by T. S. Easton
‘That was amazing,’ I said when we were safely away. ‘How did you do that?’
She looked up at me as we walked. ‘I could see where he was putting the queen when he wanted to switch,’ she said. ‘He was slipping it under the cigar box. When I gave him the forty dollars I took it out again. Then when I tapped the middle card I switched it with the queen. Simples.’
I gasped, shocked. ‘You cheated!’
‘No, he cheated,’ she pointed out. ‘I just evened things up.’
Dad’s one of those people who’s never quite got the hang of walking. At least not when there are other people walking nearby. You can’t get past him easily in a corridor, it’s all ‘Scuse me, sorry. Haha. Shall we dance?’ And when you’re out on the street, walking next to him, he’ll keep veering into you for no reason. He trips up every thirty feet, he walks too close to people in front of him and stops suddenly and turns around so people behind bump into him. He’s not great at standing, either. In London, he always stands on the wrong side of the escalators. I mean, how can he not see that EVERYONE else stands on the right? There are signs all over the place saying stand on the right. Then when he gets to the top of the escalator he just stops there and looks around while people pile up behind him falling over. There’s a sign at Waterloo underground that says 135 days since the last accident at this station.
Needless to say, Dad last went to London 136 days ago. He’s a menace.
New York is not designed for people like my father. While it’s true the pavements are mostly pretty wide, there are a lot of people on them. I think New Yorkers are taught to walk properly from an early age; everyone’s very good at nipping in and out of the stream of pedestrian traffic. There are bumps occasionally, of course, and people abuse each other in a good-natured manner but on the whole, the system works. At least it did until Dad arrived.
‘Where are you going?’ Mum says, grabbing him by the collar as he wandered into the path of a group of schoolchildren. Then he floated off in the other direction and collided with a businessman, spilling his coffee. ‘Watch it, buddy!’ the man spat.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Mum asked, shaking her head. ‘Is it your knee?’
* * *
Eventually we arrived at Bloomingdale’s and split up, agreeing to meet back near the 59th Street entrance in an hour. Dad went off to look at Lycra and Mum went off towards the lingerie section.
‘Where are you going to go?’ I asked Gex.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘Really? I’m only looking at wool and needles and stuff.’
He shrugged. ‘Ain’t got any money anyway.’
So along he came. He sat on a low display while I fingered the wools, cooing appreciatively, and was remarkably patient when I spent a good twenty minutes picking up needles of various sizes and makes, trying to find the perfect Hoopie needle.
I looked up at him at one point to find him shaking his head sadly at me.
‘Can we go now?’ he said eventually.
‘I’ve found them,’ I said.
‘Found what?’
‘The needles I’ll buy if I win the prize money at the DeathMatch.’
I showed him. Two 10.5-size faux-ivory Spry in their Ollivander’s box. But these could create genuine magic. ‘The weight, the balance, the feel of them. If I had these … well, I’d be smoother, I’d be quicker, I’d make fewer mistakes.’
‘They make that much of a difference?’ Gex asked.
‘Oh yeah,’ I replied, gazing down at the needles.
‘How much are they?’
I showed him the price tag and he nearly exploded.
‘You is paying fifty dollars for knitting needles?’ Gex was looking utterly baffled as my phone rang.
It was Brandi, giddy with excitement.
‘We’ve got Donovan, we’ve got Donovan!’
‘Who’s Donovan?’
‘Who’s Donovan? He’s only the presenter of the third highest-rated afternoon TV talk show in New York state.’
‘Wow,’ I said, though it didn’t exactly sound like The X-Factor. ‘I’ll send a car,’ she said. ‘Do you have any … suitable clothes?’
‘None,’ I answered confidently.
‘OK, I’ll come now,’ she said.
‘I’m not at the hotel,’ I said. ‘I’m in Bloomingdale’s.’
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Stay right there. I’m on my way.’
12.47pm
I’ve got to say, shopping for clothes is extremely tedious. I understand now why Dad locks himself in the toilet every time Mum suggests going in to town. As soon as Brandi arrived at Bloomingdale’s, Gex made his excuses, and a few suggestive gestures behind Brandi’s back as he left. I texted Mum and told her I’d see them back at the hotel later.
‘Wow!’ Brandi said as I came out of the changing room. ‘Lose the tie.’
‘But I’m going to be on telly,’ I said.
‘That’s why you’ve got to look good,’ Brandi said. ‘Shame we don’t have time for a haircut.’
She stepped over as I loosened the tie and began messing with my hair. She was standing very close and smelled amazing. She undid the top two buttons on my shirt.
‘They’ll fix your hair in make-up, anyway,’ she said. ‘Try these shoes.’
I put the shoes on and she stood back to appraise.
‘How do I look?’ I said.
‘You look hot,’ she said.
‘Well, it is very warm in here.’ I said.
‘No, I mean … you look … great,’ she said. But she wasn’t even looking at the suit, she was looking into my eyes when she said it. She was behaving a bit oddly.
‘OK.’ Brandi held up the credit card. ‘Anything else you need?’
‘Well,’ I said, eyeing the card, then glancing over towards the knitting section. ‘There is one more thing … ’
1.21pm
‘It’s a very bright colour,’ Brandi said, inspecting the wool I’d just bought. We sat in the back of a yellow cab heading uptown.
‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘It’s cerise, and it gives me a headache.’
‘So why did you buy it?’
‘It’s for a … client,’ I said. ‘Someone very important. That’s the colour he wants.’
‘See, Ben,’ she said. ‘New York’s rubbing off on you. You’re hustling.’
And just then, in the back of a cab, in a new suit, a beautiful blonde by my side, eight balls of the finest wool on my lap, I wondered if maybe she was right.
Unfortunately the headache got worse as we crawled downtown. The traffic was slow and Brandi looked nervous, which made me nervous. I rubbed my temples. I shouldn’t have looked at the wool.
‘You got a headache?’ Brandi asked.
‘It’s the wool,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose we have time for lunch?’
‘’Fraid not,’ she said. ‘Hang on.’
She dived into her handbag and pulled out a pill bottle. ‘Try these,’ she said, handing them to me. ‘I get them from Canada.’ She passed me a bottle of water and I swallowed two of the pills.
‘Just take one,’ she said.
‘One? I had two.’
‘Really? They’re kind of strong. Especially on an empty stomach.’
‘You said take these. Not take one of these.’
‘Oh, sorry. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
‘What are they?’ I asked, even more nervous.
‘Just paracetamol,’ she said.
Brandi swept me through reception at the studios, telling everyone who tried to stop us that we were late. The headache had gone but I felt a little woozy. Canadian paracetamol is strong! We were directed to the green room, where we’d wait for my name to be called. The floor manager came up to me. She was pretty, with long black hair and wore a headphone/mic that I found quite fetching. I wobbled a bit and Brandi grabbed my elbow to steady me.
‘Hi,’ I said. I may have been grinning a lot. ‘I’m English.�
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‘I know who you are,’ she said shortly. She explained I would be on third. First up was a man with a hole in his stomach who apparently was able to feed bits of food in tied to a string then extract them hours later, half digested.
‘Does he do that for a living?’ I asked, nauseous.
‘Kind of. He’s an inspirational speaker,’ the floor manager said. ‘After him there’s a guy who is going to marry a woman on death row.’
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘Then it’s you, and then finally we have the contortionist,’ she finished.
I turned around to see a slim girl in an animal-print leotard sitting on the sofa reading a book. Both her legs were behind her head. I blinked a few times but the hallucination didn’t disappear. What the hell kind of programme was this?
‘That’s if we don’t overrun,’ the stage manager said half to herself and checking her watch. ‘We may have to bump the contortionist to tomorrow.’
‘She won’t mind,’ I said. ‘I understand she’s quite flexible.’
The floor manager ignored my brilliant joke.
‘Talk about a sense of humour bypass,’ I said as she walked off.
‘Well, I think you’re funny, Ben,’ Brandi said, laying a hand on my arm and giving me a flash of those amazing teeth. ‘Honestly.’
‘Thanks, Brandi.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked.
‘I am a bit thirsty,’ I said, smacking my lips, which felt rubbery.
Brandi went off to get me a Coke. While she was gone, my alarm went off. Time to phone Ms Gunter. I needed to keep it straight. I was dimly aware I was being a bit more … talkative than I usually would be.
‘Hi, Ben,’ she said. ‘Nice suit.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘How did it go last night? Gex keep you out of trouble?’
‘You bet.’ I grinned. For someone who hates lying I certainly do a lot of it. Maybe Megan’s right about me. I’m pathological. But sometimes you just have to lie, don’t you? For the greater good.
‘Where are you?’ she asked, peering into the camera.
‘I’m in a TV studio,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be on the Donovan show.’
‘Never heard of it,’ she said.
‘I think it’s the equivalent of The One Show,’ I said. ‘But they told me twelve million people watch it. That can’t be right, can it?’
‘Everything’s bigger in the States,’ Ms Gunter said.
‘It sure is,’ I said.
‘Are you OK?’
‘What’s wrong. Do I look ill?’
‘No, in fact, you’re looking very well,’ Ms Gunter said.
Well? What did she mean by that? Was she calling me fat?
‘It might be this BlackBerry camera,’ I said. ‘It’s quite distorting.’
‘Yes, that’s probably it,’ she said.
‘Ben, Ben!’ the floor manager called. ‘You’re on in five!’
‘I gotta go,’ I said.
‘Look, Ben,’ Ms Gunter said. ‘Keep an eye on Gex, OK? And if he’s getting into trouble, then stay right away from him. You can’t afford to let him drag you down, got it?’
‘Yeah, I got it,’ I said impatiently, looking towards the floor manager, who was waving me on. If I didn’t hurry they’d send the damn contortionist on ahead of me and I wasn’t having that. I could sense her watching me, her head twisted round like an owl’s. Call me paranoid, but I did not trust that contortionist one bit.
‘Ben!’ Ms Gunter snapped. I looked back at her, trying to concentrate. ‘I’ve taken a professional risk getting you into the US,’ she said. ‘Don’t screw up.’
‘I won’t,’ I assured her.
‘Break a leg,’ she said.
I turned the screen off and ran towards the stage, just as the contortionist had begun unfolding herself.
It was just as well I was so rushed because I hadn’t had time to get nervous. Brandi gave me a squeeze on the arm as I went past and I was through a curtain and up onto a bright, hot stage. Jingly-jangly music played and a smallish studio audience clapped enthusiastically as I walked across the carpet, trying not to trip on the coiled cables.
Piper Donovan stood to greet me and crushed my hand with one of his meaty paws, bringing tears to my eyes.
‘Ben Fletcher, welcome to America,’ Donovan began.
‘Thank you very much,’ I said, bowing slightly.
‘What do you think of New York?’ Donovan asked.
I knew the answer to this one. ‘New York is the greatest city on earth,’ I said. The audience whooped and cheered. I had them on side immediately.
‘So, you’re a knitter, Ben?’
‘That’s right, Piper,’ I replied. I knew what the next question would be. Something about it being unusual for a boy to knit, etc. etc. I had my answer all prepared.
‘And you can knit faster than a machine?’ he asked.
‘That’s right, I said. ‘Knitting used to be a male … sorry, what was your question?’
‘It says on my card here that you can knit faster than a machine.’
I glanced across to see Brandi standing in the wings, next to the yawning floor manager. Brandi nodded and mouthed ‘yes’ at me. What should I say? The studio swam, the audience was silent and expectant, and I felt hot and cold at the same time.
‘This is it,’ Dermot O’Leary intoned. ‘This is Ben’s chance to put things right. The Piper Donovan show has twelve million viewers. He has to tell the truth.’
No, I thought. No, I can’t knit faster than a machine.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I can knit faster than a machine.’
‘Really?’ Donovan asked, grinning.
‘You bet!’ I said.
A lone woman whooped at the back, perhaps assuming that everyone else would be joining in.
‘I thought I told you to wait in the car,’ I shouted at the lone whooper. Everyone screamed with laughter. Suddenly I had the crowd right where I wanted them. I felt triumphant already!
‘For Christ’s sake, Ben,’ Dermot muttered.
‘And this is going to happen this Sunday at KnitFair USA? Is that right?’ Donovan asked.
‘You bet,’ I said again, ‘I’m going to be there. And the machine’s going to be there. And we’re going to go head to head.’
‘And you’re going to win?’
‘Oh yeah!’ I said.
‘But this is the KnitMaster 3000 you’re up against,’ Donovan said, reading from his card. ‘This is the newest, fastest knitting machine on the planet.’
‘You haven’t seen me knit,’ I said.
‘Well, we do have some video footage,’ Donovan said. ‘Do you want to see Ben knit?’ he called to the audience. They knew their role and screamed their approval. A large monitor flicked into life and I saw the YouTube video of me from the final of the AUKKC. There I was, my fingers a blur, the Hoopie taking shape, a goat wandering in the background.
‘Wow,’ Donovan said as the video ended and the crowd clapped obediently. ‘You ARE fast.’
I winked. ‘I’m the fastest,’ I said. More cheers.
Donovan put his fingers to his ear and held up a hand for quiet. ‘Now, we’ve got Dr Kovac from KnitCorp on the line. Dr Kovac.’
I looked up to see the man who’d been pictured in the New York Times article. He smiled and nodded quickly. ‘Good evening, Mr Donovan,’ he said.
‘Now, Dr Kovac, your company, KnitCorp, manufactures the KnitMaster 3000, is that right?’
‘That’s correct, Mr Donovan,’ Dr Kovac said with a small nod.
‘Ben here tells us he can knit faster than your machine. Do you think that’s possible?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Dr Kovac said. ‘The KnitMaster 3000 can knit a thousand rows per hour, without making any mistakes. A human, even a human as fast as young Ben here, could not hope to do more than forty or fifty.’
‘Ben?’
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ I said insanely.
‘Also, garments knitted by humans will have mistakes,’ Dr Kovac went on. ‘A sweater knitted by machine will be perfect, every time.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘Well, Mr … Dr … Kevorkian, maybe people don’t want perfection,’ I said.. ‘Maybe people like to find the occasional flaw in their sweater. Maybe people like having a hole in their sock.’
‘If so, then this can be programmed into the pattern,’ Dr Kovac droned. ‘And my name is Kovac, not Kevorkian.’
‘People don’t want programming,’ I said. ‘People don’t want mass-produced. People want character, originality, uniquen … inity!’
The crowd was on its collective feet by now whooping and cheering.
‘Well said,’ muttered the man with the hole in his stomach.
Dr Kovac was shaking his head, a smug smile on his face. ‘I’m afraid retail sales figures don’t agree with you there, Ben. People want to know what they’re buying. They want their clothes well made, cheap and available quickly. Only machine-knitting can offer that reliability. Hand-knitting is a dying art.’
‘Actually,’ interjected the man who was marrying the death-row prisoner. ‘Home crafting is on the rise. My fiancée makes and sells toilet roll covers on Etsy.’
The crowd clapped slightly less enthusiastically, perhaps not sure if they should be applauding a criminal.
‘She gives the money to an animal rescue charity,’ he added. There was a roar.
‘I look forward to meeting you on Sunday, Ben,’ Dr Kovac said when the noise had died down. ‘I admire your courage, but you cannot possibly win.’
‘We’ll see about that Dr Kev … Kovac,’ I replied coolly. ‘We’ll see about that.’
The crowd went bananas and it took the floor manager ages to calm them down. I lapped it up, the glow of the Canadian paracetamol surging through my blood, the hackles on my neck raised. I was Katniss Everdeen being interviewed by that blue-haired bloke. Piper Donovan was on his feet applauding me. The man with the hole in his stomach stood, clutched his side with one hand and clapped me on the back with the other. Brandi was bouncing up and down in the wings, delirious with joy. All the while, a tiny voice of reason deep down within me was enquiring as to just what on earth I thought I was doing.
But the voice was easily ignored, and one thing was for sure.