David Gedge world. Breaking up. Cheating. Sex with strangers. Love. Pain. Jealousy.
I pushed my face into the wall, to be part of something concrete and solid. To block out the flashing lights and the movement and the chaos. You danced in front of me in that dress. Blue. Spinning so that the skirt lifted slightly but not in a sleazy way. In a playful, naive, Seven Year Itch way. I could smell the Juicy Fruit chewing gum. You liked to eat it with milk because you said it made the favour better. I never asked you if you meant the milk or the gum. Gedge was doing that thing where he plays the guitar so fast his hand becomes a blur. Just go. Don't think. If you think about your hand moving that fast, you'll lose it. Then the guitar stops. Final line. Wail. What's the fucking point? I knew we couldn't be friends. Not after nine years.
I'm so entranced by the colours that it's only when the guy turns and pushes me backwards that I realise the song's finished. The MP3 player has cooled and stopped moving.
He steps towards me, his finger pointing, poking me in the chest. I put my hands up to protect myself, but we're both joined by the umbilical cord of the headphones.
'Did Suzy put you up to this?' he asks, spraying spit into my face. His forehead is pockmarked from where he's been pushing it against the wall.
'Sorry, I don't know Suzy, any Suzies actually.'
'Just leave me alone, okay.'
He tugs the headphones off his head so forcefully that the player is pulled out of my hands. My glasses slip off and he becomes a blur in front of me. He chucks the whole thing onto the pavement then heads off down Morrison Street. I stoop to pick everything up and realise that he's also chucked his cinema tickets at me, for a film that started over an hour ago. They're all scrunched up and sweaty from where he's been squeezing them inside his hand. There's a rectangular indentation on my palms. It disappears when I rub them together. As I put the MP3 player back in my pocket and look at the balled-up cinema tickets, I'm hit by an ache of loss so intense that the breath catches in my throat and I have to lean against the wall to steady myself.
The Trackman strikes again.
10
Three is a Magic Number
Davie stumbled and fell backwards down the front steps, dropping his keys.
Davie dropped the orange juice.
EVEN THOUGH It's a shite day, I've still decided to spend my lunch break out in the Gardens. I had to get out of the staffroom. The noise was doing my head in.
Ryan and Mark were playing Pro Evo on the old playstation when Davie went into the staffroom.
Fancy a game once I finish kicking Mark's ass?
Nah, not the now, eh? Need to head out and get some lunch.
What's up with… fucking YES! You are shite!
Ryan stood up and pulled his Virgin t-shirt over his head. Mark threw his controller at the TV, as the screen showed a replay of Ryan's goal. Davie took that as his cue to leave.
Even on a cold day like today, the heat inside that staffroom is suffocating. The air out here is cool and refreshing; I splash it on my face and it wakes me and helps me think clearer.
I follow the path downwards into the Gardens, down into the crater that divides shops from castle. I bet last night the grass was full of people sitting just chilling out. Today, it's fucking deserted. Folk scurry past wearing big jackets and hats like it's November not July.
At least I get a rare choice of which bench to park my arse on. Usually I end up having to perch on the end of one, next to some couple making out or some dodgy old boy. I head towards the nearest one, dedicated to someone called Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Dickson. Rain drips down the brass plaque, the beads of water obscuring the rest of her dedication.
A Much Loved Son.
I wipe down the seat with the cuff of my jumper.
Fuck it. Sit down. A damp arse isn't going to kill me.
I've got a Boots meal deal which I balance on my lap. It hardly seems worth the fighting past people and the queuing for ten minutes, but it'll do. I peel the cellophane off the triangular packaging and take a bite of my cheese ploughman's. I need to use both hands to stop all the filling from spilling out and a bit of lettuce and a slice of tomato can't be saved. The brown bread is full of bits that get stuck in my teeth as I eat. I unscrew the lid of my smoothie and take a drink. I swirl it around inside my mouth.
Ring a ring a roses.
The thick, pink gloop reminds me of Calpol and I wish I'd just gone for Coke instead. I'd had the bottle in my hand but then I put it down.
Why don't we try some changes to your diet? Cut out caffeine, alcohol, that sort of thing.
My head spins with noise, like the smoothie in my mouth. Thoughts and questions whirpooling. What was that Obi Wan Kenobi said about millions of voices?
I could do with some fucking silence.
One finger, one thumb, one finger, one thumb.
There's millions of voices talk, talk, talking in my head. Is this how it feels when you start to go mad? Or is that when you start listening to the voices?
Or when you start listening to MP3 players?
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track
I can't believe that I'm actually starting to think a box can see inside folks' souls. That it can look inside someone and help them with music. How fucked-up does that sound? I must be totally gone.
My poor brain.
How can I not believe what I've seen though? What I've been an eye witness to? It wasn't even like I'd forgotten to stick my specs on or something. I saw it.
I helped people.
The lassie in the phone box was in a bad place and I helped her. I know I did. I could feel it. A meaningless little shite like me made a difference to someone's life.
A big drop of rain falls from one of the trees and drips down my neck. Cold and rolling. I hunch my shoulders up and wait for the shudder to go. Someone walking over my grave.
The castle looms above me, rising out of the craggy hillside. Rock juts out from underneath the castle, like the glass cemented on the tops of walls to keep folk from climbing over. The windows are all in darkness, anyone could be looking down at me from inside. Wondering what the fuck some guy is doing sitting in the Gardens, eating lunch in the rain. Maybe I'm already crazy? Maybe it's already too late?
So okay, I helped the girl. But that guy outside the Odeon? He was really shaken up, shell-shocked. He pretty much told me to fuck right off. I didn't make him happy.
Did I?
Maybe I did?
I let the thought fight its way through. Let it speak its piece. It's telling me I did help that guy. That I woke him up to something he'd been hiding from, something he didn't want to accept.
This is the day.
In a parallel universe, I get the MP3 player and I use it on Lewey.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
I can hear the buses above me on Princes Street. The swoosh as they drive through the puddles spraying folk with water. The footsteps of people hurrying to get out of the rain.
Way back these gardens used to be a loch. How much rain would it take to refill the valley? I could sit here and watch the water rise.
Another voice becomes clear and jostles for attention. I'm reluctant to let this one speak. Been trying to keep him out of the way, but he shouts out the names anyway: Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Clark Kent.
Surely now I am going fucking mental? Superheroes are fictional. Not. Real. And even if they did exist, why me?
Easy. Normal every day guy becomes superhero. Your friendly, local, neighbourhood Trackman.
That voice answered far too quickly for my liking.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
What am I if not a normal, everyday guy?
Average joe.
Geek.
Loser.
Waste of fucking space.
The falling rain has trapped the perfume from the flowerbeds around me. It sinks to the ground instead of rising. I'm sitting in a giant bowl o
f pot pourri. It's making me hallucinate.
My descent into madness.
One finger, one thumb, one finger, one arm, one finger, one finger, one finger.
I shake my head and try to mix up all the thoughts like a magic eight ball. Shake it up and allow one thought to rise to the surface. One thought only. Let's make it a good one.
Don't count on it.
As I'm waiting for it, I finish off my salt and vinegar crisps. I tip the rustling bag to my mouth and let the crumbs fall in.
Reply hazy, try again.
I chuck all my rubbish in the metal bin next to the bench, stand up and brush myself down. As I head towards the exit, a squirrel and a pigeon face off for the crumbs.
Most likely.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
I climb the hill that leads out of the gardens, depressurising my head as I do so. The air is lighter up here on Princes Street. The real world.
Signs point to yes.
I swing the black gate open and am about to step out onto the pavement when the magic eight ball chooses a thought.
As I see it, yes.
Three is a magic number.
What the fuck does that mean?
I stop and lean on the gate. Wait for the voice in my head to elaborate.
Three is a magic number.
If the MP3 player does it one more time, then you can believe it. Once can be ignored. Twice is a coincidence. Three…
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
Okay, you heard the man, I pat my jacket pocket.
Three is the magic number.
'David, what have you been doing?'
Laura stops me outside her office as I'm about to head back onto the shop floor.
'Eh, I was on lunch, but I'm not late back.'
I glance at my watch. Okay, I am slightly late back.
'I just mean you're soaking, go and dry your hair off or something before you show yourself in front of customers.'
I run a hand through my hair and shake my head like a dog. Water runs down my face and sprays onto the walls around me. Drips run down the 'employee of the month' photo and makes Donald from Specialist Music look like he's crying.
'Sorry, I didn't realise I was so wet.'
I head back along the corridor and down the steps to the staff toilets, check myself out in the cracked mirror. My hair is sticking to my face and beads of water drip off the end of my nose. Tree blossom sticks to me like I'm some sort of walking mosaic.
The pink petals stuck to his gym kit and his pencil case and his jotters like confetti.
I wipe my glasses on my jumper and try to dry the wet patches on my clothes with toilet paper. It disintegrates in my hand and leaves white specks of tissue all over my t-shirt. I turn round and glance back over my shoulder into the mirror. There are two wet stripes running across my arse from the bench I was sitting on. I turn the hand dryer on and stick my head underneath it. It's not powerful enough to dry my hands but it burns my scalp all the same. I balance one foot on the urinals and aim my backside at the dryer in an attempt to dry my arse.
'You'll have to do,' I tell my reflection and head out onto the shop floor.
'Go swimming at lunchtime?' Martha asks me as I join her behind the counter. I can tell she's just been standing here waiting for me to come out so she can say that.
'Aye, aye, very good.'
'Sorry, I couldn't help it. You should have said you were heading out, you could have taken my brolly.'
'I'd have looked a right wanker walking around with that giant sunflower thing of yours.'
'Aye, okay, so it's not very manly, but it's not as if you look brilliant now is it?'
'Do I really look that bad?'
I look down at myself and see that a small puddle has collected at my feet.
'Nah, you're fine.'
'I didn't realise how wet I was, it's that sort of rain where you're soaked before you realise how heavy it is.'
'You should have heard Laura, it was so funny.'
'How? What did she say?'
'She came out to tell me you'd be late back from lunch, then was going on about how you looked like a drowned rat and were going to scare away half the customers.'
'Half the customers look like drowned rats themselves. I'm projecting an image of sameness to make them feel more at ease.'
'Cool, I'll tell Laura that the next time she comes past. Anyway you'll dry off in no time with this shite air conditioning.'
'Good thinking, Batman, I'll go and stand under one of the vents for ten minutes.'
I head across the shop floor to where the air conditioning is firing out hot air rather than cold. There's a wet trail leading from the counter to where I'm standing. My jeans are baggy so it's not so much footprints, but a trail like I've dragged myself Quasimodo style. Ryan comes over and stands one of those yellow 'wet floor' signs next to me.
'Aye, very good.'
He heads over to Games and I watch Martha leave the counter and go chat to him.
The hot air buffets against me and my t-shirt fills with air, Michelin Man.
There's lots of customers milling about for a weekday afternoon, but nobody's buying anything.
Shelter from the storm.
It doesn't take long before the PVC flooring is covered in rain and dirt.
In-store radio is blaring out tune after tune. The Kaiser Chiefs followed by R.E.M. followed by Franz Ferdinand followed by Blur. Instead of zoning it out, I let the songs in. Chase away the voices and appear normal.
I'm still damp, but I'd better go do some work. There's a stack of porn DVDs sitting on a shelf under the counter which need filed away. They've been sitting there for a day or two while we all laughed at the shitty titles.
Shaving Ryan's Privates.
Ally McSqueal
Pulp Friction
I sort them into a rough alphabetical order and pile them on my forearms, holding them steady with my chin. The porn shelf is over in the far corner of the shop by the lift. I've never worked out if management stuck it there to hide the porn or to hide the people who buy the porn. There's an old boy, Duncan, who likes a bit of the filthy DVDs. He usually asks a female member of staff to show him where it's kept, even though he knows fine well where it is. The lassies all hide when he comes in, but I'll chat away to him. Old boys still have to get their jollies somehow.
I'm starting to file it away, along with collecting the empty boxes that the disks have been nicked out of, when the lift pings. The doors open and a guy steps out. He's wearing a knee-length leather jacket which comes down to the top of his Doc Marten boots. He has long hair, going slightly grey. It hangs out from under a beanie hat with 'Metallica' embroidered on it. Drops of water have collected on the wool of his hat, like pearls. He walks over to the posters and starts flicking through them.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
The plastic cases hit off each other, while movies, models and music scroll past.
I turn back to the porn and feel a buzz against my arse. I look down. I'm not getting turned on by Hot and Heavy, Six am I? And if I am, what's wrong with me?
My trousers buzz again and I dump the pile of DVD boxes that I'm holding and take the MP3 player out of my pocket. My heart is beating like mad and I'm scared to look at the player. Scared to find out either way. I'm either a superhero or I'm crazy. Which one do I want to be? Which one is the least fucked-up?
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
I tap the guy at the posters on the shoulder, and he turns to face me. He's already got earphones stuck in either ear, but he takes them out as I hand him the headphones.
Rain by Guns n' Roses November Rain by Guns n' Roses November Rain by Guns 'n' Roses November Rain b
You're having a fucking laugh. I'm at work, Laura is already pissed off at me, and this guy gets a fucking nineminute epic.
The player burns my hands and I want to let go, but it's stuck to me. I squ
eeze it tighter to try and dull the ache.
As the song plays, the beads of water on the guy's hat change colour. They flicker through the spectrum like a rainbow.
Red, pink, purple, blue, green.
He continues to scan through the posters as he listens. The pictures start to swell up and jump out at me like I'm wearing 3D specs. They're grotesque and leering, remind me of that music video Soundgarden did for Black Hole Sun. I can't decide if it's just me who can see it, or if the guy can too. He doesn't act like he does. He's looking beyond the posters to some unseen audience.
The death and life of Antelope Carcass
Verse 1:
Do you remember when we were kids?
The first time we heard November Rain.
And we knew what we wanted to do with our lives,
We ate, slept, lived for the band.
Out on the road together,
We shared the same wine, women and drugs.
Huddled together when our van gave up,
Shared the same bed just to save a few bucks.
Pre-chorus:
And Antelope Carcass was all that we had.
And all of us said that we'd die for the band.
That nothing could ever take it away.
All we needed was to plaaaaaayyyyyyy…
Chorus:
Now Antelope Carcass is over.
Antelope Carcass has lost itself.
Antelope Carcass dead and decaying.
Antelope Carcass through.
Verse 2:
Now Eddie's hitched with a couple of kids.
Scott got promoted, changed his leathers for a suit.
Liam thinks we're getting too old for this shit.
My writers block got so bad, I said, quit.
I kicked over the drum kit, in practice one day,
What's the fucking point? We talk, we don't play.
Trackman Page 11