Chameleon On a Kaleidoscope (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) (6 page)

“
Well yes, I
suppose I do. I’m an alcoholic. In fact I’ve been in AA now for
fifteen years.“ It seemed like as good a way as any to extricate
myself.

“
Good for
you” she said, obviously winded, “congratulations” and then after a
pause,“Fifteen years? Why, how old are you?

“
Forty-eight”
I lied.

“
Your picture
looks a lot younger’.

“
Well that’s
what happens when you don’t drink”

Another pause presumably
for calculation.

”
So you’re
seventeen years older than me.”

She was audibly
disappointed. She had just lost a house in upstate New York, three
children, two rabbits and a dog. All I wanted was a wank and that
was still possible without her.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Open on
a shot of a railway tunnel somewhere in the Ireland. Birds chirp,
bees buzz as the voice-over begins; “At the age of 16 you are
legally entitled to two of life’s greatest pleasures.” Suddenly a
high-speed train thrusts itself into the tunnel and continues to
disappear into the small snug-fitting opening. The voiceover
resumes with a snicker; “The other one is the Young Person’s
Railcard.” Cut to a still-life shot of the Young Person’s Railcard
with an id-photo of the same ginger-haired boy we saw in the
farmyard commercial earlier. He has grown up a little and now
sports ginger sideburns to match.
Irish
Rail, How Far Will You Go?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was so
tired after my sleepless week in Ireland all I could remember about
Air Lingus flight E1090 to Las Vegas was a very unattractive girl
on my left saying there might be empty seats up front and a toddler
imitating the sounds of someone being brutally killed on my right.
And from behind me unseen knees pressed urgently into the small of
my back. I must have passed out because at the moment of
landing
I jolted awake in a stupor of self-hatred and
dissatisfaction in Las Vegas McCarren International
Airport.

A small neat Mexican man
in small neat suit waited with a sign on which the word
Miss
preceded my name. When I pointed at it he just smiled like I was
joking and continued scanning the incoming hordes for the real me.
I stood there waiting for him to understand. He stepped away. I
stepped closer. I was too exhausted to do anything else. It took
longer than usual but when he realised his mistake he placed the
sign in a nearby trash-can and looked for a moment as if he might
get in there with it.

“
I’m very
sorry, Sir.“

Having established my
identity he took me in his darkened car to a cultural abattoir
known as The Venetian Hotel where in room 31014, after enduring
forty-five minutes of taped messages and bad ads I was so relieved
to hear a live human being, I shouted at him. After a half-hearted,
half-heard apology I was thrust back into Tele-purgatory. I slammed
the phone down in disgust and picked it right back up again. This
led to a conversation with my mother who was at that moment
watching re-runs of the A Team and I knew without having to be told
that I’d have to call her back. Far from wanting to hear my
mother’s voice I wanted to avenge myself on the agency by running
up as big a phone bill as possible.

”
It’s
freezing cats and dogs here.” she said when I was at last deemed
worthy of an audience. “What’s it like over there?”

But before I could answer
she began telling me how Murdoch in the A-Team reminded her of my
brother and the rest of the “conversation” was about how sad it was
that he couldn’t get another woman and what did I think about that.
Did I think he’d be able to get a woman on that thing that I did on
the computer because after all I seemed to be doing alright by it
and I let’s face it I was no looker. But again, before I could get
a word in she was off again.

“
Do you know
Mrs O’Shaughnessy?

“
No, Ma I
don’t think so”

“
You do, you
met her”

“
Did
I?

“
Angela
O”Shaughnessy.”

“
No, I don’t
know her.”

“
Married to
Seamus O Shaughnessy.”

“
I can’t say
I know her.”

“
You do, I’m
telling you.’

“
Where does
she live?’

“
Cuff’s
Grange.”

“
I don’t know
where that is.”

“
You do, you
do, we were there once.”

“
Does she
have red hair?

“
No, you
bleddy eejet that’s Nuala, you said she had to throw her boobs over
her shoulder before she could tee off”

“
Ahh. Yes.
Now I have her yes, what about her?”

“
She’s
dead.”

Now I wanted to shout at
her too. I actually did a couple of times but my cell phone service
provided gaps into which my expletives fell and rendered me civil.
Not that she would have noticed, she just kept talking and talking
as I paced around the horror that was my room; imitation books
fashioned from fibreglass, mass-produced carpets with badly done
fleur de lis and marbling even on the air-conditioners.

I had to get
out.

But the interior was
tasteful compared to the
outer façade. Standing
outside in the blazing sunshine I could see only too clearly now
the full-scale formaldehyde replica of St Marks Tower with its
digital screen presiding over plastic gondolas ruddered by stocky
blonde women in khaki cut-offs. The canals looked like they were
filled with blue paint and for all I knew maybe they
were.

On that short
unforgettable walk to a desperately needed AA meeting I encountered
in this order; a scaled down version of the Eiffel Tower, The
Brooklyn Bridge and yes, the Great Pyramids of Egypt. Why visit
Paris, New York or Cairo, when you could pose in front of these
effigies and save yourself the journey. A digital crawl attached to
a skyscraper announced “Paintings By Pablo Picasso….Eduard
Manet…Paul Gauguin….and many… many ….more….“

My old friend Gauguin,
here?

Seeing the names of these
artists presented in the same manner as Tony Bennett got me
thinking that it would be great to enclose Las Vegas in a glass
dome and present the entire city as a post-modern post-ironic work
of art. A geosphere of what-not-to-do.

A metropolitan
objet
trouve.

But this
wasn’t art. It was life. My life.
And I hated my presence in
it. I was being swallowed whole by a sort of daylight darkness.
This wasn’t just a job any more. It was a condition where
affection, friendship, honesty, and kindness were co-opted to lever
a purchase. I needed an AA meeting.On the way there I called my
sponsor and begged him to let me resign.

“
Go in until
lunch-time tomorrow.” he said, “ ..and call me then.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Open on a shot of me at
work listening to headphones when suddenly we hear a booming
voice.

“
Sell. Your.
Apartment.”

Maybe I downloaded
something weird. It’s probably some creative real-estate commercial
aimed at iPod users. I shuffle to the next track.

“
Sell. Your.
Apartment.”

I remove the headphones.
Strange. Maybe there’s a virus in my computer. I carry on working
until lunch-time and just as I’m about to get into the elevator I
hear the voice again.

“
Sell. Your.
Apartment.”

I look at the guy in the
elevator beside me.

“
Did you hear
that?

“
Hear
what?”

“
A
voice saying,
sell your
apartment.”

He
looks like he’s disappointed in me.
This continues over the
next few days. I hear the voice saying the same thing at the most
unexpected times; on the toilet; just before going to sleep.
Cut to a
SOLD
sign being taken down outside my apartment.The
voice seems to have stopped until…

“
Put. The.
Money. In. A. Bag.”

By now I’m starting to
look pale and underslept. In quick cuts I first enter and then exit
a bank with a flight-case full of cash. There must be three hundred
thousand dollars in there. In the park I take out a hundred dollar
bill from the case to buy a sandwich. I’m looking up now waiting
for the voice to say something but nothing happens. Some
dodgy-looking characters start eyeing me up. I’m getting nervous.
Finally, the voice says one word;“Flight.” I misunderstand this
instruction and I get up and run. I am followed by three sketchy
guys who can barely keep up.
Cut to an
airport-departure-screen. “Flight E1090” In a close-up we see I
have the matching ticket in my hand. The flight departs for Las
Vegas. Clutching the flight case, I fall asleep on the plane. After
landing in Las Vegas I step out of the terminal, jump into a cab
and wait.

“
Where do
you…?”

I put one finger to my
lips.

The cab driver looks at me
in the rear view mirror. We wait.

“
The. Venice.
Hotel.” the voice says at last. I relay this to the driver.
Arriving outside the hotel I am welcomed by porters and ushered
inside. Still clutching the flight case I wander around the hotel
lobby sauntering between the roulette tables and slot machines
while I wait for instructions. One hugely overweight man in a
t-shirt that says
In the Zone
has fallen asleep in front of
a slot machine. I look around desperately. What am I doing here?
Maybe I’m losing my mind? I start to cry.

“
Third.
Table. On. The. Right.”

Without hesitation I push
through the gamblers till I reach a roulette table surrounded by
people already in the middle of a cycle. The ball clatters to a
stop and two people walk away dejected leaving a gap in the crowd.
I heave the flight case onto the table. This must be it. The moment
that will make sense of it all. I open the case and tip the
contents onto the baise. There is a loud groan of pleasure from the
onlookers.

"Put. It. All. On.
Twenty-Four. “

I make an ineffectual
attempt at grouping the cash into one area as if to ensure it
straddles the number twenty-four.

“
Red.” the
voice says.

Accordingly I shove the
mound of money a little to the right.

“
No
more bets.” The croupier is adamant. The wheel is spun. All eyes on
the little metal ball as it revolves inside the roulette wheel
for
what seems like an eternity. There is at least four
hundred thousand dollars in cash on that table. People saunter over
from other tables and a quiet descends as the croupier flashes a
look at the security camera overhead. In black and white extreme
close-up we see the little metal ball bounce, hop, skip, skidder
and wink. At last the wheel slows down and the ball seems to be
trying out random compartments for comfort before leaping out to
try another. Finally as the spinning subsides the individual
compartments move slowly enough to be discernible.
The ball sits in a black compartment numbered
twelve.
A collective
groan rises from the spectators and they immediately disperse as if
such misfortune is contagious.

“
Aww. Shit.”
the voice says.

The croupier drags the
stack of money towards him and begins stuffing it into the slot in
the table. A title appears on the screen. For more reliable
investment advice call Belvedere Bank Services 0800 244
7864.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

JESSICA

“
...now push your hips up to me because I want to shove my
stiff cock inside you….but I’m going to make you wait… you’ll have
to beg me….I want to hear you beg me…”
I held the phone to
my cock so she could hear it squelching as I pummelled
it.

“
Can you hear
that?”

Silence. She wasn’t sure
if she should be doing this and yet she wanted me to
continue.

“
Yes.”

“
That’s what
your cunt will sound like when I fuck it with my stiff
cock.”

“
Ohhhh.”

It was interesting to note
that the word
cock
on its own didn’t seem to have any effect
until it was accompanied by the word
stiff
,
hard
or
rigid.
A cock was just a cock but a stiff cock was a
compliment. The power of the adjective.

“
Ohhhh.”

I’d experiment sometimes
and leave a long silence inviting the caller to guess what I’d say
next (I’d have to resist throwing in something surreal like
lawnmower
or
tupperware
just to see what would
happen) These silences would sometimes bring forth
surprises.

”
I want you to
come in my mouth.
“