The Start of Something 2

Gordon removes his huge-collared cape and hangs it on the doctor’s hat stand in the corner along with his umbrella. Today he’s dressed in a smart black suit, white shirt, black tie and black patent shoes all from his favourite fashion house: Asda George range. His hair, immaculately shaped in all directions, recreates an out-of-bed surfer-style look designed to last throughout the day and well into the night. A full can of Silvikrin ensures even a hurricane would have difficulty in giving him a bad hair day.

“Take a seat, please,” says Doctor Ritchie, studying the file before him. “So, Gordon, what can I do for you today?”

Gordon wipes the chair a couple of times before settling down and pulling himself closer to the doctor’s desk. Only then does he study the doctor more closely; a handsome man in his fifties with deep blue eyes and dyed blonde hair; well-tanned and smooth complexion. As the doctor lifts a pen Gordon admires his well-manicured long polished nails, wondering if they’re false.

Doctor Ritchie lights up the poorly lit room with a smile to match the rest of him. “See anything you like?” he asks, slouching in his chair, clasping his hands on the back of his head.

Gordon watches him with suspicion. He’s never met this new doctor before, and is debating with himself whether or not he’s doing the right thing. The doctor widens his eyes and Gordon experiences such a sudden tingling heat all over his body he feels like diving right in to those lagoon-like pools of blue.

“I’ve got a rash,” says Gordon, quickly removing his eyes from the doctor to a poster advertising a helpline for domestic abuse.

“Mm, really,” says Doctor Ritchie, leaning forward and putting his clasped hands on the desk. “And where might that rash be then? Have you been putting yourself about a bit with the ladies?”

“Not at all. The rash appears all over my body, but only when I go outside during the day. I think I’ve developed an allergy to the sun.”

Doctor Ritchie laughs. “Have you tried just going out at night? There’s a whole world out there waiting for you.”

“But I have to go to work during the day.” Gordon straightens up in his chair and raises his voice almost as high. “I’ve been off sick for over a month now. I need the money.”

Doctor Ritchie holds his hands out palms-down in a calming manner. “Okay, okay. I feel you, man. I was just teasing.”

“I don’t think it’s a laughing matter. I have rent to pay and bills to meet.”

“Can you not get a night shift job?” asks Doctor
Ritchie, as another embryonic hint of a broad smile is born.

"I don't want a bloody night shift job."

“A bloody night shift job? Good one. I like that. So what exactly is your day job?”

“I’m a warden,” Gordon mumbles, looking down at the calendar on the desk, and noticing what days the Health Centre’s blue bins get collected.

“A warden you say? Mm, sounds interesting. What kind of warden? A prison warden?”

“Not exactly. But I do deal with the criminal elements who think laws don’t apply to them.”

Doctor Ritchie bites his lip, just about winning the battle to maintain a straight-faced professional appearance. “I see. So you’re a traffic warden then?”

“It’s a serious job,” says Gordon. “Somebody has to maintain law and order. It’s a bloody jungle out there.”

“A jungle? Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry. Forgive me, Gordon.” Doctor Ritchie stands up and steps out from behind his desk. At over six feet he’s taller than Gordon first thought. “Now then, let’s have a look at that rash of yours.”

Gordon unbuttons his shirt and points to the handful of red blotches on his otherwise milky-white chest. Doctor Ritchie gives it a quick glance before returning to his seat.

“Is it itchy?”

“Yes, it gets very itchy if I go out.”

“Have you tried any creams from the chemist?”

“No. I’ve not been out much recently.”

“Of course. Of course.”

“Can you give me something for it?”

Doctor Ritchie hits a few keys on his keyboard and moves his mouse around, clicking several times. A printer situated on the far side of the room bursts into action and spews out a page.

“Tell me, Gordon,” says Doctor Ritchie, swinging around in his chair and springing up athletically in the direction of the printer. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like? Being a traffic warden?”

“Not at all, young man. Not at all. Where’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t know what you mean then.”

“Now now, Gordon. Of course you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, but I know you do.”

Gordon runs his tongue over his now fully-sized canines. He knows the doctor couldn’t possibly have noticed as he’s been practicing speaking without opening his mouth too much. Although, in truth, he’s only just mastered a gottle of gear. Surely the dentist wouldn’t have said anything. These things are supposed to be confidential.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Doctor Ritchie,” says Gordon, trying to look him in the eye but feeling those blue whirlpools pull him in deeper.

“Okay,” says Doctor Ritchie, stifling a sman. “Let’s try a different approach.”

He takes the sheet of paper out the printer, has a good look and sits it on the table in front of Gordon. The photograph is black and white and taken from a strange angle, but Gordon recognises himself right away. It must’ve been taken last Thursday while he visited the Clydebank 24 hour Asda in the early hours. There’s no denying it’s him, and he’s going to have difficulty explaining to the doctor what he’s doing handling red panties in the Ladies underwear section.

“Wh-wh-what do you want?” says Gordon, feeling a rush of colour in his face for the first time in a month.

“I don’t want anything,” says Doctor Ritchie. “I’m just curious as to what it’s like being a cross-dressing vampire. I’ve never come across one before.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Gordon, even though he knows he’s caught red-laced, so to speak.

“Okay. Fair enough. I’m sure we’ll have plenty opportunities to discuss that later. Anyway, on to your little problem. Here’s how to deal with being stuck in the house all day.” says Doctor Ritchie, rolling up his shirt sleeve, revealing a pale arm that contrasts with his golden-tanned hands. “Watch this.”

Using his fingernail he scrapes a bit of colour from the back of his hand and wipes it onto a white sheet of paper. “Fake tan. Like it?”He then unbuttons his shirt to reveal a milk-bottle white chest with a few red blotches on it. “Look familiar?”

Gordon nods.

“We’re not so different you and I.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think you’re not as slow as you’re trying to make out.”

Relaxing a little, Gordon sits back down and looks at the doctor “So what’s the score with your eyes?”

Doctor Ritchie crosses his eyes and laughs. “What’s the score with your hair?”

“I spent ages getting this just right.”

“Fashion, eh? Well, my dear Gordon. Your eyes are exactly the same as mine. You just have to know how to use them. When you look in the mirror you can’t notice, but anyone looking into your eyes for more than a few seconds will be overcome with a desire to get to know you better. Your eyes are like a magnet. That’s how you’ll pick up more than your fair share of virgins. Hasn’t anyone told you that yet?”

Gordon swallows and shakes his head. “I’ve not spoken to anyone about anything, apart from the dentist who told me to stay at home for a month and practice making scary faces in the mirror.”

“You got to hand it old Jimbo down there. He’s certainly got a great sense of humour. I suppose he told you to practice a foreign accent too?”

Gordon nods sheepishly. “Yes, he did. I’ve been trying out French and Spanish but think I might settle for Glaswegian.”

“Well, that’ll be a challenge. Might affect your scoring rate though.”

Gordon lifts the photo of him in Asda. “So how did you get a hold of this?”

“Ah, contacts, Gordon. Contacts. Everywhere.”

“I was only having a look. I didn’t buy anything.”

“Of course you were. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. Well, not a living soul anyway.” He laughs.

“So can you give me anything for the rash?” asks Gordon, placing the photograph face-down on the desk and sliding back over to the doctor who immediately lifts it up for another look.

“I’ll write you a prescription for a mild steroid cream for the rash, and also write a prescription for a year’s supply of fake tan. You’ll find you can go out in any conditions once you’ve got a bit of colour about your face. But don’t be getting carried away and going for a swim.”

Doctor Ritchie stands to usher Gordon out the door. “I see those skipping ropes you bought are working. What are you now…a size sixteen maybe?”

Without hesitation Gordon throws his nose in the air. “Beg your pardon. I’m down to a size fourteen, and can almost squeeze into a twelve.”

The doctor raises an eyebrow and watches with a smile as Gordon looks at him indignantly. “Really? Must be the light in here.”

He reaches into his drawer and offers Gordon a business card. “Well, if there’s anything you need to know just give me a ring…anytime…day or night.

Gordon thinks for a few seconds before reluctantly reaching out and taking the card.

“Tell you what,” says Doctor Ritchie, putting his hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “I’m having a little get together tonight. Why don’t you go home put your new face on and call me later. I’ll introduce you to a few of the guys….and gals, of course. We’re an equal rights sort of group.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet,” says Gordon, genuinely excited about the prospect of a night out, but still feeling slightly hurt at the doctor’s remarks about his weight.

“Nonsense. I won’t hear any of that. You’ll fit right in. We’re a very diverse group.”

Gordon tries to avoid Doctor Ritchie’s eyes, but curiosity defeats him and before he has a chance to think of an excuse finds himself saying, “What time?”

“Splendid. It’s going to be great night. There’s a coach load of French students staying at the Youth Hostel all week. Definitely enough for everyone.”

“What should I wear?”

“Ah, it’s not for an old traditionalist like me to be telling a trend setter like you what to wear. Just wear what you think appropriate. Whatever you feel comfortable in. Whatever you think shows off your new curves.”

Gordon grabs his cape and umbrella from the hat stand with one graceful swoop. “I think I know just the outfit, Doc. Thanks again. I’ll phone you later.”

With a spring in his step Gordon skips out the surgery and heads over to Boots to collect his prescription. The girl behind the pharmacy counter fails to notice him and continues busying herself doing nothing in particular. Gordon decides to try something and lets out a little cough to grab her attention. She does a double take before locking her eyes with Gordon’s Pacific blues, hypnotically pulling her in as he holds her gaze. Times passes slowly and silently until she instinctively puts on her best smile and starts coquettishly playing with her hair.

“Can I…can I help you, sir?” she asks, trying not to blush too much as she falls deeper and deeper into the ocean blue of Gordon’s eyes. “I’m…I’m Sharon, by the way.”

Gordon smiles, keeping her locked in his gaze before going for the kill. “Pleased tae meet ye, Sharon. Am joost in fur a prescription, hen. Huv ye a pen so Ah can sign the back ae it?”

Sharon tries to keep smiling, but with heart pounding like a Lambeg drum and feelings of overwhelming lust and desire washing over her like a Spring tide, she can take no more and is swept clean off her feet, collapsing in a heap behind the counter and dreaming of all the stars in the sky.

‘Looks like I’m going to have to tone down that accent for a start,’ Gordon says to himself before picking up a pair of sunglasses from the display.