Day 21 - Only Laugh - Chapter 21 (1627 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 21

“I just wanted to thank you for letting Vittorio and his friends have a chance to play their music for someone other than me.” Aida said finally.

“Vittorio, that's his name. Sorry I was blanking on his name, I knew who he was, but I forget names.” Tony was not usually much of a talker these days, like all good bartenders he was a listener, that was the need they fulfilled. With Aida though he wanted to talk. To extend the conversation as far as he could. If she was so infrequently out at night, and this was the first chance he had to meet her in nearly 3 years here then he should use that opportunity. “Usually a good thing in a bartender, forgetting the details.”

“I can imagine.” Aida was not leaving either. Her son had said plenty about Tony, the man of mystery who ran Solo Ridere and said virtually nothing himself. The kids in the village, made up all sorts of stories about his past and who he was, not one of them guessed at the truth, and few of them would have made the connection at their ages. When he had disappeared from public life the oldest among them would have been eleven years old, and they did not hang out with the older kids who may have made the connection. That was a differential that worked to his advantage, the teens who were growing towards their twenties all followed the same path to the one of the Cities, Florence, Pisa, Milan or even Rome itself. The village life held little for young adults or families starting out and so the older set remained and the younger dreamed of the days of freedom coming their way.

Occasionally there would be an exception, Antonio the chef had come back to the Village to care for his grandparents after his parents had taken on a new project overseas, they were going to pass on the offer until Antonio found out and insisted on coming home, the Roman life of pressure and competition was just too much for him and he wanted a break, in this case for good. So he spent his days with his grandmother, frail but alert and spoke of the old days and the old ways, and that suited him, reminded him of his place and how life fitted together here. Most people chaffed under the yoke of village life but not Antonio. Tony had inherited him from the old owner of the cafe, when it was just named Giuseppe's after the previous owners desire for traditions. It never really thrilled Antonio but it was a job, until Tony came along and took him and the place all in one go. He closed it down, sat with Antonio and asked him how everything worked, what everyone liked and what they wanted. He asked Antonio what he would do with the place.

Then he ignored it all and quietly went about making the place that he wanted. He never shared the bookkeeping with anyone, he had made very little money in the first six months, because he didn’t care about money, money he had. He wanted a place to hide, to relax and to enjoy the quiet life. He wanted a bar or café to hang out in, one where he was at home. So he bought one for himself to be in, it just came with some extra responsibilities.

Antonio knew Aida's deceased husband, he had been a bit of a local star in the village, he had gone to Milan to try out for the football team, and had made it to a few professional games, never cracking the club scene as a regular but as close to the real thing as it was possible to get. He was a charming man, with wavy blonde hair, a healthy outlook and a slender body that was filled with ambition and dreams of bigger things. But he wanted those bigger things to look even bigger still in this, the smallest of ponds. Paolo had been working for a multinational corporate company, doing something in account management, Aida neither knew or cared what that entailed as long as it made him happy, which it frequently did. He spent his time impressing people and convincing them to do business with his company, he played on his time in football, grew his own legend but instead of being big headed and resentful he enjoyed every minute of his fame and enjoyed everything that it gave him afterwards as well.

He met Aida at an Opera in Florence, where she was living at the time. She was working there, not in the production but working the house. He had been working too, but entertaining clients, American ones looking for an authentically artistic Tuscan experience. They had done the usual tourist things, the David, the Uffizi and shopped the Ponte Vechhio. Then he took them to all the places where he knew people, where they would get treated like royalty and be told they were getting the local experience. Special entrance to boxed seats at the performance, Aida had seated them and once he had caught her eye that was it for him. He left his seat, left his clients and talked to her all the way through the first act, returning to the box with treats and wine for his guests, ever the perfect host, waiting patiently until the curtain rose and he could depart.

It was a whirlwind and they moved into a new house, a new build on the edge of the village. He had taken one of the houses that was built from the original village wall, five or six hundred years old, the age grew or shrank depending on who told the story to whom, and then added on a new design one that future proofed his position in the village and planned ahead for children they did not yet have. She travelled with him plenty when they first married, spent little time inside the house he had made into a nest for them. The she fell pregnant and Vittorio was on the way, she settled into village life and really began to enjoy it and make friends easily. A few years later, just before Vittorio started his first year of schooling, a sister was born. She named her Oriana for her golden hair, just like her fathers. She was the apple of her fathers eye and for a year or more things were perfect for them all.

Then he died. Tragically he was in a car accident when returning home from the airport, a heavy rain and a hillside slipped at the wrong moment, tonnes of dirt pushing into the side of his car, turning the wheels to the edge where the car sped off at a tangent, hanging peacefully for a moment before plunging earthwards to the gully below. A copse of trees snagged the car halfway down and flipped it over on itself. He was likely unconscious and never woke from the head wound he sustained in the first hit. It gave her and the family a little solace, but their daughter never knew the man from which she had got the golden aspect and attitude. Their son understood and never got away from the fact that people can die. It was an early lesson to learn and it shaped his formative years. He was not reckless, but he was impatient for life. He was filled with sorrow and hope in equal amounts, mourning the loss of what might have been, but pointing towards what could yet be.

He had initiated the idea of the live music, he was not the performer, that was the girl and her boyfriend, his closest friends growing up. He wrote, prolifically songs of joy and sadness, ones that suited her clear and piercing voice, one that rang clear like a knife striking a glass. Pure, but painful. Perfect for his songs. He would accompany them and provide melody, and it satisfied him to hear his words coming to life.

Aida had turned to her friends when her husband died, but found that she had been placed into the widow's box almost immediately, by the elder widows and by her younger friends who did not know how to process the change well at all. She rebelled, rejected the black clothes and black attitude that came with the territory. This won her precious few friends, and lost her some of the ones that she thought she had. So her kids, her family and the legacy of Paolo's place in the world, in the heart of the Village wall, the core of that town, became her refuge and her life. She centered on Oriana and Vittorio, they had the money from insurances, the money he had saved from football and the money the company paid on his death, even though it was not their fault, he had that effect on people and they cared for him in his passing, and provided well for his family.

Now her son, a few weeks from turning sixteen, bursting with talent and with content spilling out of him into napkins, notebooks and screeds of paper, was ready to have his moment.

She came to see it, to see if the Patron was truly that or something to be warded against. She was unsure what she found when she spoke to Tony, she sensed a sadness that could only have enhanced his connection to Vittorio, in her son's eyes alone undoubtedly. Now she had met him, she wondered who he was.

For the first time in a long time, she wondered about someone else outside of her home.

Day 20 - Only Laugh - Chapter 20 (1521 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 20

The evening crowd was filtering in and Tony was busying himself at the bar trying not to think too much about what they had said to him. He just wanted a quiet existence here in this sleepy village but he also felt drawn to supporting young artists that wanted to perform.

He had expected the worst when the propositioned him, he assumed they had made who he was and wanted to take advantage of that in some way but they were just kids and full of themselves and their dreams, at once selfish and selfless in pursuit of happiness. They saw an opportunity for a patron of the arts, but someone closer to their age and someone not so rooted in the old that they would ignore the new.

What he thought would be the end of his idyllic life was a chance to have someone else find their passion. That made him pause though, was finding your passion, what your special thing is that sets you apart, is that always a good thing? For some it was evil and twisted, for some it was being the best and the envy of others and for Tony, he was yet to understand what it was that made him special, but that existed and he had spent the last few years running from it. Now these kids were barrelling down the road of their life at breakneck speed, intent on proving their individuality like everyone else wanted to.

They begged him for a spot, maybe a light turned their way. They would provide the sound system, guitar, keyboards, mics and an amp that would be their sound stage equipment. They had written songs of their own devising, they had covers ready to go of Italian and English pop songs if they needed to. They badly wanted to perform.

He wanted to say no, he wanted to send them packing and pour cold water on their dreams but instead as he was tensing up to dash their hopes he said.

“Yes.”

Scarcely had the words left his mouth and he heard the agreement and was shocked that he was not in the control of his willpower like he had assumed.

Three excited and surprised teens ran the gamut of cool disinterest, enthusiasm and over the top shaking with potential on the doorstep of the café. He dismissed them to go and plan their debut, which they had somehow worked into the proposal and now he was facing a live music trio with the Thursday night crowd, the night after Opera evenings at the church. Some of the people who were regulars would welcome the addition of some local talent, others would find the noise and attention seeking invasive to their placid late night drinking. Tony wanted to feel like he was giving them a shot and a chance to hone their skills, which they could take off to a larger stage. He also did not want to feel like they were teetering on the edge of a cliff, and he was standing behind them arms extended.

What was he going to do now? There was nothing to do except let them try out, hope that they were really bad and then let natural selection take its course. Or perhaps pray that they were the next big thing and therefore be out of his hair and out of his bar, taking the spotlight with them.

Embarrassingly the young girl had kissed him exuberantly, there was no romantic attachment but it felt out of place and awkward and she had called him Patron, a reference to his position, to his support and to his age. When did he become an artists father figure? Age crept up on him and settled on his shoulders like dandruff, visibly unwelcome. Now he felt that creaking weariness that others saw in him and he did not like it one bit.

A life out of the stage, a life lived more ordinary by design, and now he had aligned himself unhappily next to centre stage.

The evening wore on slowly and painfully, every drink poured took a lifetime and every whispered conversation between intimate acquaintances at his tables was shouted in his ears, he just wanted it all to go away, to close early and go to bed pretend the evening never happened.

“Patron?” The voice came from nowhere, and it made him cringe as he turned to see a woman standing at his bar he did not recognise.

He looked about to his left and right, hoping that she did not mean him, how could word have travelled this far, this rapidly even in this small gossip fuelled village?

“Excuse...?” He left the end of the query hanging, as if expecting her to direct the greeting to someone else, anyone else.

“My name is Aida.” She smiled and extended a hand to him across the bar.

“Like the Opera?” He did not take her hand, but she left it there hanging in mid air.

“Yes, my parents were, still are really, big fans of the Opera.” She kept smiling and the hand did not retract, her eyes steeling and yet amused, daring him to turn down the offer.

Tony was caught the gaze and did not move for a very long time, also said nothing.

“Are you going to just...” Her smile widens and then finally Tony takes the hand and blushes at his rudeness and his reticence in a single red faced gesture of capitulation.

“My apologies, I was … no one calls me Patron, it sounds so old and now twice in one night.”

“Twice.” She stated it but not as a question, but a confirmation.

“Twice. Once by a child which is understandable but still hurts at my age. And second by a … I assume less than middle aged but still not as young as the first girl.”

“You are treading dangerous ground tonight Patron.” Tony winced at her repeated use of the term. “I think your 'child' would object to her being portrayed as one and you assume my age is... what do you assume, Patron?” That smile has never departed and she leans over the bar to let Tony see her close up, and he cannot tell how old she is and knows better than to try to pinpoint it out loud.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender and motions to a seat at the bar.

“Old enough to be served, but young enough to be served on the house?” He put on a coy and innocent face, looking for amusement and forgiveness or at least a truce to move onwards.

“Well said, perhaps there is hope in you yet?”

“Hope in me?” Tony picked up on the phrasing as he poured his favourite wine into two goblets on the bar. “Do you mean for me?”

“No.”

“Oh?”

“Do you not know your reputation Patron?” She waits patiently till both glasses are full and then raises her glass to his in a toast.

“Happily no. I do not. Salut.” They took a sip each and Tony savoured his while the woman tasted it, for the first time this vintage, this vineyard and appreciated it fully in a single mouthful.

“You are the man who has given up.” She purrs this out seductively as this was an attractive, amusing quality. She sees his face fall in response and then understands. “Now I can see it, that's why they say it.” She drains her glass. “But you must have some hope to give my child a chance at his dream.” Placing the empty goblet on the counter top, her gaze is direct and not flirting or seeking anything else. She is thanking him.

“Ah. Which one is yours?” Now it made sense how she knew and why she called him Patron. He figured out now which parent she was. She was the widowed mother of the youngest of the three. The girls father he knew, he was drinking at a table with friends even now in his bar. The other one, the middle boy who turned sixteen a few weeks after the girl, he knew the parents from the Opera Choir group, they did not come by often but they would speak to him on occasion about upcoming song choices.

That left the solo mother, the widow with two children who very rarely went out at night. If Tony had been more of a day person he may have crossed paths with her shopping or out for other errands around her children’s school schedules, but so far he had not.

And yet now, here she was. Out of the house, at his bar and talking to him boldly and not wearing black.

That was the other thing that had scandalised the village women, she had refused the black of a widow, refused the public penance and markings. No wonder she never wanted to go out and deal with that.

Why was she here now?

Day 19 - Only Laugh - Chapter 19 (1413 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 19

It had taken him a while and he travelled across a few continents to escape his past, a past he could not remember let alone understand, and now he felt like he was truly away from it all. The legend had receded and other things occupied the minds of people these days. Occasional spots on the television would come up every now and then, the 'where are they now' specials or retrospectives that would follow the path of comedy, entertainment or that old stalwart, time. He did not worry too much about them, no one thought for a moment more about the man who ran the café in the sleepy Tuscan village who bore a passing resemblance to a man from what must have been years ago.  

Tony's life was Italian to the most he could pull off, he had an Italian name, spoke the local language exclusively, and he had his own coffee place, which became a bar after 9 pm, when he reopened and held court with his regulars and the occasional tourist well off the beaten path. He had named his bar Solo Ridere in Italian, or “Only Laugh” in the language he had grown up with. The locals assumed that it was a reflection of his mellow and laid back nature, a youngish aged man, looking much older than he really was, reflecting a much harder life up until the point of making his way here. He spoke broken English with customers when it was necessary, but he had immersed himself in the native tongue and was unwilling to accept that he had another life elsewhere.

He had many reasons for the name, it reflected the way he was when he was old Tony, it reflected what he could do when trying to grasp any of it, and it reflected what he wanted to do more than anything else now. He smiled wryly and said so very little but he could not truly laugh heartily at even the funniest of things. Perhaps it had been worn out of him the locals had guessed, they had their own legends and gossip built up around the young man who had calmly inserted himself into their lives in halting Italian at first, but soon fitting in the language, the style and the nature of the town. He was no longer even the newest person on the block.

He opened when people wanted him to serve a coffee, he closed when siesta time rolled around. The kitchen and bar opened together when people came out of their homes and the cleaned up after everyone else had gone to bed, before the sun rose. Like clockwork he was dependable and reliable and local.

Inside his own existence he corresponded when he needed to with the companies and efforts that went on in his name. He had divested himself of many of his responsibilities but kept those that kept others, helped others. He did not want anyone out of work, or out of pocket or on their own when he could be helping them, financially at least. It was not truly altruistic, but nothing really is any more. He felt something was missing, something was being made up for, or a hole was being filled in perhaps, something the old Tony had dug up. If it was that it was divorced enough from his conscious mind to not see it clearly, but close enough to the surface to feel it's need. So the money circled around, assisting and intervening without anything from him except approval. His people contacted him via email and occasionally via a re-routed internet phone call. He certainly wanted to make up for something wrong, but not such a deep seated desire to be involved face-to-face.

So he sat day after day behind the bar in Solo Ridere, serving coffee and listening to the innocent gossip and daily bitching of people living their lives in ordinary extravagance. He loved the smell of roasting beans and of tannin bursts when the cork came free of the bottle. He served cakes and savoury treats during the day and lighter meals and small dishes in the evening. There were other restaurants nearby and he was not interested in taking their trade, taking their customers, when there was enough to go round. He wanted them before they did other things, after they had finished and would be winding down.

Once a week the local choir group would pack out the pews of the church with people young and old, listening to Arias and Choruses from the great Italian works of art, on cold nights people huddled together and watched the steam rising from the assembled throats. On summer evenings when the light was fading to a murky covering, they would open the wooden doors, cast off the iron chains and clasps that held the halls closed, and let the music spill out into the village square. He never missed one, he loved the sound of it all, the highs, lows, tragedies and jokes of Opera. They were always spelled out subtly and obviously together in a way that only clumsily erected plots sung manically in Italian could do.

It made his life make some sense for an hour or so, at least.

Tonight it was Spring, the air was cool but the doors were still being flung wide in denial of the passage of Winter and encouragement for the onset of warmer, balmy nights. The younger generation of villagers not yet clamouring for the lights and action of Florence nearby, were still in the back of the church watching cynically but holding on to the traditions of their upbringing. Tony had seen a couple of these kids lining up to get their first drinks on their own, parents had brought them in before they reached 16, but as they crested that magically nonsensical number the power transferred to themselves and they wanted a taste of adulthood, which was technically exactly the same as when their parents purchased it, but was somehow in all ways sweeter when independently procured.

There were three teenagers, all turning 16 within days of each other than had been coming to Solo Ridere for a few years with family, with older friends and as the time neared they came along together alone and ready.

The three of them walked in behind Tony on the way back from the church as the singing ceased he had already left, to ready the bar for the people who would dribble in for conversation and red wine into the late hours. His chef had been there ahead of him preparing the Tapas-like food that people would snack on regularly. They had not changed the menu for a few months and Antonio the chef was chaffing under the need for change. Tony himself left the choice to Antonio, he had the skill and the impetus for a new menu, Tony was accepting of change and evolution whenever it presented itself.

As he took the cobbled lane from the Square back a few metres to where Solo Ridere was fronted, he could hear them shuffling behind him. He knew who they were, they had come out of the church the same time as him and walked a respectful dozen or more paces back. The clack, clack, clack of the girl's leather boots, and he double whiffles of air expelled by the boys American designed colour overloaded monstrosity curiously defined as sneakers.

As he reached the front door, he saw them mirrored in the glass of the window faces obscured by the sign painted there and legs framed out by the red-checkered curtains detailing the lower half, but clear torso identified none the less. He put his hands in his pockets and slowly turned on his heels.

“Happy Birthday, well soon anyway.” He said looking at his watch, mighnight still over 3 hours away and the eve of her being sixteen and the girl blushed yet smiled broadly. “You know I can only serve you after midnight and your friends... not at all unless their parents are coming?” He framed it as a question, but it was a clear warning he was not to be taken lightly.

“That's not why we are here. We have a proposition for you.”

For the first time in some time Tony was silent because he did not know what to say, and not because he did not want to say it.

Day 18 - Only Laugh - Chapter 18 (1597 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 18

The air eddied about his legs as it was driven under the shallow diving board where he dangled his legs, looking wistfully at a reflection in the water he could not fathom.

He had woken from a coma a few weeks earlier and had been told a little about who he was, what he had done with his life up till that point and how he came to be in a persistent vegetative state.

The “Tony” the various people paraded in front of him described sounded a bit strange and quite unlikeable. The Tony that that sat here dipping his toes into the clear pool water was unsure that they could have been the same person. Was this a common occurrence? Did people with Amnesia go into denial very often? He had asked plenty of times only to get the vaguest of answers from the doctors and psychiatrists he had to endure. 

Of particular interest were the people he supposedly should have known, and known well. His agent, he had an agent who was very, very interested in catching him out. Everything he said felt like a trap and he eyed Tony with an amused suspicion. While the new Tony could not blame him based on what he knew of the other one, it was wearing him down and in those first few days he had precious little energy to spare on the paranoia of a man who wanted him to sign things.

He had responsibilities it seemed, monetary ones that were perfectly fine and taken care of when he was out of the conscious realm, yet were somehow massively complicated by him opening his eyes.

His dreams that he could recall were not of his old life, or the old Tony, but of the day he was reborn, drowned into the world. He would wake up wet from perspiration and that slick sensation on his skin only heightened his sense of drowning. Night after night the dream returned, the fear it brought never lessened, even though as he remembered he was never drowning or even swimming, he was waking up. His mind had crafted a watery metaphor for his enhanced slumber and now that was all he had in terms of a history. He could not escape the old Tony and he could not escape a dream of something that never actually happened.

It was very quiet and peaceful here and on one level Tony could have stayed here for the rest of his life. He certainly had money, quite a lot of it by all accounts. The expensive spa that was a place of ‘treatment’ for the rich and famous was open and at his beck and call almost without restriction.

There were some questions as to his state of mind, as he could not recall who he was and how he had made the money, some people questioned that he should have control of it. There were definitely people trying to get at his money, take it away from him. More than once he was tempted to give it away, all of it, to charity. It seemed like a good idea, it’s not like he liked the look of how he made it. It all seemed insane that he would put himself through all that self-inflicted pain and suffering. It was crazier that people laughed and cackled at it so heartily. Looking back, he had seen videos and even documentaries about himself. That was truly bizarre, even though he had no basis for comparison to see a film filling an hour or more of time with clips and commentary on his life. He recognized none of it.

In the documentary he saw again his agent, his assistant and various people said to be influential in his life but they were like introductions to strangers. He saw video footage of himself, sometimes laughing and happy, but mostly seriously thinking or brooding. Then there were pictures of him working with, walking with these same strangers. He had a serious girlfriend, he thought she was cute but still she could have been a cut out from a magazine and he would have felt as much attraction. Everyone was an unknown and therefore not to be trusted.

His company, he had a company that managed his intellectual property and licensing, had invested his money wisely so that it perpetuated his fame, paid for his care and developed new material in his name. There was even a fellowship in his name, one for the starting performer with an avant garde act. He had no idea and no say in any of this, it was a machine that just carried on even though he was back in the realm of the awake.

Now he needed to find out who he was again. He could reclaim his life, and reclaim his old self, though he had no idea where or how to do that. The idea of standing up on stage covered him in a drowning dread. How on earth had he managed that before? The film of him standing, speaking in the voice he could hear when he spoke filled him with detachment from reality. Any minute now the curtain would be pulled back,  there would be a candid camera on him, a set and a director pulling the puppet strings of his life. If that fourth wall was rent and proved to be an act, that he was the Truman of his own show, at least then it would all make sense.

The camera lights never blinked, the curtain never rose and as time wore on Tony was tired of not knowing who he was or why he had been the way that he was.

Time to let go and move on.  Now he was glad that he had resisted the urge to give all his money away. How he could disentangle new Tony from old Tony was going to be a tricky proposition. Running away was an effective method, but unsustainable as an expense.  An unpopular move would be a light way of describing his plan. He needed to kill old Tony so new Tony could have some peace.

That meant putting some people out of work. It meant pulling the rights to his image and material where he could, and fighting, likely in court the man who wanted to seize control of all his assets and rights. His agent and manager, a man who like a relentless phantom haunted him about the old Tony.

Every time that man came into contact with Tony it came with a sneaking suspicion that this was all an act. The coma, two years long and medically secure it’s authenticity, was not faked, he had come to accept that. The amnesia though? That was another question. The Tony he knew never did as expected and never did the sane thing. He was ultimately looking for the most honest twist on the act he could find and the weirder and more unexpectedly surreal that next change was, the more real it was in his eyes.

He did not look shocked or offended when Tony told him it was time to end their relationship, and that all his holdings were coming to an end. He just nodded and smiled like this was part of the gig, part of the written performance that select few had read the script for. The more new Tony insisted that this was the best way to get on with a life, out of the shadow of the old, the more that his agent assumed it was the new Tony working a new angle. Self destruction, disassemble the empire to rise onto a new high once more in the most unlikely way you can find. Very Reginald Perrin.

Tony appreciated the freedom that this allowed him, they expected a fall and then a rise. The fall was much more gentle though, more of a floating landing safely than any kind of crash. A controlled descent into normality and banality.

Quietly they shredded the video deals, the links were dropped and the original content was no longer for sale. DVD and Blu Rays were shelved and sent back to the distributors. They ate the cost on those, but it was marginal on the profit they had made to date. His people, hanging on to the dream to the bitter end, matketed the “time is running out” message and drove up the price on whatever copies and items were being traded now in a rare limited fashion.

He owned subsidiary companies, ones that had mothing to do with comedy or entertainment. Some franchises, some property investments, things that made money quietly and required little maintenance. They would never make him a billionaire, but they would be the fuel that would keep him idling in the millions.  He repurposed his PR people to keep him out of the news, to change his foundation that provided support for aspiring talent and renaming in the grand tradition ego projects and naming it after agent he had fired, gicing the glory and the power over other talent to him. A prize to slink away with and play in the corner, his own corner away from the main table, now closed for business.

For almost 2 years he had wasted away in a coma his body deteriorating, withering while his body of work had grow giant-like in his tragic absence. He had starved it of oxygen and in 6 months he had made people forget, new things had come along and he went about unnoticed once again.

Day 17 - Only Laugh - Chapter 17 (1245 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 17

The water was draining away from his face, he could feel the weight of his body returning around him, heavy and immobile. He didn't remember going swimming, just here he is slowly ascending through water.

Slowly, so very slowly rising up, the water thinning as the light grew brighter. It felt surreal, like it was happening in slow motion. Was this drowning?

A slight panic tried to take hold, but instead he just kept rising, like his state of mind had nothing to do with his body. Perhaps he should flail his arms, try a free style stroke to get to the surface faster, yet his hands and arms did not move in response.

There was plenty of time to assess his situation and formulate some ideas, that was how slow and languid this rising felt like. His lungs were not bursting, he felt no need to panic, though his mind suggested it was an appropriate option. The light was getting stronger, brilliant white sun over head. Around the edges of the pool, (Am I in a pool?) heads were towering over silhouetted bodies, three no four of them craning towards the apex above him, were he was surfacing in the direction of the sunshine.

The faces came from shapes to coloured blurs and then settled on impressionistic paintings of what people would look like, approximately. He drew a deep breath, and then tried to brush the water away from his face. His arm was barely moving, it had a leaden quality about it, thickened syrup infused his bones and it lolled about rather than obeying explicitly.

Water was not dripping and then it came to him that he did not feel wet. It didn't feel like a dream, not that he could think right here and now. Everything was still a little blurry, but second by second the haze was lifting and he could see faces in greater detail.

Faces he did not know. Behind them the sun was not a sun at all, but a white lamp in a ring, shining down on him suffused brilliance and clinically clean. So this was not a pool outside but a room inside. His head swivelled like it was on rusted wheels and the weight of his head felt like a burden as it moved trying to support it's own mass.

As focus returned he saw his legs stretched out before him, not underneath him as expected. This sudden reorientation in his head made him reel and he felt the floor give way beneath him and he fell down to the ground.

No, that's not right either.

I'm not on the ground, I am lying down on a bed.

A hospital bed? How did I get here? Did I pass out while swimming? Did I drown?

The unknown faces wore white coats and a nurses uniform and a pinprick of light waved unceremoniously close to his eyes and the doctor leaned in also far to near for comfort.

“Tony, can you hear me?”

Are they talking to me?

“Hello, can you hear me?” Fingers snapped jarringly around his ears, making him jump slowly and slightly as much as he could to get away from the invasiveness of this examination.

“What the hell?” He tried to say but all he heard was a rasping noise of sandpaper scratching on wood. He tried clearing his throat and lifted a hand to massage his neck, he needed water. Something snagged his arm and he looked down to see an intravenous drip tube stuck into his arm. An arm that looked thin and bony and not like it belonged to him, but to some prisoner of war or eating disorder patient too far gone to see it's despairing nature.

Is that my arm?

This was very confounding, what the hell was going on?

“Get some water please nurse.” One of the uniforms left leaving the three other head surrounding him.

“Tony, do you know where you are?” The eyes were boring into him looking for something, recognition perhaps? Maybe only even a sign of cognition if nothing else.

“Who?” He croaked out finally.

The faces dropped back, looking at each other two of them shaking their heads at the third who smiled a little smugly at this development. He took over confidently bringing himself front and centre.

“Can you tell me your name?” Followed by an intent stare as burrowing as the previous head had been.

“I..”

Oh now that is, um, interesting. I do not recall, I cannot recall, I...

There was no look or feeling of panic or hysteria, yet academically the man felt that it was a justified response given the situation.

A different nurse brought him a non-spill cup with a straw and water flowed welcomingly into his mouth, absorbed immediately and then trickling into his throat. That felt cool and soothing, lubricant for his feelings as well as his dryness.

“Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

“I... uh...” Speech was coming easier if tiresome, like each word had to be shouted at a great volume. “I was … um … swimming. I think?”

“Right, right, yes.” He turned to someone the man could not see from his position and added “You getting this, hit record... no on the left... the red... just make sure you get it all.”

“Right, yes. Can you tell me your name?”

He had a minute or two to think but it made little difference.

“I guess I can't.” Bizarrely calm, knowing it should be worrisome but unaffected.

“Well it's to be expected, we can keep an eye on ...”

“Why can't I move?” He gestured weakly, his arms rising a little more than an inch from the bed.

“Well as I said it's to be expected, some amnesia, some weakness of the limbs and general deteriorating of the body. Your brain activity has been quite strong and the amnesia is not necessarily a sign of brain damage.” The doctor was ticking off a mental list now, not really conversing to the patient, more reciting his ability and knowledge to the others there. The unseen students or interns or whatever he had would be taking furious notes and formulating their own lists, validating them against the senior consultants one.

“Did I drown?” He still felt confused by how he got from the pool to here.

“No, no. Look we have to keep an eye on you for a while and see if your memory comes back. It's entirely possible that this is just you in the process of waking up. It's been almost 22 months and it's our experience with coma patients that you need to leave them to find their way at first. The patient can often describe symptoms that...”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“Are you talking to me, in the abstract about me?”

The doctor looked amused.

“Well your mind is obviously function quite well despite the localised memory issues.” His smile was lost on the patient.

“I've been in a coma for two years?”

“You were … in an accident. And yes, as of Wednesday it will have been twenty two months since the bus... since the incident.” The doctor looked at his colleagues across the bed and then quickly added “Today is Monday. If that helps at all.”

It did not.   

Day 16 - Only Laugh - Chapter 16 (2236 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 16

No one was laughing, but that's because he was not even trying to be funny.

He was trying to outstay his welcome and was doing a great job. He had taken the stage at he only club he had ever felt at home being. He had come to the green room, unannounced and unexpected. The comics were a little stagestruck at seeing him there, on the amateur night that only a few months ago he was a relative unknown at. People he had fretted with backstage were now treating him like a stranger, unsure of him and what he was like now that he was rich and famous.

He had waited until the mid point of the evening and then apologised to the comics waiting to go on after the break. They were flummoxed and amused in various measures as no one really knew what he meant by that until he left via the stairs and took to the stage.

It was empty and the lights were up in the room, the mic was off and half the audience, which was still a decent size considering that it was an unadvertised, no name week night which used to be the domain of sad and drunk Monday nighters. They still had the leftover effect of being the home of the comedy discovery of the decade. People associated the place with success and entertainment. They still came much larger numbers than ever before, waiting for lightning to strike again.

“Do you know what the secret to great comedy is?”

Tony caught the attention of the man on the lights at the back, he flicked on the microphone and left the lights the way they were.

“Sorry, that’s better, testing? Testing? 1, 2, 7?”

He tapped the microphone and cleared his throat loudly. A few people in the audience, sitting the tables back in their place on quieter nights they don't fill the room on, clapped and whooped. IT sounded tinny and pathetic in quiet lit room. Some of the people out in the foyer stuck their heads back in and saw he had taken the stage.

Word passed quickly and people filtered back in as Tony began his speech.

He didn't have an act or a routine, he had a plan.

“Anyway, where was I? Oh yes what is the secret of great comedy?” He paced the stage floor and continued on.

“No one wants to hear jokes any more, not really. A great comedian will tell jokes and make you laugh even when you don't want to. More will tell stories, looking for pay-off in the sting at the end. Or maybe just celebrating the ludicrous in nature on the way, taking you with them. If you think someone is funny, you'll probably find them funny.”

He didn't explain, just paused while one person snorted laughter in their drink and then continued on.

“Context has a lot to do with it too, I mean I can't do rape jokes, but she can.” He indicated a young Indian girl who had earlier made a hilarious rape joke, it worked because she was a she. “She has context.”

“An incredibly boring person is funny because they are so boring. Misogyny is funny when it's way over the top and offends people. Racism is funny, when it's performed by people who are usually the target of racism yourself. But me? I'm white and am forbidden from saying the word … “nigger.” because I don't have context.” Tony looked at the audience, they were almost all back now and he could see the club Manager talking into his mobile phone excitedly. Not paying attention to the stage at all.”

“Nigger!” The room is deathly silent. “See? That’s not funny. And it shouldn't be.”

There's a bit of a rumble in the crowd, there's no joke coming, or not an obvious one.

“Violence, totally not funny. Unless in context it is.”

“You have to allow it to be funny and the worse it is the more you have to allow it. The inverse is that the less funnier it is, the more funny it becomes once you allow it. Racial slurs in the hands of victims, rape jokes in the hands of women – the more vulnerable the better, violence too in my hands is funny.”

He stands there and says nothing for a long time.

The audience starts to chatter and one or two people boo.

Tony started into life at the sound of the first boo.

“Silence, not funny. Not funny at all. Unless you're a mime, but then again plenty of people would argue that point, Mimes are not funny.” Finally an observation that is slightly humorous. Like pin in a balloon the audience titters and cackles.

“Who wants a laugh?”

There's no response, because it's not a line it's a question.

In the back of the room one person has had enough. “You do mate!” The man is holding a beer and has an English accent. People swerve in their seats to see him and Tony smiles coldly. He takes the microphone off the wire and puts it down on the stage.

Slowly, almost painfully, still feeling the effects of weeks of beatings and self destruction in search of a good laugh, Tony picks his way through the tables to the very back of the room and stands before the lone heckler, his friends have faded away and left him on his own.

“Come on then. Make us laugh.” He spreads his arms wide in a grandiose gesture and then points at his chin, inviting a punch. The man misreads the situation though and looks around at the crowd, they have started leaving their tables and stand in a semi circle about the two men waiting for the punchline.

“Nah mate, it's you who're the comedian...” He leaves a beat, “... Or used to be.” He smirked at his slur on the comic, the self satisfied leer of a man who snipes to get his audience.

“No, I don't mean for you to tell a joke, I mean for you to help me make them laugh.” Tony again pointed at his chin. “Hit me.”

The man looked surprised and delighted and balled a fist. He didn't throw it, he just cocked it back over dramatically and rose up as if he was going to punch then froze.

Tony just stood there, unflinching and waiting patiently. The man still in the same pose looked to his right and left and then at the Club Manager, who stood with the door man a few feet away. He was awaiting validation, put on the spot and asked to assault someone without the heat and passion of the moment felt really wrong. The manager looked at the door man, and they looked at Tony who had a huge grin on his face, patient and saintly looking, waiting for the fist to fly.

“Come on now, it's not that hard and no one is going to arrest you for assault you know. No one has up till now you know that right?”

Still he had the fist cocked in the now ridiculous looking pose, his face was reddening and his knuckles were white while he though over the choice he had before him.

“What about you guys? Do you want a laugh? Come on, give the lad some encouragement!” Tony stomped the floor rhythmically and the people joined in, “Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!” The crowd took up the chant, some saying “me” some chanting “him” to use the proper identifier.

The chanting got louder and the effect on the heckler was to enrage him, he felt impotent and frozen unable to hit was embarrassing. That was not going to be the case for much longer, the ire in him rose like a tide and overwhelmed him. Then he surged forward and lurched a very uncomfortable fist in a dirty and ungraceful arc, slower than it should have been and wobbling in the air.

“No, no wait!” The man stumbled over the pulled punch as Tony side stepped and thoughtfully scratched his head.

“What's wrong with this? You know what it is?”

The crowd was laughing now at the heckler who had fallen over, balance all out of kilter as he had been interrupted in a motion he was coerced into and was unnatural therefore too forced. Now blushing and mocked by the way things were unfolding he tried to slink away as the crowd focussed on Tony again who was posing in that thoughtful stage comedy way while he pretended to think about that was obviously going to be the joke. He clapped the man on the shoulder and forcibly lifted him up to face him, staring down the man's desire to leave and get out of the spotlight in front of all these people.

“I know what the problem is, this is old hat, man! This has been done before, so many times, I wind some one up and put the in the driver's seat and BAM!” Tony slammed his own fist into his palm and made a violent smack resonate in the back of the room.

His now unwilling volunteer was scared and out of options. What the fuck was going on?

No one knew, even Tony was making it up as he went along. He had a vague idea but no guess on how or why he was about to do what he thought up in the last few seconds. He wanted to really push people hard, put them in an uncomfortable place and then pop the tension around them harshly. He intended to kill the laughter, whether it survived this process or not was unclear, but it felt like the natural progression of his act.

“We need to change it up, do things differently. Who wants to see Tony get beat up any more? Anyone?” A few people cheered but more didn't wondering what else was coming, what was the new thing. “Come on then!”

As he left the main room and headed into the Foyer there were people coming into the club, he recognised his own crew, obviously clued in by the club manager and they looked half apprehensive and half anticipating whatever was going on. Cameras were already out and being aimed at him, people in the audience were filming and his team were already reaching for contracts and copies of the paperwork to take as much advantage as they could.

“Follow me!” He swept through his team, eyeing his agent with a look a few inches from his nose as he pushed rapidly forward that told him to get out of the way and stay away.

The crowd propelled forward by Tony's personal momentum, surged behind him and they spilled out on the street outside. Tony strode to the spot where months ago he had been stabbed.

“Same old, same old! Surely we can do better yes?” He was yelling this and the mob of followers cheered him on loudly.

He stood on the edge of the pavement, teetering on the brink of the gutter and looked over his shoulders. There was a bus stop a few feet down the street from where he stood. He looked back at his followers and they clicked almost all as one and one brave soul started forwards to try and stop Tony as he stepped backwards into the path of the rapidly decelerating bus.

As he took the step he turned arms spread and welcome the juggernaut of glass and steel into his outstretched embrace.

There were screams and shouting and out of the corner of his eye, which he could actually feel bleeding now he saw bodies rushing towards him. He had been knocked about 5 feet down the pavement and had his head raised even as it hit the solid ground. As people came towards him he had a rush of adrenalin as he raised an arm, pain jolting down it as he waved people away and gurgled loud and as clear as possible “Stay back!”

No one approached.

There was now a new semi-circle, this one silent and waiting for something, anything to happen next.

“What the fuck! Are you Fucking insane?” The driver of the bus was out and starting forward but is silenced by the eerie feel of the crowd, all soundless swaying, mesmerised and waiting.

Painfully, in actual pain, Tony propped his arm under him, the searing feeling of the bone grating shot the white light of reality through him He had thought that maybe in this situation shock would separate him from the pain, but that was not happening. This hurt worse than when Roy had knifed him and then twisted the blade up and out.

He ignored it all and seconds passed as he levered himself up unaided and stood in front of the crowd.

He held up one hand asking for patience non verbally while he spat out blood and mucous before very clearly enunciating.

“The secret is timing.” Then he took a long bow and as he came back up from it he saw the applause start and the roaring in his ears was now drowned out by a raucous and cacophony of appreciation.

Day 15 - Only Laugh - Chapter 15 (1171 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 15

Things had progressed much faster than he had planned. The videos they were carefully crafting for new material were being copied, edited and remixed on the internet long before Tony had a chance to frame new material around them.

His plan had been to intercut the videos into his stage show, use them to surprise and shock the audience once they were laughing. He felt like he was on a roll material wise, had some clever jokes and was ready for anything the live audience would throw at him, but he wasn't ready. The internet made his material second hand before he even used it.

Editing software, his own videos that he had been making money on and ones that appeared as bootlegs from his earlier work were being cut into and around footage of Tony, picking fights in places he shouldn't. His work was still selling, and the fan fiction versions of his act, and his penchant for self abuse were being snapped up and he was sharing royalties with people who were essentially stealing his work. He still made money, and likely it was much more than he would have without them. Sure he was splitting profits, but the fresh approach and the raw nature of these truly amateur videos made them real. More real and therefore more honest than the work he would have produced. He was being eclipsed by his own work being bigger and better than he could make it.

The transition almost made him redundant, in some videos the jokes were about him, told by new and aspiring talent, some of it very funny. Funnier than he was. It was still his image and his fame, and he still made a large amount of money, on the legal versions where he got a cut, and on the ones where he did not then his people shut the people down who did not want to cut them in, but most of the time they would get the exposure, the profits from the hits they got when Tony tweeted about the latest version, which one of his people would do, would drive inordinate amounts of attention and traffic their way.

Whenever a new video was on the way, or news of a new amateur video of one of his adventures was out there, and they had a profit share hooked in, Tony would tweet #ouch to his followers, and he had hundreds of thousands and they grew every day. They gathered momentum and sent videos around, set up websites and sold merchandise. Tony's people were on top of as much of it as they could and they snagged into the ones that were moving serious product numbers, threatening legal action where they had to but mostly just doing deals that split profits rather than made no one any money.

He was getting richer and more famous and less and less of it was because of him. He had become a product he was no longer in control of. Worse than that, what he 'was' was the product, not who he is or was trying to become.

So far he had done no interviews and spoke to no one about the process, he had made it as unexplained as he could. He ignored the articles about him and gave nothing in response to the endless gossip and rumours about his life and his motivations. He had done all this to keep some artistic integrity, or so he thought at first but progressively what he desired was control. He had ceded control unintentionally, thinking that an agreement and a contract was worth anything. He had factored that in, as had his management, knowing full well that it was trying to hold water in your hands. You'll capture some, maybe even a lot, but never will you get it all.

Things leak. The people he used were not the only ones with cameras, they were not even there alone in the first instance. Friends, partners it could have been anyone near them or nowhere visible, but once it was known that Tony was 'performing' it was time to charge the cam corder, make room on the SD card and record it raw.

No one asked why he was doing it, and to certain extent no one wanted to. On the surface it was the most asked question “Why?” but the answer never came and after a while no answer would have ever satisfied. If he had articulated what he was doing, few people would have understood or got the joke. If had supplied even a most interesting and valid reason for his obsession with people laughing at his physical mistreatment then it would have been an arguable point.

He had sought out situations and provoked people into attacking him, pinpointing the break points in his 'volunteers' and then hammering on them until he paid the price. Any validation would have sounded insane. That was another reason for never explaining the point of what he was doing. He never said it to anyone. He never told his agent, manager, the club manager who still wanted him to do a big night again, who still had his picture on all his advertising, sometimes eclipsing once bigger names, and faces, on the posters for his now famous club.

It had become a running joke for visiting stand ups to slip on the spot on stage where he had bled, all those months ago, that seemed like years but was less than a half year.

What did he do now? He could not even continue his project of looking for the right kind of angry person, the person who needed or wanted their buttons pushed. Now he was known too well. Even people who were not his fans, didn't follow comedy, didn't find him funny or interesting, knew exactly who he was.

Now no one would touch him. People would come up to him and ask permission to hit him, or asked for the chance to be in his act. In the conscious act of knowing though, the videos lost their potency. They could not be staged, they only worked if it not only looked real, but felt real. And not one of them was anymore.

So now the juggernaut continued without him. He had become as irrelevant as it could possibly be to his own performance, he was unnecessary.

He may as well be dead. It would have made no more difference.

Despite this epiphany he did not go to a darker place, suicide was too predictable and too easy. Also too final, can't hear your audience if your dead, or in a coma can you? No, no you can't. So many people wanted to tell him how much they loved and needed him, and how they didn't want that to happen.

So many people who wanted him to live could only talk to him about his death, and how bad that would be.

Time to change, time to reclaim his own stage.

Day 14 - Only Laugh - Chapter 13 (1,294 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 14

The fluorescent bulb in the exit light was flickering and making a loud clicking noise above their heads. It had been a long while since they had been here, but still this light was not fixed. This used to be the cheapest open late café that they could find, back in the day when doing a gig meant no money earned. Now it was a link to the past, that was why Jane wanted to come back to it to talk to him, to see if he was still in there. The original Tony, one hopefully who had not had any sense of who he was beaten out of him.

“What can I get you” The waitress was new, but then again they had seen a large number of staff go through this place while Tony was working on his act. The sort of place you didn't have to be desperate to work at, just desperate to work. Students, second-jobbers and plenty of people for whom a high turn-over low paying job after midnight was not as bad as the alternative.

“Coffee, black, thanks.”

Tony held up two fingers and mouthed 'please' to the girl who smiled and walked off, no notes required.

“Tony, I …” Jane was unsure what to say. Was she going to break it off? Was she trying to find a way to make it work? Was she assessing his mental condition? She didn't know. What she did know that doing nothing changes nothing.

“What's on your mind?” He could tell something was up, he suspected she had enough and was going to end it, but he was not of a mind to help her do that. If she wanted to go, then she should choose for herself. He didn't want to let her go, but if that was her decision, he could.

“What's on my mind? Everything.” Jane held her head in her hands and looked at him until he looked away, unable or unwilling to get into a staring contest, especially when there was nothing to see. “I don't understand what you are doing to yourself.”

“I'm not doing anything to myself, not really. I mean once, but even then I wasn't trying to, it was an accident. I didn't meant to hit my head so hard. Really. Didn't.” He was talking too fast, not really lying because the words themselves were true enough. He did know that he was in control of his fate more these days, but he didn't want to say it.

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying.” Tony sighed. “Not really.”

“When that bastard stabbed you I thought you were going to die. I honestly, truly thought you were going to die, in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, the next day – I don't know, but it scared me.” Jane was crying. She had not yet told him how terrified she was that night. She had been coming to meet him after his set, to take him here for a coffee, and she saw him being lifted into the back of the ambulance, and almost fainted from the shock. The Club Manager had seen her and knew she was with Tony, she had picked him up after many a failed and depressing night there. He stopped them from leaving and bundled her into the back of the ambulance with an explanation and a card, telling her to call him to tell him how Tony was. She had assumed that she would call him to tell him that Tony was dead.

Tony watched her cry, made no move to console her or further the conversation. He felt bad for doing that, for doing nothing, yet there was no alternative that didn't make him lose her. She felt like the night when the sun was dawning, no matter how hard you looked for darker spots, the light was coming inexorably in.

He could let her go, he should let her go. It felt 'right' and 'fair' to let her do that, to cut her off for her own sake and not hold her to him.

He didn't want to do this alone, but he could.

“Maybe we should break up.” As soon as he said it he felt like a weight had been dropped onto him. Surely it should have felt like a weight had been lifted? Instead it was like a stone tied around his waist, pulling him down, making movement unbearable. He felt empty but not lighter. He sounded petulant, even to himself now, unsure how to fix that and make it kind. He wanted it to be kinder but every word he spoke seemed like a blow to them both.

“If you can't handle it, then make your choice, don't stay for me, I don't need you.”

I do need you though.

“Why are you being such a prick? Where is Tony, the Tony I fell in love with? I know it sounds corny but I don't know you any more.” She was still crying a little when the coffee arrived. The waitress left the two cups and made not attempt to understand or interfere in what was obviously going on. She left as quickly as she had arrived and disappeared through the kitchen doors whispering hurriedly to whomever was on the other side.

“Well it should be easy for you then.”

Why am I being a prick?

“If it were easy I would not be here would I?”

“I don't know, would you? Jesus, just harden up and decide for yourself. I can't decide for you.”

Jane had made her mind up, but wanted or needed to do it better than this. Was there a better ending to this than a tear stained post midnight coffee? One where you would wake the next day wondering how much the world had changed only to find that the world had been ignoring you all along?

“I don't want to harden up. Not if it means doing what you are doing.”

“Seriously? You think that I want you to do what I am doing? No one can do what I am doing, no one.” Tony had found something to be angry about, and now he had an insult to his craft to leverage. Even as he did he knew it was was wrong, and unfair and so much of his own problems with himself spilling out. Jane had opened a door to the issue and it all came tumbling out of him, untrue, unfair and unfettered. He ranted blindly about his work “I am being misunderstood! No one who laughs at me knows why! No one! No one who wants even more from me knows why! Fucking no one! This? This painful existence is part of the human condition! We, I explore art, not force it! I don;t make this happen, it happens to me! An artist channels the art, he does not make it. ... and artists are not understood in their time, they are best remembered when they are dead. Not me. I am not a dead anything, I will not be a dead artist, I will be … “

Jane had risen and was walking away from the table. He had not seen her get up or look away, defeat in her eyes. He had snapped to in the middle of his speech and realised she was a few feet away back turned.

Now the weight lifted and he felt sick and dizzy.

Tony picked up his phone from the table, left a fifty dollar note for the three dollar coffees.

“John? Wake up. What's open and dangerous right now?”