Fiction: The Text

Saturday morning and Lil’Johnny was on his way to work on the Market. He walked along the long curve of street that ran along the bottom of the hill bordering the old marshes where now stood council estates. The tall towers stood like giants against the clear cold blue sky where the first rays of orange-golden sunlight lit up the morning sky. The road was shiny and quiet, anticipating the monotonous roar of traffic that was sure to follow. A pair of skittish wood pigeons leapt from the ground at Lil’Johnny’s approach, the heavy beat of their wings breaking the silence. 

Lil’Johnny walked the long road until the bend where he turned into the park. The park too stood at the bottom of the hill, a great field ringed by trees. Up on the hill the close-knit silhouettes of Victorian facades looked down into the park and out over the marsh. In the park the sky opened out as if one looked up at an ocean above, a great blue expanse. He crossed the park, entering the walkway beneath the railway line and from there along a long sliver of park-lined path. Then abruptly right heading cross-country to the gate on the far side of a grassy green playing field.

As Lil’Johnny turned right the Singing Bush tweeted and chirruped making him smile. The Singing Bush is a large undistinguished shrub that emits the sound of chirruping finches although not one of the little birds can be seen, completely invisible in the thicket of branches and leaves. Looking at the Bush one sees and hears a spirited shrub singing.

Through the gate onto a little path along a row of houses, across the road, down a backstreet and then up the grafitti-ed cobbled alleyway onto the Market. The metallic clink of poles of stallholders erecting their metal-frame structures, greets Lil’Johnny. Boxes litter the road, vans parked across, the movement of bodies, soul music from a radio, a cluster of chain-smoking locals sitting outside the cafe. Lil’Johnny walks briskly down the street, looking neither left nor right, dodging the assorted obstacles living and inanimate.

Lil’Johnny arrives at the Shop, just one of the hodge-podge of shopfronts lining either side of this mile-long medieval street that acts as Market on some days and High Street on others. “Robert Walkers” is written in large golden letters over the Shop. Below the sign is a large plate-glass window and to the right a single doorway leading inside. The Shop consists of a long wide corridor bordered on either side by high shelves overflowing with cut-price groceries and products – an Aladdin’s cave.  At the far end of the Shop is a wooden table with cash register. Out the back is a vast storeroom.

Outside, Raja patiently sets up the stall, his slow thoughtful movements speak of his three decades performing this ritual. He turns his old lanky frame and smiles at Lil’Johnny’s approach, revealing a set of brilliant white teeth set against his dark Tamil skin, a sharp hooked nose and streaky black hair combed over his shiny pate. As usual he is smartly turned out in shiny dress shoes, sharp suite trousers, button-down shirt and overcoat. Lil’Johnny salutes him as he passes though the door into the Shop.

As Lil’Johnny is about to head into the back he brushes against the corner of a shelf inadvertently and CRASH! An avalanche of junk falls off. ‘Fucking, fuck, fuck – Big Johnny you bastard – clean your shit up!’ he curses to the empty shop. He hastily clears up the fallen boxes, dirty plates, cups of mouldy rotting tea-bags and assorted out-of-date packets of god-knows-what. He heads out the back into the storeroom, down the rickety wooden stairs and dumps the smeared crockery in the small sink. “You can clean up this bloody mess yourself,” Lil’Johnny says to the Boss who is not there.

Thus his workday begins. Lil’Johnny leverages the weighty front door off its hinge and drags it into the  back; he hoovers the floor with the trusty but mutilated Henry patched up with masking-tape; he fills baskets with nuts and, bending over the stall outside, flips the bags expertly into rows. In the middle of his routine Lil’Johnny spies Big Johnny, the Boss, sauntering towards the Shop. The Boss’ belly sticks out before his tall wide ageing frame, his white button-down shirt falling out of his baggy trousers and comfortable shoes adorn his feet. “Here comes Johnny!” calls Lil’Johnny to the approaching figure. “Mornin’” the Boss says by way of return.

Big Johnny is vexed as usual. “Come on, come on, we’ve got to get this stall out,” he says impatiently, pulling out a box here, dumping something out of another there, rearranging one corner then another in a seemingly pointless haste. Raja gesticulates wildly at the Boss and shouts something about buying too much junk which the Boss ignores. Lil’Johnny smokes an insolent cigarette, watching the passing scene of early shoppers and day-trippers. Lil’Johnny hears the beep-beep of his phone. He pulls out the little brick of plastic and looks into the archaic screen which reads:

“How was the DJ gig last Saturday? (heart)”

Yes, there was a gig last Saturday, and yes Lil’Johnny had DJ-ed. But who was the text from? Lil’Johnny hates it when people did not sign off their texts with their name. It made for the situation that had just arisen. The number, ending 611, had not been saved to his phone. He had no idea who had sent it. “Come on, come on,” orders Big Johnny, “Get me a barrel out the back.” Lil’Johnny snaps to attention and rushes out the back leaving the Text till later.

The stall consists of a long low table out in the street, piled with goods – herbal teas, 2litre olive oil, boxes of latex gloves, bags of sweets, 3kg brown sugar, packets of broken biscuits, nuts and dried fruit, bars of chocolate, spaghetti and lasagna sheets, dried chickpeas and tins of powdered milk. The stall’s flank is protected by a wall of blue barrels. On a stack of yellow crates sits a round battered Quality Street tin which acts as the cash register. Looking behind, Lil’Johnny can see through the door and into the back of the Shop where Raja and Big Johnny stand serving customers; there’s an animated conversation going on Lil’Johnny can’t hear. “Ah – that Text…” he remembers.

“Sat woz good fun. Sorry u couldn’t make it. What u up to 2nit? Lil’Johnny” he punches into the keypad – Send – thinking, thinking – Sent.

This gets Lil’Johnny wondering who it could be. Marta –lovely long legs, wide strong back, cute bob? Sally – older, tresses of long golden hair, a subtle bust he hasn’t quite figured out yet? Or one of those random meetings in the pub which had lead to a conversation and exchange of numbers? It puzzled Lil’Johnny. “Stop slacking and serve that customer,” barks Big Johnny pointing to a woman at the end of the stall holding out a box of tea. Yikes! Lil’Johnny pulls out a blue plastic bag and slopes across the stall with a servile “Madam…”.

Thereafter the trade begins. “Yes sir, that’s £1….4 for £1 on those Madam….Would you like bag?……The price of the oils? £7 for the Extra Virgin, £6 otherwise…..Oi kid stopping hitting that packet…..What’s it like? I am afraid I can’t eat it for you sir, you need to decide for yourself……That’s £3.50, you’ve given me £10, £6.50 change coming….No Madam we don’t take cards, only cash…..A bank transfer? Sorry we only take hard currency ……Price for that? Let me check” – Lil’Johnny holds the item high in the air and shouts into the back of the Shop; Big Johnny signals with his fingers ‘4’ which Lil’Johnny repeats verbally to the customer. “It’s cheaper in the supermarket,” gripes the customer and walks off. “Yeah well buy it from there then” Lil’Johnny imagines himself saying.  Things quieten down and Lil’Johnny pulls out his phone. There is a message waiting. It reads:

“Hey – that’s great. At the Bolton Arms tonight. There is a good band lined up. Hope to see you down there?! xx”

“Bah! Sign your name!” thinks Lil’Johnny aloud. He wasn’t really planning on heading so far from his usual stomping grounds. The Bolton was an old Victorian pub someway along the path that runs beside the Great River. Would it be worth it? It all depended who it was on the other side of that number – 611. The number started to fascinate him. “Who are you Madam 611? I’ve got to find out. I’ve got to know,” he concluded with a determined air.

The day proceeded in its timeless routine. Come 4pm Lil’Johnny starts packing up the stall, moving its constituting parts into the back of the Shop. By 5pm he is supping on a can of beer. By 6pm Raja has surreptitiously handed Lil’Johnny a little bundle of cash that constitutes Lil’Johnny’s wages. Lil’Johnny carefully deposits the cash in his secret pocket. Then there passes much banter and familial conversation between the three as they wait for the last of the custom to evaporate. At last they vacate the darkened Shop and lock up. Raja’s nimble fingers weave the weighty metal chain through gaps in the shutter and with the ‘snap’ of the lock, Lil’Johnny feels released.

————————————

The Oxford Arms sits on a forgotten corner between a busy road, a raised railway line and the Creek. It’s a spit-and-sawdust, no frills live music pub. Lil’Johnny decides to go there first. At the end of a road coming off the Market sits the handsome, lonely building acting as a beacon for pirates and other ne’r-do-wells.

Lil’Johnny enters, orders a lager and slips back outside. He sups the clear pishy liquid quenching a thirst more mental than physical. He takes a deep pull on a spliff and breathes a deep sigh of relief.

Inside the pub there is a band playing some of sort of naff pseudo-punk. One of their songs is called “Wisdom of the Blues”. Lil’Johnny goes in. The lead singer struts his stuff on the dance floor while an older crowd bop to the music. It’s boring music – a mish mash of everything and nothing at all – a noisy mess, played overloud. Two sexy older ladies dance, mobile phones in hand. Members of the band strut off the stage whacking people in the face with their instruments. “Thank you, good night”. “One more” the crowd shout. This last song has a terrible guitar solo.

Phil Sick – critic, DJ, music nerd – arrives. He is short with a great bush of ratty white hair; he wears glasses, long shorts, canvas Converse trainers and a black-and-white polka dot shirt. “Oi oi, Sick” calls Lil’Johhny. Phil starts waxing lyrical about the “orgasmic” female noise artist he has just seen at a bar at the end of the road; he describes the dry-ice and strobe in the dark basement. “It was loud,” he says looking up at Lil’Johnny with a glow of euphoric bliss. Sick then goes to stand in front of the speakers waiting for the next band looking like an untidy teenage girl.

The pub is busy. DJ Toffee is playing between sets, a munchkin of a man peeping out from behind the decks. There the crackle from his overworn records. He plays an eclectic mix of: “The Israelites”, “I want to hold your hand”, “Disco inferno”, “Leader of the pack”, “How long has this been going on…” and “Black Betty” in succession. The Soundman moves about the pub like a malevolent force, vexed because he can’t play HIS playlist of neurotic trance. Will – patron saint of the Oxford Arms – is at his usual seat at the bar wearing a camouflage baseball cap, pint in hand, looking on blankly.

Lil’Johnny looks up at the clock on the wall – it reads 8:00pm. “Time to move on me’thinks. Don’t want to be too late, just fashionably” he says to himself. The Coyote Men, a four-man Newcastle rock band, its members dressed in tutu’s and Mexican wrestling masks, come on stage. They start playing a surfy caveman rock with a funky rolling bassline; Americana rock-and-roll with a Mexican twist. As Lil’Johnny leaves through the side door, he catches a line from one of their songs: “Loopy Loopy Lopez \\ Break my heart, I break your legs..”. “Geez! Just when the bands were getting good. Oh well, it can’t be helped.”

*************

Along the Creek and over it, through the busy town centre and onto the path that runs alongside the Great River. The almost-full moon hangs high and bright in the inky-black sky; Lil’Johnny salutes it. The Great River is at high-tide and tonight it has a flat, reflective surface like a field of mud – smooth and defined. One can just hear the rushing river like the rustling of paper over the mournful drone of the air traffic above.

Beams of light shine across the River, shimmering pillars. On the other side skyscrapers are lit up like constellations organized by bureaucrats, geometric glittering anthills. Its dark by the river and people cut figures against the glowing skyline. Cylindrical metal buoys pockmarked with raised ridges make black patches against the luminescent river as if mines waiting for contact. A river bus pulls out of the quay and rides gracefully up the river trailing waves in its wake. A few seconds later the Great River speaks: the lapping of water, gurgle – slap – wash – the elemental crashing of waves.

Lil’Johnny stops along the path, leans against the balustrade and looks out over the Great River, that still molten pond of glass. It exudes its primal silence. Lil’Johnny gets to thinking: “What the hell am I doing? Does it really matter? I wouldn’t be out this evening if I didn’t have this mission to fulfill, this mystery to solve.” “My little manor,” he thinks panning from the hills behind to the Great River before him. “I hardly ever leave this place. My little corner of the Earth. Some people want to travel but I just want is to follow my little circuit, see me old muckers, listen to music and dance the night away. In short – to party. Am I looking for love tonight? I don’t know. I’m looking for something….I’m just not sure what it is yet. An answer, a sign, an auspice, destiny?!”

The stupid clump of a jogger and their loud rasping guttural breathing disturbs Lil’Johnny’s train of thought. Then the gabble of voices in the dark, moving forms. Lil’Johnny pulls himself together and continues along the river path, gazing dreamily up at the evening star stuck up in the sky like a brilliant satellite.

Off the river path, halfway down a side street, a corner pub sits – a dumpy Victorian relic – painted black. It’s the Bolton Arms and Lil’Johnny quickens his pace because he knows he’s late. In through the door and straight to the bar; he’s gasping for a drink. The pub is packed.

Lil’Johnny looks around making a visual inspection of the punters. While he is never good at remembering names or numbers, Lil’Johnny has an uncanny memory for faces – he knows that if Madam 611 is there, he’ll know. She is not there in that mass. While Lil’Johnny waits to be served he surveys his surroundings. The pub is painted in a dark coat; there in one corner a raised stage stands with a cut-glass mirror behind and neon-red lights spell out “Bolton” above – the red light reflects off the black ceiling and splashes across tables. A discoball, small and lonely, hangs high above the stage. There is a band setting up. Fairylights strung from the ceiling reflect in the large handsome windows creating a starry infinity. A big stuffed fish sits in a glass case above the bar.

“What you having?” asks the young barmaid. “Pint of the pale ale please”. Pour – clunk – “Cash or card?” – beeeep! Lil’Johnny takes a long sip and returns to surveying the pub. People wearing leather jackets and denim shirts, young men with long hair, quiff’s black and grey, blonde bobs, pates, leopard print, glasses of white wine, teeth, smiling faces. There a mobile phone so sparkly that a magpie would be off with it. At the bar long blonde hair frames an angelic face with long eyelashes. A wealthier set than Lil’Johnny is used to. They talk and eat and generally look bored.

Its the “Magic City Trio” playing tonight. Lil’Johnny knows them. A husband and wife outfit who sing and play guitar. The band includes a double bass, brass and drums. There are lots of pairs of glasses in the band. The husband wears a floral-print Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, tall with big lips and long greying hair; she is short and wears a glittery silver dress. They start off with “Spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you…”. Their sound is a vibrant country honky-tonk with drawling vocals and twangy guitars. A mother with a snub nose sitting near the stage covers her young daughter’s ears with her hands; the child has a big unhappy look on her face. The young child looks askance at an older lady dancing wildly in front.

Lil’Johnny decides to go out into the garden – a strip of gravel on which sit rows of wooden picnic benches. He lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag and watches the curling of smoke rising and dissipating into the sky. Looking up he sees the sweep of new build flats. From the flats emanates a dull green-grey light punctuated by chaotic, disjointed, angular shapes of the stuff inside;  there the flitting light of a large TV screen. “Sorry, the girls are coming with me” says a lady to some leery lads chatting up her friends perched on the benches nearby. Lil’Johnny surveys the garden and no Madam 611.

The reader may ask why Lil’Johnny doesn’t just text Madam 611? Why not just ask who she is and where she is? That would be unthinkable to Lil’Johnny. He believes in fate, in chance – what adventure would there be if we just got all our answers from pressing some buttons on a phone? Its a matter of principle. If Lady Luck should favour him tonight he will meet up with Madam 611. She will appear from around a corner, they will recognize each other, embrace and sit down to talk; they will move closer to one another and nuzzle. Lil’Johnny must continue on his mission until the battle is won or lost.

The beer has loosened Lil’Johnny’s hips and inhibitions. He joins the throng of dancers inside. “Burning ring of fire…” plays from the stage. Being the hill-billy he is, Lil’Johnny slaps his thighs and keeps time to the music with his stomping feet. He sees the back of bobbing heads and heads and heads behind which the band can just be seen. Closing his eyes the rhythm runs through him and into his moving body. Things become fuzzy, ephemeral and euphoric, the spirit of Dionysus unleashed. Around him bodies pop, shuffle, jiggle and jive. Shaking hips, dancing bums, tossed hair and furtive glances. Lil’Johnny is carried away, lost in the scene.

Time passes and the band has come to an end. The Strokes plays softly off a playlist. Lil’Johnny falls into a large leather armchair and once more surveys the pub. The crowd has thinned and empty glasses fill the tables. Lil’Johnny strikes up conversation with a pretty lady sitting nearby. They get to talking about how they each came to be here this night. “Well, I got this text from a number ending 611 and I had to see who she was…”. The lady looks at Lil’Johnny biting on her curled finger, laughing. “I was just being honest…” protests Lil’Johnny feebly. She leaves shortly thereafter and he is alone once again. An old couple trundle out of the pub, fingers intertwined in a caring embrace.

Lil’Johnny gets his things and pats his secret pocket to see that his wages are still safe – all is well. He does one more circuit of the pub. Just as he thought – Madam 611 is not there. He knows the routine – she won’t text him again, he won’t text her, a stalemate of obstinate wills – such is the way in this cosmopolitan dump. He will now never know who Madam 611 is, she will be just another unsolved and soon forgotten mystery of his life. Despite his inebriated state, Lil’Johnny He takes his leave of the Bolton and joins the darkness of the river path. The moon has shifted round and the tide on the Great River has dropped. Lil’Johnny is drunk, happy and alone. He walks along the dead quiet river path homeward bound with an uneven swinging step, singing that classic reggae song out loud: “I got money in my pocket // But I just can’t get no love….”

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Feature Image: Katerina Holmes