by T. S. Easton
‘Ben?’ he said.
‘Yes, sorry. What?’
‘I asked how it was that you can knit faster than a machine?’
‘Yes. Sorry?’
‘You’ve said you can knit faster than a knitting machine. I find that incredible and I’d like to hear more about it.’
‘Well, hold on … ’ I started, looking over at Brandi for rescue. But she was immersed in tapping something out on her phone and was no help whatsoever.
‘When I said that … ’ I went on hesitantly. ‘I just meant that in certain circumstances, it might be possible … ’
‘Sounds like you’re back-pedalling a little,’ he said, smiling. ‘Can you beat a machine or not?’
‘It depends on the machine,’ I said. ‘And the garment.’ It was sort of true, I imagined. Some older knitting machines took an age to complete a row. But the new ones could complete a garment like the Hoopie in fifteen minutes. It took me an hour at my absolute best. And that had been a freakish performance, one which I wasn’t sure I could repeat now.
‘It’s just that on the radio this morning you said you could beat a machine,’ he continued, refusing to let it go. ‘So when I heard that I thought maybe you were telling the truth. Because let me tell you, if you can beat the machine, you got a story. I got a story. If you can’t beat a machine, then you’re wasting my time, and yours.’
Honestly, this was like being at school and having Mr Grover quiz me about how much of my essay I’d cribbed from Wikipedia (answer: about 20% and it was only the one time when I’d had an anxiety attack after Lloyd Manning had cut the straps on my school bag). How exactly had it come to the point where I was being grilled by foreign journalists over my knitting prowess?
‘Look, kid, I’m a busy guy,’ the journalist growled. ‘Can you outknit a machine or not?’
I had to set him straight. Nip this in the bud. I didn’t care about the story. I hadn’t expected anyone to be interested in me anyway.
I shook my head. ‘I … ’
‘Yes, he can,’ Brandi suddenly chimed in quickly. ‘He’s just being modest, aren’t you, Ben?’
I gave Brandi a what-are-you-doing? look. She winked at me.
‘I’ve seen a video of him on YouTube,’ she said. ‘I’ll email you the link. His hands are the quickest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s really quite astounding.’
‘Look,’ said the journalist. ‘I’ve been fashion editor of this paper for seventeen years … ’
‘You’re the fashion editor?’ I asked, staring at his braces.
‘I’ve seen knitting machines work,’ the journalist went on, ignoring me. ‘They are seriously quick. Especially the modern ones.’
‘My boy can beat them all,’ Brandi said.
I winced as the journalist nodded and scribbled something down on his notepad.
Brandi took me back to the hotel after that and we popped into Dino’s for a coffee.
‘That was great!’ she said excitedly. ‘Wasn’t that great?’
‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘That man thinks I can knit faster than a machine.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘But you told Craig that you could.’
‘I just said that because he was annoying me.’
‘You shouldn’t let interviewers get under your skin,’ she said. ‘They do it to provoke you into saying something controversial.’
‘You might have been better off telling me that before I did the interview,’ I pointed out.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not as if anyone’s going to check,’ she said.
‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘I don’t like lying.’
‘Really? You’re pretty good at it,’ she said. Denise came and gave us our coffees. This time Denise smiled at me. She looked a bit perkier than she had last night.
‘Did you get some sleep?’ I asked her.
She laughed. ‘I sure did.’
Brandi raised an eyebrow as the waitress walked off.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Quite the ladies’ man, huh?’
‘No, it’s just that last night … ’ I stopped. ‘Oh, whatever, it’s not what you think!’
‘You’re lying again.’
‘No I’m not.’
Brandi took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m just teasing. I think you’re amazing, Ben. I really enjoyed today.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ I said.
Back at the hotel, I walked into my room and my first thought was that we’d been burgled by someone with reverse-OCD. Someone had taken every last item out of Gex’s suitcase and distributed it carefully around the floor so that everything was exactly equidistant from everything else. Even though Gex hadn’t slept in the bed last night the bedclothes were messed up and in a heap at the foot of the bed. There was also an odd smell.
Gex was sitting at the table by the window, sending a text.
‘So the wanderer returns,’ I said. ‘I missed you. Not.’
‘All right, Bellend,’ said Gex, looking up from his phone. ‘Whaddup?’
I shook my head and surveyed the mess again. ‘Has Tracey Emin moved in?’ I asked.
‘Tracey who?’ Gex shrugged. ‘Nah. But we do have a visitor.’
I heard the toilet flush and a strange man appeared at the door to the bathroom.
‘Ben, dis is Keith,’ Gex said. ‘Keith, Ben.’
‘Yo,’ Keith said.
‘Hi … Keith,’ I said, slightly nervous. Keith was a big lad with greasy hair and a huge leather jacket. So he was a gangster?
‘Keith is just his gang name,’ Gex said.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Keith doesn’t sound very … gangy.’
‘It’s a cool name here in the Apple,’ Gex said knowledgeably.
‘Where are Mum and Dad?’ I asked.
‘They went to some place called the Googlehome.’
‘The Guggenheim?’
‘Whatever.’
‘So you the knitting guy?’ Keith asked.
‘Er, yeah,’ I replied. I wasn’t sure I was happy about Gex volunteering all this personal information about me to Jimmy Soprano here.
‘My mom knits,’ Keith volunteered.
‘Er, OK.’
‘I love my mom,’ he said.
‘Good,’ I replied. ‘Me too. I mean, I love my mom. Not your mom. Not that your mom isn’t loveable also.’
Gex started whistling through his teeth, which is Gex speak for ‘shut the hell up’.
‘Hey, I need a coffee,’ Keith said. ‘Let’s go to Starbucks.’
‘Let me go and see if my parents are back first,’ I said.
I wandered down the hall and knocked at their door, but there was no answer. They must have still been at the Guggenheim, or maybe they’d gone out to dinner. This was why it was so frustrating not having my phone. How did people cope in the 80s, before mobile phones? I shudder to think. And I worry about the human race in the event of an extraterrestrial attack. All the Martians would have to do is take out a few phone masts and we’d all forget what we were supposed to be doing and start wandering about aimlessly.
Anyway. Out the three of us went, onto the streets of New York.
For some reason Gex was nearly wetting his pants about going to Starbucks.
‘We have two in Hampton,’ I pointed out. ‘One in the high street and one at Sainsbury’s.’
‘Yeah, but this is Starbucks in NEW YORK!’ he said.
‘It’s the same!’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not. It’s really not.’
The guy taking the orders asked for our names and wrote them on the cup. ‘Dis is Keith, I’m Gex. G-E-X, and this is Bellend. BELLEND,’ Gex said, pointing to me.
‘Thanks, Gex,’ I said. ‘As ever.’
We went and sat down.
‘So you live in Brooklyn?’ I asked Keith cheerfully.
‘Some call it living,’ Keith said darkly. ‘I gotta find me the exit
door, you feel?’
‘You don’t like Brooklyn?’
‘I do not.’
‘You should move,’ I said. ‘I hear Queens is nice.’
He laughed hollowly. ‘If I’m going, it has to be further than goddam Queens. They’d find me there.’
‘Who would find you?’ I asked. Gex was on the edge of his seat, staring at his cousin, mesmerised. There was a faint scent of man-love in the air.
Keith looked around. ‘The boys.’
‘What boys?’ I asked. ‘You mean your gang?’ Gex kicked me. ‘What?’ I asked.
‘Don’t talk about gangs,’ Gex said out of the corner of his mouth.
‘He’s talking about gangs!’ I pointed out. ‘Don’t kick me again.’
Gex glared at me but said nothing.
‘So, you want out of the gang?’ I asked Keith in a hushed tone. Though frankly, everyone in there was talking so loudly on their phones that it didn’t make any difference how loud I talked. I could have screamed that it was time to pop a cap in someone’s ass and no one would have paid any attention.
Keith leaned closer to me. ‘You can’t talk about this stuff,’ he said, eyes narrowed.
‘OK, fair enough,’ I agreed. ‘Maybe, on balance, it would be best if you didn’t tell me anything.’
‘I’m in too deep,’ he said, ignoring my suggestion. ‘I’ve seen stuff.’
‘Tell him about the stuff,’ Gex said eagerly.
‘Actually, I don’t want to know about the stuff,’ I said quickly.
‘Have you ever watched a man,’ Keith growled, ‘having his kneecaps split with a –’
‘BELLEND!’
‘Oh, that’s me,’ I said, standing up.
‘You Bellend?’ a girl at the counter said, holding my coffee.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
‘That’s a cute name,’ she said, smiling.
I looked at her. She seemed totally guileless. Maybe people in the States didn’t know what a bellend was.
‘You really think so?’
‘Sure,’ she said and winked. Was she .… was she flirting? ‘My name’s Heidi.’
‘I love that name,’ I said automatically.
She scribbled something on the cup and handed it to me.
‘Thanks,’ I said again, suddenly panicking. Should I tip a girl who was flirting with me? If so, how much? Come to think of it, was she really flirting with me or are all American girls like this? I thrust my hand into my pocket, pulled out three dollars and dropped it into a box on the counter marked ‘tips’. I hate not knowing the rules.
‘Thank you, Bellend,’ she said, smiling
‘Er, no problem, Heidi.’
‘So there I was,’ Keith was saying as I sat down. ‘I had this guy dangling from the top of the building. Fifteen floors up. He was screaming and begging … ’
‘Who’s Heidi?’ Gex asked me.
‘Eh? I don’t know anyone called Heidi,’ I said.
‘Well, she’s written her phone number on your cup.’
He reached over and turned my cup around. It was true. Heidi had written her name and number on my cup. ‘Which girl was it?’
Gex and Keith immediately stood like meerkats to get a good view. I couldn’t bring myself to look.
‘I bet it’s that great fat bird,’ Gex said. ‘She looks like a Heidi.’
‘Or maybe the one with the zits,’ Keith suggested.
‘Sit down,’ I hissed. ‘Be cool.’
‘Are you gonna call?’ Gex asked, sitting down finally.
‘No of course not!’ I said. ‘I have a girlfriend.’
Gex rolled his eyes. ‘It doesn’t count when you’re overseas.’
‘It doesn’t,’ Keith confirmed. ‘I went to Bermuda once to pick up a package, obviously I couldn’t take my girl. Oh my God, I got up to some stuff there.’
‘What stuff?’ Gex asked, eyes wide.
‘We don’t need to hear about the stuff,’ I said.
‘Anyways, the point is, why take sand to the beach?’ Keith said.
‘Damn,’ I said, suddenly remembering something. ‘We’ve got to find an internet café.’
‘What for?’ Keith asked.
‘I have to call my probation officer.’
He sat back as if stung. ‘You’re on probation? What for, man?’ he asked. ‘What did you do?’
‘He capped a guy,’ Gex said.
‘No shit?’ Keith said, now looking slightly alarmed.
I shook my head. ‘I did not. I injured a lollipop lady, OK?’
There was a short silence, in which Gex looked at the floor and Keith picked his teeth with a cocktail stick, looking utterly bemused.
‘Is that, like, code for something, huh?’ he whispered.
‘No. A lollipop lady is a woman who helps small children cross the road,’ I said. ‘It’s a British tradition. A man can do it too. Whoever does it wears a white coat and is generally close to drawing their pension.’
‘Whoah,’ said Keith, as though I had just spoken Martian. ‘That’s … well, that’s … ’
‘Pathetic?’ suggested Gex.
‘It didn’t seem pathetic to the magistrate,’ I told Keith. I finished my drink. ‘Now if we’re done discussing petty crime, I have some skyping that needs doing.’
‘Good Lord, Ben. Are you trying to get me fired or something?’
‘Sorry, Ms Gunter,’ I said quietly. I didn’t want Keith to hear me grovelling. They were over on the other side of the café, checking their Minecraft worlds.
‘Do you know what time it is here?’ she asked.
‘Eveningish?’ I suggested.
‘It’s 8.34pm,’ she said.
‘You’re not in your nightie yet, at least,’ I pointed out.
‘I was having dinner,’ she snapped.
‘Yes. In fact, you have a little bit of spinach between your teeth,’ I said, trying to be helpful.
‘You promised,’ she said. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t do this again.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I still don’t have my phone and it’s been a really crazy day.’
She just glared.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you just after breakfast.’
‘Good,’ she said.
‘If there’s time.’
‘Ben!’
‘Brandi comes for me really early,’ I explained. ‘We have more interviews tomorrow.’
‘Call me!’ she said.
‘That’s what all the girls say,’ I said, trying to make a joke out of it.
The screen went blank. She’d hung up.
I still had some time, so I called Megan. I wasn’t expecting her to answer, but then the screen flickered and the connecting icon came up.
‘Hey, gorgeous,’ I said as the screen flicked into life.
A dishevelled-looking kid wearing a Despicable Me T-shirt loomed into view.
It was Marcus, Megan’s little brother.
‘Oh, hi, Marcus. Is Megan around?’
‘No, she left a while ago,’ he said. I like Marcus, he’s not a sneak, and doesn’t call me Bellend and try to trip me up outside Boots, like others of his age and gender are prone to doing.
‘On Monday? Where’s she going on a Monday?’ I asked.
‘Dunno, she went with Sean.’
My blood ran cold.
‘Sean?’
‘Yeah. Sean. I like Sean. He’s cool.’
‘Marcus,’ I said quietly. ‘Sean is NOT cool. Do you understand?’
Marcus blinked. ‘Why not?’
‘Because Sean wants to be Megan’s boyfriend.’
‘But you’re Megan’s boyfriend.’
‘Exactly!’
‘But then again, you’re in another country,’ Marcus pointed out.
‘That doesn’t mean anything!’ I snapped. ‘Why does everyone think it matters what country you’re in?’
‘OK, relax, dude.’
‘Look, I need you to keep
an eye on her and … and, Sean,’ I said. ‘Tell me if she goes out with him again, OK?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, toying with me.
‘I’ll bring you back a … what do you want from New York?’
‘A baseball cap.’
‘Mets or Yankees?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘OK, you got it. Deal, Marcus?’ I said.
‘Sure,’ he said.
I turned off the monitor and sat back in my chair, my stomach churning. How could she do this to me? was my first thought. But then I told myself that it could be a misunderstanding. I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion once before about Megan and Sean. But what could they be doing out together at 8.45pm on a school night?
* * *
Gex and I parted company with Keith, who said he had some ‘business to take care of’ in the Bronx. When we got back to the hotel I checked hopefully at reception to see if my bag had turned up.
‘Sorry, Ben, it hasn’t,’ Jasmine told me. ‘Once it comes, you’ll be the first to know, OK?’
There was, however, a parcel waiting for me. I opened it in the room; there was a note from Brandi.
Hi Ben, This is my old phone, it has some credit left. Thought you could use this while you’re waiting for your luggage. My number is on Speed Dial 1! Call me any time.
Brandi
‘Where did you get that from? Gex asked as I pulled out last year’s BlackBerry.
‘Brandi sent it,’ I said.
‘My days, Bellend, the ladies is all over you,’ Gex said. ‘Can I have your sloppy seconds, innit?’
‘Don’t be disgusting,’ I said. ‘She’s my PR agent. She needs to be in contact with me for business reasons.’
‘She’d like to do the business wiv you,’ he said.
‘Stay out of there!’ I yelled as he opened the minibar. ‘I’ve counted everything in that minibar and if there’s anything missing when we check out, I’m making you pay for it.’
‘Good luck with that,’ he said. ‘I ain’t got no money. Oh man, I want to try a thirteen-dollar beer. That’s got to be good.’
‘It’s not expensive because of the quality,’ I told him. ‘It’s just normal beer with a huge mark-up.’
‘Come on, Ben,’ he said. ‘We’re in New York, like in the song.’