Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  “Ok.”

  Laurie goes back to changing channels as I continue to watch her. Now she’s aware of my gaze. Her face remains flushed with colour. “Stop looking at me!” she says.

  I sigh and slide down on to the floor, stretching my legs out and leaning back on the sofa. “Just put it on a music channel. You can’t go wrong with MV2. They play cool stuff.”

  We watch a few music videos in silence. I occasionally look at Laurie. Her feet are tucked underneath her and her face is propped in a hand. She doesn’t look particularly interested in the television.

  “I’m going out for a smoke,” I say, gesturing at the balcony.

  “Ok,” says Laurie. When I reach for my cigarettes on the coffee table, she asks, “Can I have one too?”

  “Sure.”

  Outside, Laurie puts a cigarette between her rose-coloured lips and I light it for her. Then I light my own. A wind picks up and Laurie tries to cover her bare arms, leaning into me.

  “I didn’t realise how cold it was outside,” she says, goosebumps rising on her pale skin.

  I turn Laurie around and wrap an arm across her collarbones, holding her against me. She rests the back of her head on my shoulder, as I smell her hair. She relaxes, leaning back against me. We stand like this until we’ve finished our cigarettes. I put my butt in an empty wine bottle and Laurie does the same.

  “We should get you back inside,” I say, sliding open the door into the living room. But rather than follow my suggestion, Laurie hurriedly takes my face in her hands and kisses me.

  Because the temperature in the apartment dropped, I had to turn on the central heating. On the sofa, Laurie sits on my lap, curled against me while we continue to kiss each other. When my hand begins to roam underneath her singlet, Laurie takes it off. Every so often I focus on her neck and ears, sometimes her shoulders, teasing her with small bites. At one point, our attention is drawn to the television when a Big Bang Theory song comes on MV2. It’s our cover of ‘Atlanta’, which was originally a Stone Temple Pilots song. My face stares out at me as I sing into the camera, filmed in grainy black and white. I look sad, my eyes projecting sorrow. That was an instruction from the video’s director, but perhaps I didn’t have to act.

  “Will you sing it to me?” asks Laurie.

  “Do I have to?” I ask.

  “No, you don’t,” she replies, adding coquettishly, “but I’d love it if you did.”

  I relent, singing in a deep, crooning tone. It’s my impressive impersonation of Stone Temple Pilots singer Scott Weiland, who in turn was impressively paying homage to the voice of Jim Morrison. But no one on this planet knows that. They haven’t heard this love song, full of lament. How “Mexican Princess” heroin entwined his life with roses and thorns. To me it’s also about losing a lover. While I sing the song, Laurie rests her head just under my own and I hold her tightly.

  In my bed, Laurie lies next to me under the blanket. She’s completely naked now and while we kiss, I touch her. But lying here, with the warmth and comfort of her soft body, I feel exhaustion catch up with me and I begin to fall asleep. I sense that Laurie is falling asleep too.

  Minutes pass and we lie still. I’m not sure if Laurie’s asleep, but I ask her a question. “Why did you let your friends film us making love?”

  “I was drunk,” says Laurie, softly, “and I’d had a pill. I get pretty... crazy... don’t you do wild things like that all the time? I’ve heard about the parties you go to...”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I promise I’ll keep it a secret. I won’t show anyone. Neither will Carrie or Taylor.”

  “Ok,” I reply. “I trust you...”

  A small span of silence lies between us. Then Laurie says, “I think... I was worried that one day I would wonder whether it really even happened...”

  Chapter Three

  I was terrified when I arrived on this planet, a simple fear of the unknown. But I was also relieved to have reached the surface. The thought of drowning in outer space scared me even more. Slowly starving of my resources.

  There was a moment when I realised I would not be returning home. I was surprised by how calm I felt. Any potential outbursts of panic remained deeply buried. I decided that I would endure and I would not concede to the vastness of space.

  I think less and less about the Planet Earth, but when I do it hurts. The faces of my family and my girlfriend return to me when I sleep, but I don’t know if they look the same. Time blurs their appearance in my memory. I am mourning them. I tell myself they’re alive and well, bounding through life somewhere in the distant cosmos. Just like the fool that thinks of the great beyond. I hope that my girlfriend has moved on and managed to reassemble her life, closing the chapter of our relationship.

  I often forget where I am. In quiet minutes I remember. The realisation that I am a great distance from home appears in the ether. An alien ingratiated in a society that must never know my secret. Of course, I question my decision to pursue this music career, but I suppose I would rather hide myself in broad daylight. The spotlight can darken as much as it illuminates.

  Back home I always loved introducing my friends to new artists and now I gain enormous pride when another one of my releases touches a universal nerve. Imagine a world without Neil Young, The Beatles, Queen, Led Zeppelin, Leonard Cohen, Jimi Hendrix, Ryan Adams or The Beach Boys. It seems so unthinkable. Those songs that transcend sound waves and become something spiritual. I wish I could play them all. Right now. But what race of people is ready for the back catalogue of Earth to be dropped on them all at once?

  I wonder which songs they played at my funeral. I assume they must have had one for me. I try to see my girlfriend’s face as she flips through my record collection, deciding which tracks touched me more. Which songs portray my life with dignity? I hope to Christ there weren’t some fucking cheesy astronaut references creeping from the church speakers. ‘Starman’ by David Bowie? Good song. Just not sure I want it to accompany my eulogy. ‘A Spaceman Came Travelling’ by Chris De Burgh? Good song. Given my current situation, its subject matter is very appropriate. But NASA’s space programme didn’t summarise me as a human. Maybe they played ‘Spaceman’ by Babylon Zoo?

  I picture an American and an Australian flag draped over an empty coffin and my loved ones, despite themselves, imagine my corpse floating throughout the nether regions of the universe, rotting in my space suit. They think about eternity and my journey into it. But my death is no different to any other. If you are a believer in Christianity, then perhaps my journey to another world is one intended for all of us. Here on this planet, with this other race of humans, I’ve been reborn. To survive death in the way that I have leaves me with a sense of power. I’m indestructible. I’m not just a small stroke in NASA’s death tally. I have survived another accident in space that shouldn’t have happened.

  The limousine slithers through the torrential traffic. A slick eel in the city’s streets winding towards the giant spotlights that cross like swords in the star-spangled night sky. The awards ceremony is at a place called The Imperial Theatre. It’s a grand building, historic by anyone’s standards. Another limousine cruises along next to us. Their windows are tinted like ours, declining either vehicle a glance at the other’s passengers.

  The McCarthy Awards are a big deal. Big money, big media coverage. It leaves the Grammys for dead. Glitz, glamour, and masturbatory acceptance speeches. Backs raw from the slapping. Big Bang Theory are nominated for five awards that cover everything from our music videos to our most recent album, The Dawn Of Man. It’s an epic title, sure. It was well received. I focused mostly on British rock and early punk. ‘Ever Fallen In Love?’ by the Buzzcocks is on there too. One critic said that we’d refined our sound and were closer to realising our full potential as artists. Right on.

  The band sits in the limo with me. We’ve been drinking for a few hours now. Nothing too hectic, mind you. We’re performing tonight. Our new single is called ‘Black Dog’.
It’s a rampaging rock song with some insanely excellent shifting tempos. We’re going to unleash it on the sweethearts of the music industry, who by now will be trickling into the Imperial. I can picture them. Dresses and suits whose cost could feed a starving family for a year. Noses in the air, accidentally bumping into each other. Smiles and mild apologies. Vacuous people in a vacuum. Glittering jewellery. One’s retinas need to adjust in the buzzing chaos of it all.

  “Do you think that Jennifer Fox will be here?” asks Dylan, before taking a heavy sip on his scotch and ice.

  “I’m pretty sure she’s presenting an award,” replies Cohen.

  The limo that was content to cruise along next to us slows down as we approach the theatre. It then moves in behind us. I suppose they’re hoping to arrive last. It’s fashionable to be late, but ultimately the coolest people don’t even show up. Punctuality is a state of mind.

  A man in a tuxedo and headset waves us into a parking space along the footpath. Beyond our windows is a sea of photographers divided by a red carpet. Our driver steps out and briskly stands next to the passenger door. The photographers raise their cameras, like an impatient firing squad. A few premature shots go off. I reach into my inner jacket pocket and find a pill, which I promptly swallow and knock back with a shot of something that tastes like tequila. God knows I’m going to need it. Men can fake enthusiasm as convincingly as an orgasm. Tonight I’ll fake neither.

  The ceremony itself is nauseating. I can never understand how plastic people don’t melt under such intense lighting. Smiling down the barrel of that autocue. The corridors of the backstage areas are like a termite’s nest in full flight. Lots of hurried gnawing. The four of us are draped around our dressing room, waiting for our call up. We’re going on after another popular rock group called the Known Associates. We’ll be given a ten-minute warning, then a five-minute warning. Then it’s show time.

  I go over the lyrics in my head. Led Zeppelin. I love this song. Tonight we’re going to make them sweat and groove. The song has an amazing time signature. Big Bang Theory was quite impressed when I brought it to practice. ‘Hey guys, look what I wrote. The greatest blues-rock song of all time. Cool, huh?’ Of course, I don’t have the whimsical vocals of Robert Plant, but I do the song some justice.

  A curtain is lifted and the crowd roars as we appear on stage. It sounds genuine. I’ve clearly managed to gain the respect of the music industry. My mind briefly concentrates on the lyrics of ‘Black Dog’, a song I listened to as an eight-year-old on my father’s record player. Headphones that were too big for me. I often wish that I could go back and listen to Led Zeppelin IV for the first time. Even when placed next to all the amazing music that humans have produced, it’s in a universe of its own. Melodic nirvana. ‘The Battle Of Evermore’, with its penetrating harmonies, pastoral imagery and parochial sensibility. I lie awake at night and hear it over and over again. Echoes of a world lost.

  Dressed in disheveled designer suits, we perform with measured enthusiasm. Nothing over the top. I don’t look at anyone in the crowd. Behind my dark sunglasses I just sing to the back wall. To no one in particular. I hold on tight now to nothing at all.

  After our set we’re led through a back exit and into an alley where our limousine waits. At one end fans scream from behind a tall, wire fence. They’re begging me to walk towards them. To acknowledge them for the smallest moment. To make me real. I briefly consider going over there to say pleasure, but I don’t. I just wave and force a smile. I sometimes endeavour to build a relationship with the loyal folk out there, but now I feel slightly empty. I’m not up to it. I hope my spirits lift by the time I arrive at the after party. I reach into my pocket, take another pill and jump into the limousine with my band mates.

  There’s a number of after parties to choose from. It’s amazing how many people give a fuck about who is where. We’ve been invited to all sorts tonight. A perfume company. Yeah, right. A prominent music magazine called Proverb. Fairly tabloid. We’ve decided to attend a private party that the head of our record label, Endurance, is throwing. A gregarious, silver-haired old codger, Martin Brannagh sure knows how to host a shin-dig. It’s difficult to pass up one of his get-togethers.

  Brannagh’s apartment, a penthouse in the upper hills of East Terragon, is incredibly monotone but somehow alluring. Like passionless sex. And a little like Brannagh himself. His apartment is all sleek, white surfaces and bright lighting. A metallic, open kitchen. Cubic furniture. Glass tables. Icy marble floor. The odd runner and rug to keep the decor slightly textured and organic. Semi-surrealist artworks hang around the wide, open-plan entertaining area. A projector screen throws music videos by Endurance artists on to one of the bare walls. Waitresses in short black skirts and white, tight buttoned shirts tray champagne and canapés.

  The apartment is already quite full. You can be fashionably late to one of Brannagh’s parties but it will mean missing something outrageous. At least the drugs and drinks never run out. We step into the small foyer and a number of people spot us. Quick whispers. More eyes turn. I glance around the room, recognising some faces. Members of the Known Associates. A model that’s on the cover of one of the women’s magazines that’s on the news stands at the moment. I know this because the cover is on a billboard opposite my apartment balcony.

  In the kitchen is Jennifer Fox, the film industry’s darling. Dylan intends to pursue her but she has continued making advances at me. I still haven’t returned her email. She’s talking to a slender brunette girl whom is facing away from me. But I immediately recognise her. I’ve probably seen the back of that girl’s head more than the front. Make of that what you will, but I’ve just never given her much reason to walk towards me.

  I catch Jennifer’s eye and I see her mouth something to the brunette girl. The girl then turns and glances at me with two vivid, sky blue irises. It’s Jemima. I haven’t had much luck with her. It’s hard to make someone think you’re a nice guy when you’re unquestionably a womaniser and drug addict. But I could love Jemima. I sometimes think about her. Maybe I’m just desperate and adrift, looking for someone to anchor me. Men often put women on a pedestal and there’s no doubting that Jemima teeters somewhere above me. A height I’ll never reach. I wonder if I’ll ever persuade her to forgive me. If not, I’ll move on. There’s no better way to get over a girl than to get under another.

  Jemima makes eye contact for a fraction of a second, before calmly walking from the kitchen and disappearing into the party. I imagine she’s heading for the balcony. I could follow her, attempt feeble conversation and fail. Alternatively, I could head to one of the bathrooms where lines of speed and cane will be on offer. Perhaps I could strike up a torrid sexual encounter with two lingerie models in one of the many bedrooms. Important decisions like these require a much clearer mind than my current fog can offer.

  Cohen has seen Jemima too. “Wow, fancy seeing her here,” he says, smugly.

  “I was positive she wouldn’t be here,” I say.

  “Yeah, right,” says Cohen.

  “Maybe I should go talk to her.”

  Cohen smiles. “That would be bad.”

  “She’s had time to calm down since the book launch.”

  “Is she ever calm?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well,” says Cohen, choosing his words. “She can be a little tight.”

  “You’re munted.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just leave her alone. Why break a sweat chasing her? Did you see how many women went to powder their noses when we got here? You’ve got to get some control back.”

  “I am in control.”

  Cohen chuckles. “She’s cigarette smoke. A little puff and you’ll be back to a pack a day.”

  “Well the patches aren’t working.”

  Cohen shrugs. “Your call. I’m heading to the bathroom.” He gives a knowing grin. Emerson and Dylan follow him.

  “Nice one,” I reply, and head toward the balcony, passing through the
kitchen.

  “Jack!” squeals Jennifer Fox.

  “Jen, how are you? You look breathtaking.”

  Jennifer grins with her white, immaculate teeth and perfect skin. She has bedroom features, all sultry and seductive. She leans in to kiss me on the cheek, but her lips move to graze the edge of my own. “You guys were amazing tonight. That new song was so sexy. What’s it called again?” she asks, running a hand through her long dark hair.

  “‘Black Dog’,” I reply. A waitress walks through the kitchen with a tray of blood-red cocktails.

  “What are these?” asks Jennifer.

  “They’re called a screaming orgasm,” smiles the cute waitress.

  “Well, how can I refuse?” asks Jennifer, slipping me a glance as she takes a glass from the tray.

  I take one also. “I’ve never passed up an orgasm,” I say.

  “What man does?” asks Jennifer, before imbibing a sip of her beverage.

  I smile, feeling another sudden rush. I’m very hectic. “How’s your new movie progressing?” I ask.

  Jennifer shrugs. “Fine. I’m looking forward to wrapping it up.” She makes a few more comments that don’t register because my mind is moving too quickly.

  “Not enjoying it?” I ask.

  Jennifer shrugs again, and takes another drink from her glass. There’s a pause before her face lights up again. She asks, “So, tell me Jack, who in your band is single? Because you are a gorgeous group of men.”

  “Cohen, Dylan and Emerson are all single. But please don’t tell them you think they’re gorgeous. You’d be throwing petrol on a house fire.”

  Jennifer chuckles. “Well I wouldn’t want that. But you didn’t include yourself in that list, Jack.”

  “I see lots of people. Can’t really get away from them.”

  “I bet you can’t,” says Jennifer, with a grin. “I’ve also heard a rumour about you.”

  “Oh? That sounds ominous,” I smile.

  “I’ve met a few of the women you’ve slept with and they tell me that you’re quite… endowed.”