Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  “That’s sweet,” says my interviewer. “That’s why whenever I break up with someone I get rid of everything that reminds me of them and burn it. It’s easier that way.”

  “I suppose everyone’s different,” I smile, and for a moment wish that I had something tangible from one of the people from my past life. Some artifact to remember them by.

  The girl asks me a few more questions, one of which is about my love life. “Equal parts treacherous and depraved,” is my answer.

  Once all the questions are asked, a publicist from the record label leads me into an adjacent bedroom, which has been decked with studio lights. A camera on a tripod is pointed at the wide, elaborate bed. I’m shown to a stool that sits in front of a table that is covered in various kinds of make-up and a free-standing mirror. A young, attractive woman in tight jeans and a singlet then hovers around me, teasing my hair and dabbing products on my face. Foundation. Eye liner. Then lots of hair spray. When once I was retardant, now I am flammable.

  I’m introduced to the photographer, Marcelo. He says he’s delighted to meet me and shakes my hand effeminately. He and the stylist stand back, analyse my appearance and share quiet remarks. The stylist makes slight alterations to my hair. Once they’re both satisfied, Marcelo shows me to the bed. Shirtless, I recline into the bank of extravagant pillows and cushions. I lie back, my hands draped by my side. Marcelo repositions a few of the lights and then approaches me, holding out a light meter and taking readings in the space around my face. He then stands back and assesses me, rubbing his chin.

  “I think we need to sex this up a little bit more,” he says, with a hint of an accent. “You should unbutton your jeans. We need to tease.”

  “Not a big scandal, just a hint of scandal,” agrees the stylist.

  Marcelo firmly suggests that I undo the top two buttons of my jeans. It’s a cover shot, so a line must be drawn somewhere. Marcelo peers through the camera and starts snapping. Then he tells the stylist to hand me an acoustic guitar, which is then propped next to me on the bed.

  “Give me more from your eyes, Jack,” says Marcelo, as he takes the camera from the tripod and begins to bob and weave, shooting from various angles. “Pretend I’m your next conquest. Seduce me. Make me want to come on to the bed with you.”

  “That would be easier if you gave her the camera,” I say, motioning to the stylist. She blushes.

  I give Marcelo a burning stare and my audience seems to love it. I should feel more uncomfortable, but I have so many pills circumnavigating my bloodstream that I feel peaceful, almost removed from the situation.

  I pick up the guitar and Marcelo continues to take photos as I strum the strings, gazing out the open doors on to the balcony and at the city beyond. I play the melody of ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’.

  My mind wanders as I gaze at the skyline of mammoth skyscrapers, like grey columns coated in reflective glass. Marcelo continues to dance around the room, creating the magic that has made him hot property in the world of fashion photography. It was his idea to have me draped, half-naked, on a bed holding an acoustic guitar. Genius. The editor of Distortion felt that it would “depict me in my natural state”. The planned headline for the cover story is ‘Sheets Music’. It’s telling when your libido draws more attention than your songs.

  Once Marcelo is satisfied, the shoot is a wrap. I step out to the balcony and light a cigarette. Marcelo’s assistant brings me a cold beer. I use it to wash down another pill. She offers me some food, but I politely decline. I haven’t had an appetite for a few days now.

  I think about Natalie and leaving her down there somewhere in the ground. A dark place beyond most people’s imagination. I wonder if I’ll see her again.

  The magazine has provided me with a driver, who is supposed to take me home. Instead, I ask him to take me to the beach, which is only a ten-minute walk from my apartment. A minor deviation. He drops me off across the street from the sand and I hand him a random note from my wallet. He thanks me and drives away.

  Dusk is approaching, but the beach is still covered with bathers who either frolic, play games, or lie on their towels with a book or magazine. Soaking the final rays of the descending suns. Casting twin shadows. I walk down the warm concrete steps towards the beach, which is mostly covered with the elongated silhouettes of the tall buildings towering above.

  I sit away from the crowd, down the far end of the beach. I pull off my shoes and lie down, stretching out into the cooling sand. A group of young, bronzed bodies play a game of football about fifty metres away and out on the ocean surfers lie on their boards, waiting for the next set of waves.

  Luckily, no one has noticed me. My mind is too empty to make conversation. When I step out in public like this, I’m invariably hounded by fans or attention seekers. It can get ugly. Sometimes I’m reminded that it would be so much easier to be in a coma. Or better yet, a Narc coma where anything I want will morph before my eyelids. But this is the reality I’ve created.

  Of course, a world without physical boundaries, like a Narc reality, could go either way. I might engage in even more sexual activity than I do now. A waiting room and a turnstile on my bedroom door. A river of flesh that washes me downstream. I could drown in carnal sensations and blooms of serotonin.

  The calming sand drifts me away. I close my eyes and from somewhere in a past life I watch an explosion. I press my face against a reinforced window and see a hollow expanse of darkness flicker with sparks and debris. Desperate silence. Pieces of twisted metal and personal belongings from our living quarters are sucked into cold eternity. I don’t know where my crew is but they are definitely not on my side of the airlock, which I closed behind me. It would have meant joining them in their fate.

  My section of the spacecraft, now completely broken away from its lower half, swings around, giving me a view of the wreckage. The lower half of the Endeavour has almost completely disintegrated. If I stay where I am, I risk my section ripping apart also. I can’t see them. I turn and head for the escape pod.

  Flecks of sand land on my face. I open my eyes behind my sunglasses and see a ball resting next to my head. Bounding after it is a short, blonde girl with breasts that are disproportionately large compared to the rest of her body. Maybe only sixteen. A honeyed complexion and a tiny, two-piece bikini. She picks up the ball and smiles down at me, staring for a moment with big blue eyes.

  “Are you... in a band?” she asks.

  “Which band?” I reply.

  “Big... Bang Theory?” she guesses, hesitantly.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “That’s so loose. Hang on a second!” The girl runs back across the sand, returning the ball to her friends. She then comes back on her own.

  “My name’s Britney,” she says, extending a hand as she sits next to where I’m lying.

  No shit. That’s the first time I’ve heard that name on this planet. “Nice name,” I say. “Sounds exotic.”

  Britney looks a little embarrassed. “Yeah, my mother sort of... invented it.”

  It could be the drugs in my system, but I suddenly have a small existential panic attack. “Nice one,” I smile.

  “This is so crazy, my friends would die if they realised who you were.”

  “Is that right. Why didn’t you tell them?”

  “Have you ever seen gulls fighting over scraps?”

  I give a small chuckle. “So you’re a smart gull.”

  “Yep,” grins Britney, with her cherub-like features. “So how come you’re on your own?”

  “Circumstance. I just did this photo shoot and I was pretty bored, so I came here.”

  “Who was the photo shoot for?”

  “Distortion.”

  “I love that magazine!” gushes Britney. “Are you on the cover?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Crazy,” says my new friend, who begins to play with her short ponytail, which is matted with sea salt. “You must have an amazing life.”

  “I get by.
”

  The shadows of the city’s skyscrapers have now covered the sand and the increasing breeze blows gusts of cold air from the ocean, extinguishing the humidity.

  “Does your band have any new music coming out soon?”

  “We’re working on something.”

  “Hectic,” says Britney. “That’s really hectic.”

  “Yes.” Despite my better judgment, I’m examining Britney’s body from behind my sunglasses. She’s a compact collection of firm curves that never cross paths with each other.

  “You seem to bring out a lot more music than other bands,” says Britney. “And everything you write is so good!”

  “That’s very nice of you to say.”

  “Is it true that you were homeless?”

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t have a home. My home was everywhere.”

  I ask Britney about herself. She’s seventeen. Last year of high school. Loves music and going to concerts. Wants to be an astronomer, of all things. She speaks enthusiastically and candidly about her plans, without the pretentious chest-beating that I often wade through in my social circle.

  As the suns approach the horizon somewhere behind us, Britney’s friends call out and tell her they’re leaving. “I’m staying here!” she calls back. Her friends all shrug and walk up the beach toward their cars. Britney then turns to me and asks randomly, “How old are you?”

  I contemplate lying, which I do. “Thirty-four.”

  “Twice my age,” smiles Britney. “You’re an old man.”

  “I feel old,” I say, finally sitting upright.

  “So, what are you doing now?” asks Britney. Her question is loaded. It should be owned by the military.

  “Nothing really. Probably just heading home.”

  “Cool, well we should keep hanging out. You’re really nice.”

  “I’m not just some creepy old guy?” I say, getting to my feet and brushing the sand off my jeans and shirt.

  “You’re famous, old and creepy,” she says with a cheeky grin, still sitting.

  “Well, you want to hang out with me, so I can’t be that creepy.”

  Another cold wind sweeps up from the waves and Britney lifts her arms to cover her bare shoulders. It pushes her breasts together and the sight is regrettably magnificent.

  “My ball landed next to you,” says Britney, who also stands. “It could have landed next to anyone. But it landed right next to my favourite singer.”

  Another cold wind envelops us and Britney starts to shiver, her flesh rising in goosebumps.

  “You should get your things,” I say.

  “Yeah, everything’s over there,” she says, pointing. We start walking over to where Britney has left her belongings. A small tote bag and a towel. No clothing. We walk up to where the sand meets the footpath, and stand in the declining light.

  “You don’t have to be somewhere?” I ask.

  Britney shakes her head, wrapping the towel around her small waist. A jogger runs past with a dog in tow, his eyes inspecting Britney and I. A paparazzi appears across the road, squatting behind a parked car, and I realise I can’t be here any more. A hire car turns into our street and I step out, flagging it down. I open the back door for Britney and she steps inside.

  Britney is standing in my kitchen. She removed the towel from her waist as we entered my apartment. There’s very little fabric to protect her modesty. I pull a pill from a small jar in the cupboard and put it in my mouth, discreetly. I offer Britney a drink.

  “What have you got?” she asks.

  “Everything.”

  “I’ll have something mixed with juice, if you have it.”

  “I do.” I make two mixers, putting twice as much vodka in my own as I do hers. I hope it blocks the softly spoken voice of my conscience. I then take a sip to wash down the pill that waits patiently in my mouth.

  Britney sips her drink. “Your apartment is amazing,” she smiles.

  “You should see the view,” I offer.

  “I’d love to, but I feel pretty gross,” she says, motioning toward her exposed body.

  “Of course,” I say. “You can have a shower, if you like.”

  I find Britney a towel in my bedroom closet, as well as a suitcase of women’s clothing I’ve accumulated. Britney stands in my living room and I hand her the towel. Setting the suitcase down, I explain, “This is a bunch of clothes that you can try on if you want.” I click it open and lift the lid. Britney’s eyes widen and she kneels down next to it, rummaging through.

  “Who owns all of this?” she asks.

  “Lots of people. Clothing gets left here sometimes.” Few come back to claim their forgotten items. It’s a suitcase of cotton memories.

  Britney occasionally lifts a garment up to examine it, holding some against her body to see if the size is right. She lifts up a simple, but expensive looking singlet top. “This is a Magasin de Sueur,” she says, reading the label. “This brand is really expensive.”

  “Have it,” I say. “It won’t fit me anyway.”

  Britney chooses the top and a small pair of denim shorts, and heads for the bathroom, the towel tucked under her arm. I adjourn to the balcony for a cigarette. When I finish it, I pack up the suitcase and return it to my room. As I walk up the hallway I can see light pouring from the bathroom, which has been left wide open. I hear the sound of running water. I walk to the bathroom door, leaning against the frame. Britney is standing naked in the open shower, rinsing her hair under the jet of water. She sees me and smiles.

  Chapter Five

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been out. There’s a thick burning smell around me. Pain is shooting through my shoulders and up the back of my neck. Everything is silent and for a minute I panic that I’ve lost my hearing. But when I move my arms I can just make out the ruffled sound of my space suit. I sit in darkness except for a red, blinking light above me.

  I take a deep breath. There’s an aching near my ribs, but I’m alive.

  I don’t know how long I lie here for. Perhaps half an hour. My pod is rocking slightly. It feels like I’m on water. Floating. It must be water.

  I unclasp the harness that holds me down and attempt to stand up. My right ankle feels tender when I put weight on it, but I can reach the escape hatch in the top of the pod. I rummage and find the oxygen tanks and face mask that are secured under a panel in the floor.

  When I open the hatch, I find the world outside in near blackness. A faint, distant glow on the horizon provides little light, but I’m on an ocean. Through my mask I can smell salt. The dark liquid around me stretches to every corner of the horizon, where it meets the thin red line of an apparent sunset. Black, yellow and red congealing in the distance.

  I breathe oxygen from the two small tanks on my back. I’m hesitant to inhale the air around me, but I know my supply will eventually empty and I’ll have no choice. I take deep breaths to calm myself, but my heart continues to race.

  I locate an emergency flotation device and then delicately climb down the pod’s exterior. The metal beneath me makes sporadic squeals as it cools. Plumes of smoke erupt near the edge of the liquid, which is only inches from my toes. I deploy the flotation device and it self-inflates. It’s designed to carry three adults, so I’ll have legroom. One lonely, silent passenger. It bobs gently as it floats on the liquid. I inspect it for signs of corrosion. There’s no hissing. No steam. Just the faint smell of salt. I attach a small outboard motor to the back of the life raft. It’s only the size of a wall clock, but it can really fly. I then locate a travel pack in the pod, which has minimal rations, a thermal blanket and a flare gun. It also contains a universal phone. We use them to communicate in space. If someone comes to rescue me, they’ll make contact via this small black device. I place the travel pack in the raft.

  Safe in the knowledge that I will die of starvation if I stay with the pod I lower myself into the raft, start the motor and set off into the disappearing light. I can’t say I’m not scared but if death is my fat
e on this planet, then there’s no point in milking the suspense.

  Once I’m about five hundred metres away, I slow the motor until it rolls to a halt. I can still make out the triangular shape of the pod on the ocean. I reach into a side pocket on my pack and remove a small rectangular box. It’s a detonator. I peel a sticker off the back of the palm-sized device and find a twelve-digit number. I then enter the code on the keypad on the front of the detonator, watching the numbers appear in the small digital display. I click a confirmation button five times in one second intervals. A red light appears above the display. I kick the motor into life and take off, speeding away.

  After twenty seconds I glance back to see the pod erupt into a ball of fire, a thousand shades of yellow and orange twisting and twirling before turning into black smoke. Small pieces of debris shoot through the darkening night like flaming arrows. I pull the back of the detonator away from the front to assure it’s no longer airtight and then throw its parts into the ocean.

  Set in the front of the raft is a small compass. It appears to be working, but I can’t trust it. I have no point of reference. Nevertheless, it may help me avoid travelling in a circle.

  Hours pass and I start to shake uncontrollably. I can’t stop my body from convulsing. But I’m not cold. I’m just frightened. The raft is skimming the surface of the liquid at a rapid pace. The thin glow on the horizon has died, leaving me to charge into nothingness. I have turned on a small light on the front of the raft, which carves through the night and exposes the metres in front of me. At this speed, if an obstacle appeared in my path I wouldn’t have time to avoid it. I’m as good as blind. But I need to keep moving.

  The surface of the liquid becomes choppy and the raft is suddenly dipping up and over waves. I hold on tightly, slowing the motor down to a canter. The sudden roughness of the liquid indicates that I’ve entered shallow water. There’s possibly land ahead. Waves spray over me, exploding on the front of the raft, and the smell of salt is stronger than before. I lick my chaffed lips and I can taste it.