing nothing. “He replied yet?” Al’s friend was obviously getting tetchy with waiting, and Al wanted to console him, and shut him up, mostly because he didn’t want him to give Clarence a bad impression and scare him away. “No, he hasn’t yet, but I’m sure he will soon, you want another coffee?”
“You mean do I want another coffee with whiskey in it? Of course I fucking do. I need to make this time pass, I feel pretty fucking shit to be honest. Let’s drink. I mean, how the fuck are we supposed to write songs? Fucking hell. What have we let ourselves in for?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? This was your idea, have some faith will you, we’ll do it, any fucker can do it, just look at James Blunt, or any other guy on the radio, what’s the difference between us and them? Fuck all. We can do this. We can fucking do this alright! Don’t you start having fucking doubts after we’ve already bought the god damned guitar. A hundred and forty fucking pounds all that shit cost us. We’re going to do this shit, even if it fucking kills us, alright?” Al was surprised by his sudden burst of confidence, except shortly after his spiel he realised it was not confidence, but a mix of fear, excitement and drive. He wanted to do this. They were going to do this. He had decided in his mind, no matter fucking what. Fuck Heather, fuck his past, he wasn’t that guy any more, he didn’t need memories, because he was about to make them. He knew he could do this. He could learn guitar, nothing else to do, just work and this. He could fucking do it. Perseverance, power, other words beginning with p, he pushed his mind, and pushed his self loathing aside, it was going to come, all will be well, everything will be just right. Just fucking right. His friend spoke, and looked straight at Al’s broad smile, Al unaware that he was now sporting said huge smile “Make the fucking coffee will you? I know we can do this. I’m just scared alright, time for some fucking alcohol based courage okay? Make the coffee. Make it. You cunt.”
“Sure, sure, I’ll do it, stop being so aggressive, it’s not that bad, we can continue, and we can push ourselves, and we can do this. Okay?”
“Yes, okay, just make the fucking coffee” Al’s friend pulled out a cigarette, a particularly sturdy and well shaped one, compared to his normal battered standard of cigarette, he put it into his lips with that characteristic waggle it had from the looseness of his lips around the end, and he swung his head rounf, looking over at Al, who pulled out the whiskey again, and poured it into the cups again, though, this time, when he was done, he left the whiskey out, instead of putting it back. Al’s friend’s head turned back around swiftly and the cigarette bounced yet again, bouncing it’s normal, characteristic bounce. He pulled out a disposable lighter from his jacket pocket, as he felt now was not the time for a nice lighter, fear was not the right emotion to be mixed with excess. So, he brought the flame to the tip, after clicking it multiple times, and lit the cigarette, dragging the smoke into his mouth. Al was still waiting for the kettle to boil, it was taking longer than usual, as, on account of the small amount, but strong alcohol Al had drunk, (he was slightly clumsier than usual, not even tipsy, and no where near drunk, just alcohol accentuated his clumsiness to a great extent, no matter the amount, no matter the percentage, one beer, and he was suddenly a lot clumsier than he usually was. It had always confused Al, but he just let it be, since it was normal to him) he had overfilled the kettle and it was taking a while to boil. The cigarette Al’s friend was smoking was halfway finished before the kettle had boiled, and Al had felt himself getting frustrated waiting for the kettle, along with the smoke in the room, which he usually didn’t mind, but for some reason it was annoying him, sometimes, everything seemed to annoy Al, and he had to remove himself from the situation, or comfort himself in some sense. Making coffee was soothing to Al, but not soothing enough right now, he aggressively poured the boiling water into each mug, accidently splashing some on his crumpled, gingham check shirt, he then almost threw the coffee into the cups, he went through the actions in his head as he did them “Two fucking spoons for me, one for him” and the coffee granules crashed into the water like missiles into a lake. “Three… fucking…. Sugars for me, and two for him” the sugar hit the water, the debris that had been flung after the missiles. Al had stressed himself out to a royal extent, he felt really, really pissed off, but not at anybody, he was just pissed off. Just really, really pissed off. He set the cups down onto the table, as aggressively as possible without spilling them, he didn’t want to spill any of the nectar he had slaved to create. He knew only one way to calm himself down, only one bar Heather, as, though he had attempted to dismiss her from his mind, be came back like a malignant tumor, removed and removed until it consumes the brain completely, Al spoke to his friend “Hey, erm, this may seem pretty weird, but can I have a cigarette? I just, I just need to sort myself out, clear my head, calm down. I’m far too stressed at the moment. I’ll buy my own soon, but, could I just rinse off of you please?”
“Are you serious? Jesus fucking Christ Al, I must say that I’m pretty fucking surprised, I mean, I aint going to stop you, it aint my place to do that, it’s your choice and all, but are you sure? It is hard to kick once you start.”
“Yeah, I’m sure, please, I just need to fucking calm down, sort my head out, clear it. I need a fucking brain enema, maybe nicotine will sort my mind out, and help me think straight”
“Yeah, fine, sure, whatever. I must say though Al, you have a habit of going through emotions like skittles, one second your fine, the next your aggressive, and the next you look like you’re about to pull your hair out!” Al’s friend reached into his bomber jacket pocket and grasped a cigarette, passing it into Al’s hand. Al held it preciously, not in the way his friend did, he held it tight, as if it were precious, and he needed it. Al’s friend then pulled out the disposable lighter from his pocket and passed it to Al “Here, you can keep this, don’t worry, I’ve got plenty”
Al put the cigarette into his lips, though he did not hold it loosely, like his friend, he held it tight, with his lips tucked inwards, as if it really, really mattered if it fell out, and even with the strength he was holding it with in his mouth, he still held it with his hand, and then, clicked the lighter, once, and then twice, and it still didn’t light, and then on the third time it worked, and he borough the flame up, pulling the air from around the cigarette into his mouth, and then, as the flame hit the tip, the smoke billowed through the tobacco, and hit the filter, flowing though, some of the tar being dispersed into the cotton based filter, and the smoke into his mouth, he took the cigarette away from his face, putting it into the ash tray. He then opened his mouth wide and sucked in hard, and the smoke hit the base of his lungs like a concrete block hitting the pavement after being thrown off of the empire state building. The nicotine quickly rushed through the receptors in his lungs, and travelled through his blood stream, straight to his brain. It lightened the load, rather than thinking about Heather, and thinking about the music, and waiting for Clarence to reply, his mind instead was just in a mist from the foggy haze the nicotine had put over it. His eyes drifted around, though his interpretations of thing were the same as they always were, he was still comforted by the mess in his room, he still felt better from the aroma of coffee, especially when mixed with the bitter sweet stench of whiskey, which perused it’s way up his nostrils, and he grasped the coffee with both hands, in order to not spill it, his apparent clumsiness mixed with this nicotine rush did not bode well for him not spilling his coffee, and he tipped the coffee into his mouth, letting the tastes mix on his tongue, and then letting it drift down his throat. He felt it on every millimetre, every decimetre of his oesophagus, the heat warming down and down. He set down the coffee, and picked up the cigarette, now holding it more casually, less firm, , so that it angled itself slightly in his fingers, being slightly limp, though not as limp as his friend’s, who was currently smoking his own cigarette and looking round the room, often sipping on his alcohol infused coffee. Al put the cigarette back into his mouth, his lips now holding the cigarette more loosely, less preciously, it wasn’t such a big thing for him now, and now, when he sucked inwards, he did not still hold the cigarette, instead he took his hand down and put it onto his cup. He pulled the smoke into his lungs again, and felt the now slightly familiar feeling of the nicotine going into his system, and, before exhaling, he heard the familiar beep of his laptop, telling him he had received an e-mail. It shocked him, as he was awoken from his dream like state, and the fog in his mind cleared, it was still buzzing in his mind, but the realities of loneliness and fear fell back into his mind, akin to a shot pigeon falling to the floor. He shook as if someone had shaken him from being and knocked his coffee, many instances of this before, however made him able to grasp it before any of the precious nectar fell from the cup, he did however manage to keep the cigarette in his hand. He was not sure of why he reacted so violently, since, it was not like a phone call, which you had to reply to, or at least pick up straight away. Al’s friend inquired further, in a manner which Al had become accustomed to over the years “What they fuck was that?!” Befuddled, Al replied “Oh, I think that was Clarence replying, and, if not, it’s someone sending me an email”
“And may I enquire as to why you over reacted so fucking much?”
“I was in a transcendental state of semi consciousness, from which I did not want to be awoken from”
“What the fuck?”
“I was day dreaming, you idiot.”
“Right, right. Prick.”
“Okay, yeah, it’s from Clarence”
“So… what does it fucking say” Al looked at the screen and with a couple of clicks he started to speak, in a tone he used when the words he was saying were not his own, but some else’s, possibly someone he deemed more eloquent, but in general, anybody. ”Hi Al, Yeah, that sounds cool, e-mail me your address as soon as possible, and I’ll be over as soon as I can, I’ll bring my guitar, and we can get you started! –Clarence”
“So…?” Al’s fingers were tapping away at the keyboard so frantically that he did not notice his friend talking, and he put the cigarette into his mouth while he typed, and took another drag, increasing, and prolonging the buzz in his brain, and he still typed, the smoke more flowing out of his mouth than being blown. He hit his final key and quickly scanned what he had typed before positioning the cursor just right in order to send the message, and with a triumphant bash of the left mouse button, the message was sent. His friend again asked “So..?”
“I’ve replied with the necessary details, and he should be over soon, in the meantime, let’s finish these coffees and wait. Probably should get the guitar unpacked too, so we don’t look too fucking hopeless when he gets here.”
“Sure, sounds like a fucking plan” And so they sipped together, and toked on their cigarettes together, unprepared for the task they had ahead of them, unprepared for the unrivalled difficulty of music. They at least had a teacher, one that was doing it for free, as a friend. But, they had a lot in store. In fact, more than a lot in store.
13. The misadventures of a bank card
I am still in the same wallet I have been in forever. For fucking ever. I spent a short period in an envelope, but quickly after that I was scratched on and shoved inside this wallet. This leather hell. Worst part is, I get shoved into massive fucking machines. You know what that’s like? Ypou have any idea at all what that’s like? It’s like being kicked in the face by a panda. It’s upsetting, surprising, and it hurts, and, you want to hit back, but you can’t, in this case because I’m a fucking bank card, and in the panda case, cause if you hit a panda everyone would think you were a cunt, apart from fellow panda punchers, who would not think you were much of a cunt, but that’s besides the point, the majority of people would think you are a cunt. However, that’s not the case with me, oh no. I’m taken out of this wallet, this stuffy, leather, brown wallet, more often than not kept in a pocket, so hot, so sweaty, so sticky, it’s revolting and then either shoved in a massive fucking machine, where am forcibly scanned, as if we were in some form of future dystopian society novel, or, I am kept out in the open air for a short time and stared at, with the only things that make me unique, my numbers, my code, being typed into a computer for everybody to see, and use, or even, or even, worst of all, I am shoved in some half exposed chip and pin machine and every prick looks at me. I feel that it is safe to say I have a hard life, and, if not, I am at least hard done by. It does not help, as well, that I know, one day, I will be chopped up and replaced, like some sadist’s slave, used and abused, made an object, and then cut up and put into a bag, hoping no one will piece me together enough to recognise my distinguishing features. Oh, the futility of life. It’s all so banal as well, always the same thing, almost always the same places, and nothing extravagant ever comes of me, I never produce the currency to purchase anything particularly exciting, it’s all food, drink, other necessities, sometiems something to do with music, but rarely. I just withdraw, withdraw, withdraw, I only give, never take anything. I’m even stamped with my owners name, like a branded slave, in fact, that is what I same, I am a branded slave, of the highest degree. I’m just used, always used. Always fucking used, kept in a small, confined, uncomfortable space, and used when ‘m needed, then put back again, like a sex toy. A dildo at a fucking gathring of middle aged women, hoping to shock and entetain, except I do nothing of the sort, just like the dildo, it’s drifted into banality, and I drifted into this lake of banality the day I was creat, the day I got put onto this vile, vile earth. Now, now I’m owned by a guy name Clarence, though, on me, it says “MR C HUDSON” mister c fucking Hudson. It’s shit. I’m not Mr C Hudson, why does it say it on me? So everyone knows I’m his to be used. What a load of shit. Who names their kid Clarence anyway? Fucking stupid people. Who in their right mind would call a kid Clarence, nobody in their right mind would call a kid Clarence, if they wanted something outlandish, their was a plethora of choices, if they wanted something old sounding, again, a plethora of choices, but, the fucking idiots called him Clarence, and now I’m owned by Mr Clarence fucking Hudson. What a load of shit. Snd so, here I am, sat in that very same wallet, next to the same fucking library card, and I sit, here, discontented. I am left on the same bedside table I am always left on, inside this leather hell, forever doomed. So, I am picked up, and taken away, from one place to another, this next one worse than the previous. I’m shoved back in that pocket, cursed to be sweaty, cursed to be horrible, disgusting, and used. I can feel him walking. I can feel Mr Clarence fucking Hudson walking, his pocket rubbing against his leg, and in turn rubbing against me, I can feel every hair catching the pocket, jogging the wallet I reside in along. I grow ever weary of all of these trials and tribulations. He rummages in his other pocket, and pulls out his keys, locking the door to his flat, and on his back in a guitar in a gig bag, a padded 0, better treatment than I am ever going to get, the guitar, he is cared for, he is loved nurtured, me, me, I’m just fucking used. Always just used and abused. A short walk leads us, him, me, the guitar to a place where I am ever so briefly pulled out, but just the wallet I reside in, I’m left in here, and an oyster card is scanned, and I know we’re going down to that disgusting, murky underground station, with white panels, sent just off colour, and so much body heat I almost melt. It stinks in here, the stench of flesh in polyester, the sweat, the stickiness, it’s all increased, so much worse than usual, so much, much worse than when I am just residing in my humble wallet. I feel him stop, though he has not stopped, oh no, not Mr Clarence fucking Hudson, so, he’s just on the escalator, and we’re down there, in this horrid place, this manifestation of disgust, a brisk walk, and his sweat against the wallet, and we reach the train, he gets a seat. I am ever so slightly bent as we travel along this terrible journey. It hurts, but I’ve taken worse, much worse. The journey is short, and I feel we are going somewhere we haven’t been before, since he’s sweating more than usual, and he sweats when he gets nervous, and he gets nervous of new things and places. He stands, it’s a relief to not be bent anymore, but being in here is forever a chore, a burden, though I suppose being a slave is never thought to be anything more than a burden, not exactly going to be the nicest thing in the world, I suppose. Walking up some stairs, and I’m bent, and straightened, bent and straightened, repeatedly till he reaches the top, and walks forth, onto another escalator, and mid way up, he pulls out the wallet I reside in again, and I get a glint of artificial light, and a very small amount of oxygen, he pulls out the oyster card again, ready to scan, and through we go, through the twisting gate where he scans the oyster card again, and through we go, the wallet shoved back into his picket, and there I reside. He continues to walk forward, and then seems to reach a destination, and presses a buzzer. The only thoughts going through my mind are those of self loathing, hate and anger. Anger at everything I am, abused, used, eventually to be destroyed, and I just take it. All I fucking do is take it. Doesn’t help that I’m with this cunt. Mr Clarence fucking Hudson.
14.
A buss went off in Al and his friends apartment, the unfamiliar buzz of a visitor, the unexpected, unfamiliar and often hated buzz of a visitor, although today, they were excited by it, as they assumed, quite correctly, that it was Clarence behind the other side of the intercom on which the buzz went off. Al and his friend were both shocked, having drunk two coffees with whiskey each, not drunk, and not tipsy, their mind just ever so slightly confused, they jumped to conclusions. “Al, what the fuck was that?”
“It was the door I think, but who the hell could it have been?” Al often forgot things, not important things, just things, they drifted from his mind and he no longer grasped onto them, though they were within reach, he just needed a little jog for him to notice them and grab them, and he had, in fact, just jogged his own memory “Oh yeah, fucking hell, it’s Clarence isn’t it? I best go get that actually” Al was shitting himself, not literally, but very metaphorically, he felt the fear surge through him, and in the pit of his stomach he felt a crash, a building falling down, a hard crash that sunk down into the very bottom of his being. He got up and went to the door, walking there, he looked back and saw his friend pulling out a cigarette, and lighting it with some fanciful lighter, and then Al looked back and pressed the intercom button “Hello..?” the upward inflection he had at the end of his speech showed his curiosity to Clarence “Oh hi Al, it’s Clarence”
“Err, yeah, sure, come right up” He pressed the button which unlocked the door, and up came Clarence, they could hear his footsteps going up the stairs, and he could feel the shake of the ground, the eagerness of Clarence to get up the stairs. A knock came at the door, and, Al dutifully answered, pulling the door open quickly, and, there stood Clarence, wearing a faded red t-shirt, but not faded when bought, like a lot of things are nowadays, to make things look vintage, no, this was just old, it was just a really old red t-shirt. It had a logo on it, it said “What?” in large block black text across it, though this was faded too. Over this he wore a baggy flannel shirt, with sleeves rolled up unevenly, one of them somewhere between his elbow and his wrist, and the other directly on his elbow. He had a pair of very slightly overly baggy jeans on, they were stonewash, falling down and crumpling at the bottom, with the bottom of the jeans ripped from being too long, hanging over a pair of dark trainers. His guitar bag was on his back carrying it’s precious, precious load, and there were various lumps in his pockets, his mobile phone, his wallet, and other things of that nature. He continued, deciding to speak “Hi Al, how’re you?”
“Oh, I’m good thanks, yeah, thank you, come in” Clarence walked in past Al and Al felt the air of talent and musical ability floating past him, contrasting heavily with all of Al and his friend’s apparently non-existent talent, and resentment caught Al like a noose around the neck. “So, er, Clarence, you want a drink or anything? We’ve got Whiskey, coffee, and errrr, well, and water.”
“Erm, yes please, actually, yeah, I’ll have a coffee please.”
“You want any whiskey in that?”
“Now that you ask, yes please, go for it, no harm I suppose” Al continued to the kitchen gesturing Clarence to follow him, as they came in Al’s friend and Clarence exchanged acknowledging nods, Al went to make the coffee, flicking on the kettle, and then putting two spoons full of coffee in his cup, and then, about to heap one into Clarences mug, he realised he was not making coffee for his friend, but, for Clarence “Ur, Clarence, how do you take your coffee? Just wondering, I mean, like, since I don’t know”
“I have one spoon of coffee and two spoons of sugar”
“Ah right, just like him then” al nodded towards his friend, and the friend continued to smoke in silence, sat there, Al continued with his normal beverage making routine, one spoon of coffee into the cup, then, three spoons of coffee into his own cup, and two into Clarence’s, the routine smoothed him still, yet the prospect of having to learn the instrument was still scaring him to an unbelievable extent, he splashed one measure of whiskey into each cup, and, at this familiar sound, Al’s friend looked round “You not going to fucking make me one then?”
“Oh, do it yourself, you should of asked beforehand”
“Prick…” Al’s friend stood up and took Al’s place in making his coffee, though he did it with considerably less finesse, since, despite the fact Al was rather clumsy all of the time, especially when he had alcohol in his system, he still knew where everything was which led to less confusion, and less jittering, and more fluid movements, whereas Al’s friend was confused, and moving as if he was under a strobe light as to find things. Al passed the coffee over to Clarence and Clarence grasped it firmly, with a smile, “Thanks for that; Al” They both took sips of their drinks, and Al’s friend turned around to join the conversation, now carrying his own beverage. Clarence decided to spark a conversation and asked “So, have you tried playing guitar yet?” They both looked stunned and confused, like two pigs in a pen full of chickens. Al took another sip of his drink and looked at his friend, as if he was going to give him an answer, as if he wasn’t thinking the exact same thing as Al. Al, befuddled, patted his hands onto his pockets, as if in them there was an answer he could grasp, but, alas, there was not, and he just had to speak “Well, actually, no, I mean, yesterday, we were filling out applications and stuff, and, then today we handed them back, and then we thought we may as well wait to see if you could give us a hand starting off or something, like, that type of thing”
“Ah right” Clarence thought for a moment, something that was evident from the fact he had his hand on his face, ever so slightly stroking his beard, but not in an obvious, cliché way, in a quiet, contemplative way. Whilst Clarence was doing this, Al and his friend looked at each other, feeling slightly awkward, almost like a child in school who hasn’t done their homework, desperately trying to think of an excuse, stood before a figurehead, and, more often than not, expert in the subject in question. Clarence then, generously decided to speak “So, have you got it out, looked through any of the books or anything?” Al’s friend decided to reply to this “Well, actually, we haven’t properly had a chance, been trying to get some fucking jobs and stuff, y’know, and also, we were hoping you could go over everything, like, the basics with us, help us out, y’know, if you’d be so kind and stuff.”
“Oh yeah, yeah, certainly, that’s fine, where is it? I’ll show you, c’mon.” Al’s friend gestured for Clarence to follow him to the living room ,and Al’s friend took the lead, showing the way, Clarence got up and followed, both carrying their coffees, and Al took up the rear. Walking that short 30 second walk, Al had all the same thoughts he’d had before, walking this passageway, he was entering the unknown, he was scared. He sipped his drink whilst walking and almost spilled it over himself as his clumsiness was accentuated by the alcohol yet again. He looked at the ceilings, at the mould, at everything, and we wondered, pondered over what he was about to learn, how hard it would actually be. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he had no idea how hard it would actually be, whether he could actually do it or not. He was mere steps behind the two others, and wondered if they felt the same, if Clarence was scared about teaching from scratch, if Al’s friend was scared as well, but then, he wasn’t the one that was to be learning guitar, he was going to be singing, and writing lyrics, no small feat, but, it wasn’t completely new. Al took another sip, and they were halfway down the corridor. Al looked at the gig bag Clarence’s guitar was in, and stared at it, it’s shape, it’s dark colour, how it epitomised everything Al was feeling, he had an idea, a feeling about the shape of things to come, but no where near any concept of what actually lay within, he could only guess, only suppose, only assume. Al heard the door being pushed open, and looked over towards his friend, just entering the door way, Al envied him to some extent, how he could so often present himself so casually in the face of everything new. Everything new, Al thought, and his thoughts drifted to Heather, whether she was in this situation, doing something new, thinking about Al, or whether she was off out, doing all of those things people do when they’re not like Al and his friend. He thought of Heather, and he missed the way she made him feel, even when she hurt him, the pain was better than the emptiness, and the emptiness was just a pit of desire and confusion in Al’s stomach, and just as Al’s thoughts got very, very in depth, he reached the door, and walking through, into the room with the vase, into the room where this ridiculous idea was created, into the room where everything was about to be born. Clarence walked over to the box in which the guitar was, and dropped his guitar off of his shoulder, catching it by the strap and laying it gently down, flat of the floor. He unboxed the guitar eagerly, even though it wasn’t his. Clarence didn’t seem to be scared, he seemed t be very excited, Al thought it was at the prospect of teaching, but, in actuality, it was at the friendship he was building with these two people that he liked, that he actually liked and didn’t have to pretend to, that was what excited Clarence. He took the guitar out, and hit the top string, or, what to Al and his friend looked like the top string, but was in fact the bottom string, as they were to find out, which makes little sense, in the grand scale of things. Clarence spoke with a child like excitement in his voice, his exuberance filling the room “So, urm, where’s the other stuff you bought, I can tune this up for you, show you how it’s supposed to be done, the more you do it, the more the strings get stretched out and the longer it will stay in tune, so, it’s worth doing pretty often.” Al’s friend reached down behind the box where the guitar once resided, and pulled out the plastic bag full of accessories, and passed it to Clarence, with his shoulders low and with a slouchy, undecided demeanour. Clarence looked inside as if he was going to be surprised, but, he of course wasn’t, considering he was the one that packed the bag full of the things inside. He pulled out the still boxed tuner and frantically unboxed it, and clipped it onto the head of the guitar, flicking it on, with a green light to show that it was working, Clarence spoke “So, basically, all you’ve got to do it put this tuner on here, and play a string, like so” Clarence hit the same string he had done previously and looked up at Al and his friend “So, you then tighten or loosen the string according the the string so that it gets onto the right note, you’ll know it’s the right note when whichever letter it’s supposed to be flashes onto the screen, and you’ll know it’s on the right note exactly when the arrow and letter turn green, see?” He looked at Al and his friend, both stood there, coffees in hand, Clarence having now set his down beside him. Al’s friend pulled a cigarette from his bomber jacket pocket, and put it into his mouth, lighting it. This was a sly way of getting Al to reply to the question, which would usually just deem the reply of a simple “Yes” but no. No, no, no. Al looked at his friend and too ka sip of his drink, and then looked at Clarence’s fac,e who was expecting an answer. “Well, you see, Clarence, the thing is, we doing actually know the notes on a guitar, so it’s be good to know that first…” Al looked around the room, as if to show naivety and ask Clarence to spell it out for him, which, he dutifully did “Ah right, okay, yeah that’s fine, the guitar strings go ‘E-A-D-G-B-e” in that order, from top to bottom, literally. The first E is low, and the last E is high, and the pitch increases down through the strings, and the thicker the string, the lower the pitch, so that’s a good way to remember it, from thickest to thinnest it’s E-A-D-G-B-E, it says this stuff in your book if you need your memory jogging or whatever at some point, so I’ll just tune this up real quick and then I’ll teach you some proper stuff! Oh yeah, and also, when you’re tuning, the pegs on the side you’re on are turned away from you to go up, and towards you to go down, and the other way round on the other side” Clarence then quickly looked down at the guitar and started playing a string, looking up at the tuner and tightening it, then doing the same again, and again, till it was just right. Al and his friend looked at each other as if to say “Oh shit…” they hadn’t even actually learned anything about playing the instrument yet, and there was already so much information. Clarence continued to tune the guitar, systematically hitting each string and twisting the tuning pegs to get it just right. While doing this Al and his friend stood there, in awe, still. They sipped their coffees and Al’s friend gragged on his cigarette, he passed the cigarette to Al and sucked the smoke into his lungs, it hit him hard still, but not as much as it had previously, he passed the cigarette back to his friend and took another sip of his coffee, Clarence occasionally looking up and smiling at them, both flashing an attempt at a smile back, hoping to not show him their disconcertment, but nevertheless, it was prevalent, simply from the way they looked at him. Clarence seemed to be done, as he strummed through the strings, smirking at the pleasant sound it created, and strummed a few chords. “Okay then guys, wanna learn a few chords? They’re not that hard, and they sound good together, okay, so this first one is E… actually, wait, I’ll get my guitar out and I can teach you along with it, okay?” He stood up and started to unpack the guitar from the bag, and Al just muttered “Yeah, that’s cool” He went over and grabbed his guitar, pulling it up onto his lap, and surprised himself with how comfortable it felt, he expected it to be new and awkward, but it felt nice, it actually felt right, a stange thing for Al. His friend sat down now, relieving his legs and to some extent, his mind, from the stress they were under. Clarence pulled out his guitar, and the price difference between the two was obvious. Al and his friend’s guitar so basic, and rather plain, a simple cutaway normal coloured guitar, and Clarence’s, beautiful, with real mother of pearl inlays on certain frets, rather than just being dots, the markers were plates, full rectangles of gilimmering beauty. The body of the guitar was a dark brownish colour, lighter in the middle, bursting out into a darker colour, like a sunrise. Around the sound hole was mother of pearl inlaid image of a lizard crawling. The guitar was simply beautiful. It had a single cutaway as well, and it seemed generally more rounded, nicer, it had more finesse. He put the strap round his neck and strummed a chord, which echoed tranquillity through the room. Clarence continued what he had started “Right, okay, where was I, oh yeah, an E chord, okay, it looks like this” Clarence positioned his fingers slowly, as to show Al where the fingers were, exactly, and he continued “Okay, and it sounds like this” Clarence strummed through the strigns and the sound of the chord was low, it made a nice, comforting sound, Clarence continued again “Right, now you try, put your index finger on the forth string from the top, on the first fret, and then, your next two, your middle finger and ring finger, on the next two up on the next fret, then press down. Hard.”
“Okay, yeah, got that” Al could feel slight pain on his fingers and strained ever so slightly. He had his fingers in the right position, and Clarence noticed this “Wow, well done that’s perfect! Now just strum down the strings!” Al hit the top string and felt the sound resonate through him, as his thumb hit every subsequent string he felt a tingle though his being, the sound infected him. It sounded a little bit more dampened than Clarence’s, but this was expected. Al’s friend looked on in entertainment, and relief that he was not the one doing it, but he also had a genuine feeling of pride over Al, over the fact that Al was doing this, first time picking up a guitar, and he could do it, he had a feeling this was not going to pan out as badly as they expected. “Right Al, very nice” Al still had his fingers pressed hard on the strings, still amazed by the sound he had created, which he, himself, with that guitar had created, in that instant, Al had become a musician, Clarence continued “okay, now take your fingers off, it will hurt for a long time, but eventually you’ll build up calluses and it won’t be that bad, now, try and do it again, put your fingers in the same position, and play it again” Al nodded attentively and looked down the neck of the guitar, placing his index finger, in the right position, then his middle finger, and then his ring finger, and they were in the right position, Al’s friend and Clarence looked on, waiting on the sound, the right sound that they were sure was to come from the strings Al was about to strum along. Al pressed down his fingers again, and played the chord again, and he played it right. “I’m impressed!” exclaimed Clarence “That’s real good, practice that in future, and eventually it’ll be second nature, same with any chord really, eventually playing it will just become second nature to you, and you’ll be fine playing them, just try and do a rhythm with it real quick? Just a one, two, three, four, all strummed downwards, and strum with your index finger and our thumb pressed together, it hurts when you start, but in the long run it’s easier, and good to get into good habits huh?” Al let out a slight sigh of agreement, and looked own at his hand to make sure all of his fingers were still in the right position, which they were, and he pressed down with them, he then looked to his right hand, and dutifully pressed his index finger and thumb together, and looked back down the neck of the guitar at his fingers, positioned right for the chord, just to make sure, and he strummed, one, two, three and four times, and it sounded nice, it sounded like a song, and Al felt an overwhelming sense of pride, the likes of which he had not felt since he successfully completed his degree. “Very good Al, real good, right, we’ll move on fast and stuff…” Clarence paused and leaned over his guitar to grab his cup of coffee, with the lovely hint of whisky, which gave it that nice fire, Al decided to do the same, whilst he had his hands free, and that sip of his drink, that sip of Al’s drink was the best anything had tasted in a long, long time. Clarence swallowed his mouthful and placed his cup back down, in a systematic, yet relaxed sense, like a businessman who works for a company that makes clown shoes. “Ahhhhh, right then, okay, we’re go onto G now, and G is one of my favourite chords, I don’t know why really, I just like it, this one if slightly harder, and uses all of your fingers though, so yeah, I doubt you’ll pick this one up so quickly…” Clarence trailed off in embarrassment, and didn’t want to say something like “No offense” since it’s a cliché, but, he just smiled in a kind of “I didn’t mean anything by that you know” type way, Al smiled back as if to say “It’s okay” Al’s friend just sat there and smoked, with a blank expression on his face. Inhaling tranquillity, and exhaling cancer, it was a regular and accepted routine by him. Al had started just slightly playing the chord, with muted strings, put all fingers in the right places, and a very light strumming over the strings, but he was doing it somewhat instinctively, which was good, he seemed, somehow to be a natural at this instrument. Clarence’s slight blunder, which no one deemed to be a blunder bar himself was quickly brushed over “Okay, so, yeah, G, basically, it looks like this” Clarence quickly positioned his fingers and showed it, he was right, Al thought, it does look more complicated “And it sounds like this” Clarence strummed over the strings quickly and the sound of the G bounced around the room and pierced straight through Al, Clarence was right, it was very nice chord, very appealing to Al, very appealing indeed, the complicated nature now seemed worth it. Whilst moving his hand slowly at the same time, Clarence then described how to play the next chord “Okay, and so, you put your little finger on the high E, the thinnest one, on the third fret, then the next one up, on the B string, with your ring finger, on the third fret too, and now you put your index finger on the second string down from the top, on the second fret, and then your middle finger on the third fret on the low E, the thickest one, okay? Try it” Al looked down at his hand sternly, as if to say “Please do this, hand if you don’t, I will be angry and upset.” Al moved his fingers into position, in the same order Clarence told him, and they seemed to be reasonably comfortable in the claw like position, whilst resting, but when he started to press down, he felt a strain on his fingers, a stretch, but he quickly batted away the thought and knew that it would sort itself out eventually, he then started to strum along the strings, but as soon as he hit the first E, he realised he wasn’t pressing hard enough, the string was just muted, not fretted, Clarence quickly came in with words of comfort “Don’t worry! You’re doing really good, just press a little harder and try again” Clarence smiled a smile which would usually look forced, however it was obvious Clarence was not forcing it, he was just quite genuine, a strange quality to encounter in a person. Al pressed harder, and strummed again, now when hitting the top string, it rung out the note that it was supposed to, and it felt good to hear it, just right, and the tip of his index finger reinforced by his thumb brushed against the rest of the strings, combining the notes to make a chord, Clarence gave more encouragement and advice “Okay, now take your hand off, shake it off and whatever, and just try it again, make sure you can do it when you go back.” Al’s friend was still sat in the corner, smoking another cigarette, he seemed to be chain smoking, this could have been either a result of nervousness or the alcohol in his system, as he often chain smoked whilst influenced by alcohol. Al shook his hand off, and grabbed his coffee, taking a large swig, so that there was very little left in the cup, Clarence simply sipped his again, savouring the infusions of tastes on his tongue, and appreciating them, one by one, and then allowing them to mix and please his pallete. Clarence smiled another smiling smile, it was now one of comfort, of enjoyment, as, despite the fact he was basically taking the mantle of teacher, he was enjoying himself, feeling a connection with Al, feeling the starts of a friendship start to be built. This was nice for Clarence, the communal drinking, the general laziness and ambience of the area around him, and, he was playing music, something which he loved, and was using it as a medium for friendship. A brilliant thing for him to be able to do, and something he really did not ever expect to happen. Al now gripped the neck of the guitar again, and placed his fingers on one by one, in the right order, and pressed hard, very hard, making sure he wasn’t just muting the strings, and he played, he played a perfect G chord. There were very few words Al could muster up that could truly define his feelings, he simply settled for the superlative of “best” as it was just the best, nothing in particular, just, the best. Al continued to strum through the chord, up and down strokes, implementing himself, learning quicker than ever expected, and quicker than oh so many ever have before. Clarence was again pleased “Awesome, awesome, one last chord, and then you’ll be able to learn stuff for yourself, once you can play a few chords, looking in the books and stuff is easy, it just helps to have a person to teach you the real basics, I suppose that means it was a good idea for you to wait fo me to come over then!” Clarence let out what could only be described as a quiet chortle, a Winston Churchill-esque laugh, but quietly, and to himself, he had made himself laugh, and both Al and his friend liked this, his genuineness only accentuated by his ability to laugh at himself and not particularly care about his surroundings. In actuality, Clarence was only being himself because he felt comfortable in the company of these two, Al and his friend, in this room, in this apartment, and the small amount of whisky in his system probably had some contribution to this fact. Clarence started his teaching of the final chord “Okay, this is a D, just go through the motions you did before, play it, take your hand off, shake it out, try and do it again, and then do it to a rhythm, okay, so, this is a D, and you do it by putting your middle finger on the high E string on the second fret, and then the ring finger on the third fret on the B string, and then the index finger on the second fret on the G string. I find this chord quite comfortable to play, my fingers just seem to sit there nicely. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, when you play a D, you only strum four of the strings, the four from the bottom up”
“Urmmm, Ok..?” Al spoke as if it was a question, he no longer felt as if he should question it, as he was not the expert, it was in fact Clarence who was the expert, so he just dutifully obeyed. He took his fingers and positioned them as Clarence had said, in the same way he had before, one by one, and he pressed down, and he pressed down hard. He strummed over the strings and felt the sound echo through him, it hit him like a bus hitting an old woman who was forgetting that she was stood in the middle of the street, thinking she was in the places where she was comfortable, the places where she was safe. The note went right through Al, from the front to the back, from the top to the bottom, it encapsulated him, it held him like a baby and punched him like a boxer. It twisted and turned his insides, he felt sick, and he loved it, he felt everything he’d known seeping from his veins, he felt new. He took his hand off of the guitar again, and now in routine, in beautiful, bitter routine, he shook the strain out and did it again, he positioned his fingers again, stretching them in ways they didn’t feel like they should be stretched, but Al did it, he still did it, and he pushed down hard, he pushed down with all of his might, and inside he felt one light go on, and one light go out, he felt everything crumble down again and again as he strummed the strings, and Clarence spoke, though now, unlike other times that Al had felt like this, the speech didn’t break the feelings he was having inside, no, they just stayed there with them, mixing into the broth of emotion that Al could not help, that he could not stop, the broth that was full of all of the things he’d ever hated, ever loved, ever felt. Al, inside had the broth of his purpose boiling and bubbling and creating and surging, and Clarence’s words echoed around Al’s mind, hitting him again and again “That’s really good! You can progress it all now, by putting it together like, it’s not that hard really, you’ve just got to get used to moving your fingers really quickly, it gets easier the more that you do it, and you’ll do it a lot hopefully, you seem to grasp it really well, so I’m sure it’ll just come naturally to you, you can just do it, and that’s an amazing talent to have, not many people can just do it, I think this might be less work for you than it was for me” Al felt what Clarence was saying, but didn’t believe it, this wasn’t just talent, this wasn’t just easy, no, no it was Al’s destiny, the path he had never set upon, the one that was right. And then he remembered he has to work as well, work and feast and do all of the human things which made you human, and he had to feel, and he couldn’t just feel this. He couldn’t always have the crumbling and the building within him, at some point he had to drift down to earth, some point between the day he was on and the next he had to drift, crumble, crash down to earth and check to see if he’d gotten a job. He thought now may be a better time than ever, so inside he wretched with his thoughts, his feelings, his motivations, and he grabbed then, and he stepped on them, he broke them, he made them become what he knew they would, reality, they had to become something that was not what they were, they had to go from being dreams to ideas. Al Kicked himself inside and took a sip of his drink, which was now almost empty, and he brought himself to earth, the flavours on his tongue made him realise reality, and it made him realise how much he fucking hated reality. He needed something, something inside of him that was right, and something which was not real. “Hey man” he called to his friend on the sofa, now, Clarence was just happily strumming away at his guitar, acceptant of how Al was feeling, as, he too had been there, he too had held the guitar for the first time and felt those same feelings of awe, the deception of a musical inability being beaten to death by a new found ability, a skill, a purpose. Al called out “Can I pinch a cigarette?” Al’s friend fumbled over himself in an inaccurate fashion, not particularly looking anywhere, and not looking anywhere in particular. He shoved him hand into his jean pocket and pulled out a particularly destroyed cigarette, destroyed, but useable. He tossed it over to Al with a casual “There you go” and Al caught it with both hands, almost dropping the guitar in the process, but grabbing it with his elbow, clenching it against his side. He then mad sure he had the cigarette firmly in his grip and pulled up the guitar onto his lap so that it rested comfortably. Clarence sat there, cross-legged, eagerly anticipating when he could become part of a conversation, and he just sat, and waited. Al pulled the disposable lighter his friend had previously given him out of his trouser pocket. He noticed he was slightly warm, and pulled off his Harrington jacket, right sleeve, left sleeve, and then pushed it behind him, onto the chair on which he was sat. He lit the cigarette, first putting it into his mouth, then sucking in, and then lighting, and exhaling then smoke, after a casual inhale. In this short period of time it had become routine for Al, the way to smoke, how to be casual about it. It then occurred to him he did not have anything in which to tap the ash. In what he thought was an ingenious move, he downed the rest of his cup of coffee and proceeded to use it as somewhere to tap the ash. The room was now silent, and Al had been brought to earth, to reality, and he felt better, in a way for it, he had climbed down from the mountain of enlightenment, but retained the feeling he had whilst on it’s peak, and one day hope to again feel those feelings of being on top of that mountain. Clarence saw this silence as a good time to speak, and decided to continue the guitar teaching he had been doing, since it would help them, help them to build a relationship, and generally help Al and his friend in doing what they had set out to do, which seemed like a difficult task to them still, since doing what you’re born to do is hardly ever, if ever at all, easy. “So, err, yeah, you feel comfortable with those chords then? If you do, just try and play them, move from each position to the other till you can move easily, then you’ll be able to start doing proper strumming and stuff. All the stuff you’ll need to know to learn chords from the book will be in the front of the book, so, you can do that easy, it’s good to have this human start though, it does seem that you would’ve gotten on fine without me though, you are actually a real natural!”
“Thanks” Al flashed a smile, and exhaled the smoke he had held in his lungs, and felt okay with it, felt okay with where he was, not brilliant, but, he felt okay, he was okay, alright, average, and average was better than rock bottom shit. Al sat there and smoked, and Clarence played short melodies on the high strings of his guitar, it was nice in the background, mellow, comforting… As Al drew to the end of his cigarette, he threw it into the cup he was using as an ash tray, and the small amount of liquid still in the bottom of the cup quickly put the heat of the cigarette out, and without immediate instruction, Al started to look at the guitar quizzically, and then placed his hand on it again, attempting to remember how to play an E, which he did, and a small smile came to his face, and he played it, he went trough these motions, and Clarence stopped playing, so that Al could focus on the sounds he was making, and only the sounds he was making. Clarence turned his attention to Al’s friend, who still sat there, slowly drinking his whisky infused coffee, smoking his cigarette, pondering over things, being generally quizzical. Clarence’s speech awoke him from his haze. “So, you’re going to be doing vocals huh? Guess that means you’ll be mostly writing lyrics too then?”
“Uhr, yeah I am going to be singing, or attempting it at least, I think we’ll probably write the lyrics together, Al’s good with that shit, and they’ll probably be better if we write them together, rather than I just write them, or he just writes them and that”
“Ah right, cool, cool, that bypasses a big problem in itself…” Clarence was about to vocalize this problem, but before he could, Al’s friend interrupted “What problem?” he seemed worried, even though Clarence said they had bypassed the problem, so it really wasn’t so much of their concern as any problem they were about to face. “Well, you see, it can be a real bitch to play an instrument and sing at the same time, the different rhythms, the having to do two things at once, it can really confuse your brain, some people can just do it, but other people have to work, me, I had to work for it. I’d been playing guitar for 5 years before I could do it properly, and it wasn’t a gradual process either, one night two pieces just clipped together. I had just come back from a little night out, feeling downtrodden, as you do after being rejected by a girl you’ve had your eye on, and decided to come home, and play my guitar, this being said, I was drunk, pretty fucking drunk, not flat on your face, make a tit out of yourself drunk, but, most definitely drunk. I sat on my bed and started playing my guitar, just strumming chords and stuff you see, and then I just started speaking over it, which I’d never been able to do, just speaking words to see how they fitted in with the music, see how they flowed, see if they gelled together well, in no way did I expect them to, I expected myself to become jolty and off beat in one or the other, but, not, I was neither, I was just speaking and playing at the same time, and that moment I just decided to sing the words, and click! Just like that, just like that I could do it. At this point I did lament, as, I imagined when I woke up in the morning, or whenever it came about that I was sober again, I would not be able to play, but, low and behold, I took a hold of my guitar and finished the song. It was a weird, satisfying feeling. But yeah, I got off point, it can be really hard to learn to sing and play at the same time, especially if you’re just starting doing both, so if one of you is singing and the other is playing, it’ll be easier, one day you’ll both be able to do both, I doubt that day will be any day soon, but it’ll come.”
“Oh right, I see, that must suck, but yeah, well, I’m going to be doing vocals and he’ll be playing guitar” All while this conversation was going on, Al was concentrating very hard on moving his fingers quickly enough to keep the one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four rhythm going whilst changing chords. This seemed to be the had part to Al, but he persevered and tried and tried again ignoring whatever Clarence and Al’s friend were talking about, and focussing hard, focussing so much, in fact, that he forgot he had used his cup as an ash try, and that he finished it, and he lifted it to his face, only remembering the actual circumstances of said cup when the smell of stale smoke drifted into his nostrils. Not a pleasant smell, not a pleasant smell at all, so Al placed the cup back down and got back to attempting to play, whilst his fried and Clarence continued to speak. “That sounds cool you know what you’re going to write about yet? Or at least what style and stuff? I dunno, you know what I mean…”
“I think we’re mostly going to write about things that affect us, so emotional shit, probably quite a few metaphors as ambiguity is easier than specification, and, I don’t know, probably in a sort of singer songwriter style, but with two guys doing it instead of one”
“That sounds nice actually, if you’ve got any queries or worries or anything about writing lyrics I’m happy to answer”
“Actually, fuck, yeah actually, I was wondering, how do you make sure it, y’know goes with the music type of thing? I dunno, I just it easily not fitting, if you get what I mean”
“Oh yeah, I understand, you see you don’t really have this problem if it’s two of you, cause you can fit the lyrics and the way you sing them around the guitar, and vice-versa, if you were doing it all yourself, it’s be a lot harder, but you see, since you’re doing it like this, you can just say words slow, or fast, or proper sing them, or just don’t, it really lies in the two of you hands, and if it doesn’t go, who says a song is final? Just change it how you want, and fit it so that it’s right” Al’s friend thought about this for a second, and sat back, wondering, and he decided that Clarence was right. “I suppose, words don’t need to rhyme or anything do they, I just correlate them and shit like that, make them sound good, place them in the right places, move them around jiggle them, make ‘em nice, yeah, I guess it can’t be too hard, just don’t make them cheese, retain integrity, stay true I guess. Yeah” Al’s friend was having a revelation of sorts in his own mind, of how he could write, what he could write, how they could continue. In the background Al was still trying to switch chords, somewhat unsuccessfully, but more successfully than he was previously. He could now swith from E to G only missing one beat which, he sound if he strummed the muted note didn’t sound too bad, but that G to an E was proving to be a real bitch. A real cunning, hand aching, mind-boggling, arse clenching bitch. Al continued to practise. He had faith in his cause, he had faith in himself, and he wanted to write a fucking song. Now, now, he could spend his time, when he had nothing to do, not browsing some shitty single topic blogs online, but actually doing something worthwhile, which, Al had found out he enjoyed. It was good for him to play the music, it was good for him to feel it. He carried on playing, through and through and practising, whilst Al’s friend and Clarence spoke of nothing and everything, all the shit you speak of when getting to know somebody “So, where’d you grow up?”
“Oh just outside of Clapham”and Al listened in the background, more to the guitsr than he listened to them, but, he did still listen, and go to know both of them better, but did feel like a shadow, fading into the background. He supposed that was the essence of learning an instrument. They spoke of nothing, well, something, but nothing until Clarence had to get his last train, then Al and his friend finished off the whisky and slept. They slept, and they dreaded the outcome of their job applications, which, they assumed would be coming through the next day. Somehow they had made it so their primary method of contact was e-mail, so, that was good for Al. They retreated to their rooms, and Al continued to attempt to play the guitar, getting so close to being right it was frustrating, but still being slightly wrong. It would come, he was sure it would come.