Romance Romance

Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with science and end with a settlement.
Oscar Wilde

“Hello…”

“Penny, it’s me…”

“What is it?”

“Grandfather’s dead.”

“Um… Well?”

“Well, you need to get here for the funeral.”

“Yes, and I have a job to do.”

“I think that charity organization could function a day without you.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Penny, I’m serious, you need to get down here ASAP.”

Chapter One
Interstate

I get down to the bus station, and to my surprise, it’s relatively deserted. My bus arrives, and I walk into it. Strange. One crippled passenger right up front, a guy sporting sunglasses at seven in the evening a few seats behind the cripple, and the rest of the bus is empty. I go all the way to the back seat. This is perfect. I could smoke up in here, and nobody would even get a whiff.

The bus starts to move, and moves along dim street lights. I almost feel like this is a photo opportunity in the making, but I’m sober enough to explain the idea in my head, not to execute it.

Imagine filming this in Black and White. If a video camera is set still on a person’s face and shoulders in a bus, while street lights are passing by, it causes dim, surreal moving shadows constantly moving across the said person‘s face and shoulders. And since the street lights are plotted in an equal distance from each other, the video almost forms a rhythm of itself. Think of how that video would look like, with a groovy song playing in the background. The slow rhythm of images and the slow rhythm of the music merges into an experience.

Perhaps I’m just stoned. Perhaps. Special effects wizards, and Photoshop enthusiasts, do consider there’s a lot to be captured out there. All you need is to look at life through a lens, instead of glossing over and touching up images of raw beauty. And maybe, just maybe, use your imagination a little better, would you? Hmm… condescending spite from me? Yes, I am stoned.

After a while of listening to some of my favorite music, the bus stops at a gas station. I get down to get some water, and the clown who wore sunglasses earlier gets off the bus right after me. He looks determined, and walks off to the supermarket before I could reach it. Thankfully, the sunglasses are off this time. Just the thought is giving me a case of involuntary chuckles.

He comes back. Looking proud of himself while smoking a cigarette. Holding a soda.

I must have been staring at his cigarette, because he walks up to me and asks, “Do you want one?”

“Yeah, sure…” Why the hell did I say that now? He looks at me for a few seconds, and takes out a fag.

“Here”

I light it up, nod at him, and walk around the bus really slowly to pass time. When I get around the door, he’s still standing there with a slightly confused expression.

“Hey, thanks…”

“Uh… yeah…”

“Penny…”

“Haven’t got any, sorry…”

“No, I’m Penny.”

“Oh, sorry… Mark. Hi.”

“Hey listen, do you want some pot?”

“Huh?”

“Pot. Mary Jane. Marijuana.”

“Yes, I get the idea, keep it down… You a dealer?”

“No, a user… Want any?”

“Uh… Well…”

We get back into the bus, and Mark follows me over the last seat in the bus, and seats himself in the seat third closest to mine in the same row.

“Do you want to, or shall I?”

“It’s alright, go ahead…”

“It’s alright either way. Ok, I will then…”

35 minutes later

“So yeah, that’s why I think the people should rebel against any inkling of the fascist infiltration of democracy.”

A political idealist. Excellent. Idealists of any kind go on for hours and hours on any subject under the sun, until one poses a direct question, and ask them for a simple, or indeed, logically detailed answer; rarely getting it. This guy’s been going on nearly forty minutes on Fascism, and still hasn’t made his point. Maybe if I think of something interesting after I finish rolling this joint, I might ask him something about it.

Two joints later, to his credit, he does come up with something genuinely interesting. Or I guess it is intersting to me.

“Politicians always talk about the differences in us. And they say that’s the definitive proof that we’re all unique. We’re all unique in our minds - we’re all capable of uniqueness, with regard to what we can think about, and the resulting creativity. Uniqueness only applies when we talk about the imagination of the individual. Everything else politicians talk about - race, religion, country, culture, social norms and constraints, language - are imperfect man-made constructs; and if people think they separate us from each other instead of the more obvious fact that we created stuff like this from a collective lack of imagination as a species, then it is indeed due to a general lack of imagination. We’re capable of being unique in imaginative thought, but we’re brought together by the lack of implementing it.”

“Interesting…”

“I think each of us have a responsibility for pushing people into what’s right…”

“Sorry, you’ve got it wrong there…”

“How so?”

“Joint?”

“How so?”

“Light it up, I’ll tell you…”

“I’ve lit it, now how is that wrong?”

“You’re doing the same as the ones you hate if you tell people what’s right and what’s wrong. All you’re entitled to do, if you believe in some vague social responsibility idea, is tell them what’s what, and let them decide. If you really believe in the progress of imaginative thought, you shouldn’t react. You should just stick to observing and reporting everything. That’s it…”

We remained mostly silent throughout the rest of the ride, speaking sometimes about summer blockbusters, or authors, or punk rock (though that was a topic I wasn’t particularly interested in). A couple of hours later, I got off at my stop, and waved goodbye.

I got home, and was surprised seeing my relatives waiting at the doorstep with their luggage.

“Hi… uh… Where are you off to?”

“New York.”

“What about the funeral?”

“It’s over, dear.”

“Could someone explain why I’m here in the first place?”

“To take care of your grandaunts, Carrie and Lily…”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Language, Penny…”

“Oh fuc… fudging Hammurabi… What is this about?”

“We need to get back to New York, dear. We have to get back to work, the kids have to get back to school, you’re doing nothing spectacular anyway…”

“What about my Photography? And my Charity Work?”

“They’re hobbies, aren’t they, dear? Now, we really must get a move on… This is a wonderful thing you’ve agreed to do…”

“Agreed?!?!?!?!!”

“Yes dear, bye now…”

Let’s be clear about this - emotional blackmail hasn’t gone out of fashion.

Chapter Two (3 years later)
Romance Romance

Interesting how boredom could cultivate ideas. Even the ones that are so far removed from one’s own perspective. As part of my own attempt to regain some of my sanity again, I decided to write a novel. I looked into the young adult genre, and discovered that the path to success is either writing about teenage crushes, or vampires, or on a wild impulse, to combine the two. That’s a rather steep descent for literature to embark on, isn‘t it? An entire generation of kids indulging in crap literature. I’m not suggesting that everyone ought to read and re-read classics all the time, but I wish someone would exercise a certain degree of good choice from time to time. Sadly, the only way to do that is to read books as varied as possible, instead of latching onto the latest crappy fad.

Anyway, my idea. Tragedy does work well with puberty - I’m talking about perspectives, of course. So yeah, I’ll go with tragedy. Clever me. To be talking about quality in literature, and then coming up with the same crap that’s been written about for years and years already. Well, I need an outlet for playing out my frustration so I could laugh at myself, and so far, this is the best idea I could come up with. The novel’s titled Romance Romance. Quite puke-worthy, if I do say so myself. Oh, my masochistic love for bad taste…

Premise: The guy and the girl in the novel meet in an online chat room, and decide to talk about nothing in particular. Both characters are fierce cynics, so the conversations do veer from sharp insights on modern culture, into totally meaningless self-constructed fantasies. And, wonder of wonders, the two find each other bearable.

Skip to a year later, they’ve grown rather fond of each other. But neither of them voice this particular opinion. One day, the girl says she can no longer speak to the guy anymore, because she’s going off to a place no one can reach her. After the guy persists for an hour, she mentions a relative in rehab, and says she has to visit them, before her trip into oblivion. The guy agrees to visit her there.

Now, the background for the characters. Neither of them know that the other is a heroin addict. Neither of them know the other are barely-living zombies, who’re likely to check into clinics, because they’re at the risk of killing themselves over their little habit pretty soon. So, the girl, in her thoughtful wisdom, decides to check into a rehab clinic, and supposes that the guy will leave her alone once he actually sees her in person. To her surprise, she sees another skeleton like her at the counter, almost checking in. They decide to get themselves a medical opinion, and the doctor decides to say “you don’t have much time left” to both of them.

They walk out, and try to reason with the similar circumstances they’re facing. The girl reasons they don’t have much time left anyway, hence an overdosing event is in order. The guy agrees, and they decide to meet by a secluded river bank a few miles off. The guy arranges the narcotics and the required apparatus. They meet at the mutually-agreed location an hour later, and seat themselves beside each other. Heat. Mix. Suck. Inject. The guy’s bought a guitar, and the girl’s agreed to sing. They’re doing a duet version of some song or the other. In their individual heads, the girl’s singing like the runner up for American Idol, while the guy’s dishing out solos like Clapton. In reality, they sound like a whimpering pig and a squealing baboon formed a band, practicing in a garage that’s caught fire. Minutes later, they’re both holding each other’s hand, shaking almost violently as the heroin starts to act upon their weak constitutions. They breathe their last breaths watching a setting sun. Under a large shady tree.
Pure literary trash, if I do say so myself.

I sent this out to a publisher, as a joke.
Imagine my surprise when they decided to publish it, and the novel became the new literary sensation.

The next few weeks were harrowing, and that’s putting it mildly. Imagine opening the door early in the morning, to face a multitude of reporters and their annoyingly clicking cameras, all the while trying to calm two hysterical grandaunts, for whom each click of a camera is a psychological trigger for slipping into some sort of odd rock and roll routine. Elvis would be proud. I just wish they dropped dead at the moment. Imagine this going on for weeks, and you can guess my disposition at the moment. And that’s when I got the call.

“Hey Penny, how’re you doing?”

“Terrific. Why couldn’t you be a better publisher, and throw my pig-swill of a novel down a trash chute? I’ve been harassed for weeks because of you..”

“You’re funny dear…”

“Trust me, I’m not trying to be, believe me…”

“Well, anyway, this tiny little book shop in Seattle has decided to host a book signing of your work, if you’re interested…”

“No way… Wait, hang on… When is this supposed to be?”

“That’s up to you…”

“Right. Ask them when they want to do it. I’m all for it.”

Ten minutes later

“They asked if you would be available this Saturday.”

“Tell them I’ll be there…”

I have a plan.
Three years ago, I was tricked into a sort of self-imposed exile from civilization, to live with the nearly-dead. I’m going to get them at their own game.

“Uncle Humphrey?”

“Hey Penny, how’s it going?”

“I’m afraid I have some rather bad news…”

“Yes?”

“Carrie and Lily are dead.”

“What?”

“It involved a rather bizarre accident on a miniature golf course…”

“What?”

“Well, they decided to play miniature golf, and apparently, a surfer dude helped them with their shots. Once they managed to score incredibly well, they both had simultaneous cardiac arrests. The doctor said they died smiling. As far as I‘m concerned, they look like ferrets caught on the Wright brothers‘ flying machine.”

“What?”

“The coroner’s come up with the idea that they have to be cremated soon. It involved some detail about their innards exploding…”

“Yes, yes, alright… When’s the funeral set for?”

“Tomorrow morning at Eleven…”

“This is rather short notice, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was advised by the doctor as well, you see…”

“We’ll be there, Penny…”

“Thank you…”

In the early hours of the morning, I snuck out of the house, before any of the relatives arrived. At the risk of sounding cold and emotionless, I can say with some conviction that my great aunts won’t know the difference between me, or anyone else, or indeed, if there were really anyone else in the house apart from them. They seem to think they’re talking to dead relatives most of the time anyway.

I have this picture in my mind, of Uncle Humphrey, his family, and anyone else who were summoned to a non-existent funeral, completely bewildered, insulted and enraged by my methodical departure from the house. All they’ll have to take their frustration out on will be a note I left them, which simply says Have Fun. They would be forced to stay with the old ladies, indefinitely. Sweet.

I board the bus to get to the hotel, and catch some sleep with an almost maniacal smile to my face.

I get to the bookstore by mid afternoon, slightly late, with my trademark disheveled hair. Oh, the mark of the intellectual, I heard one of the people waiting in queue remark. I wonder if the concept of disorganization and shabbiness equates to intellectualism. I know for a fact that’s absolute hogwash, and yet people believe that, in some strange sort of way. Then again, if people thought my piece of literary junk was one of the most important novels of the 20th century, I can’t help but choke, gag, smile smugly and develop this incredible sense of pretense, all at the same time. The reactions, opinions & conclusions people draw from absolute trash, which is key to developing absolute trash of their own devising, is entertaining to me. I smile, blush, grin, frown, and contemplate - depending on the reader - and I’ve played it beautifully. And then, I sign autographs. Leaving an audience of adolescents totally spellbound. I’m almost becoming my old sardonic self once more.

Mark’s standing a little way off, observing, smiling, shaking his head with an equal measure of understanding and astonishment. Wait, how or why is he here? It is him, isn’t it?
Yeah…

After nearly two hours of signing autographs, I need a smoke. Badly. I announce to the crowd that I’ll need a few minutes for a smoke, and they graciously agree. I walk to the office, and find my publisher there. I sent him home, because I won’t be needing him for today anymore. I’ve a tolerance limit to accept ill-deserving applause, and I’ve got enough of that as it is. I follow him through the door, which opens to the back of the bookstore. My publisher leaves and I proceed to light a cigarette. After a few minutes, Mark walks through the same door…

“Got a light?”

“What are you doing here? And how did you know my book signing was today?”

“I didn’t, until I found out quite a lot of young teens in this city found this novel a terrific read…”

“Let me guess… Seattle’s teen suicide rate…”

“… has something to do with it, well spotted. Despondent literature does catch on well here. I gave word to your publisher, and he thought it would be fantastic publicity.”

“He’s deranged. You know that, don’t you?”

“That makes for good publishers. Oddly. I had no idea Penny Partridge was you… Congratulations, by the way…”

“Yeah, yeah, sure… Although, you still haven’t explained how you got here.”

“I own this place.”

“Oh terrific.”

“Why?”

“Nothing, forget it. You live near here?”

“ Above this floor, actually. It’s a tiny apartment, but it’s comfortable. Come on up after the signing…”

“Sure.”

Chapter Three
Personal Space

I staggered my way up the staircase after nearly three more hours of incessant, irritating teenagers insisting how great my book is. Slowly, I found my fake smile fading away, so the signing session became progressively rapid as I began to feel my receding patience.

I knocked on the door which simply said “Personal Space”, and Mark opened the door. He ushered me in, waving me to a bunch of bean bags. Gratified, I slumped into one of them, waiting for him to finish his phone call. He disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes, and emerged with two cups of green tea. I hate the muck, but I gulp it down nevertheless. I’m thoroughly exhausted.

“So, how did the signing go?”

I suppose he understood from my exasperated expression how I felt about the bloody signing. He sips his tea, barely able to mask a smirk.

“Where were you for three years?”

“In la-la land, downing dozens of pina coladas by the hour. Why do you ask?”

He pauses a minute, and sips some more tea. I don’t like this. The Mark I knew was this idealistic, reactive dude who, well, reacted to every little thing I would’ve said. Now, I’m almost inciting him with every sentence, and he doesn’t budge.

He walked up to a table, and got two packets of weed. He started to arrange the rolling paper, and sort out the grass.

“Well?”

That simple word seemed to open the floodgates of indignation. The unfairness of having to live; in a manner of speaking; with geriatrics for three years, the inability to do anything with my life in that period of time, and the indifference I’d experienced at the hand of the same people I were trying to help. I ranted, raged, raved, intensified my protest at how futile my life had been, and what a waste it had been for three years. All the while, he listened to all of it without a word, nodding at certain intervals, fixing me with blank looks at times, and then went back to sorting out seeds.

After what seemed like an eternity of ranting, raging, raving and marginal self-deprecation, he had finished rolling nine joints.

“Do you want to, or shall I?”

“I shall”, I said, and snatched the joint from his hand. I lit it.

I woke up hours later. I assume hours later. Nine joints in an hour was quite a marathon run, but I don’t really remember the rest of the night.

I shift my line of sight from the pillow, and the bathroom door, and look for him. As I turned my head at weird angles around the room, I found him reading a book, sipping tea, and smoking a joint. I decided to wash my face, and join him.

“I’ll take that”, I said suddenly, and snatched the lit joint from his hand. He looks at me, smiles, and goes back to reading my book.

“Does the pot make it slightly bearable?”

“Actually, it does…”

He grins his new-found nonchalant grin, which is slightly putting me off at the moment. So, I smoke up the rest of the joint without sharing it with him. I flick the singed out roach over the balcony, and look at him in what I thought was a smug, contemptuous smile. He looks at me with a weird expression of mild amusement, shrugs and lights another one.

He smokes a bit of it, and passes the joint to me without looking at me. I must have hesitated for half a second. So much for self-respect.

He closed the book after he scanned through the final pages, and then stared a while at the cloudy sky. I hope he didn’t find the material profound.

“What’s the verdict?”, I enquired sarcastically.

“Before that, do you feel any better today? And do be honest…”

“To be embarrassingly honest, I feel better than I’ve felt for three years…”

“Glad to know… Maybe you needed to get this out, to regain your sanity”, he said, pointing distractedly at the book. “I think what you did with the ones you refer to as geriatrics for three years, was rather endearing. But if you feel trapped within a situation like that, you can never feel happy. Most people seek out serenity, and you chose to act against it. Subconsciously, you chose to address that frustration with writing. Now you’re a published author - you could do this more often, couldn’t you?”

“I suppose so, but it is a solitary life. And having no weed adds to the contempt I have for life in general…”

“Well, you could always stop by…”

“What if I need something badly when I’m back there?”

“Clearly, you don’t. You wrote a novel instead. Judging from the kind of person I know you as; the novel and the subject of the novel are in stark contrast with your own rationalisms and convictions. It’s a total, absolute farce. Forget those teenagers who’re queuing around to get your autograph. I know you, and I know for a fact that you do not believe the things you’ve written about, nor will you ever descend into any of it. Keep writing farces like this one, and people will hail you in as a new literary sensation”.

“I used to think you were idealistic.”

“You changed that. And I’m completely contend with the change in perspective. Anytime you feel trapped, stop by. That’s all that’s required, really.


END