Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  Deeper in the newspaper there’s a few stories about missing girls. Smiling faces whose parents want them back. Young women often take off into the world, but the newspaper thinks it has found a suspicious pattern. I don’t read on. A few pages further I come across an article about a new government campaign. Very thin, attractive people will be used in a series of billboards that will read ‘You could look like this’. The initiative will attempt to curve the obesity epidemic. The only obese people I know personally are either fans or lighting technicians.

  Rose returns with my coffee.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Pleasure,” says Rose, before turning back to the counter.

  “Hold for a moment,” I say.

  Rose stops. “Yes?”

  “Do you want to go for a drink some time?”

  Rose glares. “Are you asking me if I want another night with you?”

  “No,” I reply, firmly. “Just a drink. If you’re worried, we can meet in a public place. In the daylight. Similar to this.”

  Rose leans close to my face and says in a low voice. “You think you can treat women any way you want, don’t you Jack?”

  I pick up my spoon and put it in my coffee. I don’t respond.

  “When I slept with you,” continues Rose, “I was not only drunk, but I had you on a pedestal. You are no longer on that pedestal. You think I’m going to offer myself to you the second you give me the green light?”

  “What colour would you prefer?” I ask, pulling a small bag of cane from my pocket and tipping it into my coffee. Rose looks appalled and walks away. I stir in the white powder and sip slowly on the black, boiling liquid. She’s either a very good actress or she doesn’t like me.

  It’s nearly seven hours into the afternoon and the suns are ducking behind the horizon. The children of the night are getting dressed, applying make-up and staring at themselves in the mirror. If they’re anything like me, they’ll be getting their drugs in order.

  I’m sitting on my balcony table, looking at my supplies. Twelve pills. Two points of gas. Two grams of cane. I pour a glass of red wine from the bottle in front of me.

  I stare at the horizon, which I’ve been doing a lot of lately. Both suns sit on the city’s skyline. Two orange semi-circles. This planet has a strange axis and the suns move on a steeped angle across the sky, never quite appearing directly overhead. This is a city of long shadows, even in the middle of the day. Some of the planet’s areas are almost completely in darkness for every hour. The nightclubs in those places are amazing.

  Across from my balcony on the side of a towering skyscraper is a billboard. The image, which is nine storeys high, features a slim, athletic female model. Her coquettish expression stares at me. Below her read the words, ‘You could look like this’. Below that is the number for a weight loss hotline. Food for thought.

  When I’m as pensive as I am now, I often sing to myself. I get emotional sometimes. I remember the lyrics to a song that’s stranded on Earth. If only I’d brought my records with me. Big Bang Theory is a way to keep that music in my life. Recording the past. Trapping ghosts.

  I light a cigarette and sing ‘How To Make Gravy’ by Paul Kelly. Nothing but the cooling evening air to hear me. Then I wash down a pill with my wine and sing ‘Kissing The Lipless’ by The Shins. Then I rack a line of cane and sing ‘The End’ by Ryan Adams. As the drugs numb everything but my burgeoning euphoria, I almost feel at peace.

  I lift the bottle of red wine again to fill my glass. It’s only a quarter of its original weight. My leg bounces as I tap my feet. I think about our record label and their recent inquiries into my songwriting. They’re hoping for another album soon. They’ve become accustomed to my prolific output. It’s only been six months since our last release, but I feel a need to slow down. I don’t know where my memory ends and when my recollections of songs will wither. Fountains surely don’t last an eternity. The blurring of the weeks erases my sense of time and there are so many genres I want to explore. I’m either off my face or I’m recovering long enough to be off my face again.

  My mobile phone rings. It’s Dylan.

  “Are you going tonight?” he asks.

  “I’m undecided.”

  “Be reasonable. We should be seen at this thing.”

  “Wouldn’t it be cooler if we didn’t go?”

  “Fuck that. I need something to do before I head to Lycan. I’m meeting some girls there at the second hour.”

  What Dylan doesn’t realise is that I’m already going to the book launch. The author, a young gay guy called Mason Wagner, is hot shit at the moment. His new book is called Misspent Youth. Apparently he’s the voice of a generation, capturing the mindset of disenchanted teenagers. The souls who only value a lack of values. Drugs, sex and socialising are the only currencies in their gritty underbelly and mummies and daddies everywhere are wondering where they went wrong as moral guides. Big Bang Theory provides much of the soundtrack to this sordid world.

  Wagner is an uninspiring writer, but a former liaison of mine, Jemima, is his publicist and she will be there. This will mean that I’m not invited but I’ve lost all sense of boundaries and barricades. Doors open for Jack. Legs, too.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” I reply.

  “You sick fucker,” says Dylan. “How many pills have you got?”

  “Six,” I reply, bending the truth.

  “I’m low too,” says Dylan. “Someone there will have some anyway.”

  “Just ask Wagner. Apparently he practices what he preaches.”

  “Fuck, I hope not. Depraved lunatic,” responds Dylan, who doesn’t seem entirely lucid. “Is Jemima still his publicist?”

  “Not sure.”

  Dylan’s limousine picks me up outside my apartment building. The record label pays for all of our travel. They claim it’s because they want us to be comfortable and looked after, but it’s really because they think we’ll kill ourselves. They know better than to let their cash cows get behind a wheel.

  The book launch is at a place called Pier Five. It’s a rustic establishment. Imagine having a cocktail on a dilapidated jetty. It’s beyond exclusive, with dank décor and masturbatory fashion and clientele. I take another pill before exiting the limousine. Dylan passes me the final sip of his sparkling wine and I finish it.

  Pier Five is down an alleyway that opens off one of the main streets of Easton. It’s an expensive area to live. Tonight a red carpet runs the length of the alley, ending at the entrance to Pier Five. As we step on to it, banks of photographers spot us and in a second we’re blinded by exploding light. Dylan smiles at me. He loves the attention. It seems to make him more powerful. I, on the other hand, am feeling way too hectic to enjoy myself.

  We get to the end of the carpet where Jemima stands, wearing a headset and holding a clipboard. She’s not impressed to see me.

  “Names?” she asks, incredulously.

  Dylan laughs. “How cute! Well, my name is Mason Wagner and this is my gay lover, Jack.”

  “You two are not on the list.”

  “But it’s my fucking book launch!” says Dylan, with mock camp.

  As Jemima looks set to dig her heels in, a young man in a vibrant orange suit appears in Pier Five’s doorway.

  “Jack! Dylan!” exclaims Mason Wagner.

  “Mr Wagner,” smiles Dylan, and casually gives him a kiss on the cheek.

  “You two look incredible,” says Mason, who throws his arms around me in an exaggerated embrace. “I didn’t even know you were coming!”

  “Well,” I say, “we wanted to show our support for the voice of a generation.”

  “You’re such a sweetheart, Jack. But I think you’ll find that you’re the voice of a generation,” says Mason, giving me a playful slap on the shoulder.

  “Well, maybe there’s two voices!” says Dylan. “You’re a duo.” His drugs have definitely kicked in.

  Jemima gives me a subtle death stare. She knows I hate Mason’s books.

&nb
sp; “Enough chat!” says Mason. “You two need to get in there and start drinking all of that disgustingly expensive alcohol.”

  “If you insist,” smiles Dylan.

  I feel compelled to talk to Jemima, but there’s a growing queue of people on the red carpet behind us and she may need to calm down.

  As we step into Pier Five, I’m reminded that the most satisfying aspect of being a celebrity is walking into a room. I rarely like what’s in the room, but walking in is always moreish.

  The bar in Pier Five is made from wood panelling, as are the walls. The bar staff, both male and female, wear pseudo sailor outfits. I order a rum and cola. Dylan orders a sparkling wine. The best quality sparklings are incredibly expensive and source their flavour from a small flowering fruit tree called an astoria. The fruit are small and round, not dissimilar from grapes. Dylan has been known to take baths in sparkling wine. Because he can.

  There’s a woman standing beside us in the queue who has unspeakably large breasts. I glance at Dylan and see that she’s already on his radar.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her.

  “Ariana,” says the girl, as I shake her hand.

  “I’m Jack and this is Dylan,” I reply.

  “Yes, I know,” smiles Ariana.

  “That’s an incredible outfit,” says Dylan, who lightly touches her shoulder, near the left strap of her dress.

  “Oh... thank you,” blushes Ariana. “I really like your band,” she says, loudly, to be heard over the DJ.

  “Why, thank you,” I say.

  “I saw you guys at The Exile. I thought it was a really amazing show.”

  “That was a lot of fun,” says Dylan. “Good energy.”

  “Definitely!” says Ariana. “So what are you guys up to this evening?”

  “Nothing too hectic,” I reply. “Just here to support Mason.”

  “Isn’t his book so amazing?” gushes Ariana.

  Dylan nods. “He’s the voice of a generation,” he says, with a shrug.

  Our drinks arrive and I can sense the queue behind us growing restless. “It was nice to meet you, Ariana, but we should let you get back to your boyfriend,” I say.

  “Oh, no,” giggles Ariana, “I’m single actually. I’m just here with some girlfriends.”

  “Well, then,” says Dylan, “lead the way.”

  Once Ariana has received a drink, we follow her through the crowd towards a booth where her friends are sitting. A social pages photographer appears and fires off a few shots at Dylan and I. Dylan sticks his tongue out at the camera.

  In the booth we join Ariana’s two friends, who seem to recognise us, but their pupils are wide and dark and I wonder how much cognition they’re capable of. There’s an air of frivolity around our new friends, and as my drugs suddenly peak I feel adrift and almost removed from myself. A world where anything is possible.

  Dylan starts chatting to our two new friends, while I make some casual conversation with Ariana, who sits on my left. She’s clearly drunk and her cheeks are flushed a rose pink. She lightly touches one of her giant silver hoop earrings and twirls some of her long brown hair. Dylan says something loudly to Ariana’s friends, whose names I’ve already forgotten, and they both look at me and laugh wildly. I blow Dylan a kiss and he throws a small paper umbrella at me.

  “It’s okay,” says one of the girls, who sits to my right, as she leans into me. “Dylan is being obnoxious.”

  “Really?” I say, then my mind goes blank and I have nothing else to say. My attempt at speech is interrupted when I feel Ariana’s right hand place itself on my left thigh.

  Her friend notices and says, “Ariana, are you being dirty?” with mock disgust.

  Ariana says nothing and smiles, her eyes only partly open. “What if I am, Bree?”

  Bree then puts her arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Let me know if you want me to protect you from Ariana. She can be a little forward.” Bree places her hand on my right thigh, her manicured fingernails lightly grazing the crotch of my jeans.

  “I’m not a fan of protection,” I say, glancing at Bree’s cleavage, which is now in close proximity. I’m suddenly aware of Bree’s perfume as she leans further into me, her red lips lightly touching my neck.

  I notice that Dylan has started kissing the second of Ariana’s friends, leaving me to negotiate Ariana and Bree, who are becoming increasingly direct with their hands.

  “So,” I say loudly, the sounds of the DJ booth pumping a sonic heartbeat through the club, “what brings you girls to the party?”

  Ariana looks a little too messy to answer. She doesn’t. Bree smiles. “My cousin works for the publishing company. She got us in.”

  “Have you read Mason’s book?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” says Bree. “I usually wait for the movie.”

  “The book’s sometimes better,” says Ariana, who rests her head on my shoulder, lips smiling, eyes shut. Her hand finds the zipper of my jeans and slowly pulls it down. My head is spinning from the drugs and I do nothing to stop her. Bree then turns my face towards her and starts kissing me. As my tongue pushes against hers, I feel as though I’ve left my body. I’m hovering somewhere above the booth, watching myself be devoured. No boundaries. No barricades.

  Ariana then pulls me from Bree and pushes her mouth against mine. While I kiss Ariana, Bree slides her hand into my jeans and wraps her fingers around my growing erection. Instinctively, I glance sideways at the room as Ariana is pushing her tongue into my mouth. Few people in the crowd are watching us. But I see a pair of bedroom blue eyes staring from across the room. Jemima. We make eye contact and she turns and quickly disappears further into the club.

  I unlock my mouth from Ariana’s and gently put a stop to Bree’s fervent stroking. “I’ve got to get some fresh air,” I say, the room spinning. “To be continued.” I climb on to the booth’s table and escape. I scan the room for Jemima, almost forgetting to zip my jeans. I head for the entrance and find that Jemima is no longer on the door. Another publicist has replaced her. When I turn to head back inside, I’m face to face with my target.

  “Hi,” I say, my mouth numb. “I was looking for you.”

  “Don’t,” says Jemima.

  “I have to. It’s a compulsion. Irrational.”

  “You shouldn’t be here. You weren’t invited.”

  “I’m always invited,” I reply, putting my hand against the wall of Pier Five’s entry to steady myself. “I’m never on the list, I am the list.”

  “Tonight is a big night for me and it’s incredibly unfair for you to show up,” she says, scowling.

  “And it’s fair for you to ignore me for four months?”

  “No, it’s not fair. Fair would be to have you castrated.”

  “Let’s not forget which one of us is married,” I say.

  “Fuck you,” says Jemima, quietly. “I was one week away from leaving him. One fucking week...”

  “So you told me,” I reply. “You were always a week away.”

  Jemima throws her hands up. “This is why I’ve ignored you for four months! I don’t want to have this conversation. I want you as far out of my life as possible.” She pushes past me, up the red carpet and into the rows of human traffic that flood the streets of Easton.

  Back inside the club, Dylan is entertaining Ariana, Bree and their friend. I rejoin them in the booth and Dylan exclaims, “Jack’s back!” He extends his hand and I see he’s holding a pill. I let him drop it in my mouth and then he offers his sparkling wine for me to wash it down.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say.

  “Yeah, absolutely,” says Dylan, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get somewhere a bit more primitive.”

  “Vial,” I say.

  “Vial, alright,” smiles Dylan. “We can head there before Lycan.”

  “Vial? We’ve never been able to get in there! There’s always a massive line and you have to know someone,” says Bree.

  I lean in close
to Bree. “Guess what?”

  “What?” she replies.

  “We know someone.”

  A limousine drives the five of us across town. I learn that the third girl in our party is called Vivienne. She’s strawberry blonde, tanned and athletically built. Dylan’s type. Anyone’s type.

  We arrive at Vial, an incredibly exclusive nightclub where they serve mixed shots in test tubes. Potent elixirs, but when you’re buzzing out of your brain like we are, you need a strong hit to feel anything.

  As always there’s a long queue to get into Vial. In reality, very few of these people will actually make it inside tonight. But they’re happy to stand, smoke, take drugs and try their luck. Some of them are purely interested in seeing which celebrities might turn up. It’s no surprise that when Dylan and I exit the limousine with our three companions, the queue erupts in high-pitched squealing and camera flashes. Dylan and I walk briskly toward the entrance, motion to the four giant security guards that we’re a party of five, and then we all step inside.

  Vial isn’t over crowded, which is nice. There’s a good vibe. Lots of familiar faces from television and film. As we head toward the bar, I feel someone grab my arm. It’s a guy called Conway. He’s the host of a morning children’s program. He looks badly caned. There’s even some blood dripping from his nose.

  “Jack! Baby! How are you?” yells Conway, and hugs me. I recoil slightly to avoid his weeping nostril.

  “Conway, I’m grand. You look like you’re having fun.” I raise a hand to my own nostril to indicate that he should check his.

  Conway lifts a finger and dabs the blood on his top lip. Upon seeing the crimson smear on his fingertip, he smiles, awkwardly. “Wow. Looks like mischief. I wonder how that happened...?”

  Dylan leans in and says to Conway, “Go hard or go home! That’s my motto. At least you didn’t bleed on one of your furry co-hosts.”

  Conway smiles, meekly, and makes a dash for the men’s room.