Further Bewilderment: 1
Monday:
Not very promising start to the week. I rise early, mainly because some bastard is tuning a motorbike outside my block of flats. Peering down from my balcony, I see that it’s Action Man from Flat One. This dolt has several motorbikes, a huge four wheel drive car, plus a selection of mountain bikes. When I’m out in the car, I often see him on one of the latter, cycling up hills that I would find a problem negotiating on foot. At other times, I’ve seen him out running with headphones on. My hands grip the steering wheel and it’s all I can do to resist ploughing him down like a pheasant. I know that my rancour toward him is irrational – he’s probably nice to his mum, contributes to good causes and only drinks the recommended number of units of alcohol per week. He might also be a pious stalwart of the local church, help little old ladies across the road and never pee in the shower. All this can be forgiven, but whenever I meet him on the stairs, or in the garden, he calls me “buddy” and punches my arm.
The previous occupant of Action Man’s flat was April, a transexual, formerly known as Kevin, who ran off with Adrian, an ex- VAT inspector, whose wife, Robin, briefly shacked up with Reg, the caretaker of the block. She too has left, apparently going to a commune in Scotland. I can hardly blame her. Reg is a devoted country music fan. He also has a vicious, yappy little dog called Patsy, that I’ve been planning to assassinate for some time.
Over the past year, all the flats have changed hands. Below me now, there is a couple who have a strange son aged about ten, who periodically bellows gibberish for no apparent reason. His parents then shout at him to be quiet. This has the opposite effect and he then quite often sings the intros from TV soaps. When these episodes occur, I put on my headphones and listen to some loud music, which probably won’t help my failing hearing. If this keeps up, this lad might suffer the same fate that I plan for Patsy.
I go to the minimarket to get my paper and a few bits and bobs. The Embryo, (very young girl with lots of eyeliner and attitude) who used to work at the shop has long since departed on her travels and has been replaced by a middle-aged crone who looks as though she is fresh from central casting at Hammer films. She has slightly bulbous, staring eyes, purple eye shadow and a greenish pallor. Her hair is like a rook’s nest and she has a cackling, wheezy laugh. I’ve named her Satan’s Sister.
I notice that Fair Trade Chilean Merlot is on special offer and snap up six bottles.
‘You’ve got a lot of wine here,’ Satan’s Sister says when I get to the checkout. ‘You gonna be celebratin’ somefink?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I tell her. ‘ It’s Hitler’s birthday and the anniversary of the relief of Mafeking.’
‘Well,’ she says, ignoring my sarcasm, ‘if you want some company, you know where I am dearie.’
She cackles and executes a hideous slow motion wink that makes me shudder and I sense a whiff of sulphur in my nostrils. I might brandish a crucifix at her the next time I’m in the shop, just to see whether my suspicions about her true origins are correct.
The bargain Merlot tastes like cough linctus, but after half an hour in the freezer it’s almost palatable.
Tuesday:
My old P-Reg Fiesta died a few months back. I donated it to the local closet arsonists, otherwise known as the fire brigade, to use for practice, bravely dragging wilting and expressionless tailor’s dummies out of blazing cars that they’ve gleefully torched. I’m now the proud owner of an ancient Nissan Micra. This is one of the smallest cars on the road and driving it makes me feel like The Incredible Hulk in a matchbox. Its saving grace is that it’s an automatic, so I’ll be getting even less exercise than previously, when I had to grapple with the controls of the Fiesta, like Biggles in a plummeting Spitfire.
Wednesday:
I’m trying to write a book, so I get up early, full of resolve. I’ve tentatively called it Barking at Squirrels. Thus far, I’ve only written a rough introduction, so I spend an hour or two re-writing it…
Barking at Squirrels
I’m barking at squirrels, crying for the moon,
Flogging dead horses, singing out of tune.
I’m tilting at windmills, paddling upstream,
Wasting my time and it ain't worth a bean.
(An old Idaho folk song. Sung to the melody of Old Smokey: American Library of Congress Reference 1033/23800)
There’s a small town in the beautiful state of Idaho in America called Moscow. It calls itself a city, but with a permanent population of around twenty-four thousand, it’s hardly that, not by European standards anyway. I haven’t the faintest idea how it came to be called Moscow (probably pronounced Moss-Cow by locals). Perhaps it had a Russian connection in the distant past. I don’t know and I don’t really care.
I’ve never been there, but I imagine it’s pretty much like many other small towns in the USA. I’ll bet there’s a Main Street, a town drunk or two and somewhere an old-timer whittling a stick. No doubt the ubiquitous Starbucks has a presence as well as the other usual fast food suspects. You could probably also get a good breakfast in a locally owned diner, maybe called Betsy’s Place. Its dinner menu might offer you meatloaf every now and then, or more chicken than you should safely eat, with a mountain of mashed potatoes and gravy. You might top this off with somebody or other’s home-made pecan pie and whipped cream, just to keep the old cholesterol count on an upward curve.
There’s probably a used car lot and dealership on the edge of town where the owner, who flunked high school, is now richer than his more studious contemporaries. I imagine that there might be a few bars where nonsense is talked on a Saturday night and where fists fly on occasion. There could even be a whorehouse. I simply don’t know, since I have never been to Moscow, Idaho. (Elevation 2579 feet) But here’s what I do know. At one time, in a particular neighbourhood of the town, the residents were driven mad by the barking of a dog that was tethered in the back yard of a house all day while its owners went out to shoot elk, dig potatoes, or whatever. This dog was teased and taunted by squirrels that it couldn’t get at. They scampered across the yard, seemingly aware of just how far the dog’s leash extended. Perhaps they performed impertinent pirouettes and synchronised aerobics just out of the reach of its slavering jaws. Whatever. The dog barked at them all day. It was futile. The squirrels knew it, but the dopey dog didn’t. Maybe it just couldn’t help itself.
I’ve never met the man who told me about the dog. His name is Erik Jacobson and he and his father, Robert, did a fine job of designing my first book, Age of Bewilderment. They live in Moscow. As I live around three thousand miles from Idaho, we communicated by email. During one exchange he described my anger and frustration at some pettifogging requirement by the publishers as like “barking at squirrels”. I immediately knew what he meant and found the phrase both amusing and quite profound. He could have said “barking at helicopters”, or “barking at the mailman”, but neither would have had the same resonance. I was intrigued as to the origins of the phrase. I did some checking and couldn’t find a reference to it anywhere. Then Erik told me the story.
So, it’s a little colloquialism from a small corner of a small town in Idaho in the north west of America. However, to me it speaks volumes and sums up what I seem to have been been doing for most of my life. I just can’t help it and while I wouldn’t lay claim to be an Atticus Finch, a Clarence Darrow, or the Caped Crusader, I just can’t help challenging the cynicism, cruelty and sheer idiocy of the powers that be and the world around me. These are my squirrels and while it might be futile and gets me nowhere, I’ll keep yapping at them while I still have the breath. If I ever make it to Moscow, Idaho, I might swing by Betsy’s Place and sample a little meatloaf, but pass on the pecan pie. An old dog has to keep in trim – even one that’s barking.
I feel quite pleased by this and treat myself to an all-butter croissant with strawberry jam. I spend the rest of the day fantasising about becoming a best-selling author, attending prestigious literary festivals and having my pick of bookish beauties. It’s amazing how a croissant can buck one up.
Thursday:
My balcony is covered with blobs of bird crap. I believe the culprits are a colony of collared doves that inhabit the wood below. Their cooing is very annoying and they seem able to keep it up for hours on end. I Google them and find that they originally began migrating from the Middle East to the UK in the 1950s. Around the same time that rock’n’roll came from the opposite direction. I’m thinking of getting a .22 air rifle to begin a cull of the doves and pick off Patsy the yapper when she’s next defecating on the lawn. However, a far more serious weapon like an elephant gun, or a poison-tipped harpoon might be needed to take out The Bellowing Brat downstairs. A small calibre pellet might only annoy him, like a gnat bite and merely prompt yet another and perhaps more frenzied torrent of soap themes.
Friday:
After a hearty fry-up, I practice the saxophone. To my amazement, The Bellowing Brat downstairs picks up on some of my riffs and repeats them, note perfect. I find this a bit disconcerting. Either what I’m playing is so simple that even an avid soap fan can replicate it, or I’m living above a reincarnation of Mozart. Either way, I’ve decided to spare him the harpoon for the time being.
Saturday:
I steel myself for my main shop of the month at the local superstore, as it’s pleased to call itself. Where the word “super” comes in has me at a loss. “Dismalstore”, or “Crap-O-Mart” seem more appropriate descriptions. I buy only fruit and veg, plus a few other necessities, like wine, baked beans and detergents.
At the checkout, a justifiably bored teenager asks if I have a loyalty card. I tell him that I don’t. I’m very suspicious of these cards. They give the supermarket far too much information about one’s lifestyle. I can imagine a situation in the not too distant future when one might have to run the gauntlet of the food and alcohol police on exiting the shop. Sanctimonious and skinny nerds will wag disapproving fingers at one and possibly announce publicly on a bullhorn the error of one’s ways.
“Albert Chinstrap! Yes, you with the paunch and ill-fitting jeans. You have just purchased four hundred units of alcohol and two trillion micrograms of cholesterol.”
With this daunting thought, I scuttle out past the security guard who looks as though he might have been a member of the Stasi at one time and load up the Micra with my shopping. What with me and the shopping, it struggles to get above five miles per hour on the long climb to my flat. I expect to be overtaken at any moment by Action Man on a mountain bike.
Sunday:
A quiet day. Bellowing Brat is silent, but the bloody doves kick off just I’m about to sit on my balcony and enjoy an early evening snifter. I look down and see Patsy pushing one out on the lawn. Any day soon, my lovely. Any day soon.
© David Sherrington 2012 Davidsherrington@aol.com www.bwildr.net
© David Sherrington 2012
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