Day 27

Insa

I would say Andaw's hiding something, but the man's a walking goldfish bowl. Every line on his face, every blemish, the suspect swelling of one pectoral muscle slash breast, it's all a kind of confession. That or a zoo he is cursed to carry with him, each of the exhibits screeching his misdoings. He'll only say he can't talk about it for my sake. I for my part tell him most things about myself, stopping just short of where I like to be nibbled.

We meet in the Playground café, or in the library, every Tuesday at six. We make an odd couple, me with my bleached streaks and plastic bangles, trying to look sixteen again, and him with his split face ' one side thirty, one side seventy, a stained jersey covering his misshapen chest and torso and battered flares over his gammy legs. Nobody comments. I yabber on for hours about Cadderine and her obsession, about the stupid therapy programme they have her on. About how she's making a nest of cuttings, only answering to her "stage name, only eating foods her precious MG has been spotted chowing on in restaurants, answering everyday questions as if she's being interviewed for Reely Film magazine. I'm worried, but I can't bring myself to do anything. It's weird. She's fading away. I'll say all this, and then in the same breath, I'll order a spiced chai with whipped cream from the waitress and quip about the décor.

Sometimes I'll see a little girl with her uncle in the café. He buys her what must be apple juice, and they talk just out of earshot, probably about the toys hanging like a butcher's wares in the window. This week he brought her slightly older sister in. Maybe about twelve. Of course, I don't know any of this for a fact, but it comforts me to fill in the blanks with my own version of events. Gives me a kind of control over something in a city where even the buses are insubordinate.

Andaw grins when he sees me looking across at the pair. "You like kids?

"I like kids, I agree. "Actually, just that one. She's sweet. I like her expressions.

"You're writing her story in your head, aren't you? He asks.

"Don't be stupid.

"Suit yourself. You want another chai?

"No thanks, I say, gathering my bag. "I should get back.

"Oh right, he replies, sadly.

"Andaw, I'm sick of this. We've been meeting up for weeks now. I still feel like I know nothing about you.

He shifts in his seat. "What do you want to know?

I lose my tact.

"Why the fuck do you look like that for starters?

"I don't want to discuss it right now, he says.

"Well when?

Andaw pauses, chings his spoon against the cheap china cup.

"I don't think you'll ever be ready for it. I'm not a happy person.

"Don't give me that. Come on. You can't give something a build-up like that and expect to be allowed off spilling everything. You don't even want to be let off. Nobody who really intends to kill themselves talks excessively about it to all and sundry.

"I don't know if that's true.

A different tack. "Please?

"I'm going to die soon. That is, I think I may be about to. It all depends what the postman brings.

"Well now you have to tell me.

Miffy

I should have done this years ago, I think, as I dial the number. I'm a fucking mug for not thinking of it sooner. Well, of course I thought about it, but Fetz always said ' Wait, a click. Hello? Hello? Is that '

You. Have. Reached. The. Offices. Of. Channel. Twenty. Two. Entertainment. Please. Select. One. Of. The. Following. Options.

The cyborg has spoken. I groan and lean on the receiver as she jerks her way through every conceivable TV-related enquiry except mine.

If. You. Have. A. Colony. Of. Frogs. Living. In. Your. Television. Set. Please. Press. 67. Now.

Well, not quite, but you get the picture. I sigh, and as I do so, just catch the end of a vaguely helpful option. What was that one? Something to do with fan mail and contacting Jexa Joseffone. Repeat, fuckmittit! Repeat!

You. Have. Chosen. Option. 80. Application. For. Autographs. There. Will. Now. Follow. A. Further. Series. Of. Options '

No! No, you gitfink! Fuck you! I hammer the touchtone pads with my newly stretched fingers.

You. Have. Chosen. Maren. Gilligan.

NOOOOO!

You. Have. Chosen. Chasey. Pollen.
Bray Fairfax.

Maren Pollen.

Chasey Fairfax.

Gilligan Bray.

The receiver crashes as I slam it down into the cradle. Seconds later I am drowning my wrists in cold water.

A tot of whisky later, I am ready to try again. Automated phone services strike me as being a bit like wildlife photography. You need infinite patience, but the rewards are always worth it. You also need to the shut the hell up and listen.

This mantra in mind, I have a little more success on the second attempt, and actually get through to the reception line, with the promise of a human voice to come. Nodding my head moronically along to some Kandy Kisses song they insist on feeding me, I twist and shift the script in my head, copying and pasting key phrases of my pitch as I wait.

"Good morning, Channel 22? The receptionist has that annoying rocketing intonation. I want to say "Well fuck a duck, is it really? I wanted to order a bally takeaway! just to prove a point, but I don't.

"Hello there, I husken my voice for authority. "Could you please put me through to Jexa Joseffone of The Jexa Show fame? Many thanks.

There is laughter on the line. Protracted laughter. Bastards.
"Would that be OK? Only I'm in a hurry.

"You're joking, right? How old are you anyway? Her voice is dripping with scorn. I've just made her fucking day.

"Listen, bitch, I snap. "Jexa Joseffone is going to die if you do not put me through this instant.

"W-what? The laughter drops off as if a tourniquet has been yanked around it.

"Imagine the headlines: 'Negligence on part of Office Bitch leads to death of TV's Chat Show Sweetheart.' Catchy, huh? All your fucking fault. Oh, and don't bother with a trace. I've thought of that already. This phone is untraceable, and all your actions will do is lead me straight to you. You like that?

Blatant lies, but she's buying it.

"It's my f-first week. I promise I don't know how to put t-traces on calls.

"You know how to patch people through, right?

"I'm not supposed to¦

I hear a voice in the background on their end of the line. I recognise it immediately.

"Hey girls, just picking up my fan mail, death threats etc.

I half expect our newbie friend to squeak "got one right h-here for you Ms Joseffone, and hold out the phone.

"OK, I was joking about, I soften my voice. "But do me one thing. Say the following name aloud. If she wants the call, she'll come without you asking. No trouble for any party, capiche?

Mumbles.

"CAPICHE? C'mon, work with me here!

"OK¦

Mumbles on my part.

"Miffy Renee, she tremors quietly. I've done her a favour. Every call she gets after this will be a walk in the park.

"Once more, I urge her. "Then I'll leave you alo -

"Hello? Hello? Miffy? This is Jexa. Talk to me. I'm thinking an hour long special. Big fee ' I'm talking BIG fee. You with me?

I grin, satisfied. Good to know my name still conjures notoriety. I open my mouth to accept graciously, pending an apology for the conduct of her minions.

"Just kidding around, Mif. Now fuck off and stop harassing my staff, you freak.

Crunk. An empty line tone.

For a while, I stare at the ceiling, the receiver still buzzing in my hand like a snoring cat. Then, naked because my pyjamas no longer fit me, I curl up in bed, and sleep out the afternoon, afraid of waking up.