The Information Junkie (5 page)

Hey, gals and guys! Wow!! Isn't life a gas?

Anyway, you asked for a story. I gave it to you. You requested an introduction, a development and a dénouement. Well, I gave an exposition, a sizzling development, and three preliminary conclusions. Now you want the Biggy. Don't want much, do you? Now, listen, buddies: gonna give it to you straight: the old one-two-three. See how this grabs you:

Shortly after B left I did lose my job and ended up, with my corpus full of tubes, in a place which some call home and with a screen perched above my bed; keyboard and mouse at hand level.

Then one day I called up Cybernurse. Wow! What a chick! And caring... Before she inserts the needle of the drip she always gives you a local.

By the way, did I ever tell you the one about the nurse, the patient and the redhead? I didn't...? Well:

Ffion
: (Welsh) the colour of red roses or foxgloves.

Foxglove
: plant of the genus
Digitalis
producing bell-shaped, typically purple flowers.

Digitalin
: the pharmacologically active ingredient of digitalis.

Digitalis
: very toxic drug prepared from the dried leaves of the foxglove. A heart stimulant.

Digitalise
: to administer digitalis to a patient.

Digitise
: to convert data into digital form.

Data
: information.

Fact
: a truth, reality.

Fiction
: falsehood, invention, romance.

PART TWO

Confusions of a Crimson Fish

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!

—Macbeth Act 2, scene 3
.

*

Anyone who isn't confused

doesn't understand the situation.

—Ed Murrow (1908–65), on the Vietnam War.

6

I thought when they finally discharged me that I'd be okay. That all those fictional people, viz., the Cybernurse, Ffion and Martin would disappear and I could win back Belinda to lead a normal life.

Wrong again, buddies.

Have you ever noticed how
un
straightforward life is?

Okay, I'm going to tell you the rest of the story without any exaggeration or embellishment this time. I will not substitute the real for the fictitious or vice versa.

I was real, Belinda was real. That's all I needed to hang on to. And by the time they'd cleansed all my paths—physical and mental—that idea was clear. I walked out of the place a new person, with CERTITUDE.

But at that point it all began to fracture because as I emerged there was the Americar. And who was behind the wheel?

Martin.

I thought of turning back but faced the fear and walked on.

'Tough time, mate?' he said.

His feet scarcely reached the pedals; he sat there in his well-cut suit over an open-necked shirt.

I sighed, then smiled: 'I'm okay, now.'

Martin flicked the ignition.

I wanted to say, 'How's Ffion?' but remembered, just in time, that she was not real. And anyway Martin got through chicks at such a rate that he'd have discarded half a dozen in the six months I'd been away.

He looked well-fed, prosperous. He favoured an automatic. Isn't that odd for a big-balled kind of guy? He had imported this one from America.

Martin drove assertively and at ease. As we turned into the main road and the sun hit the windscreen he lowered his visor; I lowered mine too. I knew everything was going to be okay. I
knew
it.

He'd been keeping an eye on my place while I'd been away.

'I've got to tell you, Charlie, that I've been using your gaff to spread the mustard.'

I smiled.

'I mean, you don't drop biggies on your own bandstand. Do you?'

I smiled again.

'I've had all your stuff laundered. No stretch or skid marks there.'

This was a brittle relationship:
Martin would have to go
.

'Everything's gonna be okay,' said Martin. 'Got a feeling everything'll turn out just fine.'

'And my life will become clearer, Martin?'

His eyes remained on the road, his expression unchanged:

'It'll all become clear.' He paused. 'In the end.' He corrected himself: '
At
the end.'

I smiled, happy to be driven by him.

'Still writing?' he said.

'I make a few notes, jottings. Just thoughts, only ideas. They encouraged it—in there.'

'
"Write it all down, Mr Smith."
?
"Let it all out, Mr Jones."
?
"Don't hold back, Mr Brown."
?'

'Close enough.' Had he ever been inside that place himself and not told me?

'Got a surprise for you at home,' he said.

I crinkled my brow.

He turned. 'Just a few friends.'

We stopped for petrol. The price of gas had shot up during my absence. Martin flashed his Aristocard: he was a founding cardholder.

As we continued on our way Martin said,

'Any tasty talent in there?'

I thought of Cybernurse but wanted to keep the memory of her special, yet couldn't resist the urge to boast:

'Yes,' I said. 'There was a nurse on the late shift with a vigorous bush who slipped between my sheets one night. Climbed in starkers. We did the biz there and then and while all the others groaned in their sleep we groaned with pleasure.'

'Knockout, mate.' He was silent for a while then: 'This babe you're going to meet is a star in the sack.'

But I wanted to talk about something else:

'Martin...?'

'Mm...?'

'I feel like a character in a Christopher Priest novel.'

'But six months ago you felt like someone in a Martin Amis novel.'

'No, that's not strictly accurate. I didn't feel like a character. I felt like an actor condemned to play a rôle in an early Martin Amis novel.'

'Comic, then.'

'Comic yes, but manic too. But with Priest it's sombre and unsettling.'

'Wow, mate,' said Martin. 'I thought they were supposed to cure you in there.'

'They can't cure you of reality,' I said.

Then I knew who was waiting for me at home. Or at least I thought I did. He said he'd invited a few friends. I dreaded that one might be Ffion. But supposing there were Ffion and the Cybernurse; Martin Amis, Christopher Priest, B. S. Johnson; and Thomas Hardy for good measure? I mean, you'd go bonkers. Wouldn't you?

On we drove, the sun shining through the windscreen.

Oh, buddies, I write this with great reluctance, real pain.

'You've gone quiet, mate,' he said.

'Martin, I've got to get this sorted.'

'Could you just run it by me again?'

'Yes—I feel like a character in a Christopher Priest novel and did feel like an actor condemned to play a rôle in an early Martin Amis. I also feel a little like an Anthony Burgess or B. S. Johnson narrator...'

I watched Martin's face as he negotiated the traffic: it was impassive.

'What happened in that place, Charlie? What did they do to you?'

'They corrupted my data,' I said.

'Look, mate,' he said. 'I think you've been indoors too long. Here's the deal: come back, meet some new people, socialise, get into circulation again. Straighten yourself out.'

'They encouraged me to write, in there.'

'You're not in there any more, mate. Charlie, I know what you need. You need a good lay. Listen: this piece I'm introducing you to. She's Welsh, but don't let that put you off.'

'Anthony Burgess's first wife was Welsh.'

'Look, Charlie, do me a favour. Forget about the literary. Okay? You're reading too many books. Concentrate on reality.'

'But, Martin...' There was a silence which he didn't fill. So I asked him: 'What do
you
want to do?'

He gave me a puzzling smile but turned quickly back to concentrate on driving.
He'd have to go
.

The automatic gears changed down with a lurch as we came to a nasty snarl in the traffic.

'I'm scared, Martin.'

He didn't reply. On we drove through the sunny afternoon.

'Martin,' I said. 'I'm scared of what you've got for me at home.'

'No worries, mate.'

So, what was waiting for me? Was it the Cybernurse and Ffion? Was it Belinda? Was it Martin Amis and Christopher Priest? Was it Charles Dickens? Was it Charles Hawtrey? Was it Charlie Drake? Was it B. S. Johnson? Was it James Joyce? Was it William Joyce? Was it Uncle Tom? Uncle Tom's Cabin? Or was it myself?

Buddies, I was flying on rice paper.

'One of these friends I'm introducing you to,' he said, 'is a bit of a disappointment in the tit department.'

'Oh...?'

'Doesn't have any, mate. You know the type: has to stick a couple of bits of scrunched-up toilet paper onto her vest. Wizard in the sack, though.'

'When you come up with these things, Martin, are they planned or spontaneous?

'I shouldn't go down that road, Charlie.'

I said, 'Have you seen anything of Belinda?'

'It'll all become clear when you get home.'

Had I been away too long? Probably. What had they done to me? What had they really done to me in that place?

On we drove through the sunny afternoon. The sun beat down. So I was looking for a resolution. Could Martin help me? Could the people waiting for me at home help me?

'And another thing,' I said to him: 'I feel, as if I have to justify everything I do.'

'I thought,' he said, 'that they'd given you the full datacleanse? Let's recap: you said you felt like an actor playing a part in an early Martin Amis novel?'

'Yeah.' I paused. 'The problem is that I'm not adolescent. I'm middle-aged.'

'Ah!' said Martin. 'Now I see where all this is leading. It's MLC. Isn't it?'

'Midland Light Chamber? Millicent Loves Coffee? Melvyn Likes Chat? Mellifluous Little Chubbies? My Little Charlie? My Lovely Chocolate? My Love Chunders? Millicent Loves Charlie? Etcetera. Etcetera.'

Martin didn't even smile.

MID-LIFE CRISIS!!!

Phew, buddies! It was plumbiferous. It was worse than a heavy vellum. It was fiercer than that painful parchment which Ffion had laid on me. And it was accurate: it had the ring of truth.

'I've told you before, mate. It's survivable.'

'Even an amputation is survivable. But I don't want anything cut off.'

'You already have had, mate.'

'Yeah. My bloody youth.'

'It's not your youth that's gone. Is it? It's your energy. It's that limitless energy which youth squanders.'

'I mean, I can't keep this up, Martin.'

'Here's the deal,' said Martin. 'Get back to your software. Return to your job.'

'Yeah, but I lost it all before. Didn't I? Lost my job, I lost... hang on a minute: you sacked me. You bought me out from our companies.'

Martin turned, looked and said: 'What companies, Charlie?'

I said, 'The games software companies that we owned.'

He said, 'What are you talking about? We don't own any companies.'

The ice was melting.
Martin didn't have much longer.

'I'm your old mate, Charlie. Remember? We used to go out for bellyfuls of beer and curry then redecorate shop doorways.'

'Yes, that was pre-MLC. Wasn't it?'

'Certainly was, mate. We're friends, Charlie. Okay? Look, I told you at the time that I couldn't come to visit, and that's all going to become clear when you get home.'

'So, we've never had companies?'

'No. We haven't, mate. You write software.'

'What do you do, then, Martin?'

'Oh, come on. You know that,' he said, 'I'm an actor.'

An actor? Yes, of course—Martin the chameleon. It was starting to come back now. I recalled that the last thing which I'd seen Martin do was a commercial in which he morphs into a monkey and the monkey morphs into a glass of lager. He told me it had paid disgustingly well. You remember the catchphrase—don't you?—Go Ape For a Monkey's Bum.

'Sorry, mate,' I said. 'I wasn't reading papers—we weren't allowed newspapers or TV. What are you doing at the moment?'

'At the National,' he said.

Okay. I could accommodate this: if Martin was an actor and I was a software writer, a programmer, then my life was building again. It was becoming clear. I was starting to remember what really was true and what was made up. Goodness me! I must have been bad for a long time, buddies. Don't you think?

'Been out of circulation too long, mate,' he said. 'Got just the thing for you at home.'

I could picture him at my gaff: spreading the mustard. Made me recall the day, just before I went away, that they dug up the tarmac at the entrance to my block of flats and resurfaced it with a terracotta preparation.

'What's that for?'

'Anti-skid coating, sir.'

Well, I thought, I could do with some of that in my Y-fronts.

'I act,' said Martin. 'You programme.'

'Who's the Cyberchick, then? Who's the Cybernurse?'

'Well, you laid her in hospital. You laid her in
there.
Didn't you?'

'Course I did, mate. And Belinda...?'

'She left you, mate.'

'And Ffion?'

'It'll all become clear.'

I was still trying to sort it all out, mates. If I had felt like an actor in an early Martin Amis novel and I was sitting next to a guy called Martin who was an actor and he was telling me I was a programmer, then was I programming all this? Talk about circles within circles and wheels within wheels. Had I got my wires crossed down the bidirectional highway? Had my data been completely wiped and substituted with somebody else's? Or had it been corrupted and they couldn't properly reconstruct it?

Oh yes, buddies. They're very good at breaking you down but they can't build you up again, in that place which some people call home.