Earworm

by Colin Varney

  She bristled in Bryce’s abode. She used to love it when Bryce wallowed in the guilty pleasure of an action film, de-evolving, unscrewing the cap off some cheap plonk. Now she found it repulsive. His modern classical composers sent her scuttling to other rooms. She’d try to study but screens and books contained hieroglyphs that refused to translate. Nights alone at the movies would lead to the realisation that she’d already seen this one. One evening she jerked into wakefulness, as if from a trance. Clinking cutlery; curdling conversation. Tower of dishes in her arms. Plate Pisa. She was halfway through her shift. She struggled to recall how she’d arrived there.

  One night, she found herself squirming in Bryce’s embrace. He cuddled her into calmness. After a while their movements adopted a bossanova beat and they headed inexorably towards ooh poo pah doo. I waited for Nicole to program me on the MP3. Amorous accompaniment. But I was disappointed. She switched the unit to shuffle and I remained unsung.

  Messages banked up on her phone. Invites from intimates, promptings from peers. She thumbed delete. Paused at one that had a video attached. Mild curiosity got the better of her. She viewed an indistinct figure dancing with desperate determination, hair flaring, arms trailing tassels of blur. Lights lasered and strobed; the figure flashed and dissolved. The features mugged at the lens, distorting, tongue protruding rudely. Nicole had already passed verdict, damning the dancer as ridiculous, before confirming it was herself. She felt she was watching a biopic of her life, upset that the producers hadn’t been able to afford a more convincing actress.

  She flipped to the message.

  Just clearing my phone memory. Look what I came across! Save the next dance for me, H.

  Heinrich: winner, Pan-dimensional Dullard Award. His emails inundated her inbox; his texts collected on her phone. The famished fanfare of her ringtone regularly announced his yearning. He’d leave a message plying for opinion on an economic theory or seeking assistance with an essay. All of them went unanswered. The barrage began after he and Nicole had danced to the sample of me in the club that night—that amputated chunk repeating obscenely like a burping cannibal. As he’d pulled out his phone to film her, I’d lodged in his head. Oh yeah. Next day he investigated iTunes and imported my original incarnation. That’s one thing I have to concede about samples: they fan farm. A younger crowd picks up on me and I bloom, exhumed. Cool zombie. Lazarus-R-Us. I don’t even mind being ironically retro. Heinrich indulged in me incessantly, and every time he listened he envisioned Nic twerking. The drum and bass of his heart and veins set up a surge. It’s thrilling when this happens in humans. Pure Love. Unfortunately, in this case, it wasn’t exclusively directed at Nicole. Several women in his class had a time-share.

  Grim gym. Lack of will on the treadmill. The oars of the rowing machine dragged. The pedals on the stationary bike rusted. She couldn’t feel her waist wasting, her skin constricting. In her mind she saw leering features, a tongue lolling, lashing limbs. She stopped pedalling. Snatched her phone from the locker and inflicted the video on herself again. Nicole the party animal. Antic Nic. She matched to a memory of herself getting glammed up to attend the club that night. Donning a Little Black Dress, priming herself. She recalled rehearsing some lines she could drop later: satirical and political jibes and wry commentary on local gossip. To my despair, she edited the scene, omitting the audio. Me, meandering from the MP3. Again, the woman in the memory seemed like a second-rate actress.

  In the gym, Nicole ran a hand over the taut trampoline of her tummy. In the past, when she’d needed motivation to continue her gruelling schedule on the torture machines she’d tell herself she was sculpting her body. Now she realised that a sculpture was a representation, not the real thing. She recalled her brief foray into computer games a few years earlier. Her avatar, slim and trim, tall and gorgeous.

  She grabbed her things. She was pining for pizza.

  Her textbooks were neglected. She preferred the tumult of television, although advertisements agitated her. Vacuous families, enjoying routines and homespun puns. Always happy by the conclusion of their thirty-second allotment. She harked back to her life before Terry left home and it felt like she’d existed in a run of ads. Everywhere there were billboards with pretty moms and humorous dads. Precocious kids. She rattled with resentment. Disturbingly, her indignation had a soundtrack: a seething deep within. A scratchy under-sound, like the sizzle from someone else’s iPod. It drew me, plucked at me, but I resisted. I didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to know.

  Good golly gee it frightened me.

  One day, waddling from the car with bagfuls of shopping, Nicole was startled to see Bryce bursting from the door and storming her. He snatched the bags, gnashed a grin, and hauled them inside. Later, while she was carrying firewood, he came at her again, cradling the logs in his arms and lifting them away. He fought to douse his beatific beam. Nicole was puzzled, but only for a moment. Bryce believed they were about to become one of those billboard families, sunbright and insipid. A child swaddled in their smiles. It triggered the static again, as if the dial was just off the radio station. Spitting, hissing.

  Nicole realised Bryce could only have that belief if he’d been in contact with Mum. She pictured Bryce and Mum in a scrum, muttering and conspiring. She caved in on herself, cold and lonely.

  Nicole lay studying the lampshade in the gloom above the bed. Damask Damocles. Her legs thrummed, snared by sheets. Since she’d quit the gym they ached for exercise. She could feel her calf muscles leeching strength, petering potential. Tendons slack as spent elastic bands. She felt fuller, sketched with stretch marks. Bryce must have noticed. Usually he hissed urgent endearments as they wig-wam-bammed but tonight he’d been silent. Now he was heaved on his side, away from her, the slab of his back a barrier. She sensed the ramparts of bone and skin expanding as he inhaled heavily in slumber, like an opponent puffing up belligerently. She wondered what he must be feeling. His unfamiliarity with the new lumps of her body. The dull disappointment as his stroking hand created rucks of flesh. She imagined him summoning patience to accommodate her increased brusqueness, alternating as it did with remoteness. Trying to love her as much as he’d once loved Terry’s daughter. Like a fan trying to stay loyal to a beloved band after the loss of a major member. INXS without Hutchence. Rogue Traders sans Bassingthwaite.

  She shook him gently. He piped in protest.

  “Do you love me?” she whispered.

  He made a wordless sound of affirmation.

  “What do you love about me?”

  “Huhmm? Ev’ything.”

  “No, come on. Tell me.”

  “I’ll write a poem,” he slurred.

  “Could you?”

  He gave a sleepy half laugh. In the few bars of John Cage’s 4’ 33” that followed, he shuffled himself laboriously around to peer at her.

  “Shit. Seriously?”

  Nicole sauntered from the back door of the restaurant, shrugging her coat over her waitressing wardrobe. Tired, slightly dazed, the last few hours a blank. She lingered in the laneway. She was loath to return to Bryce’s place but couldn’t go back to her mother at home. Perhaps if she stalled long enough Bryce would be in bed.

  She was dimly aware of another presence in the lane.

  “Hey, gorgeous. Got something to show you.”

  He was loitering in a doorway. His expensive coat was unbuttoned, revealing a loosened tie bibbed at his neck and a jacket that didn’t sit properly. He might have looked handsome when he was sober but now his ebony hair was mussed and his larval lips writhed sardonically. I expected to hear the pad of Nicole’s sensible work shoes as she negotiated the clear route to the car park. I was concerned that she wasn’t walking, that she was turning to face him.

  “Yeah? What would that be?”

  He straightened. There was a pause while his mind clanked and whirred. He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

  “A good time.” He smirked, pleased with this response. “I could show you a good time
.”

  Steve the waiter slammed out of the back door, also dragging on a coat. He hesitated, taking in the two figures. He took a few steps towards the man but Nicole called his name curtly and waved him away. He gave the stranger a warning glance, then reluctantly strolled to the car park.

  Nicole stepped slowly, deliberately towards the stranger. His smirk drooled wider. His head made tiny nodding movements. Bravado vibrato.

  “Why did you call me ‘gorgeous’?” she asked.

  He conducted an exaggerated scrutiny of their surroundings.

  “Because you’re the best looking woman in the entire alley.”

  He might have been witty earlier in the night. Perhaps charming. As she drew close to him she smelt urine. So that’s what he’d been doing in the doorway.

  “What else do you think of me?”

  His smirk softened. “You’re not a ’fraidy cat.”

  He was wrong. Her pulse was punk.

  “What else?” she asked. “Keep going.”

  He shuffled his feet. “Give me a break.”

  “I’m doing a survey,” she insisted.

  He deflated. Arrogance hissed out of him as if from a leaky valve. He shifted away from her slightly. “Hey, how about a drink?” he said. “A fancy one. On me.” He tried to discipline his face into a sincere look. Milky pupils defied him. “The Vic’s just ’round the corner. It’s a bit rough but it’s open. That’s a market advantage in this town.”

  She gave him a hard, evaluating stare. Turned on her heel and marched away. As she hit the car park Steve slipped from concealment and fell into step behind her.

  “You handled that brilliantly,” he said.

  She turned and crushed him against the side of the nearest vehicle. As she kissed him the car alarm went off.

  Bryce and Nicole shake, rattle and roll. The MP3 on shuffle. But what’s this? Those undulating notes—the warped carousel of my introduction—tweaking from the speaker. I wished I had legs so I could jump for joy. Nicole thrust Bryce away. She shoved herself from the sheets and slapped barefoot to the MP3 player.

  She skipped to the next song.

  Oh lordy lord.

  Sunlight splintered from passing traffic, startling as a cymbal splash. Nicole’s lids batted. Pedestrians flowed around her, nattering non-stop, solar powered. Exaggerated exuberance: extras in a street scene. Warmth skimmed Nic’s skin but sank no further. Rime inside. She wondered whether this was how her dad had felt—how Terry had felt—when the Zeppelin blotted the sun. I pushed myself forwards, tried to cheer her. No response. Instead, I encountered that seethe deep within her, that overheard iPod. Snap!—our frequencies locked. Briefly, but long enough to terrify.

  The operatic wails of a distressed infant wormed into her reverie. Soppy soprano. It was the only thing that seemed real in the bustling street. A father crouched before his distraught daughter, palms pressed to her arms. He cooed and caressed, teeming with tenderness. Nicole compared their countenances, eager for dissonance, but they shared a curve of the cheek, a crinkle around the eyes. She saw they were attuned and jealousy jabbed. I wished I could wince.

  The brain-box jukebox ground and grated, gears groaning. I had no control over it any more, the buttons loose and disconnected. A disc dropped into place, worn and warped. It’s Nicole as a little girl. Fancy frocked and brightly bowed, one of Mum’s necklaces dangling large and lax at her thorax. From the next room comes the rabble of relatives. She is about to be presented to them and will be expected to sing. She cowers. Tears twinkle, keen to cascade. Terry kneels before her, tone pianissimo. He weaves the tale of a Count, from a far off principality called Hanzov, who owned a cloak made of invisible, impenetrable thread. Whenever the Count had to give an important speech, or feed the ferocious fish-dragons in his moat, or eat Brussels sprouts, he would don the cloak, then haul it over his head so its folds would protect his entire being. Terry leans in closer. He breathes that he’s wearing the cloak at that very moment, because Uncle Pat and Aunty Julie terrify him. Especially that honking laugh Aunty has. He explains that his advertising agency had been commissioned to compose a national anthem for Hanzov. The Count had been so enchanted with the results he’d given Terry the cloak as a gift. Terry carefully unhooks the invisible clasp and wraps the garment around his daughter. He shows her how to reach over her shoulders, elbows rearing, to grasp the cloth and draw it over her head.

  “Nothing can harm you while you’re wearing the Cloak of Hanzov.” Voice purring with reverence. “It’s made of special silk excreted from a worm that can only be found in that principality.”

  Hammy family.

  They both know Terry’s excreting something special too, but Nicole rakes the raiment over herself and courage courses through her. She turns to take on the uncles and aunts. Another family myth riff. In later years Terry will use it to encourage Nicole when she needs to give class presentations or face thorny exams. He’ll mime the movements first, nodding at her to follow. Occasionally he’ll fart and hastily draw the cloak over her head to protect her from the smell, cackling evilly. As Nicole grows older the ritual becomes rarer, but Terry resurrects it before she has to give a tutorial paper or front up on the first day of a job.

  On the street, Nicole stopped to confront her reflection in a shop window. Annoyed shoppers detoured. Her outline was scrunched like a tired balloon, the once crisp lines corrupted. She grinned with grim satisfaction. Reaching over her shoulders, her fingers closed as if grasping bunched material. The brain-box jukebox clanked and clattered. There’s Nicole as a little girl clutching a racket, surrounded by a tight knot of school friends as they enter a court for an important tennis tussle. She peers back to where Terry loiters by the open door of his car. His smile widens and his arms lever over his shoulders. Nic panics. Something feels wrong, like death metal infiltrating a hymn. Terry comes to the same conclusion: the motion dissolves, one arm drops to his lapel, the other lowers and smooths his hair. Intimate as a lullaby, risible as a novelty tune, the Hanzov gesture withers in public.

  She saw how ludicrous the watermark of herself on the glass looked as arms cranked over her cranium. Onlookers stared. A tangle of teenagers tittered. Anger seared inside her. She realised that her father—that Terry—had been steeped in deceit. He’d been tricked into nurturing a false family and somehow that trickery had permeated him. He had propagated it via fairy stories and fakery, urging her into accepting a pantomime of herself. She thought of her obsessive hours at the gym, creating a constructed Nic. Her spectre shivered on the pane. She was unsurprised to see it sneering.

  She’d been wearing an invisible cloak for too long.

  Nicole sauntered on, unconcerned that she was late. She pictured Heinrich in the bar in Salamanca, his fingers fussing over the frost of his beer glass, anxious gaze glued to the door. She’d relented to a meeting to discuss some skipped lectures. She often slept through the morning: study then seemed an imposition. She was strangely unfussed about looming deadlines. Heinrich had been playing me intermittently and I’d moored in his mind. I’d seen his lurid imaginings. I knew the missed lectures were a ploy. The bemusing thing was, Nicole knew that too.

  Nicole crossed the lawn towards the sandstone edifices of the colonial warehouses now transformed into galleries, craft shops and bars. The vitreous light of late October delineated individual blades of grass. The Mountain was curtained by clouds, as if being presented to the city below. Its crags and crannies precise as a close-up. A noise nabbed Nic’s attention. Pumping, nasal notes. Carnival catarrh. It agitated the hiss in her head, that iPod under-sound. It stirred it, then—snap!—fastened onto it. Nicole couldn’t help herself. She veered, pied-pipered.

  The busker was tucked in a laneway between warehouses. He wore an open, threadbare coat that sagged to the ground, accentuating his lanky frame. An unevenly trimmed beard splayed across his jaw. A faded fedora was pushed back off his forehead. Another hat at his feet held a handful of coins and a five-dollar note. He pee
red vaguely into the middle distance as he plied the bellows of a piano accordion. The spitting hiss in Nicole answered the tune he was playing: they echoed each other. And the tune he was playing was …

  … why does it feel like a confession?

  Her sadness soundtrack. Yours truly.

  Nicole stood directly before the busker, only separated by the black bulk of the accordion. She locked gazes, unblinking. He looked disconcerted and scanned the sky.

  She fished in her purse and flashed a twenty. “It’s yours if you stop that song,” she shouted.

  It felt like I’d made a Ten Worst Songs list.

  The busker tried to ignore her. His jaw worked, the lopsided beard seesawing.

  She slid another twenty free, waved both in front of his face. They flapped across his nose. The tune faltered but he recovered, rushing back into me, crumpling some chords. He tried to tilt away from her.

  “Shut the fuck up!” she screamed.

  I was bruised, battered. Worse than a bad review.

  Nicole turned to address passers-by. “Roll up, roll up. Busker playing really bad song really badly. Quelle sur-fucking-prise.” She fired defiance over her shoulder. “Busker tries to look Bohemian in an op-shop hat. More surprises to come. Roll up.”

  “What the fuck …?” The busker’s arms flew away from the instrument. Bellows flaccid. “What is wrong with you?”

  She turned to face him. “Don’t play that song. Please. Anything else, but not that.”

  She stuffed the two twenties into the hat. As she strode away she felt a turbulent tumble of shame and flame. This fugue of feeling thrilled her: she wondered who she was becoming.

  She heard the busker call, “Psycho-bitch!”

  As Nicole swapped brilliance for the twilight of the swanky bar she became fuddled. Heinrich was abruptly by her side, lurching forwards as if to hug but converting it into a clumsy handshake at the last second. He guided her to a table. His palm on her shoulder was unsteady.