An English Boy in New York

by T. S. Easton

  ‘What did your neighbours say?’

  ‘They didn’t mind, because we planned ahead and invited them too.’

  ‘You invited Mrs Gupta?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did she come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Point is, she was invited,’ he said.

  ‘Also, I heard from Joz there was puke everywhere.’

  Gex shrugged. ‘That was no problem. I just let the Staffies in the next morning and they licked it all up.’

  ‘OK. I take it back, Pippa Middleton,’ I said once I’d stopped retching. ‘You are the host with the most.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was the TV licensing people.

  ‘You guys again!’ Gex said.

  ‘We still haven’t received your licence fee,’ the man said. ‘We know you have a telly.’

  ‘Yeah, we got a telly,’ Gex said. ‘But like I told you, it don’t work, innit.’

  ‘Can you prove that, sir?’

  ‘Not personally,’ Gex said. ‘But, tell you what. If you can make the telly work. I’ll give you the cash.’

  So the man came in and discovered that Gex was telling the truth. His telly hasn’t worked for ages. The man went back out to his van and came back with his toolkit. We carried on chatting while the man took the back off Gex’s telly. It’s the largest telly I’ve ever seen and completely obscures the window in Gex’s front room. Gex’s dad bought it off a Polish truck driver, who said it came from Russia. It worked for a couple of weeks, giving off a bit of blue smoke, and then it stopped.

  ‘Do you wanna come to Wicked wiv me and Joz and Freddie on Saturday?’ Gex asked me.

  ‘No, I’ll be in New York on Saturday.’

  ‘In Basingstoke?’

  ‘What? No. Not New York Nite Club! I mean the real New York. In America.’

  His mouth dropped. ‘Sick, man. Like with gangs and drugs and drive-by shootings?’

  ‘Well, I think they’ve cleaned up most of the crime problem … ’

  ‘Like in The Wire?’

  ‘That was Baltimore. I’ll be in New York.’

  ‘Like The Sopranos?’

  ‘That was New Jersey, I’ll be in Manhattan.’

  ‘Like in Gangs of New York?’

  ‘Um, or maybe like a less violent film set in Manhattan?’

  ‘Like what – Kick Ass?’ Gex suggested.

  ‘More like Maid in Manhattan,’ I said wearily.

  ‘You watch way too many chick flicks, dude,’ Gex said.

  ‘How many is too many?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Look, do you want to come or not? I asked, a bit narked.

  Gex stood and held out a grimy hand which I took, not entirely without hesitation.

  ‘I’m there, blud,’ he said.

  ‘Awesome.’ I tried to feel happy that I’d finally found someone to take to New York.

  I tried really hard.

  Sunday 5th May

  8.11am

  I emailed Ms Tyler this morning to let her know I’d asked Gex to come with me to New York and would it be all right if he missed a week of school. I remembered she’d told me there had to be a beneficial reason for the student to attend and I couldn’t think of one, so was a bit worried she might say no. But as it happens she replied very quickly with a yes. Perhaps she was thinking Gex’s absence might be beneficial to the rest of the school.

  Tuesday 7th May

  6.57pm

  So Ms Gunter phoned this evening.’You owe me,’ she said, sounding a bit grumpy.

  ‘You’ve sorted it?’

  ‘I’ve sorted it. I’ve arranged for a temporary relaxation on your travel ban on the proviso that you place a Skype call to me, personally, once every twenty-four hours while you are away.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘This is a huge relief for Ben,’ Dermot O’Leary said. ‘Failure to get Home Office approval would have been a major setback.’ Dermot does like to state the bleeding obvious.

  ‘Ben,’ she went on. ‘I had to use a lot of professional credit to arrange this. If you screw up, even once, then I am going to be in big trouble. I will probably be shuffled out of my job and end up working in the ASBO team, or in a maximum-security prison, or even worse, I could end up working in the Home Secretary’s office.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the Home Secretary’s office?’

  ‘My ex-husband works there.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d been married!’

  ‘Look, this isn’t about me,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ I said confidently. ‘When have I ever let you down?’

  ‘You need to call every day, Ben,’ she repeated. ‘They will be monitoring.’

  ‘Like Enemy of the State?’ I said, impressed.

  ‘And it needs to be a Skype call, with video. It may be recorded. You can’t call from a payphone outside a strip club at four in the morning. Nor do I want to be called in the middle of the night,’ she said. ‘New York is four hours ahead. You need to call me by midnight US time, but that is 4am here. So you need to be calling me by 2pm every day. That way you’ll be calling me by 6pm UK time. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, scribbling this down. ‘I’ll put it in my phone, AND my diary.’

  ‘Ben,’ Ms Gunter said. ‘I’m doing this as a favour to you. Because you helped me out of a sticky spot earlier this year when you won the knitting thing.’

  ‘Thanks, Ms Gunter,’ I said. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘OK, but after this, we’re square.’

  Sheesh, I thought as I put the phone down, trying to quell the shiver of anxiety that ran through me. All I have to do is skype the woman every day.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Wednesday 8th May

  7.12pm

  I’ve invested in a new phone. If I’m going to be doing all this skyping I need a big screen and a powerful battery. I’ve gone for the SBC Stiletto. Very thin and murderous. I’m not normally a big gadget freak but I do love this phone. It has some pretty cool games on it too. I’ve also discovered a knitting app which is amazing. You can use 3D graphics to design your own virtual garments and mess about with the colours, the weaves, the wool thickness and so on. It is totes.

  I gave my old phone to Mrs Frensham, as she is the only person I know who doesn’t have a smartphone. I tried to explain pay-as-you-go to her but I don’t think she got it.

  Gex came over today to discuss the trip. He also reported that the TV licensing man had managed to fix the giant telly.

  ‘So did you pay the licence fee?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, we don’t have to cos of Gramps living with us.’

  ‘That can’t have gone down well,’ I said. ‘That guy was working on that telly for ages.’

  ‘He was cool about it.’ Gex shrugged. ‘I made him a cheese toastie.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how that would compensate,’ I said.

  Gex was looking very chipper. Dare I say, almost excited?

  ‘You looking forward to taking a bite out of the Big Apple?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh yeah, man,’ he said. ‘Those New York girls are going to go mental for us.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The thing about American girls, right,’ he said, coming closer to me and speaking in a low voice, ‘is that they love our English accents, innit?’

  ‘You don’t really have an English accent though,’ I pointed out. ‘You have a sort of Jamaican–Pakistani thing going on most of the time.’

  ‘I can do English,’ he said, sniffing.

  ‘You mean, that accent you do that sounds like the Queen in drag?’ I said. ‘Best not to try too hard, mate. You know, don’t overdo it.’

  Nothing it seemed was going to dampen Gex’s spirits today, though.

  ‘Hey, I have a second cousin in Bro
oklyn!’ he said. ‘I’m going to go and visit him.’

  ‘You have an American relative?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad’s sister’s kid, innit.’

  ‘So this guy in Brooklyn is your father’s sister’s son?’

  Gex nodded.

  ‘So, he’s actually your cousin. Not your second cousin. Your second cousin would be your –’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Gex looked impatient now. ‘Don’t go off on one, you’re harshing my vibe, blud.’

  ‘OK. Anyway … I’ll probably be busy for a day or two with PR stuff, so that would be a good opportunity for you to catch up with your family.’

  Gex grinned. ‘He has a “Family” all right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s in a gang, innit.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Everyone in the family knows.’

  ‘You mean the family, or the Family?’

  ‘The FAMILY,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Capiche?’

  I regarded him dubiously. ‘Gex, maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to get involved with organised crime.’

  ‘I can handle myself,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m still on probation, remember,’ I said. ‘Ms Gunter had to pull a lot of strings to get me permission to go. You can’t screw up, you’ll bring me down as well.’

  ‘Look, man, be cool. I’m not going to get involved. It takes years to get accepted into a gang, anyways.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘And you have to cap three people before they let you in.’

  ‘And we’re only there a week,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Though, a lot can happen in a week.’ Gex nodded sagely. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Gex,’ I said despairingly, ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  Thursday 9th May

  7.38pm

  So I saw Megan at college today, in the common room, for the last time before I leave for New York. It didn’t go quite as I’d anticipated. Megan seemed disappointingly cheerful.

  ‘You’re going to have such a great time,’ she said. ‘I’m so jealous.’

  ‘Well, you could have come,’ I reminded her. ‘I’d rather be sat next to you than Gex.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘But you know why I couldn’t come.’

  I wasn’t sure I did, really.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ I said.

  ‘It’s only a week.’

  ‘So you won’t miss me?’

  ‘Of course. But we can skype?’

  I nodded. Another person to remember to skype.

  ‘Central Park should be pretty this time of year,’ Megan went on brightly.

  ‘Goodbye, Megan,’ I said.

  ‘Why are you saying goodbye?’ she asked. ‘We’re going to the same class.’

  I’d forgotten that.

  ‘Yes but … I have to go to the toilet,’ I said.

  ‘OK, knock yourself out,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

  I could have handled that better.

  Friday 10th May

  10.34pm

  My anxiety/mild OCD issues have kicked in big time. Can’t sleep, so I did a dummy pack, made a list, unpacked in order to check everything off against the said list, then repacked. I keep getting up and staring at my luggage – and wondering if I’ve missed anything …

  This is proper girl behaviour. It has to stop.

  The other thing I am worrying about is obviously Gex. Not just because he is Gex, and that means all manner of ill-advised, uncouth and possibly illegal scenarios could happen over the next week, but because he is pathologically unreliable and I have had to resort to devious lies to ensure he gets on the same plane as me.

  Normally, the advice is to get to the airport two hours before your flight leaves, which seems to me to be cutting it awfully fine. What if the coach is delayed? What if your watch battery runs out? What if Gex tries to smuggle his replica water pistol onto the plane and anti-terror police pump bullets into his brain? I want to get there three hours before the plane leaves. At least then I’ll have time to wash Gex’s brain matter off my Converse before boarding.

  So, this is where the devious plan kicks in. As Gex is never on time for anything and I’m predicting he will resist strongly if I try to get him to the airport three hours before the flight is due to leave, I’ve told him the plane leaves TWO hours before it actually does. That way even if he’s an hour late we’ll still get there when I want to get there.

  Genius. What could possibly go wrong?

  Mum and Dad are dropping my sister at Auntie Angela’s, who lives close to Heathrow, so they’ll take a cab. I’m glad I’m not travelling to the airport with them. If I know my parents they’ll be late and hold everyone up. They are on the same flight as us but in (snort) economy.

  My packing earlier was interrupted by a call from Mr McGavin, rather surprisingly.

  ‘Is that ticket still going for New York?’ he asked.

  ‘Er, no,’ I said.

  ‘Just kidding,’ he said. ‘I actually was phoning to ask if you could knit me one of those Hampton scarves. I’ll pay of course.’

  ‘I’d like to,’ I said slowly. ‘It’s just Dad likes the fact that his is the only one … ’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ben,’ Mr McGavin said. ‘No one’s a bigger Hampton FC fan than me.’

  ‘Can I get back to you?’ I asked. ‘I’m off to New York tomorrow and have a lot to do.’

  ‘Take your time, Ben,’ Mr McGavin said. ‘I’d really love one of those scarves, but I understand if you can’t.’

  I don’t like turning down work, I thought as I put down the phone, but Dad had been so delighted by the scarf. It was unique, and there’s something wonderful about unique. I’d have to give it some thought.

  Have I mentioned that I think I’m allergic to the colour cerise? I’ve tried to knit using cerise-coloured wool twice and each time I’ve ended up with a blinding headache and red blotches on my fingers. I’m going to have to google this. It’s a shame, because I like the colour cerise and there’s a lovely pattern which cries out for such a warm tone in the latest issue of Knit! magazine.

  Maybe antihistamines might help.

  Saturday 11th May

  8.14pm

  Megan further undermined the dramatic goodbye scene by popping around earlier to wish me bon voyage. She gave me some Union Jack boxer shorts and a kiss and told me to watch out for American girls who have great teeth but are often emotionally unstable.

  Is that a hint of jealousy I detect in her?

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well. It’s just you’re not always the best at dealing with … stress.’

  ‘Stress? I’m going on holiday.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. It was as if she wanted to say something else but was holding back.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, though,’ I said, ‘I am a bit worried that I don’t know how much to tip anyone. What if I get it wrong?’

  ‘Try not to worry about it.’

  ‘For example,’ I said. ‘If you stop someone on the street and ask for directions, do you tip them?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about the hotel receptionist?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘That’s the thing!’ I cried. ‘There are no rules. I looked this up on the internet and everyone says something different. You’re supposed to tip taxi drivers, but not if they take you on a roundabout route. How will I know? I don’t know the routes.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll figure it out,’ she sighed.

  ‘I wish you were coming,’ I said. She frowned and for the briefest moment I thought I saw her lip quiver slightly. But then she was just normal old Megan, all bustly and down-to-earth.

  ‘It’s not the right time,’ she said. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But I
don’t think I really do know what she means. Is she talking about her gran being sick? Or does she mean it’s not the right time in our fledgling relationship? After all, we haven’t actually taken a proper ‘transatlantic flight’ yet, as Mum might have put it. A few jaunts in a single-engined plane, yes. One quick helicopter flight to the Isle of Wight one night at her place when her parents were out, maybe. But that was all. It’s a long way to New York.

  Ben’s Note: For Future Historians and Interested Parties at West Meon Probation Services. Since returning to the UK I have re-written and expanded on all diary entries I made while in New York or while travelling there and back. Though I made frequent diary entries I often found myself without the time to do justice to what was one of the most extraordinary weeks of my life. I tended to scribble notes and made a few voice memos and recordings which I have added to the narrative along with newspaper cuttings. I have not changed the order of anything, though some names may have been changed and I may have slightly altered my own dialogue to better reflect what I meant to say rather than what I managed to stammer out. Please note that I have not exaggerated Brandi DeLacourt in any way, shape or form. She really is like that.

  Sunday 12th May

  Time unknown

  We’re on the plane. We’ve been flying for about two hours now, and I can’t pretend our journey has been entirely smooth so far. The coach journey from Woking was OK, though we really crawled along. I kept checking my watch, worried about the time. Luckily, Gex slept most of the way, he’s not used to getting up before midday. He woke just as we were nearing Heathrow and needed to go to the loo.

  ‘Hold it in,’ I said. ‘We’re nearly there.’ The last thing I needed was for him to get stuck in the toilet on the coach and make us miss the flight.

  ‘I can’t hold it in. ‘I’ve got IDS.’

  ‘Iain Duncan Smith?

  Gex looked at me, baffled.

  ‘The Pensions Minister?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘The fing where you have to keep going to the loo.’

  ‘You mean IBS, irritable bowel syndrome?’