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The Saxophonist
Sam leaned back against the bar, settled his pint on the side, and held eye contact with the woman opposite him. “Listen, uh, you,” he began, realising at the final moment that he had either forgotten her name or forgotten to ask her, “Anyway, I feel it's like this. There's the field surround us, an energy field, like the ocean. It's there, all the time. You can't see it, but you can feel it. Well, I can feel it. It's love and it's honesty and it's … it's passion, because passion is everything, and with passion you can do anything.” He gave an expansive gesture. “You know what I mean?”
“Uh huh,” said the woman. “No.”
“Right, exactly! And it's two halves, see. Male and female, each incomplete without the other. But they interpenetrate.” At this final point two gestured occurred to him: making a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand so it could put his index finger through it, which seemed too forward, versus simply interlacing his fingers, which didn't seem forward enough. In the end, lacking time to think, he tried to do both as the same time and ended up with a gesture that didn't look like much of anything.
The woman looked at him moment, then said, “Thanks for the drink. Bye.”
After she'd gone, he stood by the bar long enough to make it seem natural, took a sip of his pint, then headed back. Alan sat at the table over a mostly-full pint with the shoulders of his sports jacket drooping limply over his shoulders like the petals of a dying flower.
He looked up as Sam settled into the seat opposite him. “What happened?” he asked.
Sam gave an insouciant shrug. “Not my type. Some girls just can't handle me, you know? It's too much for them.”
“Yes, of course,” said Alan. He frowned at his beer as if it were some particularly dull piece of schoolwork he had to get through, took another sip, and grimaced. “Can we go now?”
“Now?” said Sam. “We only got here a couple of hours ago.”
“Yes, and that's plenty of time to at least make it seem like we're ordinary people capable of acting normally in a social environment.” Alan's eyed widened. “A couple of hours? It should have gone off by now. Shit.” He grabbed his phone from his pocket and started fiddling with it.
“What's the problem, dude?”
“Alarms. Notifications. Whatever you call them. I … I tried to update my timezone last week and somehow I set all the sounds to silent.” He sighed. “It's ruining my schedule! Yesterday I came within five minutes of not getting to a meeting early. Aggressive punctuality is my thing! Without it, I'm just another cog in the banking machine.”
“Give it here,” said Sam.
Alan looked up from his phone, clearly uncertain, so Sam reached forward and took it from him. The time read 08.34 AM. Sam fiddled with the phone a bit, then looked up at Alan. “Your time's off because you've told it you're in Micronesia!”
“Oh,” said Alan.
“That's all the way in … Italy or something, isn't it? Whatever. Anyway, it's fixed. And your alarm's fixed too.” He held up the phone as it emitted a noise that resembled a backing track from bad pornography.
“No, Sam. Change it to something sensible please. A nice sober beep. Or … better yes, if you can, a voice like a train station announcer. Glum, possibly an alcoholic with a broken family life, but keeping all under wraps with a nice, alienating monotone.”
“I don't think they have that choice,” said Sam. He made the phone beep, then handed it back to Alan. “Now you owe me. We stay long enough to talk to one more person.”
Alan looked over his phone to check that the date actually had changed, then said. “Go on, then. Knock yourself out.”
Sam gave him a broad grin and thumbs-up. “Get ready to go home alone! Because this time, I'm all in.” He looked round the pub for another prospect. There was, as it turned out, only one who fit all the requirements: Female, alone, and had recently arrived and so hadn't seen his last failure. She was at the bar, dressed in a red coat and unwinding a scarf.
Leaving his drink behind, Sam bounded off his chair and sauntered across the pub to the bar, arriving just in time for the barman to ask to woman what she wanted. On the jukebox, the endless circle of Christmas clichés ended and were replaces by some sort of old time jazz thing he recognised from an advert.
At the bar, standing next to the new arrival, he ordered his drink: A corona, in his eyes the sexiest beer.
“At least someone in here has decent taste,” the woman said.
Sam, caught off-guard by this development, found himself staring dumbly at her.
She tipped her head towards the jukebox. “If I hear another Christmas hit, I'd do my nut.”
“Ohh, yeah,” said Sam. “I know, right? They're all so shallow and samey, aren't they? I mean, just because Christmas is less than a week away doesn't mean it's illegal to play something other than Christmas songs.” He frowned. “Is it?”
The woman laughed, and offered him her hand. “I'm Evie, by the way.”
“Sam.” Okay, Evie. Remember that: Evie. Like the Pokemon. I wonder how many more catches I need before I can evolve my Evee …
“Well, nice to meet you,” said Evie. “It's nice to know someone else appreciates Mingus.”
Mingus? Mingus. How can I remember that? There's no Pokemon that sounds like Mingus. Pingus maybe? Is Pingus a Pokemon? It sounds like it could be. “Sure,” he said. “I love Mingus. All there with his … saxophone and stuff.”
Evie laughed again. The bartender returned with both their drinks, and headed off again.
“I love music,” mused Evie. “I love musicians.”
“What a huge coincidence!” said Sam. “Because I'm a musician.”
“Really? What do you play?”
“Oh, loads of things! Really, so many things. But mainly, the uh … saxophone.”
“Really?” Evie put her hand on his arm. “Well, then, maybe I –” Mid-sentence, her phone rang. “Sorry,” she said, glancing at it. “Have to check this. Oh. Shit, sorry, I have to go meet my friends.”
“Oh, right. No. No problem,” began Sam. Guitar. Why didn't I say guitar. Guitar always works.
She stared at him. “Don't look so down, alright? It's not an out. Here, give me your phone.”
Sam placed his phone into her waiting hand, and she tapped away at it. “There. There's my number. Call me, alright?” She patted his arm, the hurriedly pulled her coat and scarf on and, saying goodbye, headed out the door.
Sam saved the number then took his corona back to the table.
Alan looked up at him and cocked his head. “You don't normally have the energy for such a big smile while you're thinking up excuses for why a woman walked away. What happened?”
“You have no faith in my abilities at all, do you?”
Alan gave him a look.
“She gave me her number, alright? We're on.”
“Thank Christ. Can we get out of here now?” Alan left his pint, a little less than half finished, on the table and stood up. “I've got work tomorrow.” He started putting on his coat.
“Still?”
“Yes, still.”
They headed out into the cola, dark air.
“Shit, man. My break started last week.”
“You're self-employed.”
The next morning, Alan walked into the flat's tiny kitchen to find Sam lounging over the table, scrolling through something on his phone lazily scooping greasy, luminous-orange bits out of a plastic tub and eating them. It was impressive, in a grotesque way, how the man managed to eat so much shit and still stay thin.
He'd long since grown used to Sam's eating habits. The timing, however, was off.
“You're up early.”
Sam grunted.
Alan carefully measured out a cup and a half of muesli. Lovely, healthy, disgusting muesli. Perfect preparation, he thought, to prepare for a day of soul-sucking drudgery in a building whose heater went on the fritz on December 20th. He worked to inject some cheer into his voice: “Changed your mind, huh? Working to update the blog again?”
“Pokemon Go.”
Alan stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. Christ almighty. The world is built on boredom and suffering. That's the social contract! People start opting out of it and the next thing you know we're all living in mud huts and hunting wild animals. Measuring out his milk, he went back to the thought. How stupid, unhealthy and old would a wild animal have to be for me to have a chance of catching it, anyway? Maybe if I was nice enough, my tribe would take pity on me and give me some offal. Nah. That would never happen.
“Hey, dude,” said Sam. “Can you tell me, is there, like, a secret Pokemon called Pingus? A penguin, or something?”
“I … don't think so. There's pingu, but he's not a Pokemon.”
“Oh. Shame.”
“So why are you up so early?”
“Evie, man.”
Alan sat at the table with his muesli. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I think it's love. I mean, I've had a wank over her twice and I still can't get back to sleep.”
Alan's spoon way halfway to his mouth. He put it back in his bowl. “That's an incredibly romantic sentiment,” he said. “It's a wonder they don't print it on Valentine's cards.”
“Yeah,” said Sam, extracting another slimy piece of chicken from the tub. “Maybe I'll email someone. I could make millions!”
Alan sighed.
“Anyway,” continued Sam. “I've already sent her a text. We're meeting up this afternoon.” He smiled to himself. “Why don't you get yourself a girl? We could go double-dating?”
“What makes you think that could ever be a good idea? Anyway, no. It's just … it's complicated.”
“Sarah, still?”
“Yeah.”
“Haven't worked up the courage to talk to her yet?”
Alan studied his muesli.
“Oh, come on dude! It's scary, I know. The jaws of life are scary, like big dripping shark teeth, but you gotta push forward into them?”
“The thing about that, Sam, is that it will end up with me getting chewed up into little pieces and then shat out into watery depths until I come to a final rest at the sea floor under ten miles of cold, dark ocean.”
“Yea, but still,” said Sam. “You just need to learn some tricks. And it'll be easy.”
“Like lying about your prowess with a saxophone?”
“But not just that. Look, here's a thing.” Sam held up the fork. “You can really get her hot by erotically licking your fork. And it's not, like, creepy, because a fork is meant to go in your mouth anyway!” He began to demonstrate.
“No!” said Alan, grabbing the fork off him. “You can eat leftovers, that's fine, but I will not have you … fellating my cutlery!”
“Your cutlery? Am I not even allowed to be sexual inside the flat now?”
“Yes, my cutlery. I bought it.” Alan sighed and sat back down. “And the only way that resembles anything erotic is as part of some … grotesque frottage session between the Dark Lord Cthulhu and a cyberman.”
Sam said nothing and went back to his phone. After a moment, he looked up. “Oh, by the way, what's this? You don't get many party invites.” He picked up a card on the table, resting against the wall. “Burnett Road?”
“Yeah, it's a work thing. Instead of an office party, they got a few different places to throw this big do down at Burnett Road.”
“You gonna go? It comes with a plus-one option.”
Alan stared at him.
“Alright, only asking!”
Eventually, Alan finished his breakfast, washed his bowl, and announced, “Right, I'm off to work. Remember to wash that fork.”
“Good luck with Sarah,” murmured Sam, returning to his phone.
The office was nearly as cold as the street outside, and just a little more dreary. Alan kept his coat on as he sat at his desk and started his computer up.
One more dreary day, he thought, then I get to enjoy a few days alone with my own thoughts in the run up to a stressful and no doubt disappointing Christmas. He had to be seen getting down to work if he had any chance of that promotion he was angling for. And the chance to lord it over a few people nearly makes up for a lifetime of mediocrity and resentment.
A few of his co-workers remained, milling around the office, working, talking in hushed voiced.
And Sarah.
He didn't know she was supposed be in today.
She was learning over her computer with a loose strand of ginger hair hanging in front of her glasses. She didn't seem to notice it. She didn't seem to notice him.
As he watched, she sneezed without warning, three or four times in a row. That adorable hayfever!
The jaws of life. The great big terrifying jaws of life, ready to bite your head off and … No, no, no. Be a man for once. Okay, I could talk to her. Not go on a double date with Sam, because that's a terrible idea. But I could brag about it afterwards!
Without quite realising it, he found himself standing. Just walk over her, say something, maybe talk about architecture, don't suck off a fork, and it'll be fine. This is the moment! I'm actually taking control of my life, like Tony Robbins or someone. This is it! I'm actually doing it!
“Hi, Alan. Could I have a moment?” It was Norton, his boss. Norton cocked his head. “Are you alright there?”
Alan stared at him. “Yeah, uh, fine. What can I do for you?”
“I know it's a bit of a pain, and on short notice, but could you hold down the fort this evening? There are a couple things I want to get out of the way before Christmas. I'd do it myself, by something's come up. I think you're responsible enough to come in alone. You weren't planning going to the party, were you?”
Overlapping with the Burnett Road party Responsible. That's a nice way to say you have no social life. Still, prostrating yourself between your corporate overlords is the best way to climb up the ranks.
“Sure thing,” said Alan. “I'll do it. Just send me a brief of what you need doing, and I'll sort it.”
“Good man,” said Norton. He turned and headed back across the office.
Alan looked back at Sarah, who still hadn't looked up, then sighed and went back to his desk.
Sam came round the corner clutching a polystyrene box of fat, greasy chips to Evie lounging against the facade of some coffee shop, fiddling with the ends of her scarf.
She looked up and grinned when she saw him. “There you are!”
“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, gesturing at the chips with his little spork. “Got hungry on the way.”
“Ooh,” she said. “May I steal one?” And without waiting for a response she grabbed one of the chips and ate it.
Yeah, he thought. A chip is definitely a phallic symbol, isn't it? I mean, she basically just put my metaphorical dick in her mouth. And then … chewed it up and swallowed it? Well, I guess it sort of works.
“So,” said Evie, and they ambled down the street together. “You never told me what you do. Apart from the saxophone, I mean.”
“Photography.”
“Wow, really? That's very artistic”
“What can I say? I'm just a very creative, sensual person. There are just so many things you can do with photography. So much creativity. You can do black and white, for example. Oh, and there's this photoshop thing I've just found out where you can make them look all blurry!”
Evie laughed and patted his arm again. “Wonderful!”
“You know what I love most in the world?” he said. “Passion. And you know what else? Spontaneity. Performing. Creating creativity for people.”
You're on a roll! Just need to keep the momentum going. But … how? His eyes went to the spork in his hand. Of course! The cutlery thing. Is it a good idea? Well, of course it's a good idea. I came up with it. I'm like some subconscious Casanova.
He rotated the spork once in his hand, then, looking Evie in the eyes, lifted it to his mouth and pressed his tongue against its salty head.
A moment later the spork's head snapped off. It flew forward and bounced off Evie's forehead. The sharp end of the handle jabbed into his tongue.
“Fuck!” he yelped, holding his hand to his mouth. The chips spilled to the ground. When he pulled his hand away, it came with a little smear of blood in with the saliva.
“Oh shit, are you alright?” asked Evie.
“Uh-huh,” Sam managed past the pain in his tongue.
“Here, let me look,” she said, moving he hand away and leaning in. “Open your mouth.”
Hah! Fuck you, physics! It WAS a good idea after all! I'm such a genius.
Still, his momentum had gone. When Evie had determined that he was okay and the pain had receded enough for him to talk properly, they continued their walk through the cold winter streets. Their conversation went back and forth over various things, about Evie's job in copywriting, and other boring stuff like that.
After an hour or so, she said she had to get going soon. “Sorry! I've got so many things to do. Christmas is so stressful, isn't it?”
“Yeah, yeah. It really is,” said Sam. “Do you want to meet again, then? This evening maybe?”
“Oh, I'd love to,” she said. “But I've already got plans. There's this thing on Burnett Road, and I said I'd go along.”
Sam came to a halt. “Burnett Road?” he said. “The party?”
“You know about it?”
“Yeah! Actually I was planning on going.”
Evie paused for a moment. “But you just asked for a date on that night?”
“Yeah, I mean, I was planning on going before I met you. So, uh, let's go together?”
She smiled at him. “Let's.”
They reached the corner of the road where they'd started. A guy in a longish, navy-blue coat was waiting, smoking. Evie waved to him. “Derek, hi! This is Sam. He's the guy I told you about yesterday. Sam, this is Derek.”
Derek reached out and shook Sam's hand with a firm grip. “The saxophonist?”
“Yeah,” said Evie. “Actually, he's coming to the party tomorrow.”
“Yep, that's right, on both counts,” said Sam.
“Fantastic,” said Derek. “Well, I'll see you there, then!”
Evie leant forward without warning and kissed Sam. “Bye!” she said chirpily, and then they were off.
Sam waited until they were out of earshot before saying, very loudly, “Fuck yeah!”
It was dark by the time Alan got into the flat. At least here it was warm. Sighing, he hung up his coat and wandered into the kitchen to get something to eat.
Sam was at the table again, leaning forward with an expression Alan had come to dread. The expectant gaze of a hungry puppy.
Alan went do the cupboard without saying anything.
“So,” said Sam, “You know how last night I fixed your phone and you owe me one?”
“No.”
“Well, in return for that, how about you take me as your plus-one to that Burnett Road do?”
Alan turned and looked at him. “Why?”
“Evie's going.”
“I see.”
“And I said I'll be there.”
Alan sighed. “I'm still stuck and the why? Besides, I can't go anyway. I promised Norton I'd go in to work that evening.”
“Norton won't be there! You'll be fine.”
“How is it you know more about my social calendar than you do?”
“Because I pay attention, Alan. I pay attention, and I know something about actually being social. That and Facebook.”
Facebook, of course, thought Alan. The creepy man's Wikipedia. He said nothing, but gave Sam his very best stern look. “Why can't you just meet Evie after the party, anyway?”
“Oh, come on! It's a Christmas party!”
“So?”
“She's going to sleep with someone! And if I'm not there, it'll be that Derek guy. It's that winter feeling, dude! Nearly everyone gets laid in the run-up to Christmas. And if she sleeps with him, she'll end up going out with him, and I'll never get to see her again, and everything about my life will be ruined forever.”
“And just to clarify,” said Alan, “By 'that winter feeling' you mean 'that horny and desperate feeling'? Actually, how does that differ from how you feel in the other three seasons?”
Sam sighed. “Oh, for crying out loud. Look, okay: I lied twice to a girl in the hope I could sleep with her before she found out. Does that really make me some sort of desperate sex-pest?”
“Yes.”
“So you're going to ruin my future life with Evie? Is that it?”
“Look, I'm not taking any of the blame here! It's your blame. You take it! Like you took my tiramisu last week. It's your own fucking fault you're in this mess. You need to learn not to be led by your cock everywhere, like some sort of wild-eyed vagina hound. Real life isn't some wacky romcom where you can make everything work out by lying and making rash decisions on the spur of the moment. So no. I've made a promise to work that night, and I'm sticking to it.”
Sam nodded slowly and looked at his hands, looking suitably chastised. Then he said, “Sarah will be there. I'll introduce you to her if you like, and it won't be awkward.”
“Okay, I'm in.”
Come evening, they walked through the richer suburbs, where posh houses with actual well-maintained gardens reared on all sides. [i]Round here,[i] thought Alan, I feel like at a team of secret police are going descend at any moment and whisk me away as someone who doesn't deserve to be here. Then: Who am I kidding. I feel like that in most places.
“So what's the story with Derek guy?” he asked. “What's got you so worried about him?”
“I saw them together.”
“He's Evie's boyfriend?”
“No, no. I mean, they were standing together. That never ends well for me.”
“Right.” Alan shook his head. “Actually, and be honest here, would it change your approach at all if he were her boyfriend?”
Sam glared at him. “Of course if would! Christ.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I'd have to make sure he wasn't looking when I tried it on with her, for starters.”
Soon after they came upon the address listed on the invite. All the lights were on, and a trickle of Christmas tunes and mixed chatter ran out onto the street. A couple of men in full black tie stood outside, smoking, with a list of names. Alan glanced at his own crumpled shirt – and worse, Sam's not entirely clean t-shirt, and clenched his jaw.
He handed over his invite. Here comes the laughter. Any minute now.
“You're good,” said one of the men, waving them in.
“Brill,” said Sam as soon as they were in, looking around. “And don't you worry my friend. I haven't forgotten our deal. Let's get you some misfit pussy.”
“Good,” whispered Alan. “But please never say that again.”
They moved forward into the next room, with Alan waving at a couple of people he recognised from the office. Now, if none of these people ever mention I was here, and I get everything done after Christmas without Norton noticing, I might actually get away with this.
And there she was: Sarah. Leaning against the edge of of a table in a slightly oversized, luridly coloured dress, staring into space and holding a bottle of beer at the neck between her thumb and forefinger and rolling it back and forth idly.
“Maybe I should grab a drink before …” began Alan.
“Fortune favours the bold!” said Sam, dragging him forward.
I'm pretty sure that's not true.
“Now just let me start it off, and you can take it from there.”
Oh god, what have I done? I've entrusted my romantic future to Sam! That's like giving the nuclear launch codes to a goat.
As they approached, Sarah looked up at them and blinked through her glasses.
Sam started: “Hi! That's a really cool … bottle you're holding. I'm Sam, and this is Alan.”
“Oh!” said Sarah, brightening up. “From work?”
Sam looked over at Alan with a look of mock surprise. “Really? Dude, you never told me you went to work with such beautiful women. Anyway.” He turned back to Sarah. “Alan is interested in …” He turned back to Alan. “Actually, what are you interested in?”
Great, thought Alan. Fifteen seconds into the conversation, I haven't said anything, and I already look like a dick.
Still, Sarah was actually looking at him, so speaking directly to her, he answers, “Oh, uh, architecture.”
Sam gave him a look as if he'd just admitted to spending the better part of his life in his underwear screaming at cars.
“Oh, cool,” said Sarah. “What's your favourite style? Like, uh, gothic or baroque?”
“Hah, gothic rock!” said Sam. “They're a bit mad, aren't they, with all that eyeliner and having feelings and shit.”
Alan and Sarah turned to stare at him.
“Right,” said Sam. “Yeah. Actually, yeah, I've got to go and … Bye. Have fun, you two!” He waved and walked off.
This is the best night ever! Someone's made a tit of themselves and it's not me!
“Really, though,” said Sarah, now looking him right in the eyes. “'Cause I always thought Baroque was a bit too … sickly. Inelegant, you know?”
“I think you're right,” Alan said. “But there are a couple of exception. Dresden Frauenkirche, for example.”
“Oh, yes, that is a good one!”
From the far side of the room, Sam turned back to watch them. They really seemed to be getting along. Yeah, he thought. [i]That's it. The sex doctor is in. Well, no .. not sex doctor. That makes it sound like I'm the guy who checks for chlamydia or something. The love doctor. Yeah. The love doctor is in.[i]
He turned and headed through into another room to look for Evie.
The love doctor. And jazz is kinda the music of love, isn't it? Maybe I'm actually really good at jazz after all and just … never knew it!
A hand grabbed his arm. Evie!
“Hey,” she said. “Mister creative, is it? So caught up in your deep thoughts that you didn't notice me?” She smiled at him and pulled him closer to her.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was just just thinking what it would be like to be a …” Don't say sex doctor “ … sex person.”
Evie frowned slightly. “Sorry?”
“Oh, never mind. It was just some weird joke with my flatmate. I mean 'sex person' – what does that even mean, right? It's mad.”
There was a short pause before Evie said, “Okay.”
Pretty sure I got away with that.
“Anyway,” continued Evie, “there's something I wanted to show you.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the hallway. “Oh, god. I'm so nervous,” she said. “I think you'll love it. I hope you love.”
“I'm sure I'll love it,” Sam told her. I'll love it so hard.
Evie showed him into the garage, which was empty of cars, warmed up, and had some temporary flooring laid down. Against one side there was a stage being set up.
“Enough of this Christmassy tripe,” Evie said. “We've got a band coming.”
“Cool?”
“Well, here's the coolest bit. They won't be here for an hour. Got delayed in the train. But all their instruments are here.”
I'm not going to love it.
“I called them,” said Evie. “And guess what? The saxophone guy is cool with you playing his. After what you said last time, about how you love performing and spontaneity, I though maybe you'd like to have a go and keep us entertained while we wait for the band. Only if you want to, of course! No pressure.”
“Ah,” said Sam. “Thing is, though, about that,”
Evie's face fell. “You hate the idea, don't you?”
“Not hate, but I kind of …”
Derek wandered up to them. “Hey guys! Ah, there he is, the man of the hour. What do you say, Sam?”
Evie frowned at him. “I don't think …”
“I'll do it!” said Sam. He smiled at them as hard as it could.
“You sure?” said Evie.
“Yeah. This is so me. I mean, a request for a spontaneous performance? Sure! How could I turn that down?”
“Top man,” said Derek. “I'll get everything set up for you. Do you know what you're going to play? I could get some sheet music.”
“Nah,” said Sam. “I'm fine. I've got loads of stuff memorised. And I do plenty of freestyle.” Actually, that might be the first thing I've said I do that I actually do. Even if it is a lie by omission. “I'll be fine. If you're lucky, you might even hear some Pingus in there.”
“Pingus?”
“It'll be great, I promise. Just give me ten minutes to get ready, okay? I need to grab my my mate. He won't want to miss this. You can put the saxophone there on the stage. It'll be fine.”
Evie winked at him. “Sure thing. See you in ten.”
Oh god. Sam was right. Everyone does get horny and desperate at Christmas. I can't let him know, or he'll never shut up about it. No. No. Concentrate on the snogging. Alan found himself backing mid-kiss into a bathroom. And try not to call your partner desperate. Definite faux-pas, that one.
One of his colleagues from work walked past and briefly caught his eyes. Should I wave to him? No. Probably not. Oh, the agony of the accidental eye contact. This is why you close your eyes when kissing. Christ, how did we get from Rayonnant gothic to this? There's probably something faintly sacrilegious about that transition. Concentrate on the kissing, dammit!
Sarah closed the door behind them, locked it then, looking up at him in the near darkness, said, “Are you okay with this? I'm not being too forward, am I?”
“Nu-huh,” said Alan. “Totally fine.”
She smiled. “Good. Just wanted to, y'know, make sure.” Her hands went for his belt, undid his trousers.
She leaned in to kiss him, then without warning sneezed on his face.
“Oh, god,” she said. “I'm sorry! Are you –” The question was interrupted by another string of sneezing. “I need to get my nasal spray!” she yelped, grabbing a length of toilet paper and fumbling with the lock. “I'm sorry.”
“It's fine,” Alan assured her. “I'll wait.”
“Thanks,” she said, and vanished out into the party.
That's twice I've been on the other side of things! This is amazing. Don't worry, Sarah. I won't do to you what all those girls in high school did to me. I'll wait for you, my snotty darling. He grabbed some toilet paper and wiped his cheek dry. Snotty darling. That's another thing I should remember to never call her. Still, I guess if nothing else I can say I got some of her fluids on my face. Don't really have to go into specifics on that.
The door was still ajar. A face peered through the cap, and a moment later Sam burst in. “There you are!” He looked back the way he'd come. “Things okay with … ?”
“They're fine,” said Alan. “I … uh … Actually, I'm trying to think of a nicer way to say 'please fuck off', but it's not coming.”
“Plenty of time for that later, dude! I need you.”
“This isn't some sex thing is it? Because I told you before –”
“Huh? No. Look, I'm in a jam. A big fucking jar of shit-in-fan jam.”
“How surprising.”
“I know, right? Evie has got a saxophone and expects me to play it. I need to get out of it while still making her think I can actually play the bloody thing.”
“Look, I really would ask how you plan to accomplish that with my help or not, but please, please fuck off.”
“Look, its easy. When I get up on the stage to play, you run by and steal the saxophone and hide it, or break it or burn it down or something.”
“No.”
“Look, is the thing with Sarah going well?”
“It is, actually. By some miracle, it is. That's why I need you to go away right now!” hissed Alan.
“Then you kinda owe me, right? Really and truly this time? For getting you love of your life. No – wait! And if you do this, I'll flip it over. I'll owe you. I'll do all the washing up and cleaning for a month. For two months.”
“Three months.”
“Okay, fine. Three months.”
Alan sighed and put his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. “Okay, fine. Just, do you have a pen and paper? I need to leave a note.”
“I've got a gel pen,” said Sam. “No paper.”
“For fuck's sake, why not?”
“Because I'm not the bloody … leave-a-note supplies man, am I?”
“Fine,” said Alan. “Just give me the pen.”
When Sam had handed over the pen, he grabbed a single square of toilet paper, and scribbled a note on it, puncturing the paper several times: “Sorry! I'm not abandoning you, something came up. Will finish this later. Alan.” He stared at it for a moment, then tried to fix the comma splice and capitalise the S on “something”.
“Hurry up!” cried Sam.
“There's always time for good grammar,” Alan said tartly. He placed the square on the closed toilet lid. “Okay, I'm done.”
Sam dragged him out of the bathroom into the hallway, then into the main room. Then Alan came to a halt.
Oh shit, he thought.
Norton had just come in, arm-in-arm with a woman who could very easily pass for a Scandinavian supermodel.
“Retreat, retreat!” He dragged Sam back into the hallway. “Norton's here!”
“Yeah, so?”
“If he sees me, my career prospects are fucked. You told me he wasn't coming!”
“Oh yeah! Shit,” said Sam. “Facebook said he wasn't. You know, that's really irresponsible of them to say someone's not coming when they are. We should sue Mark Zuckerberg for all his millions!”
“Yea. That's a great plan. We just need to get all that done in the next ten minutes and we'll be golden.”
Sam peered out the hallway into the front room. “He's coming this way.”
Okay, okay. Plan. Just need to hide until he's gone. Alan ran back down the hallway to the bathroom he'd come from. The door was closed. He grabbed the handle and tried open.
“Fuck's sake,” a voice said from inside. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, Christ. Christ.” Alan pounded the palm of his hand against his forehead. “I'm turning into you. This is how you live your life, isn't it? A chain of lies, failed sexual encounters, and disasters.”
“Exciting, isn't it?” said Sam.
“No, it's not fucking exciting! It's –”
“He's hung his coat up. He's still coming. Hey! Go in there.”
“In the bedroom?”
“Yeah! It has an ensuite, doesn't it? He won't be able to walk in on you in there.”
“What if he comes in and starts having sex or something?”
“He's not going to just walk in and start having sex. Don't be ridiculous.”
“But what if he does?”
“Then put on a funny voice so he won't recognise you and start groaning. Pretend you're having a really loud shit. It'll put them off and they'll leave. Now go!”
I can't believe I'm actually doing this. Alan bounded through into the bedroom. It was, thankfully, empty. He slumped against the wall and sighed, then looked around again.
There was no ensuite either.
Sam, you bastard. He turned to leave, and, his hand an inch away from the door handle, heard voices on the other side of the door. One of the was Norton's.
He looked around the bedroom again. They're not really going to come in here again, are they? And if they do, where would I go? No closets. Nothing. Okay, Alan: time to be a man. Well, not an active man. Don't go out there to meet them. Just be a passive man. If they do come in here, just talk to him. Admit that you were irresponsible. You might not get the promotion but at least you'll keep a sliver of self respect.
I mean, it's a ridiculous idea. If I did hide under the bed, would I even fit? Maybe I should check. Just in case. Just one check quick check, he thought, sinking to the floor, and then I'll go back outside and finish my punishment like a halfway normal human being
Huh. I do fit after all. Weird. I must be thinner than I thought. Though he had to admit, his nose was less than an inch away from brushing the bottom of the bed. Okay, time to get out. Any moment now.
The door opened. Outside, Alan could see Norton's shoes and a pair of high heels. A moment later, they were joined by a third pair – Sarah's bright yellow flats. Shit! but a moment later, Norton and his partner entered the room and shut the door behind them, blocking his view of Sarah's feet.
On the short journey to the bed, both pairs of shoes came off. The two of them sat on the bed, pressing its underside closer to Alan's face, and spoke in low, amorous voices.
Hm. Her accent. Is it Scandinavian? I'm not sure. Might be Dutch actually.
The voices ceased. One of Norton's argyll-patterned socks rose up slightly, and the toes clenched an unclenched. The couple finished with a slurping sound.
I suppose I could still pretend to do a loud shit from under the bed. It would definitely stop them. The problem would be when they look at me. I could make a run for it. Maybe if they don't see my face, I can run out onto the street, and maybe all my co-workers won't mention to Norton that I was there at all.
The bed creaked some more. The stocking-covered feet of Norton's partner vanished upwards.
Oh, who am I kidding. I'll just wait it out. They can't be more than thirty minutes, tops. Then I can slink out, go home, and cry into a nice cold glass of water. This is my penance for trying to be a normal human being/
Another drawn out kiss came alongside the creaking bedsprings.
Then Alan's phone erupted: Old-style porn music, maximum volume.
The creaking stopped. Or was drowned out. He grabbed the phone from his pocket and fiddled with it. Why is there an alarm now? What did I ever to … oh, Micronesian time. Now switch off, you fucker! Why won't you switch off?
The bed-ceiling above him lifted away. Norton, having tipped the bed on its side, looked down on him with wide eyes. So did his partner. The phone began another loop of porn music.
“Alan,” said Norton, slowly. “What are you doing under the bed … with your trousers open?”
The trousers. Oh yeah. Really should've fixed that when I had a chance.
Alan stared up at him. For a while there was nothing but the music. At last he croaked, “Trying to fix my notification settings. It … it doesn't seem to be working. Could you … ?”
Silently, Norton took the phone and jabbed at the screen a couple of time.
The music stopped.
“Thanks,” whispered Alan.
Sam paced back and forth in the hall. Damnit, man, what happened to the plan? What are you doing up there? How long can I wait outside this door before people start to think I'm some sort of creepy pervert trying to listen in on the sex? Hm. I suppose if I do have to wait, I may as well listen in on the sex …
“Sam! There you are. Did you find your friend?” said Evie, striding down the hall towards.
“Oh, yeah. Uh, he just. Never mind.”
Evie smiled at him. “Come on, then! Everything's set up.”
“Oh, great,” said Sam as he let her lead him towards the garage. Okay, buddy, if I've ever had secret telepathic powers, now's the time to listen. Well, you're in your head all the time anyway, aren't you, so it should be easy. What I want you do is listen in on my thoughts and the moment I pick up the saxophone, come running through and grab it off me. If you understand, don't reply … Great! Thanks, man.
In the garage, a bunch of people were waiting. The saxophone sat on a stand by the side of the stage. Evie joined Derek near the front. She gave Sam a thumbs-up. “Got you a proper audience and everything,” she said.
“Great,” said Sam. “Thanks.”
He stepped up onto the little stage and lifted the saxophone from it's stand. Evie smiled up at him. The crowd fell silent and turned towards him.
“So, uh, I guess should begin with a few words,” he said. “I, uh, once heard this story about this famous jazz musician. Not Pingus, one of the other dudes. Anyway, what happened was that he was one of the best musicians around, but one day he got up on stage and just, uh, found his abilities had completely deserted. Like, poof, and they were completely gone. But he … he was still definitely a good musician. After a week they came back and everything was fine. So it just goes to show, these things happen sometimes.”
Evie was looking a bit confused.
“Anyway,” said Sam. “Enough of that. Time to start the show.” He looked down at the saxophone. Well, that's the mouthpiece and those are the buttons. It doesn't look too hard. Like a fancy recorder. Kinda wish I'd paid attention during recorder lessons.
He lifted the saxophone to his mouth and came to a realisation. [i]Hold on … maybe passion really is the most important thing. Maybe if I just play with enough passion, my true soul will show through and Evie will fall in love with me! Yeah! Well, here goes.”
He blew as hard as he could.
The saxophone produce a choked wail, then fell silent.
That … didn't sound great. But … it could just be imposter syndrome or something? Maybe it sounds really fantastic to them?
He blew again. The saxophone squeaked faintly. Sam broke out into a fit of coughing.
No … Nope. It doesn't sound fantastic to them.
And judging by the look on Evie's face, she wasn't going to let have a third try.
Alan unlocked the door, and they both entered the cold, empty flat in silence. He flicked the lights on, pulled off his coat and went straight for the kettle.
He broke the silence first: “You want a cup?”
“Sure,” called Sam.
A nice cup of tea. The perfect response to a night of humiliation.
“So,” said Sam as the kettle boiled. “You think you're gonna meet with Sarah again?”
“I rather doubt it. And Evie?”
“Nah.”
On the plus side, it was pretty nice of Norton not to just fire me on the spot. I should thank him or something. Or … alternatively, I could never speak of this again.
“Well,” he said, taking his cup. “I'm going to bed.”
“Don't worry,” Sam assured him. “There's still New Year's. Special pub trip, up all night, loads of girls. What do you say?”
“I … I'll think about it,” said Alan.
He took his tea into his bedroom, pulled his phone out his pocket, and was about to throw it on the bed when he saw he'd got a message through Facebook.
From Sarah.
“Party was a bit of a mess,” read the message. “Would you like to hang out somewhere a bit less awful before New Year's?”
Alan smiled to himself.
“Uh huh,” said the woman. “No.”
“Right, exactly! And it's two halves, see. Male and female, each incomplete without the other. But they interpenetrate.” At this final point two gestured occurred to him: making a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand so it could put his index finger through it, which seemed too forward, versus simply interlacing his fingers, which didn't seem forward enough. In the end, lacking time to think, he tried to do both as the same time and ended up with a gesture that didn't look like much of anything.
The woman looked at him moment, then said, “Thanks for the drink. Bye.”
After she'd gone, he stood by the bar long enough to make it seem natural, took a sip of his pint, then headed back. Alan sat at the table over a mostly-full pint with the shoulders of his sports jacket drooping limply over his shoulders like the petals of a dying flower.
He looked up as Sam settled into the seat opposite him. “What happened?” he asked.
Sam gave an insouciant shrug. “Not my type. Some girls just can't handle me, you know? It's too much for them.”
“Yes, of course,” said Alan. He frowned at his beer as if it were some particularly dull piece of schoolwork he had to get through, took another sip, and grimaced. “Can we go now?”
“Now?” said Sam. “We only got here a couple of hours ago.”
“Yes, and that's plenty of time to at least make it seem like we're ordinary people capable of acting normally in a social environment.” Alan's eyed widened. “A couple of hours? It should have gone off by now. Shit.” He grabbed his phone from his pocket and started fiddling with it.
“What's the problem, dude?”
“Alarms. Notifications. Whatever you call them. I … I tried to update my timezone last week and somehow I set all the sounds to silent.” He sighed. “It's ruining my schedule! Yesterday I came within five minutes of not getting to a meeting early. Aggressive punctuality is my thing! Without it, I'm just another cog in the banking machine.”
“Give it here,” said Sam.
Alan looked up from his phone, clearly uncertain, so Sam reached forward and took it from him. The time read 08.34 AM. Sam fiddled with the phone a bit, then looked up at Alan. “Your time's off because you've told it you're in Micronesia!”
“Oh,” said Alan.
“That's all the way in … Italy or something, isn't it? Whatever. Anyway, it's fixed. And your alarm's fixed too.” He held up the phone as it emitted a noise that resembled a backing track from bad pornography.
“No, Sam. Change it to something sensible please. A nice sober beep. Or … better yes, if you can, a voice like a train station announcer. Glum, possibly an alcoholic with a broken family life, but keeping all under wraps with a nice, alienating monotone.”
“I don't think they have that choice,” said Sam. He made the phone beep, then handed it back to Alan. “Now you owe me. We stay long enough to talk to one more person.”
Alan looked over his phone to check that the date actually had changed, then said. “Go on, then. Knock yourself out.”
Sam gave him a broad grin and thumbs-up. “Get ready to go home alone! Because this time, I'm all in.” He looked round the pub for another prospect. There was, as it turned out, only one who fit all the requirements: Female, alone, and had recently arrived and so hadn't seen his last failure. She was at the bar, dressed in a red coat and unwinding a scarf.
Leaving his drink behind, Sam bounded off his chair and sauntered across the pub to the bar, arriving just in time for the barman to ask to woman what she wanted. On the jukebox, the endless circle of Christmas clichés ended and were replaces by some sort of old time jazz thing he recognised from an advert.
At the bar, standing next to the new arrival, he ordered his drink: A corona, in his eyes the sexiest beer.
“At least someone in here has decent taste,” the woman said.
Sam, caught off-guard by this development, found himself staring dumbly at her.
She tipped her head towards the jukebox. “If I hear another Christmas hit, I'd do my nut.”
“Ohh, yeah,” said Sam. “I know, right? They're all so shallow and samey, aren't they? I mean, just because Christmas is less than a week away doesn't mean it's illegal to play something other than Christmas songs.” He frowned. “Is it?”
The woman laughed, and offered him her hand. “I'm Evie, by the way.”
“Sam.” Okay, Evie. Remember that: Evie. Like the Pokemon. I wonder how many more catches I need before I can evolve my Evee …
“Well, nice to meet you,” said Evie. “It's nice to know someone else appreciates Mingus.”
Mingus? Mingus. How can I remember that? There's no Pokemon that sounds like Mingus. Pingus maybe? Is Pingus a Pokemon? It sounds like it could be. “Sure,” he said. “I love Mingus. All there with his … saxophone and stuff.”
Evie laughed again. The bartender returned with both their drinks, and headed off again.
“I love music,” mused Evie. “I love musicians.”
“What a huge coincidence!” said Sam. “Because I'm a musician.”
“Really? What do you play?”
“Oh, loads of things! Really, so many things. But mainly, the uh … saxophone.”
“Really?” Evie put her hand on his arm. “Well, then, maybe I –” Mid-sentence, her phone rang. “Sorry,” she said, glancing at it. “Have to check this. Oh. Shit, sorry, I have to go meet my friends.”
“Oh, right. No. No problem,” began Sam. Guitar. Why didn't I say guitar. Guitar always works.
She stared at him. “Don't look so down, alright? It's not an out. Here, give me your phone.”
Sam placed his phone into her waiting hand, and she tapped away at it. “There. There's my number. Call me, alright?” She patted his arm, the hurriedly pulled her coat and scarf on and, saying goodbye, headed out the door.
Sam saved the number then took his corona back to the table.
Alan looked up at him and cocked his head. “You don't normally have the energy for such a big smile while you're thinking up excuses for why a woman walked away. What happened?”
“You have no faith in my abilities at all, do you?”
Alan gave him a look.
“She gave me her number, alright? We're on.”
“Thank Christ. Can we get out of here now?” Alan left his pint, a little less than half finished, on the table and stood up. “I've got work tomorrow.” He started putting on his coat.
“Still?”
“Yes, still.”
They headed out into the cola, dark air.
“Shit, man. My break started last week.”
“You're self-employed.”
The next morning, Alan walked into the flat's tiny kitchen to find Sam lounging over the table, scrolling through something on his phone lazily scooping greasy, luminous-orange bits out of a plastic tub and eating them. It was impressive, in a grotesque way, how the man managed to eat so much shit and still stay thin.
He'd long since grown used to Sam's eating habits. The timing, however, was off.
“You're up early.”
Sam grunted.
Alan carefully measured out a cup and a half of muesli. Lovely, healthy, disgusting muesli. Perfect preparation, he thought, to prepare for a day of soul-sucking drudgery in a building whose heater went on the fritz on December 20th. He worked to inject some cheer into his voice: “Changed your mind, huh? Working to update the blog again?”
“Pokemon Go.”
Alan stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. Christ almighty. The world is built on boredom and suffering. That's the social contract! People start opting out of it and the next thing you know we're all living in mud huts and hunting wild animals. Measuring out his milk, he went back to the thought. How stupid, unhealthy and old would a wild animal have to be for me to have a chance of catching it, anyway? Maybe if I was nice enough, my tribe would take pity on me and give me some offal. Nah. That would never happen.
“Hey, dude,” said Sam. “Can you tell me, is there, like, a secret Pokemon called Pingus? A penguin, or something?”
“I … don't think so. There's pingu, but he's not a Pokemon.”
“Oh. Shame.”
“So why are you up so early?”
“Evie, man.”
Alan sat at the table with his muesli. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I think it's love. I mean, I've had a wank over her twice and I still can't get back to sleep.”
Alan's spoon way halfway to his mouth. He put it back in his bowl. “That's an incredibly romantic sentiment,” he said. “It's a wonder they don't print it on Valentine's cards.”
“Yeah,” said Sam, extracting another slimy piece of chicken from the tub. “Maybe I'll email someone. I could make millions!”
Alan sighed.
“Anyway,” continued Sam. “I've already sent her a text. We're meeting up this afternoon.” He smiled to himself. “Why don't you get yourself a girl? We could go double-dating?”
“What makes you think that could ever be a good idea? Anyway, no. It's just … it's complicated.”
“Sarah, still?”
“Yeah.”
“Haven't worked up the courage to talk to her yet?”
Alan studied his muesli.
“Oh, come on dude! It's scary, I know. The jaws of life are scary, like big dripping shark teeth, but you gotta push forward into them?”
“The thing about that, Sam, is that it will end up with me getting chewed up into little pieces and then shat out into watery depths until I come to a final rest at the sea floor under ten miles of cold, dark ocean.”
“Yea, but still,” said Sam. “You just need to learn some tricks. And it'll be easy.”
“Like lying about your prowess with a saxophone?”
“But not just that. Look, here's a thing.” Sam held up the fork. “You can really get her hot by erotically licking your fork. And it's not, like, creepy, because a fork is meant to go in your mouth anyway!” He began to demonstrate.
“No!” said Alan, grabbing the fork off him. “You can eat leftovers, that's fine, but I will not have you … fellating my cutlery!”
“Your cutlery? Am I not even allowed to be sexual inside the flat now?”
“Yes, my cutlery. I bought it.” Alan sighed and sat back down. “And the only way that resembles anything erotic is as part of some … grotesque frottage session between the Dark Lord Cthulhu and a cyberman.”
Sam said nothing and went back to his phone. After a moment, he looked up. “Oh, by the way, what's this? You don't get many party invites.” He picked up a card on the table, resting against the wall. “Burnett Road?”
“Yeah, it's a work thing. Instead of an office party, they got a few different places to throw this big do down at Burnett Road.”
“You gonna go? It comes with a plus-one option.”
Alan stared at him.
“Alright, only asking!”
Eventually, Alan finished his breakfast, washed his bowl, and announced, “Right, I'm off to work. Remember to wash that fork.”
“Good luck with Sarah,” murmured Sam, returning to his phone.
The office was nearly as cold as the street outside, and just a little more dreary. Alan kept his coat on as he sat at his desk and started his computer up.
One more dreary day, he thought, then I get to enjoy a few days alone with my own thoughts in the run up to a stressful and no doubt disappointing Christmas. He had to be seen getting down to work if he had any chance of that promotion he was angling for. And the chance to lord it over a few people nearly makes up for a lifetime of mediocrity and resentment.
A few of his co-workers remained, milling around the office, working, talking in hushed voiced.
And Sarah.
He didn't know she was supposed be in today.
She was learning over her computer with a loose strand of ginger hair hanging in front of her glasses. She didn't seem to notice it. She didn't seem to notice him.
As he watched, she sneezed without warning, three or four times in a row. That adorable hayfever!
The jaws of life. The great big terrifying jaws of life, ready to bite your head off and … No, no, no. Be a man for once. Okay, I could talk to her. Not go on a double date with Sam, because that's a terrible idea. But I could brag about it afterwards!
Without quite realising it, he found himself standing. Just walk over her, say something, maybe talk about architecture, don't suck off a fork, and it'll be fine. This is the moment! I'm actually taking control of my life, like Tony Robbins or someone. This is it! I'm actually doing it!
“Hi, Alan. Could I have a moment?” It was Norton, his boss. Norton cocked his head. “Are you alright there?”
Alan stared at him. “Yeah, uh, fine. What can I do for you?”
“I know it's a bit of a pain, and on short notice, but could you hold down the fort this evening? There are a couple things I want to get out of the way before Christmas. I'd do it myself, by something's come up. I think you're responsible enough to come in alone. You weren't planning going to the party, were you?”
Overlapping with the Burnett Road party Responsible. That's a nice way to say you have no social life. Still, prostrating yourself between your corporate overlords is the best way to climb up the ranks.
“Sure thing,” said Alan. “I'll do it. Just send me a brief of what you need doing, and I'll sort it.”
“Good man,” said Norton. He turned and headed back across the office.
Alan looked back at Sarah, who still hadn't looked up, then sighed and went back to his desk.
Sam came round the corner clutching a polystyrene box of fat, greasy chips to Evie lounging against the facade of some coffee shop, fiddling with the ends of her scarf.
She looked up and grinned when she saw him. “There you are!”
“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, gesturing at the chips with his little spork. “Got hungry on the way.”
“Ooh,” she said. “May I steal one?” And without waiting for a response she grabbed one of the chips and ate it.
Yeah, he thought. A chip is definitely a phallic symbol, isn't it? I mean, she basically just put my metaphorical dick in her mouth. And then … chewed it up and swallowed it? Well, I guess it sort of works.
“So,” said Evie, and they ambled down the street together. “You never told me what you do. Apart from the saxophone, I mean.”
“Photography.”
“Wow, really? That's very artistic”
“What can I say? I'm just a very creative, sensual person. There are just so many things you can do with photography. So much creativity. You can do black and white, for example. Oh, and there's this photoshop thing I've just found out where you can make them look all blurry!”
Evie laughed and patted his arm again. “Wonderful!”
“You know what I love most in the world?” he said. “Passion. And you know what else? Spontaneity. Performing. Creating creativity for people.”
You're on a roll! Just need to keep the momentum going. But … how? His eyes went to the spork in his hand. Of course! The cutlery thing. Is it a good idea? Well, of course it's a good idea. I came up with it. I'm like some subconscious Casanova.
He rotated the spork once in his hand, then, looking Evie in the eyes, lifted it to his mouth and pressed his tongue against its salty head.
A moment later the spork's head snapped off. It flew forward and bounced off Evie's forehead. The sharp end of the handle jabbed into his tongue.
“Fuck!” he yelped, holding his hand to his mouth. The chips spilled to the ground. When he pulled his hand away, it came with a little smear of blood in with the saliva.
“Oh shit, are you alright?” asked Evie.
“Uh-huh,” Sam managed past the pain in his tongue.
“Here, let me look,” she said, moving he hand away and leaning in. “Open your mouth.”
Hah! Fuck you, physics! It WAS a good idea after all! I'm such a genius.
Still, his momentum had gone. When Evie had determined that he was okay and the pain had receded enough for him to talk properly, they continued their walk through the cold winter streets. Their conversation went back and forth over various things, about Evie's job in copywriting, and other boring stuff like that.
After an hour or so, she said she had to get going soon. “Sorry! I've got so many things to do. Christmas is so stressful, isn't it?”
“Yeah, yeah. It really is,” said Sam. “Do you want to meet again, then? This evening maybe?”
“Oh, I'd love to,” she said. “But I've already got plans. There's this thing on Burnett Road, and I said I'd go along.”
Sam came to a halt. “Burnett Road?” he said. “The party?”
“You know about it?”
“Yeah! Actually I was planning on going.”
Evie paused for a moment. “But you just asked for a date on that night?”
“Yeah, I mean, I was planning on going before I met you. So, uh, let's go together?”
She smiled at him. “Let's.”
They reached the corner of the road where they'd started. A guy in a longish, navy-blue coat was waiting, smoking. Evie waved to him. “Derek, hi! This is Sam. He's the guy I told you about yesterday. Sam, this is Derek.”
Derek reached out and shook Sam's hand with a firm grip. “The saxophonist?”
“Yeah,” said Evie. “Actually, he's coming to the party tomorrow.”
“Yep, that's right, on both counts,” said Sam.
“Fantastic,” said Derek. “Well, I'll see you there, then!”
Evie leant forward without warning and kissed Sam. “Bye!” she said chirpily, and then they were off.
Sam waited until they were out of earshot before saying, very loudly, “Fuck yeah!”
It was dark by the time Alan got into the flat. At least here it was warm. Sighing, he hung up his coat and wandered into the kitchen to get something to eat.
Sam was at the table again, leaning forward with an expression Alan had come to dread. The expectant gaze of a hungry puppy.
Alan went do the cupboard without saying anything.
“So,” said Sam, “You know how last night I fixed your phone and you owe me one?”
“No.”
“Well, in return for that, how about you take me as your plus-one to that Burnett Road do?”
Alan turned and looked at him. “Why?”
“Evie's going.”
“I see.”
“And I said I'll be there.”
Alan sighed. “I'm still stuck and the why? Besides, I can't go anyway. I promised Norton I'd go in to work that evening.”
“Norton won't be there! You'll be fine.”
“How is it you know more about my social calendar than you do?”
“Because I pay attention, Alan. I pay attention, and I know something about actually being social. That and Facebook.”
Facebook, of course, thought Alan. The creepy man's Wikipedia. He said nothing, but gave Sam his very best stern look. “Why can't you just meet Evie after the party, anyway?”
“Oh, come on! It's a Christmas party!”
“So?”
“She's going to sleep with someone! And if I'm not there, it'll be that Derek guy. It's that winter feeling, dude! Nearly everyone gets laid in the run-up to Christmas. And if she sleeps with him, she'll end up going out with him, and I'll never get to see her again, and everything about my life will be ruined forever.”
“And just to clarify,” said Alan, “By 'that winter feeling' you mean 'that horny and desperate feeling'? Actually, how does that differ from how you feel in the other three seasons?”
Sam sighed. “Oh, for crying out loud. Look, okay: I lied twice to a girl in the hope I could sleep with her before she found out. Does that really make me some sort of desperate sex-pest?”
“Yes.”
“So you're going to ruin my future life with Evie? Is that it?”
“Look, I'm not taking any of the blame here! It's your blame. You take it! Like you took my tiramisu last week. It's your own fucking fault you're in this mess. You need to learn not to be led by your cock everywhere, like some sort of wild-eyed vagina hound. Real life isn't some wacky romcom where you can make everything work out by lying and making rash decisions on the spur of the moment. So no. I've made a promise to work that night, and I'm sticking to it.”
Sam nodded slowly and looked at his hands, looking suitably chastised. Then he said, “Sarah will be there. I'll introduce you to her if you like, and it won't be awkward.”
“Okay, I'm in.”
Come evening, they walked through the richer suburbs, where posh houses with actual well-maintained gardens reared on all sides. [i]Round here,[i] thought Alan, I feel like at a team of secret police are going descend at any moment and whisk me away as someone who doesn't deserve to be here. Then: Who am I kidding. I feel like that in most places.
“So what's the story with Derek guy?” he asked. “What's got you so worried about him?”
“I saw them together.”
“He's Evie's boyfriend?”
“No, no. I mean, they were standing together. That never ends well for me.”
“Right.” Alan shook his head. “Actually, and be honest here, would it change your approach at all if he were her boyfriend?”
Sam glared at him. “Of course if would! Christ.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I'd have to make sure he wasn't looking when I tried it on with her, for starters.”
Soon after they came upon the address listed on the invite. All the lights were on, and a trickle of Christmas tunes and mixed chatter ran out onto the street. A couple of men in full black tie stood outside, smoking, with a list of names. Alan glanced at his own crumpled shirt – and worse, Sam's not entirely clean t-shirt, and clenched his jaw.
He handed over his invite. Here comes the laughter. Any minute now.
“You're good,” said one of the men, waving them in.
“Brill,” said Sam as soon as they were in, looking around. “And don't you worry my friend. I haven't forgotten our deal. Let's get you some misfit pussy.”
“Good,” whispered Alan. “But please never say that again.”
They moved forward into the next room, with Alan waving at a couple of people he recognised from the office. Now, if none of these people ever mention I was here, and I get everything done after Christmas without Norton noticing, I might actually get away with this.
And there she was: Sarah. Leaning against the edge of of a table in a slightly oversized, luridly coloured dress, staring into space and holding a bottle of beer at the neck between her thumb and forefinger and rolling it back and forth idly.
“Maybe I should grab a drink before …” began Alan.
“Fortune favours the bold!” said Sam, dragging him forward.
I'm pretty sure that's not true.
“Now just let me start it off, and you can take it from there.”
Oh god, what have I done? I've entrusted my romantic future to Sam! That's like giving the nuclear launch codes to a goat.
As they approached, Sarah looked up at them and blinked through her glasses.
Sam started: “Hi! That's a really cool … bottle you're holding. I'm Sam, and this is Alan.”
“Oh!” said Sarah, brightening up. “From work?”
Sam looked over at Alan with a look of mock surprise. “Really? Dude, you never told me you went to work with such beautiful women. Anyway.” He turned back to Sarah. “Alan is interested in …” He turned back to Alan. “Actually, what are you interested in?”
Great, thought Alan. Fifteen seconds into the conversation, I haven't said anything, and I already look like a dick.
Still, Sarah was actually looking at him, so speaking directly to her, he answers, “Oh, uh, architecture.”
Sam gave him a look as if he'd just admitted to spending the better part of his life in his underwear screaming at cars.
“Oh, cool,” said Sarah. “What's your favourite style? Like, uh, gothic or baroque?”
“Hah, gothic rock!” said Sam. “They're a bit mad, aren't they, with all that eyeliner and having feelings and shit.”
Alan and Sarah turned to stare at him.
“Right,” said Sam. “Yeah. Actually, yeah, I've got to go and … Bye. Have fun, you two!” He waved and walked off.
This is the best night ever! Someone's made a tit of themselves and it's not me!
“Really, though,” said Sarah, now looking him right in the eyes. “'Cause I always thought Baroque was a bit too … sickly. Inelegant, you know?”
“I think you're right,” Alan said. “But there are a couple of exception. Dresden Frauenkirche, for example.”
“Oh, yes, that is a good one!”
From the far side of the room, Sam turned back to watch them. They really seemed to be getting along. Yeah, he thought. [i]That's it. The sex doctor is in. Well, no .. not sex doctor. That makes it sound like I'm the guy who checks for chlamydia or something. The love doctor. Yeah. The love doctor is in.[i]
He turned and headed through into another room to look for Evie.
The love doctor. And jazz is kinda the music of love, isn't it? Maybe I'm actually really good at jazz after all and just … never knew it!
A hand grabbed his arm. Evie!
“Hey,” she said. “Mister creative, is it? So caught up in your deep thoughts that you didn't notice me?” She smiled at him and pulled him closer to her.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was just just thinking what it would be like to be a …” Don't say sex doctor “ … sex person.”
Evie frowned slightly. “Sorry?”
“Oh, never mind. It was just some weird joke with my flatmate. I mean 'sex person' – what does that even mean, right? It's mad.”
There was a short pause before Evie said, “Okay.”
Pretty sure I got away with that.
“Anyway,” continued Evie, “there's something I wanted to show you.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the hallway. “Oh, god. I'm so nervous,” she said. “I think you'll love it. I hope you love.”
“I'm sure I'll love it,” Sam told her. I'll love it so hard.
Evie showed him into the garage, which was empty of cars, warmed up, and had some temporary flooring laid down. Against one side there was a stage being set up.
“Enough of this Christmassy tripe,” Evie said. “We've got a band coming.”
“Cool?”
“Well, here's the coolest bit. They won't be here for an hour. Got delayed in the train. But all their instruments are here.”
I'm not going to love it.
“I called them,” said Evie. “And guess what? The saxophone guy is cool with you playing his. After what you said last time, about how you love performing and spontaneity, I though maybe you'd like to have a go and keep us entertained while we wait for the band. Only if you want to, of course! No pressure.”
“Ah,” said Sam. “Thing is, though, about that,”
Evie's face fell. “You hate the idea, don't you?”
“Not hate, but I kind of …”
Derek wandered up to them. “Hey guys! Ah, there he is, the man of the hour. What do you say, Sam?”
Evie frowned at him. “I don't think …”
“I'll do it!” said Sam. He smiled at them as hard as it could.
“You sure?” said Evie.
“Yeah. This is so me. I mean, a request for a spontaneous performance? Sure! How could I turn that down?”
“Top man,” said Derek. “I'll get everything set up for you. Do you know what you're going to play? I could get some sheet music.”
“Nah,” said Sam. “I'm fine. I've got loads of stuff memorised. And I do plenty of freestyle.” Actually, that might be the first thing I've said I do that I actually do. Even if it is a lie by omission. “I'll be fine. If you're lucky, you might even hear some Pingus in there.”
“Pingus?”
“It'll be great, I promise. Just give me ten minutes to get ready, okay? I need to grab my my mate. He won't want to miss this. You can put the saxophone there on the stage. It'll be fine.”
Evie winked at him. “Sure thing. See you in ten.”
Oh god. Sam was right. Everyone does get horny and desperate at Christmas. I can't let him know, or he'll never shut up about it. No. No. Concentrate on the snogging. Alan found himself backing mid-kiss into a bathroom. And try not to call your partner desperate. Definite faux-pas, that one.
One of his colleagues from work walked past and briefly caught his eyes. Should I wave to him? No. Probably not. Oh, the agony of the accidental eye contact. This is why you close your eyes when kissing. Christ, how did we get from Rayonnant gothic to this? There's probably something faintly sacrilegious about that transition. Concentrate on the kissing, dammit!
Sarah closed the door behind them, locked it then, looking up at him in the near darkness, said, “Are you okay with this? I'm not being too forward, am I?”
“Nu-huh,” said Alan. “Totally fine.”
She smiled. “Good. Just wanted to, y'know, make sure.” Her hands went for his belt, undid his trousers.
She leaned in to kiss him, then without warning sneezed on his face.
“Oh, god,” she said. “I'm sorry! Are you –” The question was interrupted by another string of sneezing. “I need to get my nasal spray!” she yelped, grabbing a length of toilet paper and fumbling with the lock. “I'm sorry.”
“It's fine,” Alan assured her. “I'll wait.”
“Thanks,” she said, and vanished out into the party.
That's twice I've been on the other side of things! This is amazing. Don't worry, Sarah. I won't do to you what all those girls in high school did to me. I'll wait for you, my snotty darling. He grabbed some toilet paper and wiped his cheek dry. Snotty darling. That's another thing I should remember to never call her. Still, I guess if nothing else I can say I got some of her fluids on my face. Don't really have to go into specifics on that.
The door was still ajar. A face peered through the cap, and a moment later Sam burst in. “There you are!” He looked back the way he'd come. “Things okay with … ?”
“They're fine,” said Alan. “I … uh … Actually, I'm trying to think of a nicer way to say 'please fuck off', but it's not coming.”
“Plenty of time for that later, dude! I need you.”
“This isn't some sex thing is it? Because I told you before –”
“Huh? No. Look, I'm in a jam. A big fucking jar of shit-in-fan jam.”
“How surprising.”
“I know, right? Evie has got a saxophone and expects me to play it. I need to get out of it while still making her think I can actually play the bloody thing.”
“Look, I really would ask how you plan to accomplish that with my help or not, but please, please fuck off.”
“Look, its easy. When I get up on the stage to play, you run by and steal the saxophone and hide it, or break it or burn it down or something.”
“No.”
“Look, is the thing with Sarah going well?”
“It is, actually. By some miracle, it is. That's why I need you to go away right now!” hissed Alan.
“Then you kinda owe me, right? Really and truly this time? For getting you love of your life. No – wait! And if you do this, I'll flip it over. I'll owe you. I'll do all the washing up and cleaning for a month. For two months.”
“Three months.”
“Okay, fine. Three months.”
Alan sighed and put his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. “Okay, fine. Just, do you have a pen and paper? I need to leave a note.”
“I've got a gel pen,” said Sam. “No paper.”
“For fuck's sake, why not?”
“Because I'm not the bloody … leave-a-note supplies man, am I?”
“Fine,” said Alan. “Just give me the pen.”
When Sam had handed over the pen, he grabbed a single square of toilet paper, and scribbled a note on it, puncturing the paper several times: “Sorry! I'm not abandoning you, something came up. Will finish this later. Alan.” He stared at it for a moment, then tried to fix the comma splice and capitalise the S on “something”.
“Hurry up!” cried Sam.
“There's always time for good grammar,” Alan said tartly. He placed the square on the closed toilet lid. “Okay, I'm done.”
Sam dragged him out of the bathroom into the hallway, then into the main room. Then Alan came to a halt.
Oh shit, he thought.
Norton had just come in, arm-in-arm with a woman who could very easily pass for a Scandinavian supermodel.
“Retreat, retreat!” He dragged Sam back into the hallway. “Norton's here!”
“Yeah, so?”
“If he sees me, my career prospects are fucked. You told me he wasn't coming!”
“Oh yeah! Shit,” said Sam. “Facebook said he wasn't. You know, that's really irresponsible of them to say someone's not coming when they are. We should sue Mark Zuckerberg for all his millions!”
“Yea. That's a great plan. We just need to get all that done in the next ten minutes and we'll be golden.”
Sam peered out the hallway into the front room. “He's coming this way.”
Okay, okay. Plan. Just need to hide until he's gone. Alan ran back down the hallway to the bathroom he'd come from. The door was closed. He grabbed the handle and tried open.
“Fuck's sake,” a voice said from inside. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, Christ. Christ.” Alan pounded the palm of his hand against his forehead. “I'm turning into you. This is how you live your life, isn't it? A chain of lies, failed sexual encounters, and disasters.”
“Exciting, isn't it?” said Sam.
“No, it's not fucking exciting! It's –”
“He's hung his coat up. He's still coming. Hey! Go in there.”
“In the bedroom?”
“Yeah! It has an ensuite, doesn't it? He won't be able to walk in on you in there.”
“What if he comes in and starts having sex or something?”
“He's not going to just walk in and start having sex. Don't be ridiculous.”
“But what if he does?”
“Then put on a funny voice so he won't recognise you and start groaning. Pretend you're having a really loud shit. It'll put them off and they'll leave. Now go!”
I can't believe I'm actually doing this. Alan bounded through into the bedroom. It was, thankfully, empty. He slumped against the wall and sighed, then looked around again.
There was no ensuite either.
Sam, you bastard. He turned to leave, and, his hand an inch away from the door handle, heard voices on the other side of the door. One of the was Norton's.
He looked around the bedroom again. They're not really going to come in here again, are they? And if they do, where would I go? No closets. Nothing. Okay, Alan: time to be a man. Well, not an active man. Don't go out there to meet them. Just be a passive man. If they do come in here, just talk to him. Admit that you were irresponsible. You might not get the promotion but at least you'll keep a sliver of self respect.
I mean, it's a ridiculous idea. If I did hide under the bed, would I even fit? Maybe I should check. Just in case. Just one check quick check, he thought, sinking to the floor, and then I'll go back outside and finish my punishment like a halfway normal human being
Huh. I do fit after all. Weird. I must be thinner than I thought. Though he had to admit, his nose was less than an inch away from brushing the bottom of the bed. Okay, time to get out. Any moment now.
The door opened. Outside, Alan could see Norton's shoes and a pair of high heels. A moment later, they were joined by a third pair – Sarah's bright yellow flats. Shit! but a moment later, Norton and his partner entered the room and shut the door behind them, blocking his view of Sarah's feet.
On the short journey to the bed, both pairs of shoes came off. The two of them sat on the bed, pressing its underside closer to Alan's face, and spoke in low, amorous voices.
Hm. Her accent. Is it Scandinavian? I'm not sure. Might be Dutch actually.
The voices ceased. One of Norton's argyll-patterned socks rose up slightly, and the toes clenched an unclenched. The couple finished with a slurping sound.
I suppose I could still pretend to do a loud shit from under the bed. It would definitely stop them. The problem would be when they look at me. I could make a run for it. Maybe if they don't see my face, I can run out onto the street, and maybe all my co-workers won't mention to Norton that I was there at all.
The bed creaked some more. The stocking-covered feet of Norton's partner vanished upwards.
Oh, who am I kidding. I'll just wait it out. They can't be more than thirty minutes, tops. Then I can slink out, go home, and cry into a nice cold glass of water. This is my penance for trying to be a normal human being/
Another drawn out kiss came alongside the creaking bedsprings.
Then Alan's phone erupted: Old-style porn music, maximum volume.
The creaking stopped. Or was drowned out. He grabbed the phone from his pocket and fiddled with it. Why is there an alarm now? What did I ever to … oh, Micronesian time. Now switch off, you fucker! Why won't you switch off?
The bed-ceiling above him lifted away. Norton, having tipped the bed on its side, looked down on him with wide eyes. So did his partner. The phone began another loop of porn music.
“Alan,” said Norton, slowly. “What are you doing under the bed … with your trousers open?”
The trousers. Oh yeah. Really should've fixed that when I had a chance.
Alan stared up at him. For a while there was nothing but the music. At last he croaked, “Trying to fix my notification settings. It … it doesn't seem to be working. Could you … ?”
Silently, Norton took the phone and jabbed at the screen a couple of time.
The music stopped.
“Thanks,” whispered Alan.
Sam paced back and forth in the hall. Damnit, man, what happened to the plan? What are you doing up there? How long can I wait outside this door before people start to think I'm some sort of creepy pervert trying to listen in on the sex? Hm. I suppose if I do have to wait, I may as well listen in on the sex …
“Sam! There you are. Did you find your friend?” said Evie, striding down the hall towards.
“Oh, yeah. Uh, he just. Never mind.”
Evie smiled at him. “Come on, then! Everything's set up.”
“Oh, great,” said Sam as he let her lead him towards the garage. Okay, buddy, if I've ever had secret telepathic powers, now's the time to listen. Well, you're in your head all the time anyway, aren't you, so it should be easy. What I want you do is listen in on my thoughts and the moment I pick up the saxophone, come running through and grab it off me. If you understand, don't reply … Great! Thanks, man.
In the garage, a bunch of people were waiting. The saxophone sat on a stand by the side of the stage. Evie joined Derek near the front. She gave Sam a thumbs-up. “Got you a proper audience and everything,” she said.
“Great,” said Sam. “Thanks.”
He stepped up onto the little stage and lifted the saxophone from it's stand. Evie smiled up at him. The crowd fell silent and turned towards him.
“So, uh, I guess should begin with a few words,” he said. “I, uh, once heard this story about this famous jazz musician. Not Pingus, one of the other dudes. Anyway, what happened was that he was one of the best musicians around, but one day he got up on stage and just, uh, found his abilities had completely deserted. Like, poof, and they were completely gone. But he … he was still definitely a good musician. After a week they came back and everything was fine. So it just goes to show, these things happen sometimes.”
Evie was looking a bit confused.
“Anyway,” said Sam. “Enough of that. Time to start the show.” He looked down at the saxophone. Well, that's the mouthpiece and those are the buttons. It doesn't look too hard. Like a fancy recorder. Kinda wish I'd paid attention during recorder lessons.
He lifted the saxophone to his mouth and came to a realisation. [i]Hold on … maybe passion really is the most important thing. Maybe if I just play with enough passion, my true soul will show through and Evie will fall in love with me! Yeah! Well, here goes.”
He blew as hard as he could.
The saxophone produce a choked wail, then fell silent.
That … didn't sound great. But … it could just be imposter syndrome or something? Maybe it sounds really fantastic to them?
He blew again. The saxophone squeaked faintly. Sam broke out into a fit of coughing.
No … Nope. It doesn't sound fantastic to them.
And judging by the look on Evie's face, she wasn't going to let have a third try.
Alan unlocked the door, and they both entered the cold, empty flat in silence. He flicked the lights on, pulled off his coat and went straight for the kettle.
He broke the silence first: “You want a cup?”
“Sure,” called Sam.
A nice cup of tea. The perfect response to a night of humiliation.
“So,” said Sam as the kettle boiled. “You think you're gonna meet with Sarah again?”
“I rather doubt it. And Evie?”
“Nah.”
On the plus side, it was pretty nice of Norton not to just fire me on the spot. I should thank him or something. Or … alternatively, I could never speak of this again.
“Well,” he said, taking his cup. “I'm going to bed.”
“Don't worry,” Sam assured him. “There's still New Year's. Special pub trip, up all night, loads of girls. What do you say?”
“I … I'll think about it,” said Alan.
He took his tea into his bedroom, pulled his phone out his pocket, and was about to throw it on the bed when he saw he'd got a message through Facebook.
From Sarah.
“Party was a bit of a mess,” read the message. “Would you like to hang out somewhere a bit less awful before New Year's?”
Alan smiled to himself.
I'm of very mixed feelings on this story. There's a lot of work put in, and there's also some strong turns of phrase and a fairly propulsive plot, but nothing hangs together right.
Most crucially, the characters drove me crazy--they're such a collection of crudely drawn outlines filled in with smarmy tics that it makes the experience of reading insufferable. (And not only Sam; Alan is just as bad in a different way. The other characters-Evie, Sarah, Norton-are just cutouts for plot purposes) Mainly, no one ever feels like a real person-a guy like Sam would really be into Pokemon Go? Alan would really make any of the decisions he makes? That's part of it, too: I feel like the story wants me to sympathize with Alan but he is also a selfish dick, even if it's hard see that when he's in the orbit of the blazing sun of dickishness that Sam is. If the story had risen to the level of farce, all this might have worked, but the bedroom scene and the saxophone bit didn't pay off in any satisfying way.
I wish I knew how to offer constructive advice: I can see lots of pieces here, and some of the individual bits of writing are great, but they all add up to a story that left me completely cold. Still, humor is subjective, so perhaps this strikes others better than it did me.
Most crucially, the characters drove me crazy--they're such a collection of crudely drawn outlines filled in with smarmy tics that it makes the experience of reading insufferable. (And not only Sam; Alan is just as bad in a different way. The other characters-Evie, Sarah, Norton-are just cutouts for plot purposes) Mainly, no one ever feels like a real person-a guy like Sam would really be into Pokemon Go? Alan would really make any of the decisions he makes? That's part of it, too: I feel like the story wants me to sympathize with Alan but he is also a selfish dick, even if it's hard see that when he's in the orbit of the blazing sun of dickishness that Sam is. If the story had risen to the level of farce, all this might have worked, but the bedroom scene and the saxophone bit didn't pay off in any satisfying way.
I wish I knew how to offer constructive advice: I can see lots of pieces here, and some of the individual bits of writing are great, but they all add up to a story that left me completely cold. Still, humor is subjective, so perhaps this strikes others better than it did me.
I'm kind of in complete agreement with >>Ferd Threstle , at least.
I don't think I'd go as far as saying your characters are poorly written – they're not, really, they have very consistent and noticeable traits – but... I don't actually like any of them. There's no real charisma. I think it might be that you hit the characterization button a bit too steady – every paragraph is a soft repetition of "Sam is sleazeball" and "Alan is a stick in the mud", without letting any particular moments stand out and really flaunt that. The essence of humor is in the timing and managing your audience's tension. Varying the build-up to each punchline, and occasionally throwing in a surprise or subverting their expectations.
Title should have been: The Sexophonist
I don't think I'd go as far as saying your characters are poorly written – they're not, really, they have very consistent and noticeable traits – but... I don't actually like any of them. There's no real charisma. I think it might be that you hit the characterization button a bit too steady – every paragraph is a soft repetition of "Sam is sleazeball" and "Alan is a stick in the mud", without letting any particular moments stand out and really flaunt that. The essence of humor is in the timing and managing your audience's tension. Varying the build-up to each punchline, and occasionally throwing in a surprise or subverting their expectations.
Title should have been: The Sexophonist
Hmm. This reads very sitcom-y to me, with people being fairly unrealistic jerks (this sort of behavior is usually somewhat self-correcting IRL, because it's simply unsustainable,) and that... well, I don't really enjoy this sort of humor much. For some reason, people being awful and nasty to each other doesn't really make me laugh?
There were some genuinely clever bits in here, with the callback to setting his cell alarm and things like that; I actually think this is fairly well done for what it is. However, I just don't like this sort of story.
I'm probably outside your target audience; I hope you get a better reception from others.
There were some genuinely clever bits in here, with the callback to setting his cell alarm and things like that; I actually think this is fairly well done for what it is. However, I just don't like this sort of story.
I'm probably outside your target audience; I hope you get a better reception from others.
Well, that was not bad. I rather appreciated it, but oddly enough for the same reason the others found it meh: because the characters are so cardboard-cut. How so? Because I was precisely anticipating each of their future actions, and my reading tuned into a sort of game of hit and miss. Like: “Will they do that?… Yeah!”
Of course, I don’t have much to say on the content of the story. The plot’s nice and jaunty, albeit it is in a way unrealistic two such people could even be housemates. To your credit, the contrast between the two characters creates a funny clash, but yeah, that’s about all there’s here and you’ve gone teeny-weeny overboard. But admittedly, in its own way, it sounds like a farce – maybe you could’ve dispensed with the last line. A happy end wasn’t necessary, even if it’s as cliché as your characters themselves.
I think it's going to float around the middle of my slate.
Of course, I don’t have much to say on the content of the story. The plot’s nice and jaunty, albeit it is in a way unrealistic two such people could even be housemates. To your credit, the contrast between the two characters creates a funny clash, but yeah, that’s about all there’s here and you’ve gone teeny-weeny overboard. But admittedly, in its own way, it sounds like a farce – maybe you could’ve dispensed with the last line. A happy end wasn’t necessary, even if it’s as cliché as your characters themselves.
I think it's going to float around the middle of my slate.
I'm always up for shenanigans, and this story more or less delivered.
Alan's story line worked well for me, especially the bedroom scene. The ringtone was perfect, unexpected callbacks like that are great.
Alan's punchline being that good made more disappointed in Sam's than I normally would have been. The moment he lies about playing sax you know how it's going to end, and even though the execution is good it still felt like a bit of a let down when compared to Alan's preceding scene.
Alan's story line worked well for me, especially the bedroom scene. The ringtone was perfect, unexpected callbacks like that are great.
Alan's punchline being that good made more disappointed in Sam's than I normally would have been. The moment he lies about playing sax you know how it's going to end, and even though the execution is good it still felt like a bit of a let down when compared to Alan's preceding scene.
I don't think I'm the target audience for this one; there's nobody here I want to root for, nobody I'm interested in seeing win or lose.
The main characters are too similar in voice, name, and depth. That's especially bad with how many POV shifts there are. It'd be more interesting to see each of their stories play out separately and then crash together at that perfectly inopportune moment.
The secondary characters need some personality too, Sarah is little more than a name and a sudden sneeze, and Evie doesn't fare much better. The scenery could use the same treatment.
The main characters are too similar in voice, name, and depth. That's especially bad with how many POV shifts there are. It'd be more interesting to see each of their stories play out separately and then crash together at that perfectly inopportune moment.
The secondary characters need some personality too, Sarah is little more than a name and a sudden sneeze, and Evie doesn't fare much better. The scenery could use the same treatment.
One thing worth noting is that you will probably want to clean up your actual story structure a little bit. The arc is a bit unsatisfying because we open on Sam's exploits (and Sam's PoV), but we end on Alan's triumph and his PoV. Basically, the story you promise at the start is not the story you finish with.
S&S, take heart that your writing didn't fall entirely on hearts of stone: this was in second place in my voting. It hit the same sweet spot for me that movies like Fargo or Shaun of the Dead did, or a good rollicking session of the role-playing game Fiasco: these are horrible people in over their heads, and there's a comic satisfaction to watching them dig their own graves.
Maybe the humor's too subtle for general tastes? I don't know about anyone else, but this (for example) just landed in my sweet spot:
And, I mean, despite everyone's complaints I think this is smooth characterization: Sam is too wrapped up in himself to listen to conversational partners and he's not nearly as smart as he thinks he is. It's engaging, sets tone smartly, and is all but a giant clue bat that we're not supposed to be rooting for the protagonist.
Given that I'm in the minority here, I guess something along the lines of >>horizon might help from a different angle? There were a number of complaints about not being able to root for the main characters; maybe the trick here is to make the characters more likeable (or root-for-able) while preserving their basic jerkishness. But I'm very much not the person to lead that discussion, since I can't really think about much I'd change here -- if you're going with the Shaun of the Dead model, you don't want to make the characters more likeable, you just want to pile on them while following straight-faced plot beats. Which you did.
So, yeah. Really sorry to see this wash out.
Tier: Top Contender
Maybe the humor's too subtle for general tastes? I don't know about anyone else, but this (for example) just landed in my sweet spot:
He gave an expansive gesture. “You know what I mean?”
“Uh huh,” said the woman. “No.”
“Right, exactly! And it's two halves, see. Male and female, each incomplete without the other. But they interpenetrate.” At this final point two gestured occurred to him: making a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand so it could put his index finger through it, which seemed too forward, versus simply interlacing his fingers, which didn't seem forward enough. In the end, lacking time to think, he tried to do both as the same time and ended up with a gesture that didn't look like much of anything.
And, I mean, despite everyone's complaints I think this is smooth characterization: Sam is too wrapped up in himself to listen to conversational partners and he's not nearly as smart as he thinks he is. It's engaging, sets tone smartly, and is all but a giant clue bat that we're not supposed to be rooting for the protagonist.
Given that I'm in the minority here, I guess something along the lines of >>horizon might help from a different angle? There were a number of complaints about not being able to root for the main characters; maybe the trick here is to make the characters more likeable (or root-for-able) while preserving their basic jerkishness. But I'm very much not the person to lead that discussion, since I can't really think about much I'd change here -- if you're going with the Shaun of the Dead model, you don't want to make the characters more likeable, you just want to pile on them while following straight-faced plot beats. Which you did.
So, yeah. Really sorry to see this wash out.
Tier: Top Contender
Hey y'all. Thanks for the reviews. And sorry I didn't get any reviews done this round. Here's hoping I can make up for it next time round.
This is my first attempt at comedy, which was a fun change given that most of what I write tends to be sombre when it manages a happy ending. It is indeed very sitcom-y, and there's a very good reason for that: It's sort of a Peep Show fanfic with the serial numbers filed off, right down to the format.
And thank you in particular, >>horizon, for the post-reveal review. The reviewing session this round (when I found time to check in) was a little bit of a slog, and yours came as a welcome confidence-booster at the end. And it's a great example of how far smart people can differ in their reactions to a story, which ought to count as one of the Writeoff's more important lessons about the craft.
This is my first attempt at comedy, which was a fun change given that most of what I write tends to be sombre when it manages a happy ending. It is indeed very sitcom-y, and there's a very good reason for that: It's sort of a Peep Show fanfic with the serial numbers filed off, right down to the format.
And thank you in particular, >>horizon, for the post-reveal review. The reviewing session this round (when I found time to check in) was a little bit of a slog, and yours came as a welcome confidence-booster at the end. And it's a great example of how far smart people can differ in their reactions to a story, which ought to count as one of the Writeoff's more important lessons about the craft.