Book Read Free

Enormity

Page 22

by Nick Milligan


  Once the disc is inserted, Jennifer grabs my television’s remote control from the coffee table, switches it on and finds the disc player’s channel. When she does, the screen is black. Nothing. We stare at ourselves in the inky reflection.

  “Oh well,” I say. “Looks like it doesn’t work on my player.”

  “You just have to wait a minute,” says Rose.

  Jennifer has returned to her position beside Rose on the couch and is almost huddling against her. I ponder how much convincing it would take to get them to kiss each other. Then my mind snaps back to my incredibly awkward situation.

  An image appears on my widescreen and the video begins.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The yacht rounds the heads and we leave the bosom of the harbour. The vessel is only at a canter. The sails are down and a long, naked mast points skyward to the canopy of stars. The hum of the motor makes the deck vibrate beneath me as I sit on the farthest point of the opulent vessel’s nose. A driver, a hired hand that I don’t know, tall and lean, sits in front of a set of controls, positioned above the cabin. He eyes the ocean quietly, not responding to the activity around him. Invisible.

  I’m on my own, watching the black ink water part for the yacht, rippling along the ribs of the hull. I try to enjoy this moment’s peace, though it’s hard to distinguish. My band are partying behind me, celebrating our freshly signed contract with Endurance Records. Our signatures are barely dry. There are about twenty people on the boat. Maybe thirty. They’re strangers to me.

  I’m having a hard time trying to relax. I’m with a group of musicians I haven’t known that long. Only a few months. I have known Emerson a little longer. The band has been pieced together for me. Handpicked by the head of our label. From our extensive rehearsals and jam sessions, they seem to be remarkable musicians. No complaints here.

  I’ve grown fond of Dylan rather quickly. He’s wild and enthusiastic about everything he does. He’s a freakish guitarist. His skill is matched only by his astoundingly short attention span. But not during songs. When he’s playing the “compositions” I’ve brought to the group, he loses himself. During the throes of ‘Achilles’ Last Stand’, ‘Nantucket Sleighride’ or ‘South Side Of The Sky’, Dylan closes his eyes and I can see him leave this world with me, floating upward towards Earth.

  I feel a variation of a brotherly bond with Dylan. I’m watching him seize this opportunity that I should have created for myself when I was his age. Emerson told me that Dylan had been in two other bands on the Endurance roster but due to substance abuse he was asked to leave both groups. The owner of our label has granted him a final lifeline in allowing him to join Big Bang Theory.

  Like Dylan, I could have floated through life and pursued art, indulging in life’s distractions. I could have been adrift with no signs of shore. While he is more than ten years my junior, our lifestyles are inverted reflections of one another.

  When I look back at Easton it’s just dots of light, undulating in a wall behind us as this motoring spaceship cruises into the open ocean. It’s a dark night and I’m reminded of my landing. How I tested the water to see if it was acid. How I landed and walked through those gates, greeted by the dead. If I could have seen myself now, I would have rushed up that beach like a soldier.

  On the deck behind me, Dylan, Emerson and Cohen are all drinking and chatting loudly. They’re accompanied by five girls. There’s electronic music blasting from hidden speakers near the entrance to the downstairs floors. A few of them walk below deck to party in the extensive inner workings of the boat.

  One of the girls that remain on deck, Jemima, is a publicist who is going to be working closely with Big Bang Theory. She’s brought two friends on board with her. They’re all about twenty-four or twenty-five, little darlings living the dream lifestyle that the music industry serves you on its silver platter. The fourth and fifth girls work for our record label too. One is an intern and the other is also a publicist, who works with a number of other bands on the roster. I had sex with the intern after a party downtown. Secluded, but in a public place. Her name is Stephanie. She told me that she’s religious. She was raised in a religious family and went to religious schools. This is at odds with the overt way that she interacted with me. But who am I to judge or dictate? She said she’d be forgiven.

  To complicate things further I have also been sleeping with Jemima, who will be our exclusive publicist at the label. That in itself is not a big deal, but she is married. She’s hitched to an aspiring musician. But I feel a little helpless in this situation. Jemima has skin the colour of maple syrup and big, bedroom blue eyes. Add this to her soft brown hair and firm body, and you have a recipe for impure thoughts and uncontrollable urges. It doesn’t matter who you are or your moral hygiene. You can smile in the skin of an absolute gentleman. But when a girl like Jemima is smiling back at you, your insides are shaped around a hard, twisted centre. The preening grace of the good guy is like the shimmering of peacock feathers. It’s all for dramatic effect. Pure mating ritual.

  My promiscuity is on a gradual increase, but I have the perfect justification. Research. Assimilation. No one would question my need to feed myself. To survive. So I don’t question my own sexual requirements. To observe and engage. Total immersion. Why deny myself these encounters when they’re thrust upon me? Especially when I’m already so familiar with the biology of these Heavenly creatures.

  Jemima sees me looking at her. Her eyes meet mine, which I wasn’t intending. But now it seems as though I’ve been gazing at her and she’s caught me. Although she’s clearly marinating in the euphoric glaze that all casual drug users enjoy, she responds to my eyes. I see her place some significance in them. Jemima is dancing with her friends. The rest of my band has scampered below deck to join the party down there.

  After a few more twirls and giggles with her social sisters, Jemima walks up the boat towards me. She’s wearing small white shorts and her blue denim shirt is unbuttoned, a mandarin coloured bikini top across her chest.

  “Jesus, how amazing is this?” she says, gesturing to the black ocean that we’re rolling into. A warm wind picks up, blowing her wavy hair from her shoulders and face. Jemima is backlit. Just a feminine outline traced by the downward floodlight that perches high on the mast. Despite the shadow, I can see her blues eyes look down at me, piercing like two precise javelins. “Mind if I join you?”

  It’s a question with no easy answer. “Sure,” I smile, and tap the hull next to me.

  “Isn’t this boat amazing? I can’t imagine having my very own yacht,” says Jemima. She sits down, leaning against me.

  I can hear her friends continue to frolic behind us, whooping when they hear a new song they recognise. Jemima puts her left hand on my knee and I see she isn’t wearing her wedding ring.

  “Everything fine?” I ask.

  “Of course!” she responds, as if I’ve broken the record for silly questions.

  “No ring.”

  Jemima pulls her hand away and her face adjusts slightly, betraying her hidden sorrow. But then her smile returns as if it never left.

  “I’m having too much fun,” she says, with a shake of her head.

  “So no heavy stuff?”

  “No heavy stuff.”

  “I like you,” I say.

  “Oh,” says Jemima, and she looks away. Awkwardly. Maybe blushing. The music pounds behind us. The city’s lights fade, joining together in a tapestry of artificial fluorescence. Then she says, “Congratulations on the deal.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You deserve it so much. You guys are going to be massive.”

  “It’s exciting.”

  “You won’t know yourself, Jack,” she smiles, giving me a nudge with her elbow.

  “I won’t know myself,” I echo.

  We’re silent as we watch the ocean roll toward us. In my mind, which is responding to the pills I’ve taken, I imagine that the yacht is completely still and it’s the world that’s moving. />
  Jemima closes her eyes and rests her head on my shoulder. I smell her hair. It occurs to me that I want Jemima in my life more often. On a regular basis.

  “I like you too,” whispers Jemima. I think she said it. Maybe she didn’t.

  I hear a wild holler behind me, which sounds like Dylan. Reluctant to shift Jemima’s head from my shoulder, I don’t turn around.

  “What’s going on over there?” calls Dylan, with mischief.

  Jemima sits upright. I turn in time to see Dylan running across the deck towards me. He drops to his knees and throws his arms around my shoulders.

  “This is the life, Jack,” he says, clearly in a jubilant frame of mind. “In a month, everyone will know our fucking band.” He throws his right arm around Jemima, including her in his embrace. “And we have the hottest publicist on the planet!” he adds. Jemima laughs and shakes her head. “How are you going to publicise us?” queries Dylan, as if it’s a formal interview.

  “Well, you’re four hot guys who make amazing music. You’ve got a mysterious singer who has lived on the streets his whole life. You’re a publicist’s dream,” says Jemima.

  “A publicist’s dream,” repeats Dylan, as if the words taste good in his mouth. “With a mysterious singer.” Then he asks me, “Jack, are you a publicist’s dream or a publicist’s reality?”

  Jemima blushes and looks away.

  “Dylan, you’re being outrageous,” I say.

  He responds by kissing the back of my head. Then he says, “You are a musical genius, my friend. We’re going to take over the world.”

  “It’s all about the music,” I say. “Not the take over.”

  Dylan slaps my back, and then says to Jemima and I. “C’mon children, time to get amongst the people. You’re not behaving as star attractions should.” I groan reluctantly. “Jack, there’s a lot of people on this boat and they all want to party with you.” Then he says to Jemima, “Don’t be greedy. You need to share this man.”

  “You make me sound like a wheel of cheese,” I say.

  Dylan jumps to his feet, giving a tug on the back of my t-shirt. Jemima and I stand and follow him down to the main deck area, where some of the revelers have emerged and are now dancing, loitering and chatting. They don’t stay in one place for very long, especially on this floating fun park. Now that my drugs have fully kicked in, I don’t mind getting up and moving about. I suppose it’s my duty to “get amongst it”.

  Martin Brannagh, the owner of our new record label and the man who will forever be attributed to my discovery, has emerged from below deck with the rest of the party. He’s wearing white, loose-fitting clothing. An open shirt and long, square-cut fisherman’s pants. His white hair is slicked back and his chin peppered with salt-coloured stubble. He exudes the mystique of a Zen guru, with the hedonistic undertones of a pagan philosopher. Life is here to be lived. You betray your soul when you don’t indulge each desire. He seems harmless enough. I think he sincerely loves music and he is certainly a world-renowned tastemaker. Plus, he owns a spacious yacht. Many boxes ticked.

  The air throbs with the swollen pounding of electronic music, surging and receding on the synapses. Brannagh walks through the crowd to me, throwing his arms around me in a warm hug.

  “Jack. I am so glad I found you,” he says.

  “I was just over there,” I say, pointing toward the nose of the vessel.

  “That’s not what I mean,” he chuckles. “I’m glad I’ve brought you in from the cold.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “You, my friend, have a gift,” he says, pressing a finger into my chest. “I don’t know where your songs come from, but may your inspiration never run dry.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “And thank you for taking us out on your boat. It’s sufficiently large.”

  “Don’t be ludicrous!” he exclaims, slapping me on the shoulder. “This is why I have the damn thing. To get away from that city.” He points back to the distant lights of Easton. “When you head out to the open ocean, you eliminate everything. You cancel out every element, except for the people that come with you. It’s like a purging.”

  “So you just need to add water,” I say, not exactly sure what I mean.

  “Water or alcohol,” he smiles, and then leads me over to a section of the surrounding bench seat, which hides a refrigeration unit. He lifts the seat. “What’s your poison?”

  “Whatever’s good,” I say.

  Brannagh smiles and leans down, pulling out a bottle of what looks like beer. “This one’s the best. Expensive, but also the best.” He grabs a bottle for himself. We both twist off our respective lids. He then turns to the group of people around us and says loudly, over the thumping music, “Could I have everyone’s attention for just a moment.” Everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to listen. “I don’t want to delay anyone’s immediate intentions. I would like to ask everyone to drink to the newest members of the Endurance family. Big Bang Theory.”

  Everyone cheers, claps and then drinks from their beverages and the party continues. I walk over to Cohen and Emerson who are sitting down, talking.

  “Gentleman,” I say, sitting next to Emerson. I chink my bottle against his, then lean across to chink Cohen’s.

  Emerson leans back and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Exciting times, my friend,” he smiles, his weathered face wrinkles in a smile. He’s only a year or two older than me, but has worked outdoors for most of his life. His face is framed by long dark hair, similar to my own. We could both do with a shave.

  “Can’t argue with you there,” I say.

  “Where do you think you’d be tonight if you didn’t have a record deal,” asks Cohen, who is much younger than Emerson and I. His hair is shaved close to his head and as far as young men go, he’s quite pretty looking. Olive skin. He rarely goes unnoticed.

  I think about Cohen’s question. “Probably just wandering somewhere, watching the world go past. I hopefully would have found a decent meal and be getting ready to find a place to sleep.”

  “That’s wild,” says Cohen, and takes a quick swig from his beer. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to live that way. I’ve been so lucky.”

  “It’s all relative,” shrugs Emerson. “If Jack hadn’t grown up the way he did, seeing the world, he wouldn’t write the songs that he does.”

  I’ve seen two worlds. “That’s a nice way of looking at it,” I smile.

  A shrill female scream from the dance floor next to us reminds me of our female company. The women are dancing in a group, drinking and laughing. Including Jemima. She’s not looking at me.

  “That girl is something else,” says Cohen, quiet enough so only we can hear.

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “The blonde one dancing with Jemima.”

  He’s referring to Stephanie.

  “Well you should be over there dancing with her instead of sitting here, talking to our old carcasses,” says Emerson, who then gives me a wink.

  “Yeah, maybe,” says Cohen, and I sense he’s nervous.

  “Cohen, you’re a drummer in a band. Soon you might be the drummer in a famous band,” I say.

  Cohen smiles. “Yeah, so?”

  “If you survey all women, most of them would pick the drummer over the singer,” I add.

  “No way,” says Cohen, shaking his head.

  “It’s true,” says Emerson. “Drumming is a very sexual activity. Sweat and muscles. Women find it hypnotic. Their rationale is this, ‘if that guy can handle a drum kit like that, imagine how he could handle me’.”

  Cohen just smiles and swigs on his beer. The drugs in my system are messing with me. For some reason I feel compelled to tell Cohen that I’ve slept with Stephanie. But why? Why would I tell him that? It’s not a competition. I manage to contain that piece of information.

  Cohen watches Stephanie as she gyrates against Jemima. Two bright young things. Cohen looks like an innocent as he gazes across at Stephanie, though his pupils are
a little too wide to be mistaken for a saint. But he’s still so young. At least fourteen years my junior. He’s still malleable. Not fully formed. Briefly an adult. Open to influence and void of the emotional soft tissue damage of middle age.

  “Get over there and dance with her,” says Emerson. “You won’t have to vie for her attention.”

  Cohen looks at Emerson, then at me. I just nod. He accepts our encouragement and walks over to her.

  “C’mon,” says Emerson. “Let’s find somewhere a bit more quiet. This music is going to give me an aneurysm.”

  We both retrieve an extra bottle of beer from the fridge seat and head toward the back of the yacht. I give a polite nod to the driver and he nods back. Emerson and I find another white leather bench, but this once faces off the back of the vessel. The lights of Easton are gone. I don’t know how far into the ocean we’re travelling, but the driver shows no intention of dropping anchor.

  “So what do you think you’d be doing professionally, if you weren’t a musician?” I ask Emerson.

  “Not sure,” says Emerson. He pulls a cigarette from a pack in his jeans pocket and lights it, contemplatively. “Probably still doing something with my hands. Hopefully still painting.”

  “Would you ever work an office job?”

  Emerson chuckles. “I’d sooner perish.”

  “But someone has to do those jobs don’t they? The boring shit?”

  “I don’t think so. We didn’t need accountants and solicitors when we were roaming the landscape as primitives. We just shared everything equally. The idea of possession didn’t even exist. Imagine that. Not knowing what it is to own anything. Ownership was not even an idea.”

  I pull a cigarette from my own pocket and light it. “But we have to evolve,” I say, with a shrug. “Otherwise we don’t have an expiry date. We’ll be here forever if we don’t move forward. Towards the end.”

  “That’s grim,” says Emerson.

  “Everything gets bigger and bigger until it’s too heavy.”

  “You know, sometimes I think there’s a chemical in our brains that is an amnesiac. That makes us forget what we are, where we are and where we’re heading. You only remember when you’re reminded of it.”

 

‹ Prev