Debaser by Max Frick
these magazines really expect us to believe that it would make any kind of a difference to your sad life? Because like I say, mate, the fact is that no matter how much the suit cost, or how fuckin in fashion it is, you’re always just goin to be a spectacularly ugly cunt in a nice suit. Now do you see what I mean?’
John was silent. Feet and wheels passed by in both directions.
At the other end of the bench, one of the office workers, an upright woman, feeling duty bound to interfere, was straining to get a good look at this, this bully over the respective napes of her colleague and the young security guard.
‘You leave that boy alone, you!’ she suddenly blurted. ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’
In the blink of an eye – both eyes, in fact – her colleague lost his appetite. Billy, now leaning against Woolworth’s window, lowered his head inhaling deeply. John sat perfectly still. An announcement over the public address system interrupted the music to respectfully remind shoppers that this retail park has a no smoking policy and that designated smoking areas can be found in the various cafeterias and also in the food court, thank you! But never, not even for a second, was one single syllable of the vituperative barrage of insults that Tony was unrestrainedly hurling at the wide-eyed and speechless woman drowned out by its sunny tones. Reiterating the sentiment of a wilfully insolent look, he ranted unchecked, utterly mindless of his surroundings. Billy burned, Dooly barked, John sat perfectly still, and passers-by, circumventing the benches, took a sudden and excessive interest in the shop windows of whichever side of the avenue they happened to be on. As the music resumed, his barrage ended, but the insolent look remained, and while the woman choked with rage he turned it towards her companion, keen for some chivalrous retort. But that gentleman was hastily re-wrapping what remained of his sandwich and ushering his colleague away.
Tony changed legs.
‘Point is, John, it’s exactly the same with the uniform. Listen, mate, I did a wee stint in the security business myself, and, if you don’t mind me sayin, you don’t exactly exude authority. You can’t just stick on a fuckin uniform and hope that cunts’ll respect it. It doesn’t work like that. Particularly not that fuckin uniform. You’ve got to make them respect you. But that doesn’t mean you should go steamin into situations actin all confident either, not if you’re heart’s not in it. You’ll just get fuckin laughed at. Especially with your build, eh? No, John, mate, it’s got to come from in here.’ He thumped his chest. ‘In here, John! You’ve got to be sincere. That’s the only way you stand any chance of connectin with the people and gettin them to fuckin listen. It’s horses for courses, mate. Every situation’s different. But in this game you’ve got to be sincere. Don’t let your uniform do the talkin. That’s your fuckin job. Just because you look like a security guard, or a band leader, or whatever the fuck it is you look like, doesn’t mean you’re a security guard. Do you see what I’m sayin?’
John, after giving it some thought, answered timidly.
‘I think so,’ he said, attempting a sideways glance up at Tony. ‘Em, is it the clothes don’t make the man?’
Billy let out a snigger, delighted that John had innocently reduced Tony’s eloquent tutorial to a clichéd aphorism.
‘Aye, not quite, mate,’ said Tony moodily, lifting his foot down off the bench arm. ‘Not quite.’
He eased a cigarette packet from out of his jeans pocket, flipped back the lid, drew out a cigarette, popped it into his mouth and lit it.
John leapt up from the bench.
‘You can’t smoke in here!’ he cautioned excitedly. ‘You’re not allowed to smoke in here!’
Tony coolly exhaled a lungful of thin grey smoke.
‘John, man,’ he said, ‘for fuck sake, relax! You’re more like a fuckin insecurity guard. What did we just talk about?’
‘I know,’ said John. ‘But I still have to try and do my job.'
‘Well, I hate to be the one to tell you, mate, but maybe you’re in the wrong business, eh? You’re too fuckin nervous. That’s how you get all your plooks. You need to learn to calm down, take it easy, man. Now, listen, will you do me a favour?’
‘Em...’
‘I was goin to go and get myself an NME before you came along, but I can’t now seen as I’ve just lit a fag. And he can’t go because he’s holdin the dog. So, will you do me a favour and nip in and get it for me, eh? We’ll be waitin outside.’
John was back to staring at the floor.
‘Em,’ he said, ‘I’m not supposed to, eh... I’m supposed to be workin. And it’s eczema.’
‘You are workin, John. Did you not hear what I said? We’ll wait outside. You’re gettin rid of us, mate. That’s what you were told to do, is it not? Fuck sake, man! Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well.’
‘No, but... You were supposed to…’
‘Horses for courses, John, mate. Horses for courses. Do you really want to be standin here for another ten minutes talkin to me?’
‘Em, no, but... You’ll really wait outside?’
‘Aye, mate, of course. But that door there, though. Deal?’
John sighed.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘All right, then.’
The cigarette hung from Tony’s lips. Hunching his shoulders, and creasing his brow against the rising smoke, he fished a crumpled five-pound note from his pocket and handed it to John.
‘Now,’ he said, drawing on the cigarette and using it to point with, ‘ an NME, mind, and I want all the fuckin change back! Don’t be buyin any ten pence mixtures or anythin, eh?’
And John, watching his own feet this time, walked wearily into Woolworth’s.
Tony turned smugly to Billy.
‘What the fuck’s wrong with your face?’ he said. ‘I’m only tryin to fuckin help the boy! He’ll have a lot worse than me to deal with in this job.’
‘I never said anythin,’ said Billy, turning to leave.
‘Where the fuck are you goin?’
‘What? I thought we were waitin outside.’
‘Aye, right,’ said Tony. ‘Don’t be fuckin daft!’
After a few minutes, John, obediently clutching the folded newspaper, came shuffling out of the shop, dark eyed and muttering under his breath, brooding, no doubt, on thoughts of sweet revenge. On finding he’d been duped he sagged visibly, for Tony and Billy were sitting on the bench, with Dooly lying half underneath it between them.
Tony took a last draw on his cigarette, flicked the smoking dout among the passing feet and took the paper, which John was now handing him, along with his change. Leaning back to pocket the latter he said:
‘Cheers, John, mate. You’re all right, you know! But listen, you shouldn’t let cunts like me push you around, eh? You need to toughen up a wee bit. And your mates up there in that office? Couldn’t’ve done the job any better than you, let me assure you. So don’t be fuckin worryin about what they’re goin to say, right?’
John nodded compliantly.
Billy, followed by Dooly, stood up ready to leave. Tony made himself comfortable and flicked open the folded paper with his thumbs. His visage darkened instantly.
‘YOU MUST BE FUCKIN JOKIN!’ he cried. ‘LOOK AT FUCKIN THAT!’
And he turned the cover towards Billy.
Beside the witty headline ‘Ryan Gigs’ was a headshot of Ryan Watson, doing his damnedest to ‘keep it real’ but achieving only the affected seriousness of a daytime soap opera actor. A sub-heading read: ‘Star goes back to his roots with a string of low-key club dates’.
‘LOW-KEY FUCKIN GIGS!’ Bawled Tony. ‘BACK TO HIS FUCKIN ROOTS! WHAT FUCKIN ROOTS? I’m tellin you, man: when real bands were cartin their fuckin stuff round tiny venues tryin to scratch a livin, this cunt was probably bein driven between dancin lessons and auditions by his fuckin ma’!’
He stood up and posted the re-folded paper straight into the bin beside him.
‘Let’s fuckin go,’ he said, striding on ahead of Billy to join the tapering and compacting horde of
shoppers filing out through the sliding glass doors. ‘Get me the fuck up to Pabs’s!’
11
Tony was given a minute or two, while Kris finished his coffee and cigarette, to familiarise himself with the lyrics. But a cursory glance at the song sheet confirmed that they were familiar enough already. He knew this song better than anybody, had grown up with it, learned it off by heart a long time ago. Even the bits with that foreign sounding name no longer gave him any trouble.
From behind the glass Kris, silently cupping and re-cupping his hands over his ears, seemed to be signalling to Tony that it was now time for him to put on the headphones. So lifting them from off the microphone he did as instructed, clapping them over his head, and Kris’s electrophonic voice came sounding through.
‘Can you hear me okay?’ it said.
Tony nodded, and then leaning tentatively into the mic, all but tapping on it first, said:
‘Eh, aye.’
‘Okay, Tony,’ said Kris’s voice. ‘In a minute I’ll start feeding you through the music. Now, when it’s getting near the end of the intro I’ll count you in like this, look: Three...’
He soundlessly mouthed the word, holding up three fingers behind the glass.
‘...Two...’
He was holding up two fingers.
‘...One...’
Only one remained.
‘...And...’
Slowly, he drew back his hand, with that one finger still extended, before again bringing it forward to point through the glass at Tony.
‘...And you come in with the opening line. Okay?’
Tony again
John was silent. Feet and wheels passed by in both directions.
At the other end of the bench, one of the office workers, an upright woman, feeling duty bound to interfere, was straining to get a good look at this, this bully over the respective napes of her colleague and the young security guard.
‘You leave that boy alone, you!’ she suddenly blurted. ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’
In the blink of an eye – both eyes, in fact – her colleague lost his appetite. Billy, now leaning against Woolworth’s window, lowered his head inhaling deeply. John sat perfectly still. An announcement over the public address system interrupted the music to respectfully remind shoppers that this retail park has a no smoking policy and that designated smoking areas can be found in the various cafeterias and also in the food court, thank you! But never, not even for a second, was one single syllable of the vituperative barrage of insults that Tony was unrestrainedly hurling at the wide-eyed and speechless woman drowned out by its sunny tones. Reiterating the sentiment of a wilfully insolent look, he ranted unchecked, utterly mindless of his surroundings. Billy burned, Dooly barked, John sat perfectly still, and passers-by, circumventing the benches, took a sudden and excessive interest in the shop windows of whichever side of the avenue they happened to be on. As the music resumed, his barrage ended, but the insolent look remained, and while the woman choked with rage he turned it towards her companion, keen for some chivalrous retort. But that gentleman was hastily re-wrapping what remained of his sandwich and ushering his colleague away.
Tony changed legs.
‘Point is, John, it’s exactly the same with the uniform. Listen, mate, I did a wee stint in the security business myself, and, if you don’t mind me sayin, you don’t exactly exude authority. You can’t just stick on a fuckin uniform and hope that cunts’ll respect it. It doesn’t work like that. Particularly not that fuckin uniform. You’ve got to make them respect you. But that doesn’t mean you should go steamin into situations actin all confident either, not if you’re heart’s not in it. You’ll just get fuckin laughed at. Especially with your build, eh? No, John, mate, it’s got to come from in here.’ He thumped his chest. ‘In here, John! You’ve got to be sincere. That’s the only way you stand any chance of connectin with the people and gettin them to fuckin listen. It’s horses for courses, mate. Every situation’s different. But in this game you’ve got to be sincere. Don’t let your uniform do the talkin. That’s your fuckin job. Just because you look like a security guard, or a band leader, or whatever the fuck it is you look like, doesn’t mean you’re a security guard. Do you see what I’m sayin?’
John, after giving it some thought, answered timidly.
‘I think so,’ he said, attempting a sideways glance up at Tony. ‘Em, is it the clothes don’t make the man?’
Billy let out a snigger, delighted that John had innocently reduced Tony’s eloquent tutorial to a clichéd aphorism.
‘Aye, not quite, mate,’ said Tony moodily, lifting his foot down off the bench arm. ‘Not quite.’
He eased a cigarette packet from out of his jeans pocket, flipped back the lid, drew out a cigarette, popped it into his mouth and lit it.
John leapt up from the bench.
‘You can’t smoke in here!’ he cautioned excitedly. ‘You’re not allowed to smoke in here!’
Tony coolly exhaled a lungful of thin grey smoke.
‘John, man,’ he said, ‘for fuck sake, relax! You’re more like a fuckin insecurity guard. What did we just talk about?’
‘I know,’ said John. ‘But I still have to try and do my job.'
‘Well, I hate to be the one to tell you, mate, but maybe you’re in the wrong business, eh? You’re too fuckin nervous. That’s how you get all your plooks. You need to learn to calm down, take it easy, man. Now, listen, will you do me a favour?’
‘Em...’
‘I was goin to go and get myself an NME before you came along, but I can’t now seen as I’ve just lit a fag. And he can’t go because he’s holdin the dog. So, will you do me a favour and nip in and get it for me, eh? We’ll be waitin outside.’
John was back to staring at the floor.
‘Em,’ he said, ‘I’m not supposed to, eh... I’m supposed to be workin. And it’s eczema.’
‘You are workin, John. Did you not hear what I said? We’ll wait outside. You’re gettin rid of us, mate. That’s what you were told to do, is it not? Fuck sake, man! Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well.’
‘No, but... You were supposed to…’
‘Horses for courses, John, mate. Horses for courses. Do you really want to be standin here for another ten minutes talkin to me?’
‘Em, no, but... You’ll really wait outside?’
‘Aye, mate, of course. But that door there, though. Deal?’
John sighed.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘All right, then.’
The cigarette hung from Tony’s lips. Hunching his shoulders, and creasing his brow against the rising smoke, he fished a crumpled five-pound note from his pocket and handed it to John.
‘Now,’ he said, drawing on the cigarette and using it to point with, ‘ an NME, mind, and I want all the fuckin change back! Don’t be buyin any ten pence mixtures or anythin, eh?’
And John, watching his own feet this time, walked wearily into Woolworth’s.
Tony turned smugly to Billy.
‘What the fuck’s wrong with your face?’ he said. ‘I’m only tryin to fuckin help the boy! He’ll have a lot worse than me to deal with in this job.’
‘I never said anythin,’ said Billy, turning to leave.
‘Where the fuck are you goin?’
‘What? I thought we were waitin outside.’
‘Aye, right,’ said Tony. ‘Don’t be fuckin daft!’
After a few minutes, John, obediently clutching the folded newspaper, came shuffling out of the shop, dark eyed and muttering under his breath, brooding, no doubt, on thoughts of sweet revenge. On finding he’d been duped he sagged visibly, for Tony and Billy were sitting on the bench, with Dooly lying half underneath it between them.
Tony took a last draw on his cigarette, flicked the smoking dout among the passing feet and took the paper, which John was now handing him, along with his change. Leaning back to pocket the latter he said:
‘Cheers, John, mate. You’re all right, you know! But listen, you shouldn’t let cunts like me push you around, eh? You need to toughen up a wee bit. And your mates up there in that office? Couldn’t’ve done the job any better than you, let me assure you. So don’t be fuckin worryin about what they’re goin to say, right?’
John nodded compliantly.
Billy, followed by Dooly, stood up ready to leave. Tony made himself comfortable and flicked open the folded paper with his thumbs. His visage darkened instantly.
‘YOU MUST BE FUCKIN JOKIN!’ he cried. ‘LOOK AT FUCKIN THAT!’
And he turned the cover towards Billy.
Beside the witty headline ‘Ryan Gigs’ was a headshot of Ryan Watson, doing his damnedest to ‘keep it real’ but achieving only the affected seriousness of a daytime soap opera actor. A sub-heading read: ‘Star goes back to his roots with a string of low-key club dates’.
‘LOW-KEY FUCKIN GIGS!’ Bawled Tony. ‘BACK TO HIS FUCKIN ROOTS! WHAT FUCKIN ROOTS? I’m tellin you, man: when real bands were cartin their fuckin stuff round tiny venues tryin to scratch a livin, this cunt was probably bein driven between dancin lessons and auditions by his fuckin ma’!’
He stood up and posted the re-folded paper straight into the bin beside him.
‘Let’s fuckin go,’ he said, striding on ahead of Billy to join the tapering and compacting horde of
11
Tony was given a minute or two, while Kris finished his coffee and cigarette, to familiarise himself with the lyrics. But a cursory glance at the song sheet confirmed that they were familiar enough already. He knew this song better than anybody, had grown up with it, learned it off by heart a long time ago. Even the bits with that foreign sounding name no longer gave him any trouble.
From behind the glass Kris, silently cupping and re-cupping his hands over his ears, seemed to be signalling to Tony that it was now time for him to put on the headphones. So lifting them from off the microphone he did as instructed, clapping them over his head, and Kris’s electrophonic voice came sounding through.
‘Can you hear me okay?’ it said.
Tony nodded, and then leaning tentatively into the mic, all but tapping on it first, said:
‘Eh, aye.’
‘Okay, Tony,’ said Kris’s voice. ‘In a minute I’ll start feeding you through the music. Now, when it’s getting near the end of the intro I’ll count you in like this, look: Three...’
He soundlessly mouthed the word, holding up three fingers behind the glass.
‘...Two...’
He was holding up two fingers.
‘...One...’
Only one remained.
‘...And...’
Slowly, he drew back his hand, with that one finger still extended, before again bringing it forward to point through the glass at Tony.
‘...And you come in with the opening line. Okay?’
Tony again