Chapters 6-10

6.
As Al and his friend were walking down the street, Al, coffee in hand, he loved the stuff he bought in cafés, but couldn’t afford it usually, he thought since he’d been to one he should treat himself, then his friend next to him, cigarette in hand, their eyes were suddenly drawn to the floor as a security camera fell to the pavement and the glass smashed in a most peculiar way. “That was strange” uttered Al, his friend did not reciprocate, more just raised an eyebrow, looked to the floor, then at Al, back at the floor, and then straight into Al’s eyes, choosing his words carefully, as was evident in the gaps between his words “It almost seemed too strange to be unintentional…” Al rolled his eyes as they carried on walking, stepping over the smashed glass and slightly contorted metal “You cannot honestly believe that that camera was actually intentionally disconnected from that wall on the off chance that it landed on someone’s head”
“No, on the off chance it landed on our, or more specifically, my head, since I would have been directly under it, though, in this event, you probably would have jumped into the road in shock, been hit by a car, and there would be a massive fucking mess. Also, anything imaginable is possible, however improbable it may be, the fact it could happen means that considering the infinite nature of time, at some point, it will happen. So, you, my friend are the loser in this war of wits”
Al started to wonder if they had gone the right way, since he wasn’t sure where he was, and did not see any signs saying the music shop was near, nevertheless, he carried on speaking to his friend, since right now, this was more important “So, what your saying is anything that is possible, even if considered scientifically impossible, will happen at some point in time, but, I see a flaw, in that with all of the variables, it would rely on us, or, at least one sentient witness being immortal to either experience, or witness all of these improbable event, such as that security camera landing on your head, then me jumping into the road and being ungraciously splattered into people pizza on the road, but for that event to happen, we would have had to be under that security camera for an infinite amount of time, at least until it happened, or, even more improbably, be right under it when it was at the correct height to hit you on the head, and possibly kill you, but definitely hurt you to some extent.”
They had gotten so into what they were discussing, that they did not notice that they were partially lost. Partially lost is a misguiding understatement, they had no fucking clue where they were, yet, from being so engrossed in said conversation, they did not notice they were venturing further and further into the dark abyss of not knowing where you are, worsened only through the fact they were so distracted whilst walking there, they also had no clue how the hell they got here either. Al’s earlier wonderings of whether or not they were lost had now gone, and were replaced with trying to grasp the ideas being played between the two. In the last few moments the conversation had progressed in a way neither Al, or his friend could probably tell you, but since they probably could, given an infinite amount of time and infinite amount of patience, they would, however many more productive things could be done with your time. Al’s friend continued on the spiel he had been spouting, “…and you see, if it never happens in the future, that means it’s already happened in the past.” Al and his friend both looked confused. It was that unique confusion which comes from philosophical thinking, which is, in actual fact, a bitch. In their quiet confusion, at which they stood still (well, obviously not still, but the first time they’d stopped walking) for the first time since they were startled by the falling security camera, the incident which inspired this exchange of words, which in turn led to them walking aimlessly, which in turn led to them being lost, which in turn led to them standing where they are now standing, looking confused. Their confusion had been sustained, however, there was a break in what over, this was evident from their head movement, whilst considering the nature of events, their heads were tilted to the sky but, when they started to realise they had absolutely no idea where they had been led (albeit by themselves, but at least subconsciously led), their heads tilted in the style of a confused animal, or person attempting to be cute. These head turns led to nothing of the cute variety, Al and his friend were in fact rather nervous of the fact that they were not sure of where they are. Al decided to be the first to address their situation, “... So, urm, do you know where we’re going?”
“Me?! Know where I’m going? I was following you.”
“So, you were following me, and I was following you, so we have in fact been following our subconscious to…” Al looked around quizzically for some point of reference of which he could use to define where they had led themselves. Something instantly caught his eye “to opposite a pub called the fighting cocks. Freud would have a fucking field day!” Al’s friend was obviously unimpressed, and from Al’s expression it was evident that he too was unimpressed, and that that previous statement was not one of a failed attempt at humour, but more an excuse to swear, which is often very good at reliving stress. Before Al’s friend said a thing, he pulled out a battered cigarette from his bomber jacket pocket, he lit it unusually un-extravagantly with a regular zippo style lighter, which wasn’t actually zippo, but some imitation. The cigarette was so battered that it could be said it had gone through the wash, this however would be a naïve assumption, considering how the jacket looked and how ridiculously evident it was that the jacket had never been washed. If not from its’ state, then the fact in the label, the paper price is still stuck on. That’s really commitment, in a strange way. “So, this is fucking ridiculous, where the fuck are we? What the fuck are we supposed to do?” Al’s friend’s tone increasing with anger on every syllable, let alone word, he started to spit his next words, not shout, he was controlled in volume, but in frustration, he was far from controlled “How are we going to fucking get home, let alone to the fucking music shop! Fuck’s sake. By the time we get back I bet the shops will be shut… fucking wank tit bollocks”
“Don’t you think that level of swearing was unnecessary? Anyway, it’s around 3 now, and we’d been walking no more than 20 minutes, so, in theory, if we double that to consider the fact we will have to find our way, we’ll still have plenty of time in the music shop, and we’ve got plenty of fucking applications”
“1. I think it was extremely fucking necessary, 2. Theories never work, 3. I hate you”
Al took a large gulp from his coffee, he was intending to finish it off, however he did not get that nice burst of sweetness that comes from sugar in hot drinks half dissolving and being left at the bottom of the cup, he in fact got some bitter tasting lump, which he cared not to identify, he thought to himself that this reflected the situation quite well, though, he kept it in, as he did not think this observation of coincidence would be appreciated by his friend. Al went to add some useful input, but was cut off by his friend “4. I really REALLY fucking hate you” Al decided it was best for everyone if he ignored this, he smiled at the name of the fighting cocks pub, as he did things like that on a regular basis. “Okay, so now you’ve had your hissy fit, can we please try and go and do something useful, or, as you put it ‘do something with our lives’, something I am increasingly regretting agreeing too, since I much preferred sitting looking up fuck all for large periods of time. So, get the fuck up or I’m going to go home and read blogs”
“I hate you. Let’s go.” With that it was decided that they shall venture back across their own path in an attempt to complete what seemed to be the easy task of getting some job applications for cafés and buying a guitar and some peripherals. The naïve smiles of people who had never written songs before had faded to some extent were still there, going on strong, strangely though, the events they had experiences so far in trying to acquire the materials to makes songs actually quite reflects the song writing process. Al threw his cup of coffee perfectly into a bin, something he wished some pretty girl had seen, and his friend lit another cigarette, retracing their steps in pursuit of a very young dream.
7.
To start their journey back to a place they knew, they decided to turn around so that they were walking exactly back where they came, this seemed like a reasonable idea, flawed in only two ways, one that they did not know quite where they are going, and two, that they had no fucking clue where they are going. They started off anyway, and just walked straight in the hope they would find a place they knew amidst the carnage of uncertainty and confusion. This was the perfect time, Al thought to himself, to think to himself about life, the universe and everything, but, more specifically, the opposite sex and how on earth him and his friend are going to write and perform songs. In fact, he decided to think less about life, the universe and everything, and more about things that matter very little, as it is those things, of little importance, which matter most to the majority of people. Before he got lost in his thoughts, he thought it would be productive to check they still knew (or still didn’t know) where they were. Al’s friend was looking around and leading the way, back along winding streets, so Al thought it a good idea to simply follow him, this way he did not have to think particularly about walking and could focus on the more important things which were less important, he also thought if they were still lost after a while, that this way he could blame it on his friend, and plead ignorance. The first thought that decided to float under Al’s thought bridge in his mental game of pooh sticks happened to be the thought of women. This is unsurprising, to Al particularly, as it is often one of the big thoughts he has. Al thought back to the last woman that showed him true affection (who wasn’t his mother.) He meant true affection as well, not just a fuck, but a smile when she hands him a cup of coffee, a kiss on the cheek or just eye contact when speaking, and telling him he meant something to her. He harked back in his memory and realised the last time this happened was what probably had put him off relationships for a while. Her name was (and in all probability still is) Heather. She was gorgeous; her face looked like it was painted by Davinci, and her body crafted by Greek Gods deciding to make heaven on earth. This at least was how Al saw her, and fondness can have a certain rose tinting on memory, there is no doubt that she was gorgeous, but no where near as gorgeous as the woman Al put on a pedestal. She would make two cups of coffee in the morning, and take a sip out of both before handing the cup over to Al, he could always tell since they both had the mark of her bottom lip on the edge of the cup, and Al always lined his bottom lip up with her lipstick mark, so that every sip was like a sweet kiss. Al’s strange like that. Remembering what happened last time he got distracted by thoughts he looked back around, and he was still following his friend, who was now smoking yet another cigarette, and swearing under his breath, Al decided not to intrude on this peculiar happening as he seemed, at least to himself to be getting somewhere with his thoughts, so he retraced his mental steps, as he was retracing his physical ones, and remembered he was. The lipstick mark on the coffee cups, and how he lined them up. As he thought of this, his stomach sank, partially in a bitter remembrance of her, and partially because of how much he missed just sitting in bed with a nice girl. So, he though, that she was the last woman to show him affection, and this was almost a year ago. He tried to remember what had gone wrong, and it hit him like a bulldozer hitting a poorly constructed shed. She fucked someone else behind Al’s back. This confused him slightly, but he didn’t really care, since he though that he might love her, so he forgave within five small minutes of hearing it. The reason he didn’t care is that she said it was just a fuck, that she had no feeling for him. Those words stuck in Al’s mind… “just a fuck” they resonated around his skull like a steel drum on a beach about to be hit by a tsunami, his stomach was sinking further, he felt horrid. She had wanted him to care, she wanted him to go nuts at her, maybe hit her, she had wanted him to prove that he cared, by losing it, but Al didn’t lose it. He stayed calm and composed, and he made a cup of coffee, in which he put a couple of shots of whiskey, to help him stay sane. She had started shouting and asking if he cared, he was so confused he didn’t say a word, and with that she was gone, down the 30 second corridor and out of his apartment, and out of Al’s life. Al’s stomach was a pit of despair, but he was awoken by tripping up. “what the fuu..?” he looked down at the floor and saw the smashed security camera over which he had just tripped, and looked up at his friend “So, we’re back?”
“Back to nowhere, yes”
“That makes no sense, you know where you are now?”
“Yes, I do, and the music shop is only 5 minutes away, let’s get a fucking move on”
Al just nodded in reply and followed like a lost sheep. Al’s friend pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with an extravagant lighter, the extravagancy of his lighters seems to directly correlate with his mood, and Al made a mental note of this. No longer bearing any smile, of naivety or not, he followed his friend, and the friend smiled a smile, not of naivety but of accomplishment, they were very nearly on the way to completing their first step on the journey to not be wastes of space.
8.
They reached the door of the music shop just as Al’s friend said they would, in around five minutes, they breathed in deep, though, Al’s breath was that of the oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide and other chemical compound which we call air, and Al’s friend’s breath was that of carbon monoxide, tar, nicotine and other chemicals, which we commonly know as cigarette smoke. With that, they stepped in. They’d seen the instruments on the internet, and they’d seen other people playing them, but nothing like this, a sprawling room full to the brim with instruments of all natures, all shapes, all sizes, acoustic, electric, beautiful, ugly, instruments of every variety, all of them standing out in their own particular way against the crimson walls, with people sat playing, testing, trying. It is fair to say, that they are daunted, looking into this room, they realised what they were letting themselves in for, their wide eyes turned to open mouths of confusion and awe. They are truly baffled by the sight that they see. They have a habit from being dragged away from reality in their own minds, and they look over to the cashier, who they see is speaking to them “Hello there, my name is Clarence, any chance you need some help?” He looked strange to Al and his friend, they looked on at him and in a split second inspected his appearance, he had a shirt with two button undone, it was red and white candy striped, over it he had a blazer sporting a few pins on the lapels, Al and his friend assumed they were promoting a band, but had no idea what the symbols actually meant, the bottom half of his body was obscured by the desk he was stood behind, though they assumed (correctly) that he was wearing some loose fitting jeans. He had a trimmed beard that covered his face, it was reasonably long, but not so long it actually extended off of his face. His hair is mid length and fell somewhere around his ears. Al decided he should speak, in order to reciprocate the cashier’s kindness, but all he could muster up was “Errrrrm” Al’s friend decided to interject and spoke to the cashier “Hi, Clarence?” Clarence nodded “Yeah, we want to start making music, we need a guitar and a chord book or something and a tuner” Clarence smiled, possibly at the prospect of beginners who he could exploit, but actually at the fact people were deciding to make music, he liked it when he could help people on their way to becoming musicians, “Right okay, that’s cool, what kind of budget are you looking at?” Al still stood in confusion and stared around the room at all of the beautiful instruments, he was enthralled by this new environment, so his friend spoke again “Well, we’ve got £150 overall to spend”
“Okay, okay, and what kind of guitar are you looking at getting, acoustic, electric, electro-acoustic, semi-acoustic, 12-string or..?”
“I’m going to be honest with you Clarence, I have little to no clue of what the fuck you’re on about” Clarence was comforted by Al’s friend’s willingness to swear, and admit his confusion, rather than present a façade of knowledge, which so many people do, and he laughed “Right, cool, well then, I guess you know the difference between acoustic and electric? Yeah? Cool, so which one you looking for?”
“We want an acoustic really”
“Okay, and do you want one you can plug into an amplifier, in order to play it louder, or play live or anything?” Al’s friend looked at Al and punched him on his arm in order to bring him into the conversation “Al, do we want to be able to plug the guitar in to play it loud or live of whatever?” Al puzzled over this in his head and decidedly said “Yes, we do, we may as well get that now, rather than get this then need one of them later, when we want to play live. If we want to play live” Al’s friend retorted to Al “No, when we play live” He emphasised saying when, he knew it was going to happen, it couldn’t not happen. It had to happen, he directed his attention back to Clarence “Yeah, we’d like that” Clarence smiled and stroked his beard “Okay, so what you’re looking for is an electro-acoustic, those can be pretty expensive, but I’m sure we can find one to cater to your budget. You want a book and tuner as well? It would probably be a good idea to get some spare strings as well as everyone snaps a string or two.” Al’s friend looked confused and nodded, Clarence continued “You’re probably going to want a case too, or at least a basic bag, let’s have a look for something for you” Clarence gestured that they followed him, and they did. He led them to a rack of guitars, there must have been over a hundred both Al and his friend thought. There was one lower rail, and another over the top on which guitars hung down. Clarence spoke, and pointed at the top rail “Right, all of the ones up here are electro acoustic, and they go up in price from left to right, so you’re going to be wanting to look to the left, do you have any preferences in brand, colour, or anything along those lines?” Still daunted, they both shook their heads, though Al spoke, the first time he said anything actually coherent to Clarence “No, not really, I think we’re more bothered about quality and budget, maybe you could recommend us something?” Clarence was pleased by this, he liked the thought that people needed him, that he was being useful, as opposed to standing behind the desk and simply scanning and taking money, further perpetuating the banality of his life. Clarence thumbed through the guitars in a way most people would thumb through a book, checking very little things, but knowing whether the thing he was looking at was good from the short glance he took at it. He then turned back to the two, Al and his friend and said, “Okay, you have a £150 budget, you need a guitar, a chord book, a tuner and a case. We’re going to be looking at about £125 for the guitar then, and in my opinion, this is the best you’re going to get for that price, it’s a decent guitar, good to start on, good tone, generally a nice instrument, I can give you specifications of it if you want?”
“You and I both know that will mean fuck all to both of us.”
Clarence liked Al’s friend, he comforted him, he then had a wave of confusion, “Wait, so if you’re going to start making music, how come you’re only getting one guitar? Surely you need two, or at least some other instrument?” Al’s friend smirked and said “Well, the thing is we can’t afford two instruments, so I’m singing and he’s playing guitar, we figure eventually when we have enough money we can expand our arsenal” Clarence still felt confused, but presented himself in his friendly way “Ah right, okay then.” Clarence led them back to the desk behind which he was previously stood and bent down underneath it, Al and his friend heard ruffling of paper, flicking of pages and the sound of pushing lots of things out of the way. He came up into vision, and put a thin book on the table, along with a small box. Gesturing towards the book “Here’s your chord book, fits into the neck of the case, very convenient, and in my personal opinion one of the best chord books out there, and if you like I can note down a couple of websites with tutorials on them in the back.” Al and his friend were perplexed by his kindness and nodded, Clarence scratched quickly into the back cover with a blue biro and threw the book over to Al and his friend’s side of the desk, he continued “Okay, here’s the tuner, real good, decent price, basically, clip it onto the head of the guitar, turn it on, play a string and twist the corresponding tuning peg till it says the right letter on the screen and the display is green, okay?” They again nodded, still confused. Clarence boxed up the guitar into a strangely triangular or trapeze type shape cardboard box and taped it up “I’ve thrown in a real simple cheap bag in there to fit your guitar, you can have that for free if you like.” Al and his friend were yet again confused by Clarence’s kindness, but they did not know that this was the friendliest anyone had been towards Clarence in months. “That would be £140 if you’d be so kind” Al filched in his back pocket and pulled out a combination of battered five, ten and twenty pound notes, all faded to some extent and slightly ripped, he pulled out a ten pound note and shoved it into his back pocket, and passed the large amount of money over to Clarence, Clarence counted it all dutifully, and then passed over the goods, with a large smile. “So, how you feeling about learning guitar?” Al replied wearing the type of face a fish with a hook through it’s lip would wear “Really not that great.” Clarence saw this as an opportunity, he liked these two guys, he wanted to help them, but even more than he wanted to help them, he wanted to be friends with them, since it had been a while since he’d had a decent friend, or really, a friend at all. “Y’know, I could come help you learn the basics sometime if you want, we could go for a beer or something if you like.” Al and his friend did not at first realise this was a gesture of friendship and with the start of Al’s reply Clarence’s face sunk “I’d love to, but I’m pretty tight on cash to be honest, I can’t afford a teacher…” Towards the end of Al’s retort, Clarence smiled again “No, no, I don’t mean for money, I mean as a… as a… friend or something, y’know? To help you out?” Al and his friend were profusely confused, this was a strange and scary concept to them, but they thought that it was too good an opportunity to pass up “Oh… wow, that sounds amazing, you sure? Well, yeah, that’d be really good” Clarence stroked him beard and smiled his smiley smile “I’ll jot down my email in the back of that chord book, and we’ll arrange something” Clarence scratched frantically in the back of the chord book with his blue biro and Al and his friend smiled, Al took the chord book and put all of the items, bar the guitar (which he carried underarm) in a plastic bag, they waved their goodbye and parted, both feeling more enriched from their newly found friendship. Al and his friends felt as if they had started a fellowship in order to complete some fantastical task, now having recruited an expert, they were bound for victory. Clarence felt a very different enrichment and fulfilment, he felt as if he had friends, and wasn’t totally socially inept, he picked up a guitar and started writing a song, the first song which didn’t start on D minor in months.
9. A solemn and lonely guitar
From the day I was created, I was cursed with being average; I am neither brilliant nor terrible. I am “Middle if the range” I’m good for the price I am. I I am better than some, worse than many. I am boring. Single cutaway electro acoustic guitar, a pickup inside my body, for those who would ever wish to play me to play me loud, nickel plated silver tuning pegs, bronze and steel strings stretched down me as if I was a rack to torture them on, a neck with 21 banal frets, with fake mother of pearl inlays on a few of the frets, to act as fret dots. A long rod of steel going through my neck and into my body, to make sure my poor quality neck does not snap. Then my head, again with those fake mother of pearl inlays, which make me feel like a cheap whore, pretending to be a lady. I feel almost nothing but shame at my own existence. I am never wanted, those wishing to buy a cheap guitar buy poorer than me, and those wanting a good quality one go for a more expensive one, I never am quite sure what separates our sound so prominently, but there certainly is something. Every so often someone will come into this prison, in which I am kept and sold like a slave with many others of my kind, and somebody strums me, or picks against my strings while pressing my neck so hard that if I had an oesophagus I am almost sure it would be crushed.
In this prison I live, walls a crimson velvet, and when the light hits it just right, it’s a perfect scarlet, reflecting the torture and captivity we go through day to day. I am hung up by my neck along with at least 50 on my rack, we are hung above others, them with a lot easier ride, they are rested by their body’s on stands, still just as captivated, but I would prefer to be captured and held by my body any day, rather than my neck. There are more of those below me, than those I am on par with. Those below us are constructed entirely acoustically, their only source of volume, the resonation of the vibrating strings bouncing around the inside of the box, being pushed out by air, the sound hole shouting sweet dulcet tones to anyone who cares to listen. However me, I am a half-breed, like the others on my shelf, we are neither one nor the other, neither here nor there, the Gabriels of guitars. Often in the night you can hear us gently weep, cursing our existence, well, apart from the extremely high end and extremely low end, they are either too stupid or too pretentious to think that they are not the most important thing in this shop, and, if not only this shop, the entire freaking world. So here I am, average, never taken home, never liberated, never loved, not born, created, useless and not one or the other. I am a failure in this shop, I am a failure in my existence. I was a failure in this shop, I was a failure in existence, that is, until today.
Today was sat, being miserable, as always, as I always am, here, in the same place, on the same rack, in the same shop, in the same city, in the same country, in the same world, just sat, well, less sat, and much more hung. Clarence had his usual slouchy unfulfilled persona; I would be a good guitar for him. I often think this, we are both miserable and could meld together in perfect harmony and play songs that make children cry and adults kill themselves. Then these two scruff men walked in, one considerably taller than the other, both as dishevelled as the other, as they drifted into the shop, they just stared around, in awe, they looked, and seemed confused, I for one, was confused as to whether they were confused by the cruelty, or the brilliance, whichever they saw, they started talking to Clarence, and I accepted the inevitability of not being picked again, as a lot of the other instruments made attempts at elegance. Eventually Clarence and the two dishevelled men walked over to the rack on which I was hug, I automatically assumed they were to go for those beneath me, those laid and constricted, constrained beneath me and the others of the kind, Clarence and the men spoke more, Clarence was being different to usual, he wasn’t murmuring, or not really caring, he seemed to be honestly enthused, and enjoying talking to these two men, he seemed quite happy with being who he is, which is quite strange, as it was not often that he was happy with who he was, and in all honesty, I would not be happy with myself if I was Clarence either, then, I’m not happy with myself as a guitar, so if we changed places, not much would really change. Eventually, Clarence turned his attention to my rack, he was looking around me end of it, so I imagine he was looking for something inexpensive, something very beginner, something that wasn’t me. I found myself feeling a butterfly like feeling, excitement, but I have no idea why, I don’t think I have ever been excited before, nut my insides felt like they were sinking. This feeling only increased as Clarence looked at me, and those next to me, obviously we were around the right price, though my insides quickly sunk even more, in a disappointed sense, when Clarence took one look at me, and looked on. Then he looked back at me, my insides exploded with joy. He looked away again, and my insides were an implosion of despair, then he looked again, right at me, but by this point I was too much of an emotional wreck to be able to muster the energy for a hint, a very very minutely small amount of excitement, even whilst Clarence grabbed my neck, firm, yet gently, like the touch of a woman grabbing a gentleman she felt rather strongly for, and then Clarence spoke to the men again, they smiled, nodded, Clarence took me down, pressed my body against his in a sweet embrace, and I knew at that point, I knew right then that I was leaving this rotten, rotten place. Clarence played a quick progression of E, D, C on me, and even though I was slightly out of tune, it felt beautiful, beautiful, pure and real, for the first time I felt real. For the first time in my pitiful existence I felt wanted. Even as Clarence was packing me into a box with a flimsy bag on top of me, I felt brilliant. It was a feeling unlike any other, it was wonderful, I felt as if I was opening the door to a new world, to a new reality, paving the path towards a dream for these two troubadours to be. I heard the sticky tape go round as I was in the box, I felt comfortable, off of my rack, no more tension on my neck, no more strain, just a great, just a brilliant, brilliant sense of self worth. As I was passed to the two gentlemen, I could feel the excellence I could expect, I could feel what I was supposed to feel. It was good. The two and Clarence spoke more, and I feel as if Clarence and I will not be away from each other for long, which is quite comforting, as, surprisingly, I will miss the miserable bastard. And so, here I am now, in this box, no idea where I am, I know I am moving, and I know I am with these two newly crowned musicians, and I know I have a lot ahead of me. Things are looking up. Maybe, just maybe, I am worth a damn. Maybe I can be something that brings happiness. I am still average, I am still dreadfully, dreadfully average, but now, something average is going to be the start of something awe inspiring, I can feel it.
10.
Al and his friend arrived at their apartment with the new guitar under Al’s arm, plastic bag full of peripherals in Al’s friend’s hand, they felt strange, it was a new feeling on this journey they were taking. Before they had had simple steps. Buy guitar and other things to go with it, pick up resumes and get home. Now they had to do the hard parts, fill in the applications, hand them in, do interviews, and the hardest of all, learn guitar and start writing songs. They had not realised how hard this would be yet, especially for Al, since Al has never before played a string instrument, the only thing he’s ever done is hit a few piano keys, he never even played recorder. It was safe to say, they were beginners, or, whatever comes before that in the scale of experience. Al walked to the kitchen and flicked on the kettles, yet again forgetting to put water in it, only noticing when having waited five minutes attempting to clear his mind of any thoughts at all, as, all of them at that moment were quite distressing, then noticing the kettle was empty he quietly exclaimed to himself “Fuck…” It was helpful to express how he felt. He felt fucked. He felt that there was no hope. But there’s always hope, when there’s coffee, there’s hope for Al. He boiled the kettle and made himself a strong, tall cup of coffee, he used a tall cup as he quite often liked to save his coffee, to allow the tastes swim on his palette, and in a tall, thin cup, the heat was retained, allowing it to be enjoyed for longer. Having made the coffee he walked the green mile to the front room where the applications, guitar, and his friend rested. It was the room in which the old Al died. The old Al was going to die tonight, the apathy, the self doubt, it all had to go, or at least be channelled, he had to be who he needed to be, he had to work, he had to play, and he had to live, he had to start to live. The door was like the gate of hell. He knew he had to go through, but he really didn’t want to. He didn’t want to almost as much as he didn’t want to wake up this morning. In fact, more, he didn’t want to go in there more than he wanted someone to love him. Not quite, but nearly. He just really didn’t want to go in. He took a sip from his coffee, it burned his mouth in way he had become so used to, he had become fond of it, he went to grasp the handle to open it, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. To Al, it signified growing up, he had been to university, he had come out, and he had gone on the dole and paid rent with money borrowed from parents. He didn’t want to grow up, all of the 23 years of his life hadn’t made him grow up, and he didn’t want to do it. He just didn’t want a job; he just didn’t want to become whom he knew he had to. He took another sip, and found his stomach dropping down further than beyoncé in her music videos. He grabbed the handle and swallowed his soul. He walked through the door and felt reborn… It was nowhere near as bad as he expected it to be, but his stomach still felt like the deepest of oceans. Al’s friend was there, smoking a cigarette, holding one knee close to him, he was comforting himself, he felt the same as Al, and they were both scared. More scared than they had ever been before, more scared than when they got chased through Brixton, more scared than when they were waiting to find out what they got in their degrees, more scared than their first fuck, more scared than during their first love. It was felt easily in the air, everyone knew it was there, the fear, it stunk the room out. The applications were on the desk; they both looked at them, and took a deep swig of coffee and a deep inhalation of cigarette smoke respectively. They had gotten two applications for each place, so that they could each apply for both, since deep down they wanted to work together. They told eachother, and themselves that it was because it would make it easier since it would be easier to work all of the same hours, which it partially was, but, they also wanted to work together since they were scared, gut wrenchingly scared. They didn’t really quite know how to react to work, they sort of half expected it to be like doing house work, but getting g paid for it. To some people this may have been an encouragement, but they both severely and profusely loathed housework. They dreaded getting jobs, but also had the assumption that they were going to get jobs; they also assumed that they were going to get jobs together. Both are unlikely, since everyone finds it difficult to get a job nowadays, and, that they were applying for numerous different places, and in all likelihood, the people managing the cafes were probably only looking for one person. The two decided to complete the forms tonight, and get them back to the places as soon as possible, which was tomorrow, so they took to writing the forms, which scared them, it scared them a lot, it scared Al more than walking in the room alone, it would be okay after the first one, they thought, since after the first one, they’d all be pretty much the same, which they were. They wrote all of the things they could think about themselves which may make them appeal to a prospective employer. They both had two ones from university, making them stand out to at least some extent, however they had both done very little of worth in their personal life. They used the usual phrases such as “I can be relied on…” “I work as a good member of any team…” “I stand out from the average worker…” they continued like re-programmed vacuum cleaners made to calculate equations. They were becoming those new people while writing these, however it was unknown to them that they are changing. It was subtle changes, such as the fact they were writing in a less disjointed way, no longer were sentences ending with “Yes”, they were being well and properly constructed for a proper employer to read at a proper job, in order for Al and his friend to gain proper banality, and properly earn and for them to be proper. It’s unlikely that the two are ever going to be proper, but, they may near it, they may get close to being what may be considered proper. They were both stressed from writing their applications, and, without one word being spoken, decided to feed their respective vice, a look into each others eyes is all it took. The fact they were bloodshot from focussing, seeing each others hair, both ruffled multiple times out of frustration of what to write, or what not to write, or generally just sick of the monotony of writing pretty much the same thing over and over and over again. So, with that look at each other’s eyes, Al stood up, and his friend laid back, Al headed for the door, and his friend pulled out a cigarette, he looked at the ground, and then at the ceiling, and then at the floor again, and then at the vase, and then at the chair Al was sat in, and then attempted to look everywhere in the room apart from at the application forms, they were angering, frustrating, and generally pissing him off so much he wanted to smoke fifty cigarettes rather than just one. He thought that one would have to suffice considering the tight budget they are on. He put his hand into his jacket pocket and grabbed what felt like a cigarette, it just so happened, to in fact, be a cigarette, so he pulled it out and threw it into his lips, where he held it loosely, so that it was limp in his lips, so loosely that whilst fumbling for a lighter in his pockets, the cigarette bumped up and down, in the same way as when a male jogger runs. He pulled the lighter out, grasping it firmly with his hand, sitting back now, admiring the lighter, it was a zippo, not a fake zippo whick was simply a flick lighter style, it was a proper, official zippo, and, as he admired it, he looked at the design, on both sides it had an engraved design of the ace of spades card, stylized of course, with some form of foiliage all around, encasing the spade in the centre. He cracked a smile, which again made the cigarette bump around. He flicked open the lighter, and clicked his fingers in such a sense that his middle finger sped down and collided with the lighter, creating a spark which beautifully lit the fuel and the wick, for a second, he just admired the flame, flicking around, and just being, something which he was soon to do, he could just be, the slavery of work mixed with the freedom of music, a place where he had a purpose, for once, a time in his life where he wasn’t going to be worthless. He brought the flame up, slowly, and before it was even close to his face, he started to suck in, and that familiar taste of tobacco graced his tongue, and then, as the lighter set fire to the tip of the cigarette, he sucked more and watched as the orange and red got larger, an the white of the paper got smaller, and felt the smoke go onto his tongue. He blew this drag out before inhaling it, that first toke always made him feel sick, without fail, every time, so now, he just blows it out. So again, he raised the cigarette to his lips and sucked inward, the smoke filling his mouth, swirling and changing shape, he blew out a small smoke ring before inhaling the smoke into his lungs, and the smoke warmed them. He felt that first burst of nicotine go to his brain, it was such a subtle feeling after the years he had been smoking, but that just made him appreciate the calm after a cigarette so much more. As the smoke started to drift out of his lungs, and out of his mouth, he blew, and felt like a dragon. Powerful, he could do what he wanted. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, took another grag, and comforted himself in that in this ritual he had forgotten quite the nature of what they were doing, skull smashing, gut wrenching, unrelenting monotony. Al pushed open the door holding a tall, thing mug of coffee, the steam coming for the top resembling Al’s friends cigarette smoke, they looked at each other, then simultaneously looked at the application forms, Al sipped his coffee, Al’s friend took a large drag from his cigarette, and the sighed, almost in unison, but not to such an extent it seemed a cliché. It seemed, that this eveing was going to be a long evening, however, they both felt the glint of satisfaction that may occur tomorrow. They looked over at their newly acquired musical equipment and subtly smiled, interested, scared and excited by the near future, the future which they were about to embark on, the strange, strange journey they had ahead of them.