Oskar Blows a Gasket

by Claire Davis

  ****

  Oskar

  “We need a dance before setting off,” Oskar told the others. “I do believe we’re ready.”

  Preparations for the 80s disco had taken the whole afternoon, though discussion and accessory purchases had begun a month earlier. They crowded into the lounge, wearing shiny leggings, footless tights, white gloves and rah-rah skirts. The Smiths played in the background and it was absolutely the best night ever.

  “I’m really pleased with your crimps, Pink.”

  Since Christmas, the nicknames had vanished, all but Pink. The hostel inhabitants had decided hers was too good a name to ditch, so Pink she remained.

  “Tuck your shirt back in, Gareth. I haven’t spent three days transforming Bear Grylls into Phil Oakey for you to undermine my efforts at every turn.”

  “We look mental,” Moira said.

  “Wicked,” Carol agreed.

  “Bossy.” Gareth grinned.

  “I am happy with the results of my labours. As happy as an artist can ever be faced with the certainty that perfection only exists within 80s music.” Oskar glugged back a glass of cheap fizzy wine. “Shall we have a group selfie? Stella in the middle. Watch my Boy George dreadlocks!” he warned Gareth, who pulled him onto his knees. “They’re not entirely stable.”

  “Like a bubbling volcano,” Gareth murmured.

  Pink arranged her phone—“OK, I’m setting it for ten seconds. Everyone say cheese”—and ran to the sofa to scramble on. “I’m really glad you came, Stell. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  “I’m glad to. The place has gone downhill without me here tidying up after Gareth.”

  They’d met her at the train station the day before. It had been awkward for a while, but not long. Oskar’s letters had quickly turned into phone calls and then Skype.

  “Cheese,” he yelled, amidst raucous calls of bodacious, crucial and other 80s phrases the others insisted on using. “Get with the times!” They posed in various ways, until it was time to go on ahead to the Student Union to set up the disco. “See you there! Don’t be late. I’m relying on you to dance. And if no-one else comes, remember you promised to go round the posh halls and offer them money to come. But only if necessary. We will only beg when all else fails. The inhabitants of the nurses’ hovel do have standards, albeit lowly ones.” He stopped in the corridor and pointed towards the door. “Look at that!”

  “What is it?” Gareth nudged his shoulder.

  Someone had written ‘Lollipop and Honeybunny’ bang in the middle of Oskar’s door.

  “Hah-hah-hah. That’s cute. Don’t you think that’s cute?”

  Oskar’s answer was a withering glare. He stalked back into his room and selected a bright-pink lipstick. He waved it meaningfully at the door—

  “Oh. You’re gonna cover it up?”

  —then swiftly drew a pink heart around the words. “There,” he said. “Much better. If you’re going to graffiti, the least you can do is make it look good! You may kiss me.”

  “You’re so hot.” Gareth grinned.

  There were a few stares outside the confines of the hostel, not altogether unwelcome. Oskar shook his multicoloured hair extensions and held Gareth’s arm firmly. “I’m quite nervous,” he confessed at the bus stop. “What if no-one turns up?”

  “I’ll be there. The others will definitely come, though they’re already drunk. People will come! Stop worrying. How many tickets did we sell?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “Two hundred!” Gareth had a heifer. “Oh my god. I thought you were gonna say thirty or something. Two hundred including us?”

  “No. Two hundred, us, oh, and Tony said he might bring a few mates.” Oskar giggled at Gareth’s horror. “Also, I started giving them out free because I got bored standing there after fifty hours. Might be as many as three hundred.”

  “You stood there half an hour. At most half an hour.”

  “Do not interrupt me, Lollipop. Rudeness does not become you.”

  Gareth tugged a dreadlock. “It’s going to be awesome. OK? Awesome. And you look fantastic.”

  “I know.” He really did. From bangin’ dreadlocks down, art transcended. Green eye shadow dripped into a beautiful facial picture of Ophelia in the pond. Altogether, there was something of a Robin Hood theme with green leggings and pixie boots made in heaven. “I may never undress again.”

  “So what are you worried about?”

  Oskar considered. “The DJ-ing. It’s been years since I did it.” The equipment was already set up, along with 80s lights and paraphernalia, courtesy of Mike. They’d spent most of the day practising and getting ready. By now, Oskar had a plan of exactly which phrases to use with which song, timing, pace, humour, and even when to throw the glitter bomb. “I wish I’d spent more time on preparation and research.”

  “Hasn’t been years. You did it just yesterday,” Gareth reasoned. “And Oskar Braithwaite does not know the meaning of the word unprepared. Bossy, yes. That’s not what you’re worried about.”

  “What is it, then, smart-arse?”

  “Ass.”

  They climbed on the bus. “Oh, bloody hell, it’s you,” the driver said. By now, he knew Oskar and regularly had a stream of witty banter. He stared with mouth open. “My bloody god. I’d do this job for nothing just for a glimpse of you lot.”

  “Well, go on,” Oskar said smugly. “Not even you can insult this work of perfection.” The driver whistled.

  “You’ve got a girl sitting on your face,” he said. “Now that’s not something I’d expect from you.” He bent over laughing. “Girl!”

  By way of answer, Oskar swept down the bus and parked his bum regally on the back seat.

  “Sometimes I don’t know how I cope. Beam me up. Now?”

  “OK, I know what it is that’s bothering you.” Gareth had a way of thinking about things that made stars light up when before there had been only sky. “Well, other than worrying I might upstage you.” He chuckled. Oskar smiled tightly. “You’re worried about getting upset.” Oskar looked away out the window. “About Morris.”

  “Might be.”

  ****

  “Can you dig it?” He shouted down the mic. The shiny audience swayed and undulated like waves of a sequinned tide, dancing in time to his crucial songs. “How many did you say?” Gareth squeezed his arm, his presence constant and unwavering. He’d flitted between dancing, getting drinks for Oskar and offering a ready supply of kisses.

  “’Bout four hundred? I don’t know how they all fit in. I actually think our whole year is here—wearing shiny leggings and those funny glove things. Did you see that dude in the furry boots? So cool. Who knew there was such need for the 80s? That dance floor is dangerous!”

  “Only if you go against the tide.” Occasionally, they caught glimpses of Pink and the others dotted amongst the throng. “It’s no surprise to me, Lollipop. The 80s were an era which will be forever missed.” He shook his head sadly. “No-one can replicate the purity of the bubble perm. You think Stella’s OK?”

  “Oh, yeah! Last I saw, she was necking some guy over by the bar. She had him in a head lock.”

  “I’m knackered.” Oskar leaned into his boyfriend. “Happy with the shining light of 80s songs yet diminished by physical limitations.”

  “I don’t think you have any physical limitations. Not that I’ve noticed, anyway. Remember that time we stayed in bed all day? I was tired out but you wanted to go again! Six times?” Laughter huffed in warm puffs against Oskar’s neck.

  “Well that’s your fault! Too hot for your own good.”

  “I guess so. It’s almost over, though. They lock up in half an hour.” The disco had already gone two hours over schedule, only carrying on longer after serious begging with the union caretaker.

  “What’s your damage?” Oskar yelled into the mic. “Show me your hands!” Hundreds of hands waved above the heads like starfish floating above the waves. “I do believe there may be more 80s nights on
the horizon. Or maybe I will branch out and go 90s? I foretell an influx. You know we made three hundred quid? I’m putting it in the America trip fund.” Because he wasn’t going to let Mike pay for it all.

  “You see it in your glass ball, Mystic Oskar?”

  “Yeah. They love it.” He waved towards the dancers. “I actually thought they were taking the piss at the start.” The night had begun with a few practice songs, shaking hands and a not-quite-steady voice. By the time the doors unlocked, Oskar had been convinced the disco would be an almighty flop of epic proportions not seen since the going down of the Titanic. Then Gareth had come hurtling up the stairs from the entrance to say—shouting—that hundreds of people queued outside, dressed to kill. “It’s a buzz like nothing else.” After that, the magnificence of the music swallowed him up. “I am merely a servant of the beat.”

  “You look so awesome up here on the DJ stand!” Gareth made expressive arm movements. “I could just eat you all up.”

  “Hold you to that later.”

  “And it was OK? It didn’t make you sad?”

  “Not sad. Kind of…proud.” Oskar waded through the sticky mess of feelings. “Like his legacy is living on. A bit sad too.” He waved at Pink. “How your dad got hold of our old DJ board, I will never know.” The wooden board stood against a speaker, still covered in Oskar’s ten-year-old drawings. “But I love him for it.”

  “Oh my god! You don’t wanna know how he found that.” Gareth laughed. “Morris and Oskar lives on.”

  “Exactly. Even without Morris.” Gareth’s arms tightened around Oskar’s waist. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Lollipop.” He took a deep breath and selected the song. “Last song of the night, beautiful people,” he shouted into the mic. “Catch you on the flip side!”

  The dancers screamed into oblivion as the notes of the song began. Oskar thought of the hospital radio, and Saturday afternoons. For a few seconds, he gulped and blinked, but Gareth was there, and his listeners waited. He took a breath—“This one is for Morris”—switched off the mic and turned into the kiss he knew would be waiting.

  “OK? You’re so brave.”

  “Yeah.” He blinked a few times. “What’s that in your hand?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you.” Gareth held out a handful of what looked like snakes. “It’s your hair extensions. They started falling out about two hours ago. I thought I’d keep them for Bubble to play with.”

  “Mental!” Oskar laughed. “Aunty Kath says she’ll show me when she gets out.” He grabbed Gareth’s hand. “Let’s go home, cowboy. You can make me a coffee—white with eighty-seven sugars today, I believe.”

  “Bodacious!”

  About the Authors

  Claire Davis and Al Stewart are UK authors and friends. Claire spends her time grappling with facts and figures while Al is a champion of young people, cats and slippers.

  Website: http://astewartcdavisbook.wix.com/author

  By the Authors

  Tork and Adam Series

  The Invasion of Tork (Boughs of Evergreen)

  The Invasion of Adam

  If I Should Stumble

  Coming Up (Al Stewart and Debbie McGowan)

  Eight Inches to make Johnny Smile

  The Forest Savage

  Ribbons and Frills (Summer Bigger Than Others)

  A Case in Time (Al Stewart and Noah Homes)

  The Trap (Love Unlocked)

  Last Dance of the Sugarplum

  Dear Mona Lisa

  Shut Your Face, Anthony Pace

  Nobody’s Butterfly

  Oskar Blows a Gasket

  Beaten Track Publishing

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  please visit our website:

  http://www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  Thanks for reading!