Oskar Blows a Gasket

by Claire Davis

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Me too. I can’t stand immaturity. Almost nineteen.”

  Bear stretched his arms above his head. “I’m so stiff. Haven’t slept on a proper bed for months.” With brown short hair, freckles and a green army backpack, his resemblance to the TV guy was remarkable; except this Bear was much more handsome. “First camp beds, blow-up mattresses and then the floor. I can’t wait to dive in that bed and sleep.” Clearly crazy, he’d spent the entire minibus ride from the train station winding up a hand-powered radio. It had seemed like hours to anyone who abhorred the word exercise with vehemence second to none, as did Oskar.

  “Oh. Walking holiday?” Oskar knew nothing about walking and less about holidays, but was willing to listen to more descriptions of air quality if it meant not going back to his room alone. Something scratchy pushed against his mascara encrusted eyelids.

  “Nah.” Bear looked away and went red.

  “Well, I’m not putting up with this shit.” Oskar went all out for the last moan, but anger had already morphed into the usual sour taste of disappointment. He was nervous as all hell and hadn’t slept last night either. Or last month. “I need a nice hot chocolate.” Simon would want him to soldier on. “With marshmallows.” Unforgivably, his voice trembled.

  “Aw, don’t be sad.” Bear sat on the bed. “It’ll be OK once we get used to it. And we’re not far from town. Only ten minutes in the minibus. It could be fun?” It wouldn’t be fun but Oskar didn’t mind the boy trying to cheer him up; didn’t mind at all. “Are you OK?” He patted the space beside him on the bed. “Sit down, please. Please? I’m from America originally, though haven’t lived there in a while. How about you? Tell me about yourself. I mean—if you want to?” It would be so easy to give in to offers of sympathy, cosy chats and giggles. But such talk would inevitably lead to unpleasant questions about family and background.

  So Oskar perched on the plastic garden chair, ignoring Bear’s patting hand. Crossing his legs under intense scrutiny made him bold and cruel. “The moon.” Last thing he wanted was a heart-to-heart. The possibility was alien. “Dark side of.”

  Instead of getting the message, Bear put his head on one side and grinned, revealing white rows of seemingly perfect teeth and dimples. “Oh yeah? The moon, huh? Cool.” Dimples. Even more mortifying was the gravitational pull towards those cheeky indentations. “What course you taking? Let me guess.” Brown eyes went up and down like Oskar was on show in some zoo. Dimples. It was demeaning. “Drama? It’s film studies, right?” Yet distracting.

  “No.” Oskar glared.

  “Songwriting?” Dimples.

  “No!”

  “Fashion?” Oskar let his eyebrows answer. This turd could trudge off up a mountain with his dimples and eat lion shit for all he cared. Once they’d swapped mattresses, anyway. “Just kidding!” Bear laughed. “So you come from the moon and you like the 80s?” He tapped his foot on the bare floor. “Let me think… Physics. Am I right?”

  “How do you know that?” Oskar’s voice once again slipped into the annoyingly high tones of Brinsted Gardens. Sensations of unravelling kitchen towel crept through his bones.

  Bear tapped his head knowingly. “OK, I admit! It was on your bag label—Oskar Braithwaite, Bangor University, Physics Department. Saw it when you were freaking in the station. Remember? Are you OK now? You still look kind of jumpy?”

  Oskar shrugged, adopting the most bored expression he could. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Perfectly functioning.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask what my course is? I’m starting the foundation year, because—”

  “No. Not going to ask. No,” Oskar said loftily. “I’m off to find the kitchen.” Throwing legs to the floor while propelling upper body achieved a dramatic and superior leap. The boy’s eyes followed. It felt good. “Got things to do.” Good enough to pose a little.

  “Oh, OK. Wait for me? Don’t leave me here by myself. I’m coming too.”

  They rushed the doorway together, creating a jam of arms, legs and other bodily parts. One thing Oskar abhorred was rudeness. He wriggled viciously, making sure to elbow right in the ribs.

  “Sorry!” Bear backed off grimacing. “You go first.”

  “I always do,” Oskar said witheringly.

  “So. Are you?” Irritating hands tugged at Oskar’s light bomber jacket, stopping him. “You know? ’Cause I sure am.”

  Here we go. Are you a boy or a girl? Why do you have long hair? How can you walk on those heels?

  “Am I? Yeah?” He adopted a say it and I’ll kill you expression.

  Bear nodded meaningfully, eyebrows shooting up into his hair, which maddeningly made him even more attractive.

  “A Leo? Yes, actually, I am. Centre of attention and everyone’s best friend,” Oskar said in his grandest tones. “Clever of you to guess. Was it my mane?”

  “Hah-hah! I was gonna say hungry, but your hair sure is something. Are you hungry?” Bear smiled sweetly, too sweetly to be real. Oskar was certain he was being played with, an unacceptable affair which must be dealt with promptly.

  “Hungry, yes. For dancing ’til dawn. Hungry for greatness and hungry for life!” Bear blinked in confusion, so Oskar went for the kill. Get them while blinded by neon light of brilliance. “Mate? Would you do me a favour? Now we’re friends and all?” He smiled winningly. “Mate.”

  “Sure.” Bear looked a little bewildered. “Anything. What is it?” He smiled. “Mate.”

  “Swap me your mattress? I’m allergic to mine.” Who wouldn’t be allergic to foetal splodges?

  Bear frowned. “Oh. Yeah, OK. I don’t mind. Give me a hand.” He lifted the mattress easily, requiring nothing except a comforting hand.

  “My! Heavy, isn’t it? You are strong.” Oskar patted his shoulder. It was good to offer encouragement.

  Bear swiftly swapped the mattresses. “That better for you?”

  “Yeah, thanks. No way would I ever sleep on the other one.” Oskar shuddered delicately. “You can make me a coffee. White please, one sugar.” He grinned charmingly. Maybe this college lark wouldn’t be half bad after all. “And yes, I am hungry.”

  “I’d love to!”

  ****

  One by one, the other students arrived. “Hi!” Oskar called gaily from the communal sitting area—“Showers and loos at the end of the corridor near the exit doors”—not wondering much what it would be like to have a trail of relatives caring about his well-being. Such non-thoughts did not lead to visions of Mum. “All girls,” he told Bear, who sat with arms crossed. “You were right. No lads.” No boys could be good or bad. Girls would certainly be less foul, if the boys at school were anything to go by. All-male halls with obligatory initiation rites and piss games had been a recurrent source of anxiety throughout the train journey. Not that he couldn’t deal, but there came a time when petty revenge and anonymous cruelty was yesterday. And things had gone a little far with those laxatives last winter, quite a lot too far.

  No boys. Just Bear. He watched the boy furtively from under silken dark hair. Years of survival-induced practice had taught how to see without being seen. “Only us and the ladies.”

  “What do they look like?” Bear asked. “Do we have to meet them all now? I’m not too good with lots of people in one go.”

  “Arms, legs, hair. Girls.” Oskar shrugged. “It’s really boring here. The brochure included pictures of a large student relaxation facility with café and music. And what do we get?” He gestured witheringly. “Sagging sofa and TV with no Sky.”

  “You want to come to the shop? I need some deodorant.”

  “To keep the tigers off?”

  Bear frowned. “Tigers? Let’s get some fresh air.”

  “Never mind. Yeah, I’ll come if it’s not too far. Can’t be trekking in these heels.” He followed Bear back up the dismal corridor towards the exit, through the clusters of girls wandering about sorting bags and towels. “Hello, hello! Spea
k later. Party tonight! Disco room from six. Bring drink! I don’t like cheap shit!”

  “Party? Is there? Hi!”

  “Is now. This place needs a shake-up. Few bottles and some music. Later.”

  The hostel was the last building in the hospital complex before the exit. Oskar walked quickly through the hordes of visitors and patients to keep up with Bear’s strides. “I really cannot believe they sent us here. Barf-bag dump. Slow down, cowboy!”

  “Sorry.” Bear waited. “The bus driver said the hostel would be really cheap, though, and only temporary until they can find us some rooms in the regular student halls. Guess the uni has an arrangement with the hospital. I sure didn’t expect to end up in a nurses’ hostel either.”

  It was most likely stress and lack of sleep made the words slip from Oskar’s mouth so easily. “Yeah, well, wait ’til my dad hears about this. He’s not going to be very happy.”

  Bear smiled. “You don’t seem like the daddy’s boy type.”

  Oskar knew he should leave it there and move on to other interesting things such as 80s music. He should. He didn’t. The stress and disappointment of the day pooled into something needy and desperate. “Oh, I’m not,” he said emphatically. “I’m really not. But Father has to be careful. On account of—” he pulled Bear’s arm to whisper in his ear. Deodorant and guy-warmth made his heart ache with sudden home sickness. “Paparazzi.” Saying the word left a glow which minimised the pain. He said it again, slightly louder. “Paparazzi.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you swear silence, I can tell you.” This was too cool. Oskar looked from left to right.

  “Are you messing with me?” Bear had gone still. “Paparazzi?”

  “I take that as a promise. I trust you, Bear. Do not let me down.” On one high-heeled boot, Oskar teetered against the stocky body. “My dad is Simon Le Bon. It’s top secret. If it gets out, I could be in danger.”

  “He’s who?” Bear whispered back, eyes gone round. “Danger?”

  Oskar sighed. “Duran Duran?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him but I was just checking we have the same guy? I didn’t know—I mean—I haven’t heard he had a son your age?”

  “Fuck sake! Only the biggest 80s pop group. Worldwide superstars. My dad was the lead singer. Is the lead singer!” Oskar drew breath in readiness for the excitement. For questions and envy, nothing he couldn’t handle. For night after night of I remember when stories. “I was a secret baby, so no use searching ’cause you won’t find anything.” Deep inside the pocket of the fluffy grey bomber jacket, Oskar crossed his fingers. In a way, it was true. If life was fair, he would certainly have been the love child of Simon Le Bon. Sometimes, in the dead of night, this truth seemed so plausible that it was so. Truth could be stranger than fiction. It was entirely possible he’d somehow been swapped at birth.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Must be hard to live with that! I won’t tell anyone.” Bear patted Oskar’s arm sympathetically. “Such a relief for you to come here and get away from all that nonsense and false rubbish. You poor baby. What a terrible father.”

  Oskar peered and listened, but there was no hint of sarcasm either in Bear’s open face or his earnest voice. “What you talking about? Relief?” Clearly Bear was nuts, completely gone. Oskar staggered on his six-inch heels, feeling the wind leave his sails. “Gag me with a spoon!”

  “Steady!” Bear offered an arm. “A relief to leave it all behind is what I meant. Fame can be a terrible way to live. Or so I hear.” He smiled briefly but it was more sad than jealous. “I expect. But don’t worry. I’ll treat you the same as anyone else. I’m not one of those who think famous people are all that. You know? I’m more interested in what the person’s like than who their parent is.”

  “Oh, right. Fine.”

  “You’re just as good as everyone else.” He patted Oskar’s arm. “I—I’ll look after you.”

  “Crucial.”

  Chapter 2: Barf Me Out

  Gareth

  Dear Dad,

  Please, please, please come back and get me. I want to go home! This school is cold and horrible. I’m sorry I was a jerk. I just watched you drive the car away and now I’m crying so hard in the bathroom. I can’t stay here on my own for months and months. I promise if you come and get me, I won’t be any trouble. You can still film and I’ll stay in the caravan and not come out. I absolutely won’t moan or talk, or be any bother. I will read books and play with Bubble.

  That teacher is knocking on the door and I don’t know what to do.

  Please?

  Love Gareth

  P.S. I didn’t mean any of the things I said. You’re not a shit dad. Not all the time, anyway. And I’m sorry I rang Kip but I was really worried about you. Would you please listen to him?

  P.P.S. I would say I’m sorry I flushed all those drugs down the toilet, but I’m not sorry. They’re gonna kill you.

  P.P.P.P.P.S. If you come and get me, I promise I won’t say anything about the drugs or the drink ever again. OK? You can do whatever you want and I won’t say a single word.

  ****

  Oskar

  Still shocked at the over-flowing of 80s expressions he hadn’t heard in two years, Oskar talked too loudly. “What do you normally drink?” He waved at the cheap bottles of vodka. “I know there’s not much of a range. Even the local shop is shit sticks.” A four-aisle delight of crappery, with no low-fat spread and only one kind of crispbread. “I’ll never live off this stuff,” he huffed. “Did you see the dining halls in the brochure? Ten types of salad, juice, fruit. We’ve been conned.”

  “None.” Bear looked away. “I don’t drink.”

  “Whatsoever?” Oskar’s voice slipped into a black-hole high-pitched squeak. “No need to pretend with me. I’m not some nasty sports-loving weirdo.” Everyone drank. Grannies, ten-year-olds, next door’s dog. Drinking was a part of life without which there was little point in existing. “Come on. No lectures this week so we can go wild. In the mix!” He clamped a hand over his mouth but Bear didn’t seem to notice.

  “Whatsoever. Sorry.”

  “You’re allergic? Man, that’s hard.”

  “No, no. I just don’t drink. You go ahead, though.”

  “If you’re skint, I can go halves?” Yeah, Oskar was all heart. He could go halves as long as he got most of the vodka.

  “Thanks, but no. Aren’t you getting any food?” Bear began putting bread and bananas into his basket. “We’ll need something for breakfast too. I hope there’s a bigger shop somewhere. What do you think we’ll need?”

  “Food? Who needs food at a party?” Oskar tried to think of the last meal he’d eaten. “I’m not a big eater.” He plonked the vodka in Bear’s basket because no way he’d be carrying one of those, not on top of a weighty shagpile coat. “Drink is sustenance.”

  “What about milk? For tea and coffee? You think everyone buys their own or we all pitch in? The fridge is only little. I wanna get things right with the others, you know?”

  Oskar sighed. “Whatever. Let’s get back so I can shower and have a nap. I’m knackered.” So tired the world had taken on a hallucinatory state where he kept saying 80s crap. Tired, wound-up, heartbroken and destroyed.

  “OK. I’ll get muesli and milk too. You’re welcome to share mine.” Bear smiled downwards, his face reddening. “Mate.”

  Oskar watched the pushover with dimples in silence, envisaging breakfast on a tray in bed, steaming mugs of coffee over studying. Maybe even put up some shelves? “Thanks! You’re a honey.” Wasn’t everyone, once you found their weakness? Clearly Bear’s was shyness, and a desire to serve. “Hope my loan comes through this week.” He paid for the vodka with a grimace. “Outrageous necessary foods are so pricey. People have to eat!”

  “Necessary? You don’t need that. Why don’t you just buy food ’til your loan comes?” Bear shrugged. “We can drink tea tonight and watch TV, get to know the others. We don’t need to get shitfaced. I don’t have much
money to last me either.”

  “You my mother?” Oskar demanded. It was always best to set the ground rules early on. He stuck hands on hips for emphasis. Not that he’d be drinking once lectures started, but no need for this oaf to be bossing about. “Kirk out.”

  “Sorry.” Bear was stricken, obviously, seeing his chances diminish. “None of my business. Sorry if I offended you.” He hunched into his shoulders and shuffled through the door back out to the street. The place where Oskar’s heart should have been lurched uncomfortably. He hurried after the other boy.

  “Bear! It’s OK. Will you put my bottle in your bag? Got a sore shoulder.”

  “Sure.” Bear eagerly grabbed the vodka. “Happy to.”

  “Bodacious.”

  ****

  No nails, Sellotape or drawing pins.

  Damage to walls must be paid for.

  Nurses are responsible for

  the cleanliness and maintenance of rooms.

  No spitting.

  Oskar pulled the notice off the door and threw it in the bin. “Confronting authority never hurt anyone,” he muttered. “Spitting!” He hadn’t risked life and limb on the railways of the UK only to be undermined and suppressed at every turn by capitalist scum of the hierarchy. “Karl Marx would never, I repeat never, obey a pissy notice like that,” he told Simon. “I’ll bloody well spit if I want to. Start as you mean to go on!”

  Altogether, there were thirty rolled-up posters of those far greater than anyone in this dump could imagine. One by one, Oskar carefully unrolled the precious booty and began sticking it up with Blu Tack. He took care to align, creating straight edges within the maelstrom of this crazy student existence. It was important to look just so in the face of those who would advise no spitting.

  But posters weren’t quite enough to fend off an emotional shitstorm. “Oh god.” A leaden weight which he refused to acknowledge or name swiftly ascended and took root. “S’just nervous exhaustion,” he whispered, looking around the little room so many miles away from home. “Anyone would be nervous their first day at uni, like Bear said.”