Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  “What the fuck is this?” scowls Amelia.

  “A crowd?” I say from beneath my large hat.

  “Not in the mood, Jack,” she snaps.

  “We’re not going to be able to get through,” says the driver.

  Our cart rolls to a halt, adjacent to a row of clothing stalls. One of them appears to be selling crazy outfits. Hats, costumes and masks.

  “Radio someone and tell them to move that medic truck. Now!” fires Amelia.

  The driver attempts to respond, but stops himself. I speak for him.

  “They’re busy saving someone from death,” I say. “Let’s just chill here.”

  “Chill?” says Amelia. “If someone figures out who you are, you’ll be the next one in that medic van.”

  “We could drive over to the VIP area and Jack could cut through there,” suggests the security guard in the passenger seat.

  “How far is that?” asks Amelia.

  “Just over there,” points the guard, directing his arm at a pavilion that rises behind a security fence about one hundred metres away. It’s next to the main stage.

  “I’m not walking through the fucking VIP area,” I say. “I’d rather take my chances out here.”

  “What?” asks Amelia. “Why?”

  “Why?” I ask. “You know what I think about the people in the VIP area.”

  “You only have to dart through there to the artist area. It’ll take ten seconds.”

  “That’s long enough for their scummy wannabe aura to pollute me,” I reply.

  “There’ll be no one in there!” yells Amelia.

  “There will,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want to wade through that scum.”

  “Those scum are the people that help release your albums. They are the music industry,” says Amelia, with her snide tone.

  “The music industry?” I gasp. “Really? Are you sure they’re not the second cousins of the festival promoters? Brothers and sisters of someone that knows someone that works for one of the alcohol sponsors? I think you’ll find they’re the tarty girlfriends of the shitty little DJs that nobody came to see, yet feel the need to swagger about and dangle their lanyards. You know who sits in the VIP area all day? A bunch of cunts and their plus ones.”

  “You’ve clearly taken something,” says Amelia, using her condescending maternal lilt. “I’m not going to argue with you, dear.”

  “If I walk through the VIP area right now, I can guarantee you that everyone I see will still be there ten hours later and won’t leave to see a fucking band all day long. They’re not here to enjoy music. They’re here to vicariously bask in the light of talented songwriters. They offer nothing to anyone. If I walk through the VIP area, they’ll tell all their friends back home that they saw Jack. ‘Oh yeah, Jack was hanging out right next to me. He’s much shorter in person.’ They make me physically ill, and that’s really saying something. Don’t even get me started on the D-grade celebrities.”

  “I agree,” says the driver, politely. “I worked on the VIP entry last night and I found them to be very rude.”

  “I’m sorry, did I ask you to offer an opinion?” barks Amelia at the guard.

  “Kind of like that?” I ask the driver with a smile, nodding toward Amelia.

  “Look,” says Amelia, struggling to contain her frustration. “Jack, I’m not saying I disagree with you. But could you please fucking cooperate?”

  “Fine,” I say, with a sigh. “But first I’m going over to that costume stall. It looks interesting.”

  Amelia grabs my arm. “You’re not leaving this cart.”

  “Then drive the cart to the stall,” I shrug.

  After I make a purchase, the guard turns the cart right and drives us across the expanse of grass in front of the main stage, which is basically empty, and towards the VIP tent. When we arrive at the entry gate, which is around a metre and a half wide, the two guards on the back of the cart jump off. So does Amelia.

  “Lead on driver,” I say through the mouth slit in my mask. The rubbery and ghoulish headwear looks like a demonic cat, black and orange. Whiskers protrude from its wide, grinning jaw and beneath its crazed eyes.

  “Jack, you look ridiculous. Please get off the cart,” sighs Amelia.

  “Driver,” I say, extending a straightened arm like a Roman general on the back of his chariot. “Roll forth.”

  “Uh,” the driver says to me, “I can’t take the cart any further.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jack, please get off the cart. We’re creating a scene,” hisses Amelia, like a frustrated parent.

  “Driver,” I say again, now leaning in close to him. “Put your foot on that there pedal and roll me through the VIP tent.”

  “It should fit through the far exit,” shrugs one of the security guards.

  “Excuse me,” snaps Amelia. “I didn’t ask for your input.”

  “Driver!” I roar. “Let’s get this puppy moving!”

  Amelia shakes her head in defeat and follows us as the driver rolls the cart forward.

  The VIP bar is nearly empty. It’s only early. The area is a large pavilion with lounges in the corners, too many potted plants, faux green grass on the floor, a long bar at one end with the same over-priced drinks as everywhere else in the festival, a DJ booth against one wall and many stools and round, elevated drinking tables. A DJ with minimal talent plays minimal beats.

  The great irony about this place is that every regular punter would love to sneak in here, but it’s so boring. The fun is out there where the bands are playing. This tent is coveted by those that can’t come in. Conceptually, it’s as if entry here is confirmation that you’re better than everyone else. Its exclusivity seduces. This tent is the great masquerade ball and everything outside is a servant’s quarters. It is the illusion of class separation. It brings out the pathetic side of those that enter, as if the prism of personal insecurity catches the sun and exposes every foible.

  The few people in here, backstage lanyards draped from their necks, turn to look at me. But they have no idea that it’s Jack being wheeled by. I slump down in my seat, breathing through the tiny holes in the tiger’s snout. I snarl inside and out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I decide to return to the newspaper’s building. While the homeless shelters are warm and provide food, I don’t feel comfortable taking the acoustic guitar there. I won’t be keeping a low profile if I’m strumming and singing in front of everyone.

  I feel a little conspicuous as I leave the park and cross the city, carrying the instrument by its neck. No guitar case but it’s in good condition. A few preliminary notes suggest it’s very out of tune.

  It’s still early in the morning. The roads are filling up, as are the sidewalks. Life emerges into the light of the two suns as they rise in their parallel arc through the sky. I try to take back-alleys and smaller roads, but I sometimes pass people, in their work attire, who look down at the guitar and then smile at me. I haven’t experienced that here. I don’t feel as invisible.

  I arrive at the building of the Easton Advocate and walk up the side lane. I relocate the swipe card, which I’ve hidden in a crevice in the brickwork opposite the door, and let myself inside. I’m greeted by the building’s familiar musty aroma. I walk quietly through the first office and into the hallway. I listen, but I can’t hear anything. The building stands empty. I walk upstairs to the small kitchen that’s off the side of the library. I carry a chair inside, close the door behind me and then sit with the acoustic on my lap and tune it.

  I lay the guitar on its back and inspect it properly, running my fingers along the joins of the body, admiring the quality of the craftsmanship. Its beautiful sameness to a guitar from Earth is mesmerising. The neck, the tuning pegs, the shape of the body and its hollow interior, even the sound of the notes and its nylon strings. Its soft lacquered finish. It’s a handmade piece of wonderment. How can this thing exist? How can it possibly have evolved on more than one planet? Perhaps th
is is infinity at work. Infinite guitars on infinite planets. Infinite music channelled by infinite songwriters. A guitar is an entity. A thread in the fabric of existence.

  I turn the guitar back on to its side and arrange my fingers into a chord. The fingernails on my right hand have grown quite long, so I use my thumb as a plectrum. I play a song I’ve strummed to myself thousands of times and the arrangement instantly returns to me. I sing the opening lyrics of ‘Old Man’ to myself, enjoying the acoustics in the small kitchenette. I finish the song and then play ‘Pink Bullets’ by The Shins. I’m surprised when I realise I remember all the words. My voice and the guitar echo around the tiled walls and a chill ripples through my body. I then play ‘Now That You’re Gone’ by Ryan Adams and ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ by Radiohead. Again, the music and the words, with little effort, reappear in the air around me. A pair of familiar arms. A telegram from home, read by a soldier in the cold slime of a trench. Just a candle, a spark in a window at night. A reminder of Earth. A reminder that it’s still out there, spinning in space.

  We’re not often granted the opportunity to fully acknowledge the last time we ever see something. So often you look back on a moment and realise that it was the very last time your eyesight would see that person or place. That they would be gone from you forever. When I left Earth, I told everyone that I would return. Everything was planned down to the letter. I promised I’d be back. I guaranteed it to everyone. I was incredibly convincing. But I never told anyone that when I left Earth that day, I told myself I would never return. I spared myself the whimsy of false hope.

  Here I sit, alone, stranded in an ocean of faceless strangers. Just bobbing on the tide and watching it all roll by. Familiar. Frustratingly similar. And the title of this planet. What they call it. Heaven. That’s a sick joke. This could so easily be Hell. Maybe that’s what hell is? You live your life but you’re alone and invisible. Everything is the same except there’s no human contact. No acknowledgment.

  I strum at the chords of Metallica’s ‘Mama Said’ for a few minutes and then stand up, placing the guitar on the seat. Deciding to digest some more of the texts in the library, I open the kitchenette door and turn to my right, crossing the room to the rows of book shelves.

  The weak sunslight creeping into the room through the crusted windows catches a shape in the far corner of my left eye. I emit a small, strangled gasp as I spin around and look at the man. He jumps too. This surprise guest is wearing a one-piece orange work uniform. Like a workman’s overalls. Long sleeves and arms. A small white facemask is hanging below his chin. He’s very tan, has stubble on his chin and a ponytail. In his hand is a long, metal device that’s hooked up to a tank of fluid hanging from his shoulders like a backpack.

  “Hey, sorry to scare you,” he says, raising his spare hand in apology. “Are you an ex-employee or something?”

  “Uh, no, not quite. A friend of mine worked here.”

  “Oh, ok. Was that you playing in there?”

  “Yes. I was just… playing with… some songs.”

  “Man, you are really good,” smiles the stranger.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you just come here to practice or something?”

  “Yes, sometimes. It’s quiet.”

  “For sure. It’s a nice old building. Still in good repair.”

  “I like it.”

  “So did you write those songs you were playing? I didn’t recognise them.”

  I try to think on my feet. Only one answer seems possible to maintain. “Uh, yeah.”

  “That’s really impressive. I play music a little bit. I’ve got a friend that was in a famous band. Have you heard of The Blissfully Unaware?”

  “No… I’m sorry,” I say, pretending to think.

  “Their song is on the radio a lot.”

  “I’m sure I’ve probably heard of them.”

  The man approaches me. “I’m Roy.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m… Jack.”

  Roy laughs. “Sounds like you almost forgot your own name.”

  “Almost. That’s the key word.”

  Roy laughs again. “I’m sorry, I’d shake your hand, but my gloves have a fair bit of poison on them. Can’t be too careful.”

  “Poison?”

  “Yeah, they’ve got me going through these old buildings looking for arachnids. You’ve probably heard about the numbers they’re finding in the city. It’s on the news. People are alarmed, as you can imagine.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “They look for places to breed away from people, so they can get really big. Then they go out and hunt.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You haven’t seen any nests, have you? We’ve been finding a few around here.”

  “Nests? Uh, no. Not that I can think of. What do they look like?”

  “Giant clusters of webs with little white balls in them. Eggs. The arachnid hides under the web, so you can’t see it.”

  “I see. Well, no, I can’t say I’ve seen anything like that in here. But I’m not here that often.”

  “You would know if you saw one,” says Roy. “The webs can take up an entire room. Nests.”

  “Wow, well, yeah. I would probably have noticed that.”

  “Have you been in every room here?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I better keep looking then,” says Roy. He lifts the metal rod in his hand in a salute.

  “What does that thing do?”

  “This?” he asks, keeping the rod in the air. “It’s what we use to flush them out. It heats to two hundred degrees and jets a shot of poison, which turns into a vapour as it passes up the nozzle. If one of them comes at you, one shot can kill ‘em instantly. The heat of the rod slices them up quick too, in case you miss them with the first spray. They’re pretty fast.”

  “Seems like a pretty dangerous thing to do on your own.”

  “It’s just safer,” he shrugs. “More than one pest controller in a room together and you can hurt each other if things get crazy. Poison and metal rods flying around. It can get hectic.”

  “No doubt.”

  Roy smiles. “Listen, you really should talk to my friend. In the band. He’s been looking for new people to write with.”

  “Well, I’m not very serious about it. I was just… you know… I don’t take it seriously.”

  “You should! Those songs were really strong. Really grand,” says Roy, nodding. “Are you hanging around here for a while? I’ve got his number in my phone. When I finish up here I can give it to you. Or you could give me your number?”

  “I’m… between phone numbers right now. I’ve been having problems with… my… phone,” I say.

  Roy huffs. “Tell me about it. My provider is constantly fucking me around.”

  “Well, I’ll be here,” I say.

  “Great,” says Roy. “Pleasure.”

  “Pleasure,” I reply.

  Roy turns and walks away. Our discussion prompts me to check something. I head back into the kitchenette and look under the sink, where I’ve hidden my pack. I find the small transmitter I brought with me. No signals received.

  I sit next to one of the library’s shelves and read a textbook on music. It seems aimed at teenagers, but is quite comprehensive. The rise and fall in popularity of certain genres is similar to Earth. But, interestingly, electronic music has been around a long time. Computing and sampling have been here for hundreds of years. Orchestras appear to have existed, but rarely perform anymore. There was also a strong prevalence of these parochial-looking gypsy-jazz groups. Acoustic guitars, violins, percussion and long, clarinet-like instruments called clarizzos.

  My interest peaks when I reach the chapter on public performance and the history of live music. One sentence reads, “Many songwriters now make their fortunes performing their own songs in cities, often in busy esplanades or public gardens.” Their fortunes? How much money are people giving to buskers on this planet? I can’t say I’ve seen any in my
travels thus far, but I have been avoiding the major central business districts. I’m tired of foraging from garbage bins. Leftovers are great, but only if they’re your own.

  Thinking of leftovers makes me remember the album Leftoverture by Kansas. Which in turn makes me remember their song ‘Dust In The Wind’. I put the music textbook back on the shelf and return to the kitchenette and close the door behind me. Sitting the guitar on my lap and plucking away, I find that I remember how to play ‘Dust In The Wind’ and after a few false starts, the lyrics also return.

  I then attempt ‘John Wayne Gacy Jr’ by Sufjan Stevens and, having listened to it hundreds of times over the years, I find that I can still play it. I remember the words, the song’s haunting sparseness and ghostly chill marked indelibly on my memory.

  I fiddle with the guitar for another ten minutes before I’m interrupted by a knock at the kitchenette door. I freeze for a second and then gently put the guitar down. I open the door. Roy is standing there, grinning. He’s holding something in his left hand that looks like a long, limp tree branch. There’s a putrid lime-yellow substance sprayed across the chest of his protective outfit.

  “Look at this sucker,” says Roy, holding up the long object.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A leg,” he smiles.

  The leg is at least a metre long. He can’t be serious. “Seriously?”

  “Yes!” says Roy. “I think you may have an infestation down in the basement. You’re lucky you haven’t bumped into one of these things while you’ve been in here.”

  “So that is a leg?” I ask again, pointing at the thick, furry spindle that Roy brandishes. “How big are these things, Roy?”

  “They’re… big,” he shrugs. “You’ve probably only seen them in zoos, but they grow bigger in the wild.”

  “So that’s… obviously a fully grown one then?” I ask.

  “Well…” says Roy, inspecting the leg. “It could get bigger. It’s definitely breeding age.”

  “Where’s the rest of it?”