54. Deathrow High
Norman Cook a.k.a. Fat Boy Slim comes to town. Ah Jim announced hysterically as he stepped into the house. Ah Jim boy here has a miraculous flair for suddenly appearing; happily the three of us were watching TV when all of a sudden a squeaky voice announced from the front door his arrival, scaring the shit out of us!
No one told him that I’d found my lost balls and done exactly as he’d suggested, so he was kinda surprised to find me lounging about at Ai Leen’s and Jocie’s abode. “Heh! What the hell are you doing here?” he asked as he laid eyes on me. I managed a grin that said it all. He congratulated me on my success and punched me on the shoulder like some featherweight boxer. Who the hell does he think he is? Prince Naseem? Weirdo… It fucking hurt, you idiot! I wonder if he meant any malice for whatever reason, for the jab sure felt more than a friendly tap.
“Guess what?” He gathered everybody’s attention, “Fat Boy is coming to town!” Ai Leen and Jocie, who were standing around, leapt like peasants hearing the king’s edict on a reduction of taxes. I felt left out…
It’s not that I don’t fancy Fat Boy; I do! I heard his CD, which Ai Leen borrowed from Ah Jim (and never returned) and thought it was superb. Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars…that’s what it’s titled. All the songs are great, and Macy Gray’s vocal contribution was nothing short of spectacular. I like the whole album, I like the way it ended, which was somewhat similar to the beginning, thus making the listener feel as though he or she had completed one full cycle.
Fact I’m looking forward to hear him play live this Saturday night, but all this fan-base euphoria is uncalled for…pleazze...why jump up and down like mad donkeys…it’s not that Norman is in the room! Well at least Ai Leen and Jocie are girls, and naturally have tendencies toward maniacal frenzies…but…Ah Jim? O’ Ah Jim…I forgot it’s him. In this case, it’s the reverse… Ah Jim naturally has tendencies toward maniacal frenzies…but Jocie and Ai Leen???
The hooligans in the house joined me in front of the television set. I was already faintly agitated with Ah Jim’s unannounced entry, for the din he created interrupted my concentration on the telly. Now, all three had to congregate in front of modern man’s greatest invention and behave as though they lived in medieval times, like Robin Hood’s Merry Men sitting round a campfire deep in the middle of Sherwood Forest. If someone had a lute, I do believe they would have sung ancient renditions of Rockafeller Skank!
Backdraft was butchered without sympathy. If your memory serves you right, you’ll recall it’s a fire-fighters flick. I know it was a long time ago, but I missed it when it made its circuit round the cinemas. I think it was the same year as Terminator 2. I remember this because both movies were up in nominations for best effects or something like that at the Oscars, whereby T2 won. Someone said Backdraft would have been a worthier winner for all its fire sequences, but T2 just couldn’t afford to lose after all that spending on groundbreaking CGI. Whatever…maybe I got my facts wrong…but Backdraft has been on TV countless times, and always I vowed to catch it to judge for myself …but I never did. And now that I finely keep my word, Ah Jim comes to destroy this commitment!
Arsehole!!!
I tried hard to ignore their conversation, which was shooting across the hall, and instead, pay full heed to the screen. For a while I was successful; somehow I managed to close off my surrounding and direct all sensory organs onto the coloured pixels. The voices of Ai Leen and Jocie blurred, and the tone of the TV leapt forward. But not long after my initial triumph, the shrill nasal noises from Ah Jim’s throat wound its way into my ears. Curse him! And with that…came Ai Leen, Jocie and the rest of three-dimensional living.
Moods waver irrationally to environment’s tune. I recall feelings changing constantly with situations. At times this can be an outright pain, as I could very well be in a good disposition; but come some buzzing annoyance…like Ah Jim…and I all of a sudden become horrendously moody. I don’t understand this; it’s just something totally out of my control. I wish I had dominance, but this defective emotion dictates my being whenever it comes to command. It’s shitty; it destroys whatever positive vibe that may have existed just moments ago. Sometimes I think I’m manic-depressive. I mean the symptoms are there; I swing from extreme to extreme. And when this happens, I am so worn out. I want things to be right, for it gives me peace and joy, but it’s hard not to allow the negativity to descend when things don’t go my way. I get tired trying to stay positive, and I get depressed when I can’t. I delve deeper and deeper into the mine of destruction as one negative thought propels another…and so forth and so forth, and so forth…until I become a rut. I hate it, `cos it’s just so fucking difficult to crawl out of that hole and continue upward on the vertical ascent to happiness. Rock climbing is never a laid-back sport, and this is perhaps, worse.
Still, I tried hard to ignore the obvious, but fate has it that Ah Jim’s too much of an idiot to recognize a person’s need for solitude. He talks to me (and Ai Leen), “So how long have you guys been going out? Never tell me also…call yourself friends?!” He laughs. I found it odd it took him so long to breach this subject on our courtship…but, on second reasoning, he was preoccupied with Fat Boy Slim – one has to have his priorities right, and Ah Jim has his.
“Almost a month now,” Ai Leen answered. I was desperately clinging on to Kurt Russell’s every word, but I reckon soon my ‘privacy’ will be smouldered like a bridge blown to bits, similar to operations in war movies to foil enemy reinforcements. I could see, from the corner of my eye, Ai Leen staring at me disapprovingly as she spoke. She was expecting some validation on my part, but there was none. I was mum.
“One month!? And you guys didn’t even bother to tell me?” Ah Jim responded.
“Yah…like I have to!” I didn’t say that… Fucking bothersome, this arsehole. He thinks he’s like my dad…or worse…wants to know my every move and activity. Next thing you know, he’ll be asking about our fucks!!!
“So you all must be fucking, lah, by now, I guess … Hahaha!!!” He joked, slapped his hands and burst out laughing.
What did I tell you??? Ai Leen looked hard at me this time, a piercing gaze like Medusa’s that could turn me to stone. She didn’t want to go through this fucking interrogation alone. Women want, and need, support…but I’m too busy having a relationship with my TV.
Nonetheless, being the responsible adult and boyfriend, I answered, “That’s none of your business.” Sincerely, I wonder if I may have been a little harsh with my tone…but it no matter…Ah Jim took it as an indication to butt out.
The conversation in the house shifted to overdrive, and the cacophony was maddening. Ah Jim finally realized that I don't want to be disturbed, so he poured all his attention into the vast receptacle that is Jocie. But not without annoying me further in the process. It was as though he wanted revenge; he increased the volume of his squeak, and this motivated Jocie to ‘enlarge’ her humming drone.
Backdraft vaporized to smithereens. I switched off the TV and tried getting into the scene…
Do you recall Saturday Night Fever starring John Travolta? It had some fabulous Bee Gees. I’d come to appreciate disco since I found pleasure in dancing. I especially like the way the hi-hat opens on all counts to give the song a springy feel. Too bad we’re not living in the late seventies or early eighties, then I can dress in bell-bottom trousers, platform shoes and a floral top and get away with it (afro hairdo and bee-eye sunglasses are optional). Do this nowadays and everyone will stand a mile away. Your friends will walk off.
Anyway, I doubt I have the confidence to carry such attire through even if I’d lived back then in the disco era. In my mind I happen to be quite adventurous. But only in my mind – all fantasy and no reality. When it comes to fashion, I sometimes imagine myself in articles of clothing that are wacky and outrages. Like for example, hot pants to advertise the shape of my crotch, knee-high boots and a colourful body-hugging shirt; or a sarong accessorised with nothing but flip-flops and a tribal necklace. I tend to favour tight outfits, but somehow don’t feel comfortable with my physique to show off. And honestly, I’d like to see myself in women’s wear, everything from skirts and blouses to dresses and lingerie. I’m no tranny; but I don’t really think that it’s weird either. Lots of cool, macho rock stars cross-dress and no one really questions their sexuality. Unless yer caught in the men’s room…like that George guy, you’ll pretty much be ok (he wanted it anyway).
Don’t tell her this, but once I paraded shamelessly in front of the mirror squeezed in Shirley’s bra and panties. I got a thrill out of doing this; pretending to be a…dicksy chick, I wanked to my own laughable reflection. Initially I got really worried over this narcissistic deviant behaviour, afraid if I were gay or something, but eventually realized I heat up to pussies too easily to qualify. Perhaps it was just a harmless fetish; after all, my childhood ambition was to be a fashion designer.
Now contradicting my gung-ho spirit of style, I only had on a pair of jeans and collared t. Boring, huh…compared to my fantasies. The valley is deep and wide in between, too much a deficit to satisfy. A far cry even from the hip cyber gear that kids wear these days.
Ai Leen wanted to reveal her back and tummy again for the world to see, but I didn’t feel too secure. When it comes to showing off skin, I didn’t have problems with Shirley as her religious fervour permitted semi-tight tops at most.
Ai Leen, on the other hand, has no inhibition exposing flesh; and in fact, she enjoys this innocent thrill. She has a good body; she’s proud of it; and just like anybody in possession of something desirable, she likes to flaunt and show off. I’m in paradox, for though I like the idea of a girlfriend that’s skimpily wrapped - for it turns me on and boosts my confidence to be seen with such an appealing thing on my arm (moreover I never had this luxury with Shirley) – I get terribly insecure when guys eyeball. And guys can be relied upon to eyeball. I suddenly remind myself of Weng towards Yvonne. It was so easy to condemn him back then when there was no Ai Leen in the picture. But now…it seems different…so different. I can relate; I understand the trauma his heart undergoes when she’s the perpetual epicentre of attraction. Poor Weng…he must go through hell every day; you’ll never see Yvonne not looking hot.
We had our first squabble, and though she finally gave in, I kinda felt bad. I’d repressed her, and though I may hate to admit it, I’d grown possessive. As a guy, I think you’d need a great deal of confidence standing beside a beautiful girlfriend. If not…it’s torture! Thank my lucky stars Ai Leen ain’t that bent on her ways. Though she puts up a good resistance, she ends up obeying my command. Maybe she finds it cute I get all insecure like that. My jealousy makes her special; and when a woman feels this way…she’ll relent and submit.
Yah, right…who made me a gynaecologist of women’s psyches???
This time round, I was geared up for the dance floor. I wonder if I would if I were alone…without Ai Leen. It was with her that I discovered dance. Imagine if she were to be somehow eradicated from the equation. Would I still be able to do this then?
Things like these my mind picks up to ponder. Like a tramp searching for edible morsels on the ground to fill his impoverished belly. In fact, they prevent me from being attentive to anything else. If I could somehow obliterate such musings, I may actually find joy in my surrounding…the simple things. I’ve been so motherfucking serious all my life; I feel that it’s time to chill on ice. And this I’m beginning to do, learning step by step like a toddler taking its first walk. Though I’ll stumble and fall miserably, I will finally succeed.
Thanks, baby…I love you.
But will I succeed alone? Put it plainly, will I even attend a rave without her? I’d come to depend on Ai Leen for matters such as these, matters of my salvation. Don’t laugh, I feel, for once, I am in close pursuit of my fugitive soul, and happiness is within grasp. But the positive is not alone. It has a negative mirror image. Therefore it is impossible to look at the good without the bad being a thorn in the flesh. The effects and the implications are too obvious to ignore: Church…Parents…Sh...it!!! They stole my heart; they robbed me of my life. Curse them! Fuck them! I hate them!
And all of a sudden, I don’t feel like dancing anymore. I don’t care that it’s Fat Boy at the turntable…I just want to sulk. Through the course of time, garbage has been continually dumped into my heart, so much so I feel like toxic waste. Dirty, filthy, unworkable substances that damage the environment you want to rid of are found in me.
In certain angles, I’m like that Robocop baddie. He crashed into a tank of lethal chemicals when in vain attempt tried to ram the stiff who happens to be the hero of the movie. As a result, his flesh went the way of jelly. What I’m waiting for now is a compatriot to run me down and see my biological mishmash squished and splattered over the windshield.
But, thanks to some power of miraculous healing, I have a chance to experience new life. I can go under the ‘knife.’ My surgeon is one heck of a babe. She stitches back my spattered being, and she’s gentle with my delicate, squashed-up balls…
The music pulsated like a deafening beast. My heart replied each accented bass beat with a thundering thud, and I almost vomited the organ out. It stayed intact…mine and everyone else’s. If not, the club would be an unpretty scene with bloody retched up hearts spilling out. Rather than a rave party, it’d be more of a vampire haven. Some have the dangling blob of muscle suspended from lips like a baby’s crib by vein and artery. Others kick the body’s engine about like footballs in a frenzied match. Hiding in our craniums are probably such sick scenarios, for addictive music causes metamorphosis. When a great song comes on air…we feel so good we would wish to die!
And not just by any ordinary demise, but graphic, violent homicides. At the topsy-turvy pinnacle of execution…we transcend death and relish each and every grain of our newfound joy. So you see, we’re not dead…we can’t be. We live! And we live on. This is the hallucinatory power of music, and perhaps it has more to do with our eternity than God ever did.
Fat Boy is a deity.
AI generated art prompted by author except for images of Fat Boy Slim, Prince Naseem, Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars, Backdraft, Saturday Night Fever and Toxic Waste Robocop Baddie
All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental