The young man waits at the door. The corridor he is in is narrow and because he is fat people passing have difficulty squeezing by. A man with knives dressed like a gladiator, the fire-eater with her blackened lips, Columbine the ballerina, all squeeze by. Only Columbine speaks to him. Jimmy, you're on soon, she smiles. Jimmy pants. He has been running.
Finally the door opens. An elongate man steps out into the corridor, careful to close the door behind him. He is sweating and only semi-clad. From the irritation in his voice Jimmy realises he has been interrupted.
What is it Jimmy?
Sam's sick, he pants. Real sick. His voice is stuffed. He can't go on.
But he has to.
But he can't.
Well do it yourself then. Pretend he's off-stage and too shy to come on. Just make up something.
Jimmy is frightened. He doesn't want to go on alone. He knows, though, there is no point arguing.
The elongate man steps back into his room, sighs. For an apprentice Smartest Arse in the World, Jimmy shows precious little initiative.
Jimmy stands at the curtain's edge. The audience are rowdy tonight, throwing food, calling out. Clowns and dancers buzz round him. He is shaking.
And now, good people, the moment you've all been waiting for, the star of the show! Ladies and gentlemen, a very warm welcome, would you put your hands together for the one and only Smartest Arse in the World! Most of the audience clap. There is a lot of yelling and Jimmy thinks he might be ill. Columbine is there and she squeezes his hand.
Pretend I'm Sam, she whispers.
Jimmy walks on as if the gallows await him. He doesn't see the crowd. His mind is numb.
Ladies and gentlemen, any questions for the Smartest Arse? The MC turns to Jimmy, hisses, Where the fuck is Sam?
What does the Smartest Arse think of Scotland? calls a woman leeringly from the back. This is easy. They get asked this every night.
Seeing England, Madam, he says in a voice an octave higher than normal, is only seeing a worse Scotland!
For a second it is as if a tarpaulin has been thrown over the audience. Should the Smartest Arse be saying that? Jimmy realises his error with a stab of fear, but doesn't have the courage to go back.
A man in the front row calls out, Where's the real Smartest Arse? You're not the real one are you? Jimmy squints out into the cruel cavernous expanse. He hesitates. The man does have a point.
He who praises nobody praises everybody, he offers, but the crowd is silent. When Sam says it, he gets rapturous applause. Somehow he manages to turn his head to the wing where Columbine stands, but she looks down at the floor. Next to her is the MC, who has backed off the stage at the first sign of disaster.
OTHER WAY ROUND, he mouths silently, but to Jimmy it just looks like a yawn. A tomato zings by his ear, splotches on the back curtain like a bit of brain.
What does the Smartest Arse think of life? Jimmy is almost paralysed. In a small voice he says, It matters not how you live, but how you die.
Someone snarls from the front, Other way round, Smart Arse. People begin to boo. Another tomato sears by. A potato hits him on the arm.
What does the Smartest Arse think of friendship? Jimmy thinks he might cry. He can't remember what Sam thinks of friendship. His mind has stopped working.
A small group near the back of the hall begin to chorus. SMART ARSE! SMART ARSE! SMART ARSE! More and more people join in, and more and more food hits Jimmy. The crowd start clapping their hands in rhythm to the chorus; most stomp their feet as well. The chant becomes a roar. The flow of fruit and vegetables through the air becomes relentless; a smell of ferment fills the stage. A glass smashes at Jimmy's feet and a second later a pineapple hits him full in the face, bloodying his nose. He stumbles from the stage, holding his head. Made-up faces loom in like a nightmare. Columbine grabs his hand. You were wonderful, says someone among the faces, and Jimmy begins to cry.
It's all right, says someone else, you can still be a lawyer.
The elongate man, awoken from his post-copulatory slumbers, has elbowed his way through the corridors to the side of the stage. A policeman appears from somewhere. The noise is deafening.
It's a riot, he says.
Jesus, says the elongate man.
Later, in his caravan, Sam sips on a lemon-and-honey drink. My voice, he croaks, feels better, Sir. Now tell me, Jimmy, Sir, you haven't said how it went without me.
I think, Sir, says Jimmy, I might just stick to biography.
Indeed, Sir? Sam struggles up onto an elbow, takes another sip. What about doing one on me?
Jimmy does.