by T. S. Easton
‘OK, Ben,’ Megan said cheerily. ‘Thanks for calling.’
‘Speak soon, miss you,’ I said quickly, fighting Gex off at the same time. I hung up.
‘What are you doing?’ Trey asked. ‘Call her back. Why didn’t you ask about Sean?’
I shrugged. ‘It just seemed like everything was OK. I didn’t want to start a fight.’
‘I don’t get you English,’ Trey said. ‘You never want to start a fight.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said defensively. ‘We’ve started loads of fights.’
‘Yeah, but I’m saying YOU need to start a fight.’
‘That’s not me,’ I said. ‘I’m more of a drawn-out cold war kind of guy. I have a spy.’
‘You know what I think?’ Gex said slowly.
‘Go on,’ I said guardedly.
‘I think Megan sounded a little too happy.’
‘Yeah? Well, maybe she was happy that I called?’
‘Maybe,’ Gex said, eyeing me coolly. ‘Or maybe she’s hiding something.’
‘Nah,’ I said confidently.
But now I can’t stop thinking about what he said. For a girl who’s supposed to be worried about her family, she did seem very smiley.
The sooner I touch base with Marcus the better.
On the way back over the road to the hotel, Gex and Keith in tow, I spotted my homeless guy again. He saw us and ran in our direction.
‘Homeless guy,’ Gex yelled. ‘Run!’ We sprinted into the hotel lobby just in time. As I stopped to get my breath back, the BlackBerry buzzed.
Call me. I’m sorry. G.
Maybe it was Brandi’s boyfriend or something. I frowned. I had to too much to think about to analyse who the mysterious G was right now.
Up in the room I skyped Ms Gunter. She was eating a Wagon Wheel and looking much more cheerful.
‘Hello, Ben, how are things?’
‘Fine thanks.’
‘No more trouble from immigration?’
‘Funny,’ I said. ‘But I’m not ready to laugh about that just yet.’
‘Fair enough.’ She took a large bite of her Wagon Wheel. ‘How are your parents?’
‘They’re fine. Dad still seems to be struggling with jet lag. Mum told me that yesterday he walked into a glass door at Macy’s. Then he got into an altercation with a busker but refuses to tell me exactly what happened there.’
‘And your friend?’
‘Gex? He is spending a lot of time with his cousin. Who I think is a bad influence.’
‘Be careful, Ben,’ Ms Gunter said. ‘If this cousin is trouble, then you need to keep well clear.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said calmly, though I was already worrying about spending the evening with Gex and Keith later. I should probably hole up in my hotel room with a film or something. Stay out of trouble. But someone needs to keep an eye on Gex and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. From an entirely selfish point of view, it wouldn’t look good on my probation report to be a known associate of the infamous Gex the Strangler.
2.09pm
I met Brandi for lunch in Dino’s. She’d called to say she had something exciting to show me. When she walked into the diner, carrying a towering pile of newspapers and magazines, she was smiling so much her face was like a lighthouse, her teeth like shining searchlights.
‘Take a look, Ben. Take a look,’ she said, dropping the pile onto the table. I started looking through the newspapers. Brandi had circled the relevant articles. They were all about me.
Boy vs Machine
Ben Fletcher is an unusual young Englishman. Not content with being the first ever male winner of the British Knitting Championships, he has now embraced a new challenge: taking on the knitting machine industry itself.
‘I’m faster than any machine,’ Ben told me when I spoke to him on Monday. ‘Machines are destroying the industry. I want to see a revolution. I want people to take knitting back from the big corporations, the industrial megaliths. I want to see it return to a cottage industry, where women and men can produce unique, quality, bespoke garments and sell them directly to one another.’
I phoned Morgan Fairfax, CEO of KnitTech Industries in Calumet City, and put this idea to him.
‘We’ve heard this socialist pipe-dream before,’ says Fairfax. ‘The idea that we can, or should revert to a pre-industrial age is ridiculous and potentially damaging. The knitting machine is here to stay. Our company saw a 23% growth last year.And the idea that a boy could knit faster than a machine?’
Fairfax laughs. ‘I’d sure like to see that,’ he says.
‘This is terrible,’ I said. ‘I never said all this. I’ve been misquoted.’
There were more like that. I was even the cover story in one magazine, Garment Worker. Brandi held it up proudly.
‘Front cover!’
‘How many people read Garment Worker?’ I asked, hoping it would be a few dozen.
‘I don’t have the figures for Garment Worker,’ Brandi said. ‘But you’d be surprised. These trade publications have a loyal readership. Meat Packer, for example, has a circulation of thirty thousand.’
‘Great.’ I said.
‘This is fantastic publicity for the KnitFair, Ben!’ Brandi said, eyes shining as she read an article in the Times.
‘But the stories aren’t accurate,’ I protested. ‘For a start, it was the All UK Knitting Championships, not the British Knitting Championships.’
‘Yeah, like there’s a difference,’ Brandi said.
‘There’s a big difference,’ I said, coldly.
‘Anyway, you won a knitting contest,’ Brandi said, pointing to the article. ‘They got that right.’
‘Junior division.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters to me!’
She held up the paper. ‘Ben, you’re in the Times!’
‘But under false pretences!’ I cried. Why couldn’t she see this wasn’t good?
‘Ben, Ben, Ben,’ Brandi said, reaching over the table and taking hold of my shoulders. I found myself mesmerised by all the teeth and hair being in such close proximity. ‘It’s better if they get the story wrong. That way, you can go to other newspapers and put the story straight.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s do that. For a start I’m going to tell them I can’t knit faster than a machine.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking maybe it would be better if you didn’t tell them that?’
‘Why?’
Denise came, Brandi ordered a mineral water.
‘Let me guess,’ Denise said, looking at me. ‘Philly cheesesteak.’
‘Er, oh, go on,’ I said. As she left I saw the homeless guy wander past outside the glass front. He peered in towards me and I hid behind the menu. Was he stalking me?
‘It’s just that I had a call from the Craig something show,’ Brandi went on, ignoring my odd behaviour. ‘Do you remember Craig something?’
My eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yes. I remember Craig something. He started all this.’
‘So they’re really keen on doing an event at KnitFair, they’ll sponsor it, in association with Priapia.’
‘What sort of event?’ I asked suspiciously, having flashbacks to the terrifying KnitBowl at the London Knitting Fair.
‘Boy. Versus. Machine,’ she said, theatrically holding up the cover of the Times again to illustrate.
I stared at her, shaking my head, hoping this was a dream.
‘Do you get it?’ she said. ‘You. Knitting against … ’
‘ … a machine, yes, I get it,’ I said. ‘I’m not doing it though.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘I thought you’d love the idea.’ She put on her sad face, which I’m slightly ashamed to admit, really does work on me.
‘Strangely, I don’t love the idea,’ I said.
‘There’ll be prize money if you win,’ she said. ‘I think a thousand dollars.’
‘I won’t win, though,’ I said. ‘So that’s not going to help. Di
d you really think I’d love the idea?’
‘Why not,?’ she said. ‘Ben, you’re amazing.’
‘I’m not amazing,’ I said. ‘I’m just an English boy … ’
‘ … in New York,’ she finished for me. ‘You’re an English Boy in New York! And what did Sinatra say about the Big Apple? If you can boom make it here, you’ll make it boom anywhere.’
‘I’m not sure he had knitting in mind,’ I said.
‘Listen, kid,’ she said. ‘You’re from Great Britain. There’s got to be a reason there’s a Great in there.’
Bless her, she was trying so hard. ‘That’s true,’ I said, rubbing my chin.
‘And,’ she said. ‘Imagine if you beat the machine?’
‘Brandi, I’m not going to beat the machine,’ I said. ‘I’m not Gary Kasparov.’
‘Who?’
‘Er, a chess player. Like Bobby Fisher?’
‘Bobby Fisher? Did he sing “Don’t Worry be Happy”?’
‘Yeah, that’s the guy,’ I sighed. ‘Anyway, I’m not him.’
‘Look, you’ve got to do something,’ she said. ‘The sponsorship from Priapia didn’t come … hasn’t come through yet. We need the publicity and you need to do something at the fair.’
I said nothing. She crossed her arms. We glared at each other for a while.
‘So, if you don’t do this, then what exactly are you gonna do at the fair?’ she asked.
‘Have you seen me zumba?’ I suggested.
* * *
‘So here in the US we are a democracy,’ Brandi said after my food had arrived. She was drinking her bottle of mineral water and eyeing my fries hungrily. We’d decided to change the subject.
‘Oh yes?’
‘We have two political parties, the Democrats and the Republicans.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ I said.
‘Have you?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Oh yes. Obama is a Democrat. He’s the President, but the Republicans have a narrow majority in the Senate.’
‘Wow!’ she said, her eyes bright. ‘You know about US politics!’
‘A bit,’ I said modestly.
Brandi looked impressed. ‘So what do you want to do this afternoon?’ she said.
‘Don’t we have interviews to do?’ I asked.
‘Not at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’m waiting on a couple of calls. I have to go into the office this evening but we have a few hours.’
‘Oh great,’ I said. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Have you ever heard of a game called baseball?’ she asked.
I had Brandi check the street before we left Dino’s, to make sure the homeless guy wasn’t going to accost me.
‘How will I recognise him?’ she asked.
‘He wears a grey trench coat and a red polyester jumper,’ I said. ‘And he smells worse than the toilets at an asparagus factory.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Got it.’
‘Also, he has a bird skeleton in his beard if you think you need a further visual clue.’
She popped out and back in again quickly.
‘He’s not there,’ she said.
‘Great,’ I replied, walking out into the watery sunshine. Brandi started waving for a cab.
I sighed with happiness as I took in the street scene. Crawling traffic honking merrily. A plump cop giving directions to a lady with a pushchair. A gaggle of tourists waiting at a bus stop. And up the street, rapidly approaching …
Oh crap. My homeless guy. Thanks a lot, Brandi. I ducked behind a planter but it was too late, he’d spotted me. Brandi was still waving fruitlessly for a cab.
‘I got some advice for you,’ he cried. I could smell him already. I grabbed Brandi and pulled her away down the street.
‘Let’s take the subway,’ I said.
‘The subway?’ she protested. ‘But we can put the cab on expenses.’
‘I just want to experience all that New York has to offer,’ I said, glancing back over my shoulder as I hurried her down the sidewalk. The homeless guy was still coming, but he seemed burdened by the plant pot and Macy’s bag and couldn’t keep up.
We made it safely down onto the platform and hopped on a 7 Train heading to Queens. Brandi found us two seats and I sat, looking around excitedly as we headed off. It was a long way and the train stopped at a lot of stations. As we rattled along, I noticed the man opposite me was falling asleep. He’d slump slowly to the side, then suddenly jerk awake and straighten up. Then a few seconds later he’d lean to the left, his head drooping dangerously close to the shoulder of the man next to him, who I could see was aware of the situation but was pretending to be reading a book. I nudged Brandi and we giggled together at the sight.
There was a bit of a walk from the station which I was pleased about. I felt I hadn’t done enough walking so far on this trip. In fact, I was puffing a little from the steps up to the street. Maybe I should cut down on the Philly cheesesteaks.
The BlackBerry buzzed as we walked in the weak sunshine. A text.
Hi Ben, I hope you don’t mind me contacting you directly. My name is Melanee Chang and I work for the American Knitting Guild in publicity. We’re huge fans of yours and would love to meet with you to discuss some possible events? It could be great for the profile of your business and we would be able to connect you with some very important people in the North American Knitting and Crochet world. Please reply by email or you can call me on 555 678 9451. I hope to hear from you soon! Melanee
‘Look at this,’ I said, showing Brandi the screen.
She quickly scanned the text.
‘That bitch!’ she hissed. She looked up at me. ‘Seriously, Ben,’ she said. ‘You do not want anything to do with the American Knitting Guild.’
‘I thought you worked for the American Knitting Guild?’
Brandi glared at me. ‘I work for the Knitting Guild Association of America,’ she said.
‘They’re different?’
‘Yes they’re different,’ Brandi said grimly. ‘They used to be the same organisation. But there was a … a big fight, kind of. Like when the Catholics and the Protestants had that disagreement.’
‘You mean a schism?’ I said. ‘It was slightly more than a disagreement.’
‘Well, so is this,’ she said. ‘They wanted to change the fundamental style of knitting in this country.’
‘To what?’
‘To the European style. Like they use in Canada.’
‘And Europe,’ I pointed out.
‘Do they?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I knit in the European style.’
She hesitated, perhaps wondering if she’d offended me. ‘I’m not saying it’s not a legitimate style, in other countries. But it’s not the American way.’
‘Is it banned here?’ I asked, slightly worried I now had to keep an eye out for the agents from the Department for Homeland Knitting.
‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s available as an alternative method, of course. But it shouldn’t be the primary method, that’s what we’re saying. They, the so-called American Knitting Guild, wanted to change what was taught to young American knitters. The Standards, do you see?’
I had no idea knitting could be so political. But America’s that kind of place. People feel strongly about things. And knitting is important.
3.15pm
I love New York. I love hot dogs. I love baseball. I love the fat guy behind us who yelled at Brandi in a good-natured way because her big hair was obstructing his view. Brandi didn’t seem particularly interested in the game. Very few people were as far as I could make out, apart from the fat guy behind us who kept groaning every time the announcer gave any team news.
‘For the NEW YORK METS, pitcher Jimmy Consuela!’
‘Oh my God,’ the fat guy cried. ‘Not Consuela. My mother could knock him outta the park.’
‘That man is the pitcher,’ Brandi explained unnecessarily. ‘He throws the ball at the other man, who tries to hit it
with the stick.’
I looked around at the crowd. Brandi had explained this was a family-fun day, hence the early start. There were a lot of children here and a lot of people dressed up in animal costumes for some reason. Despite the fat guy’s concerns, Consuela seemed to do the job for the Mets as three Oakland batters duly struck out and there was a change of innings.
‘At bat for the Mets,’ the announcer crackled. ‘Bobby Johnson.’
The man behind howled in frustration. ‘Johnson? You gottta be kidding me.’
Johnson hit a foul.
‘I want my money back!’ he cried. People really cared here. In the stands at Hampton FC everyone moaned constantly, but with no real belief that the team might actually improve. The guy behind me clearly thought his team could, and should, do better.
The next ball Johnson duly cracked clear into the stands, which quietened his critic for a while.
‘That’s called a home run,’ Brandi told me.
Mets 3, Pittsburgh 1.
I’m never, ever going back to Hampton FC.
After the game I remembered to buy a Mets cap for Marcus. I’m running a little low on money. I’d had to buy the wool to replace the wool in the lost suitcase. And I’ve bought a toothbrush and a couple of pairs of boxers because I can’t keep wearing Gex’s. He’ll find out if I’m not careful and that’s really not going to look good. There was nothing for it but to go and see my parents tonight and ask them for some money. If I could find them, that was.
As we left the stadium amid streams of happy New Yorkers, the BlackBerry buzzed again. I’m a lot more popular here in the States than back home.
Please call me. Whatever I’ve done. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve this. G
‘Brandi,’ I said. ‘I forgot to mention this before, but I’ve had a couple of messages along these lines.’ I showed her the phone.
Brandi looked furious, and snatched the phone off me.
‘That bastard,’ she said.
‘You know who it is?’
‘Oh yeah. I thought I’d blocked all his numbers.’
I put my hand on her shoulder lightly. And suddenly, before I knew what was happening, she’d turned and squashed her face into my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. I had no choice but to put my arms around her and pat her back comfortingly. This all happened in the middle of the flow of fancy-dress wearing pedestrians trying to get to the subway. I’m afraid we caused a bit of a blockage.