Debaser by Max Frick
sliding glass doors of the exit, and had just allowed himself to relax a little when, three shop fronts from that exit, he caught sight of the window display of the local HMV. Tony, of course, had seen it also and was now stood directly in front of it.
‘See what I fuckin mean?’ he said, indicating it with a palm. ‘Case in fuckin point!’
As usual, pride of place had been given to those acts who were currently shifting the most ‘units’, or whose record companies had the highest marketing budgets (which often amounts to the same thing), and on this particular day that meant Ryan Watson. Standing against a background of countless copies of his latest album, ‘Back To My Roots’, and t-shirts and posters all featuring the self-same image, was a life-size cardboard cut-out of the star himself, arms held aloft in a gesture of victory and his chin held high, wearing a football top of indeterminate allegiance and an expression of mock pride as though he’d just scored a goal. His trousers were down around his ankles and his modesty (entirely the wrong word) was preserved by a pair of purple paisley patterned y-fronts. The image was no doubt meant to be ironic, a jocular nod towards ‘lad culture’, or, at least, some advertising executive’s conception of it. But something in the face, the merest suggestion of a smirk, or perhaps just a glint in the eyes, belied the intended effect, and the threefold impression given was of an actor playing rock star playing Jack-the-lad; a bad actor, lacking in sensibility and too complacent to lose himself in either role. Something of the star’s real personality shone through, an egocentricity, an undeniable smugness that no amount of self-deprecation could ever efface. But even this may be a mask, a screen that hid (he thought), from everyone but himself, the truth – never voiced but heard loud and clear over the fawning praises of money making yes-men – that he was nothing more than a fraudster and a charlatan.
Billy steeled himself for the inevitable tirade, and was surprised when Tony, saying only ‘cunt!’, walked over to the Woolworth’s opposite and began flicking through a rack of magazines just inside the door.
‘These are all the fuckin same!’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Billy.
‘Excuse me, guys. Excuse me,’ said a faint voice in the crowd, unheard by either.
‘Two seconds, man,’ said Tony. ‘I’m just comin.’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Billy again.
‘Excuse me, guys. Excuse me,’ repeated the voice, nearer now but scarcely any louder.
‘I mean, look at them, man! They’re all exactly the fuckin same!’
Billy made to go.
Suddenly, from directly behind them, a voice, striving towards authority but broken in places and carrying absolutely no conviction, said:
‘Excuse me, guys. Excuse me. I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed dogs in the centre. I’m goin to have to ask you to leave.’
10
Tony was already smiling when he, and Billy, turned to face it. Before them, somewhere very close to the last place he wanted to be, stood a young security guard. Tony eyed him up and down, shook his head and turned back to the magazines.
He was tall and skinny. His dark curly hair, unwashed, unbrushed and unruly, was every bit as greasy as his inflamed and crusty skin, and his protruding top teeth made his thin face and pointed chin look thinner and more pointed still. He was wearing an ill-fitting light-grey uniform that failed to cover his bony wrists, his white socks and his complete lack of confidence. Strips of a darker grey fabric that ran up the outside seams of his trousers, and from his shirt cuffs to its epaulettes, made him look more like a bandsman than any sort of an officer at all.
‘I’m goin to have to ask you to leave,’ he repeated, addressing the end of the request to Billy’s feet.
‘We are leavin, mate,’ said Billy jovially. ‘We’re just goin right now.’
‘Em, I’m sorry’, said the boy, again trying and again failing to maintain eye contact. ‘I’m goin to have to ask you to go out the way you came in.’
Billy remained jovial.
‘The way we came in?’ he said, stepping back from Woolworth’s doorway to let people flow freely in and out. ‘Can we not just go out this way?’
‘That’s what they said,’ shrugged the boy.
‘But you could let us go this way, eh?’ pressed Billy. ‘Nobody’ll notice.’
‘Em, I’m sorry, but they told me to tell you you had to go out the way you came in. They said if I let you through , everybody would be bringin dogs through. I’m sorry.’
Billy looked beyond the boy for ‘they’ while Tony continued to flick.
‘Mate, trust me,’ he said. ‘It really would be better for you if you just let us go out this way.’
‘I can’t,’ said the boy to the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘All right,’ said Billy, raising a palm in a gesture of surrender. ‘I tried.’
And Tony took his cue.
Turning from the magazine rack he stepped out from the doorway, and approaching the young security guard, browbeat him menacingly. He read the ID tag that was crocodile clipped to the boy’s shirt pocket, and, after an excruciating pause, said calmly:
‘John, mate, can I ask you a question? Who’s in charge of the music in this place?’
John’s agitation had visibly increased.
‘Em... I, em... I don’t know,’ he said nervously, rubbing the palms of his hands on the back of his hips and looking up and around for the music. ‘I’m just supposed to ask you to leave.’
‘Do us a favour, mate, will you? Go and see if you can find out, and get them to change this fuckin song. A man in your position must be able to pull a few strings, eh?’
‘Em… It’s only my first day,’ said John. ‘And I’m just supposed to ask you to leave.’
‘Aye, mate, we’ve established that. And he’s already told you, we are leavin. Do you like this song, John? Is that it? Is this your favourite song?’
‘Em... No... I mean, I don’t... I’m not really into music.’
‘No? So what are you into, John? I’ll bet it’s computers.’
‘Computers.’
‘What a fuckin surprise! Well, you better watch you don’t ruin your eyes, eh? What with that and all the wankin somebody like you must do. Last thing you need is to be wearin glasses.’
Tony caught Billy’s arm.
‘Where are you goin, man?’ he said. ‘The boy’s goin to let us out this way. Aren’t you, mate?’
John was looking at the floor again and still rubbing his hips.
‘Em...’ he said. ‘They said that...’
‘Never fuckin mind them, John! Where the fuck are they? Shitein theirselves in some office somewhere, watchin your performance on CCTV, no doubt. You’re the man on the scene, John. You’re the man that’s got to deal with the situation. Look, mate, come and take a seat a minute and let me give you the benefit of my wisdom, eh?’
John was led, with a fatherly arm, to a slatted wooden bench that stood back to back with another in the middle of the avenue. A couple of office workers, tucking into sandwiches from their laps, shifted along to make room and he was sat down beside them. Tony attempted to casually lean himself, cross-legged, against a cylindrical metal bin standing at John’s end of the bench, but was discomposed, and quickly recomposed, when it rocked backwards on its base beneath his weight. He gave it a dark look (which seemed, curiously, to brighten when he once again caught sight of the HMV window display) and instead lifted the sole of a foot onto the arm of the bench and leaned wrists crossed on his upraised knee.
‘Right, John,’ he said, indicating the magazine rack in Woolworth’s, ‘what do you see there?’
John raised his eyes and quickly lowered them again.
‘Em, Woolworth’s,’ he said.
‘Aye, John,’ said Tony wearily. ‘Just inside the door, mate.’
‘Em...magazines?’
‘That’s right, John. Magazines. Now, how many do you think are there?’
‘Em... I don’t know. Quite a few?’ r />
Tony paused.
‘Quite a few!’ he repeated. ‘Right. I’ll tell you what, John, why don’t we count them, eh? Now, how many in the top row? Just that rack there, mind.
Doubt as to Tony’s seriousness caused John to smile.
‘Fuck sake, mate!’ said Tony. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t count!’
‘Eh, no... I mean, aye... I, eh...’
‘Come on, then!’
John raised his head, and nodding it a little, turned it slightly from left to right. His lips were moving.
‘Seventeen?’ he said.
‘Seventeen. Right. And how many down?’
‘Em...six,’ said John, counting downwards then not re-raising his eyes.
‘Six. Right. So that’s what...? Ninety-odd magazines, John. Lets say a hundred. A hundred magazines a month, on that one rack alone. That’s twelve hundred magazines a year, John! Twelve hundred magazines all tellin you what to wear or how to cut your hair or what fuckin make-up to buy. All tellin you what to fuckin eat or what exercises to do or how to have better sex – although that’ll not affect you – and all fuckin tellin you that if you do what they tell you your life’ll be a hundred times better than it is! What do you fuckin make of that, John?’
‘Em...’
‘Quite a lot of fuckin advice to follow, is it not? I mean, surely it can’t all be useful, eh?’
‘Em...’
‘And the sad fact is, John, that in most cases, and definitely in yours, none of it is. Do you see what I’m gettin at?’
‘Em...’
‘Right, say for example you went into fuckin Versace or whatever, and say you bought the most expensive suit in the place, do
‘See what I fuckin mean?’ he said, indicating it with a palm. ‘Case in fuckin point!’
As usual, pride of place had been given to those acts who were currently shifting the most ‘units’, or whose record companies had the highest marketing budgets (which often amounts to the same thing), and on this particular day that meant Ryan Watson. Standing against a background of countless copies of his latest album, ‘Back To My Roots’, and t-shirts and posters all featuring the self-same image, was a life-size cardboard cut-out of the star himself, arms held aloft in a gesture of victory and his chin held high, wearing a football top of indeterminate allegiance and an expression of mock pride as though he’d just scored a goal. His trousers were down around his ankles and his modesty (entirely the wrong word) was preserved by a pair of purple paisley patterned y-fronts. The image was no doubt meant to be ironic, a jocular nod towards ‘lad culture’, or, at least, some advertising executive’s conception of it. But something in the face, the merest suggestion of a smirk, or perhaps just a glint in the eyes, belied the intended effect, and the threefold impression given was of an actor playing rock star playing Jack-the-lad; a bad actor, lacking in sensibility and too complacent to lose himself in either role. Something of the star’s real personality shone through, an egocentricity, an undeniable smugness that no amount of self-deprecation could ever efface. But even this may be a mask, a screen that hid (he thought), from everyone but himself, the truth – never voiced but heard loud and clear over the fawning praises of money making yes-men – that he was nothing more than a fraudster and a charlatan.
Billy steeled himself for the inevitable tirade, and was surprised when Tony, saying only ‘cunt!’, walked over to the Woolworth’s opposite and began flicking through a rack of magazines just inside the door.
‘These are all the fuckin same!’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Billy.
‘Excuse me, guys. Excuse me,’ said a faint voice in the crowd, unheard by either.
‘Two seconds, man,’ said Tony. ‘I’m just comin.’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Billy again.
‘Excuse me, guys. Excuse me,’ repeated the voice, nearer now but scarcely any louder.
‘I mean, look at them, man! They’re all exactly the fuckin same!’
Billy made to go.
Suddenly, from directly behind them, a voice, striving towards authority but broken in places and carrying absolutely no conviction, said:
‘Excuse me, guys. Excuse me. I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed dogs in the centre. I’m goin to have to ask you to leave.’
10
Tony was already smiling when he, and Billy, turned to face it. Before them, somewhere very close to the last place he wanted to be, stood a young security guard. Tony eyed him up and down, shook his head and turned back to the magazines.
He was tall and skinny. His dark curly hair, unwashed, unbrushed and unruly, was every bit as greasy as his inflamed and crusty skin, and his protruding top teeth made his thin face and pointed chin look thinner and more pointed still. He was wearing an ill-fitting light-grey uniform that failed to cover his bony wrists, his white socks and his complete lack of confidence. Strips of a darker grey fabric that ran up the outside seams of his trousers, and from his shirt cuffs to its epaulettes, made him look more like a bandsman than any sort of an officer at all.
‘I’m goin to have to ask you to leave,’ he repeated, addressing the end of the request to Billy’s feet.
‘We are leavin, mate,’ said Billy jovially. ‘We’re just goin right now.’
‘Em, I’m sorry’, said the boy, again trying and again failing to maintain eye contact. ‘I’m goin to have to ask you to go out the way you came in.’
Billy remained jovial.
‘The way we came in?’ he said, stepping back from Woolworth’s doorway to let people flow freely in and out. ‘Can we not just go out this way?’
‘That’s what they said,’ shrugged the boy.
‘But you could let us go this way, eh?’ pressed Billy. ‘Nobody’ll notice.’
‘Em, I’m sorry, but they told me to tell you you had to go out the way you came in. They said if I let you through , everybody would be bringin dogs through. I’m sorry.’
Billy looked beyond the boy for ‘they’ while Tony continued to flick.
‘Mate, trust me,’ he said. ‘It really would be better for you if you just let us go out this way.’
‘I can’t,’ said the boy to the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘All right,’ said Billy, raising a palm in a gesture of surrender. ‘I tried.’
And Tony took his cue.
Turning from the magazine rack he stepped out from the doorway, and approaching the young security guard, browbeat him menacingly. He read the ID tag that was crocodile clipped to the boy’s shirt pocket, and, after an excruciating pause, said calmly:
‘John, mate, can I ask you a question? Who’s in charge of the music in this place?’
John’s agitation had visibly increased.
‘Em... I, em... I don’t know,’ he said nervously, rubbing the palms of his hands on the back of his hips and looking up and around for the music. ‘I’m just supposed to ask you to leave.’
‘Do us a favour, mate, will you? Go and see if you can find out, and get them to change this fuckin song. A man in your position must be able to pull a few strings, eh?’
‘Em… It’s only my first day,’ said John. ‘And I’m just supposed to ask you to leave.’
‘Aye, mate, we’ve established that. And he’s already told you, we are leavin. Do you like this song, John? Is that it? Is this your favourite song?’
‘Em... No... I mean, I don’t... I’m not really into music.’
‘No? So what are you into, John? I’ll bet it’s computers.’
‘Computers.’
‘What a fuckin surprise! Well, you better watch you don’t ruin your eyes, eh? What with that and all the wankin somebody like you must do. Last thing you need is to be wearin glasses.’
Tony caught Billy’s arm.
‘Where are you goin, man?’ he said. ‘The boy’s goin to let us out this way. Aren’t you, mate?’
John was looking at the floor again and still rubbing his hips.
‘Em...’ he said. ‘They said that...’
‘Never fuckin mind them, John! Where the fuck are they? Shitein theirselves in some office somewhere, watchin your performance on CCTV, no doubt. You’re the man on the scene, John. You’re the man that’s got to deal with the situation. Look, mate, come and take a seat a minute and let me give you the benefit of my wisdom, eh?’
John was led, with a fatherly arm, to a slatted wooden bench that stood back to back with another in the middle of the avenue. A couple of office workers, tucking into sandwiches from their laps, shifted along to make room and he was sat down beside them. Tony attempted to casually lean himself, cross-legged, against a cylindrical metal bin standing at John’s end of the bench, but was discomposed, and quickly recomposed, when it rocked backwards on its base beneath his weight. He gave it a dark look (which seemed, curiously, to brighten when he once again caught sight of the HMV window display) and instead lifted the sole of a foot onto the arm of the bench and leaned wrists crossed on his upraised knee.
‘Right, John,’ he said, indicating the magazine rack in Woolworth’s, ‘what do you see there?’
John raised his eyes and quickly lowered them again.
‘Em, Woolworth’s,’ he said.
‘Aye, John,’ said Tony wearily. ‘Just inside the door, mate.’
‘Em...magazines?’
‘That’s right, John. Magazines. Now, how many do you think are there?’
‘Em... I don’t know. Quite a few?’
Tony paused.
‘Quite a few!’ he repeated. ‘Right. I’ll tell you what, John, why don’t we count them, eh? Now, how many in the top row? Just that rack there, mind.
Doubt as to Tony’s seriousness caused John to smile.
‘Fuck sake, mate!’ said Tony. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t count!’
‘Eh, no... I mean, aye... I, eh...’
‘Come on, then!’
John raised his head, and nodding it a little, turned it slightly from left to right. His lips were moving.
‘Seventeen?’ he said.
‘Seventeen. Right. And how many down?’
‘Em...six,’ said John, counting downwards then not re-raising his eyes.
‘Six. Right. So that’s what...? Ninety-odd magazines, John. Lets say a hundred. A hundred magazines a month, on that one rack alone. That’s twelve hundred magazines a year, John! Twelve hundred magazines all tellin you what to wear or how to cut your hair or what fuckin make-up to buy. All tellin you what to fuckin eat or what exercises to do or how to have better sex – although that’ll not affect you – and all fuckin tellin you that if you do what they tell you your life’ll be a hundred times better than it is! What do you fuckin make of that, John?’
‘Em...’
‘Quite a lot of fuckin advice to follow, is it not? I mean, surely it can’t all be useful, eh?’
‘Em...’
‘And the sad fact is, John, that in most cases, and definitely in yours, none of it is. Do you see what I’m gettin at?’
‘Em...’
‘Right, say for example you went into fuckin Versace or whatever, and say you bought the most expensive suit in the place, do