On the Wind

 

Gordon Baker was walking home after a very long day, a dry day in which he’d agonised over figures, the measly budget he’d been given, trying to stretch it out any which way he could. He was a civil servant, boring, well-meaning and devoted, he worked nine to five, only doing extra hours on polling day. Then the whole department did an all nighter, counting, drinking, losing concentration, nodding off, jerking back into consciousness, often by a loud burst of laughter. The usual office jokers making bad cracks throughout the night.

 

It was a bright afternoon at the tail end of August, the sun was softer and kinder but the wind blew strong and fickle. The leaves in the park had lost some of their vibrancy and were beginning to dry up and crinkle, just like Gordon. His head was throbbing slightly so he sat down on a bench to enjoy the fresh air and sun before heading home for dinner.

 

Every year his budget for the town’s Christmas decorations shrunk, this year it would barely cover the cost of the lights. There would be no tree in Central square, not like the old days when the whole town was lit up and talented designers were brought in to create a theme and outdo the other local towns. Celebrities would be drafted in during November to switch on the lights, Darren Day, Peter Andre, Timmy Mallett.

 

He felt a bit guilty about letting the locals down but when he expressed concerns it had only made his boss, Sue Bush bristle with anger. ‘The budget will be zero next year and then what will you do! She yelled, ‘I’ve said it time and time again, we can’t create paradise ex nihilo.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Fewer and fewer people care about the town centre or Christmas for that matter, and those are just old people and of no consequence to us anyway.’

 

‘Okay,’ Gordon lowered his voice to avoid further inflammation of Sue’s temper, ‘I’m not asking for more money but perhaps we could take something from the archives. It doesn’t matter if it looks dated, it could be,’ he smiled, ‘retro.’

 

Sue tutted, her chest wobbled and her jowls shook. ‘God you’re a pain. There might be a big banner in the room where all the traffic cameras are, it’s rainbow striped, glittery, you could hang that round Churchill’s neck by the bus station, put a holly leaf on it, that area always needs a bit of a glow up.’ She began to walk away before turning back and shouting, ‘And Gordon,’ she held up her finger, ‘watch it, no-one’s indispensable.’

 

Thinking about Sue Bush only made his head throb. He reached into his pocket, took out a small tub of White Tiger Balm and rubbed it onto his temples in a circular motion. Just then a big gust of wind blew and something flew towards him, it fluttered then adhered to the smear of tiger balm and began flapping on the side of his head. At first he thought it was a butterfly and he worried that its wings might be damaged so he carefully reached up and removed it and to his surprise it was a golden ticket. 

 

‘TAYLOR SWIFT CONCERT 30th August’

 

The name was sort of familiar, Taylor Swift, yes he’d heard of her, some sort of furore. He didn’t know anything about the music but he remembered that the tickets were expensive, in high demand. It occurred to him that he could sell the ticket to one of the girls at work for lots of money. However this would only lead to more guilt, his mother has brought him up to feel very bad about having money, all the rich people were inherently bad. Even his end of year performance related bonus made him feel bad. Mother’s last words to him were, ‘The world’s gone silly, Gordon,’ as she held his hand, ‘you need to lie low, don’t seek thrills, no good will come of it.’

 

He hadn’t seeked any thrills. This ticket, indeed if it was a thrill, had indeed sought him and he was free on August 30th. It was fate.

 

He travelled to the city in his Friday work outfit, smart casual, his ticket stashed safely in his inside pocket, he imagined it fluttering there like a second heart. The venue was heaving with girls, tiny girls, big girls, mothers, sisters, grandmas, great-grandmas, boys, men, shiny hair and lipgloss. Gordon didn’t feel out of place though. There was something bonding them all together, an invisible charge, something cohesive.

 

There was no anarchy which was what Gordon feared most. He didn’t mind crowds as long as everyone behaved; he enjoyed food festivals and art exhibitions but he hated football matches and theme parks. He felt a bit bland at first but he soon realised that all the other attendees were sort of bland too, despite their pretty outfits, they all existed within certain parameters of dullness.

 

After lots of hanging around, during which nobody became impatient or complained, the music started. The star strode up onto the stage in a silver outfit, high heeled boots, she was neither beautiful or not beautiful, her hair blonde/brown, pale skin, her voice blending into the ether like white noise, the music neither jarring nor particularly pleasing. The crowd drew together like one big white cloud of soft nothingness and the empty space in their heads was temporarily filled with the nothingness which had the calming effect of light cleansing.

 

After a couple of hours of songs which, to Gordon’s ears, all sounded pretty much the same, the concert was over. He felt different, not inspired but rather unburdened by the worries of his Christmas budget and the stresses of work. The problems of the world felt like illusions of his own making, at least for now. Taylor Swift had managed to create a temporary mist which swirled in the eyes of her subjects and made it impossible to focus for long on anything of great importance. 

 

As he stood in the crowd he began to question what was real and what was fake, the news stories, politics, climate change and rioting. Her influence was like a comforting blanket under which you could hide and become like a small child again. He felt as light as the feathers on Taylor's leotard. It was rather like he had always imagined heaven to feel like, all your problems floating away and lightness and whiteness all around.

 

As the concert came to a close the calm continued to flow. Some people hung around in the venue for a while, others began to scuttle out, smiling with wonder in their eyes and a rattle in their heads as their brains enjoyed the new found space, de-cluttered at least for a while.

 

Gordon took a few deep breaths and took a moment to summarise his feelings by asking himself some questions about the experience but the answer to each was exactly the same - ‘Neither agree nor disagree.’ This was very satisfying to him.

 

He was very near to the exit, waiting patiently when he heard a familiar voice which made his heart sink. ‘Gordon, what on earth are you doing here?’

 

No, it couldn’t be. It was. It was Sue Bush with all the managers from the council and she looked angry although Gordon could tell she was doing her best to hide it by releasing lots of puffs of breathy fake laughter while her frown furrowed with fury and confusion.

 

‘I had a ticket,’ he said calmly before turning his back to her.

 

‘But…the tickets were only for management. How on earth did you manage to get hold of one?’

 

He glanced back at her, she looked demonic in a red dress covered with sequins, silver charms nestling in her turkey neck. Her cronies stood slightly back from her as if she was the ringleader. Gordon let out a little cough before saying, ‘I have my means.’

 

Sue snarled. ‘You didn’t find it on the toilet floor did you? Brendan Cheadles lost his after the chancellor's luncheon.’ She turned around to look at her colleagues. ‘Didn’t he? You lot remember don’t you?’

 

The others laughed. ‘That was a boozy do,’ one of them muttered. 

 

‘Fantastic concert that though, wasn’t it?’ said one of the others but he didn’t quite sound convinced about his own statement.

 

Gordon nodded his head. ‘It was great,’ he said but he too detected something fake in his own voice. For a moment he dwelled upon it before concluding that it didn’t really matter whether he thought it was great or not. People were either having a great time or convincing themselves that they were having a great time, the truth which lay somewhere in between had somehow become irrelevant. 

 

He felt the invisible bristles of Sue Bush tickling his back again and anticipating more questions from her, he slipped gently but purposefully through the crowd and safely away from the posse of entitled managers, determined to hold onto his Taylor Swift comfort blanket of blandness, at least for now.