Pomegranate |
noun: an Asian shrub or small tree cultivated in semitropical regions for its fruit. Or the fruit of this tree; it has a tough reddish rind, juicy red pulp and many seeds. |
Filibusters |
1. noun: plural of filibuster being: |
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(a) the process of obstructing legislation by means of long speeches or other delaying tactics. |
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(b) those who engage in such tactics. |
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2. verb: to filibuster. The action of delaying legislation by these means. |
In the breakfast room of the hotel, over a stodgy banana muffin and a cup of lukewarm coffee I watched out for the arrival of my next googlewhack. At precisely ten o’clock a silver sports car pulled up. I knew this was my man; no one with a car that nice would be staying at a lowly hotel like this. I dashed out to meet him.
‘You must be Byron,’ I said.
‘I sure am,’ said Byron. ‘So … do you wanna drive to Mexico?’
That must be the best opening gambit I’ve ever heard, knocking Suzi Appleby’s ‘Do you want to see my knickers?’ into second place. (I should add that Suzi and I were both four at the time.)
‘Mexico?’ I pretended to give it a moment’s thought. I had no idea how far away from Austin, Texas it was, but I didn’t really care. ‘Absolutely!’
Byron chuckled. The chuckle passed through his right leg and the engine chuckled too.
‘I’ll need to run upstairs and get my passport though,’ I said, adding a dash of responsibility to an otherwise reckless conversation.
‘OK,’ said Byron, coolly.
I’d taken a few steps back towards the hotel when he called out.
‘Hey, I figure some time today you’re gonna start tryin’ to persuade me to find some of these googlewhacks, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Well, I already found ’em. You might as well have them now. That way we can talk about real things while we’re driving.’
Every second I was with Byron I found myself liking him even more. He was the googlewhacking Fonz. These were happy days.
‘I got Dubitable Quaalude and Propolis Dhow,’ he said.
Byron was like the new kid at school who was supercool. The one with the good bike that you immediately wanted to be your best friend. I bet he’d be really good at conkers.
‘There are at least three words there I can’t spell,’ I said, only confident that I could spell dubitable, indubitably.
‘I wrote ’em down for you,’ said Byron, producing a neat piece of paper. Googlewhacking didn’t come much better than this.
‘Would you mind if I spent a few minutes looking these up,’ I said, a bit uneasy. The new boy was offering to take me to Mexico but I wanted to do my homework first. ‘I’ll need to look around the websites and find the email addresses, you see. The sooner I email them the better.’
‘Take a look at the other side of the paper,’ said Byron, not missing a beat.
I did. There, in his neat handwriting, were two email addresses. I looked them both over. One was an anonymous office address, the other went to someone by the name of Julia Roberts.
‘So, d’you think, Dubitable Quaalude leads to—’
‘No, Dave. I shouldn’t think it’s that Julia Roberts,’ said Byron, matter-of-factly. ‘I think a Hollywood actress of her stature is highly unlikely to spend her spare time running a website about quilting.’
‘No. You’re probably right.’
‘Take ten minutes,’ he said, turning the engine off, ‘email them, get your passport, then we’ll go. There’s no rush.’
‘Cool,’ I said while rushing very uncoolly.
*
‘So how far is Mexico?’ I asked as we hurtled down the freeway.
‘I’m not sure. Maybe 300 miles or so,’ shrugged Byron.
Byron looked like an aristocratic Englishman: tall, pale and with a floppy fringe, that wouldn’t have seemed out of place accompanying a stuttering Hugh Grant accent but his manner was Texan through and through. He wore a brown leather flying jacket and a pair of shades and he spoke with a slow, cool drawl.
‘Do I sound Texan to you?’ he drawled.
‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’
If there’s one thing Texans love in the world, it’s Texas. I hadn’t been there long but even in my short journey from the airport to the hotel I’d worked that much out for myself. Wherever you look you’re constantly reminded that you’re in the Lone Star State. Why have just a plain bit of iron railing when you could have it worked into the shape of the Lone Star? Why have plain flagstones outside your parking lot when you could have them with a Lone Star on? How many Lone Stars do you have to put on the side of a building before the word ‘lone’ stops making sense? It’s clear that Texans either love Texas, or they have very bad memories and worry that they might forget what state they’re in on the journey to work each morning.
‘So what do you know about Texas, Dave?’ asked Byron.
‘Not a lot really,’ I confessed. ‘It’s big.’
‘Did you know it was once an independent country?’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yeah,’ nodded Byron. ‘From 1836 to 1845 Texas was an independent nation.’
Byron launched into a Texan history lesson. He vividly explained the Battle of the Alamo, brought to life the characters of Crockett and Bowie and explained how Austin came to be the capital city.
If history had been taught like that at school I might have been more interested. Then again, most subjects would be improved if the classroom was a high-performance sports car travelling at 70 mph with a cool but enthusiastic teacher at the wheel but I don’t suppose that’s possible in this day and age. You know, what with large class sizes and all that.
‘Have you had a chance to see the Capitol Building since you’ve been in Austin?’ asked Byron.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I walked past it on the way to the hotel.’
‘What did you think?’
‘It looked like the National Capitol in Washington DC,’ I said. ‘Only bigger and grander.’
‘You understand Texas pretty well,’ said Byron with a sly chuckle.
In order to pay for such a splendid building the state had sold off three million acres of land. That’s an area bigger than Yorkshire and Lancashire combined. Of course, Texas can afford to throw away that kind of land because it’s so huge. It’s roughly three times bigger than Britain and with only a third of the population.
‘So, what were you expecting me to be like?’ asked Byron.
‘I’ve stopped expecting anything of anyone,’ I said. ‘I don’t think googlewhacks are like other people.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, nobody’s really been what I expected,’ I said. ‘I thought Bibliophilic Sandwiched was going to be a gay man but she turned out to be a happily married woman.’
‘What made you think she’d be a he?’
‘She writes stories in which the characters from the Highlander TV series have lots of gay sex.’
‘That figures,’ said Byron. ‘So you didn’t have any preconceptions about me as a Texan?’
‘Not really,’ I shrugged. ‘I mean there’s the accent and stuff and maybe I would have expected a cowboy hat and … I don’t know, Texans have guns, don’t they?’
‘Yup,’ Byron nodded.
I looked across, not sure how much information was contained in that ‘yup’. There was no sign of a cowboy hat. I paused.
‘So … do you have a … a gun?’ I asked.
‘Yup,’ said Byron.
I was now pretty clear on how much information was contained in that ‘yup’.
‘Right,’ I said because I preferred it to the silence.
‘So, what do you think about guns?’ asked my cool and armed host.
‘They scare me,’ I said honestly.
‘Not having one would scare me,’ came the equally honest reply. ‘Now, I have a special licence that means I can carry a concealed weapon.’
‘Really?’
‘Uh huh. Not everyone can do that. It involves a background check, a training course, lecture and firearms proficiency demonstration. It’s worth it. I figure it’s better to know what you’re doing, right?’
‘I guess so,’ I said, my pitch rising nervously.
‘I think it’s a good law. It’s a good deterrent to the criminal because he knows that somebody well trained might be carrying a weapon,’ said Byron. ‘There are restrictions. For instance, I’m not allowed to take it into a bar or anywhere that makes over 51% of its income from the sale of alcohol.’
‘That’s good,’ I said, my voice climbing a little higher still. I made a conscious effort to start lower down because I was planning a longer sentence next and wasn’t sure I could make it to the end if I kept on going up.
‘The thing is,’ I said, but my voice came out too low, I sounded like I was doing a bad Barry White impression. I started again. ‘The thing is,’ that’s better, ‘it’s not you owning a gun that scares me. It’s the fact that everyone else can get one.’
‘Well, that’s why I want to have one,’ said Byron matter-of-factly.
‘But if no one could have one, you wouldn’t need one,’ I said, trying to rationalise it for myself.
‘But the bad guys are gonna get one whether they’re allowed one or not,’ said Byron. ‘I have a wife and family and I want to be able to protect them.’
‘Yeah but—’
‘Would you like to hold my gun?’ asked Byron.
‘Um …’
‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ he prompted and however much the idea frightened me, he was right.
‘Yeah … kind of,’ I said nervously admitting it to myself.
Byron opened up a little compartment that sat between our two seats and produced a small pistol. He made a small and careful adjustment and passed the gun my way.
‘The safety’s on,’ he said.
I’d never held a gun before. I’d played with toy guns when I was a boy, copying cop shows and war films from the telly, but holding a toy gun and holding a real gun are very different things. I knew how to hold a gun but I didn’t want to feel a trigger under my finger, I didn’t want to look across my hand and down the barrel, I didn’t want to acknowledge that I had a real gun in my hand and so I picked it up between my thumb and finger and held it away from myself, like an unwilling father taking a newly filled nappy to the bin.
Byron threw me a glance. It contained the faintest hint of a snigger. Stung, I shifted the gun into my hand properly. It was heavy. The metal was cold in my palm. The sweat was cold in my palm too. The safety catch might have been on but still, I knew that in my hand I held a machine designed to kill and it felt very, very, wrong. 99% of me was scared of what I held in my hand, the other 1% was excited by it and surely that’s the scariest part of the equation. I tried to hold it below the level of the window for fear that a passing motorist might misunderstand, but of course, they wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. My fingers felt like they didn’t belong on my hand which felt like it didn’t belong on my arm which felt like it didn’t belong on my body which felt like it didn’t belong in Texas.
‘How does it feel?’ asked Byron.
‘Cold … heavy …’
‘Uh huh.’
‘… and frightening,’ I said. ‘Can I give you this back now? I’m really not comfortable.’
‘Of course,’ said Byron calmly offering his hand.
I wasn’t sure on the manners involved in passing a gun to someone. Is it like a pair of scissors? Do you pass them the handle or the barrel first? Does the barrel point at you or them? I tried to do neither, holding it out on my flat palm, allowing Byron to pick it up as he saw fit. He did and soon the gun was safely stowed away.
‘Fascinating,’ said Byron to himself as we rounded a big wide bend in the road.
We travelled a few miles in silence.
‘So, have you been to Mexico before, Dave?’ asked Byron.
‘No,’ I said.
‘From your email I figured you were the kind of guy who’d appreciate the experience,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d try and make your trip to Texas memorable.’
‘Well, it already is that,’ I said.
‘I bet most of the people you’ve met doing this didn’t lay on a trip to Mexico, did they?’ he asked.
‘No they didn’t,’ I said. ‘Most of the people I’ve met so far just … kind of … met me.’
‘And besides, I want to buy some coke,’ said Byron.
My mouth moved but no sound came out.
Slowly I took in the facts. I was in a car with a complete stranger. We were driving to Mexico. He had a gun. He wanted to buy some coke.
My mouth had another go but still nothing emerged.
I wasn’t very happy. There was something unsettling about that list of facts. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was, but I think it was probably the whole stranger-Mexico-gun-drugs thing. Aaaaaggggghhhhh! Yes, that was it!
What the hell was I doing? That doesn’t happen in real life! People don’t really carry guns and drive to Mexico to buy coke, do they? That only happens in movies, doesn’t it? The kind of movies where people get shot? I don’t want to get shot. Thoughts started swimming through my head. Too many thoughts. I suddenly realised my dad’s birthday had passed two weeks earlier and I hadn’t sent a card. Damn. Hang on, what about the gun and the coke and the … Aaaggggghhhhh.
My mouth was still moving and still there was no noise.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Byron.
‘No. No, I’m not actually,’ I said, my voice squeaking out at last. I tried to invest the words with some kind of moral indignation. I breathed deeply and filled my lungs, trying to pull my shoulders back and give myself some extra height but the car had bucket seats and whatever I did only caused my arse to slip further down, cancelling my efforts out. It’s hard to take the high ground in a sports car.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Byron, seemingly unable to fathom anything untoward about the situation.
‘What’s wrong?’ I spat. ‘What’s wrong? Well maybe I don’t want to go to Mexico to buy coke. Huh? Maybe that’s what’s wrong.’
‘We can get some Pepsi as well if you like?’
‘Wha …?’
‘I wanna buy some Coca-Cola,’ explained Byron. ‘They changed the recipe and started making it with corn syrup over here.’
‘Wha …?’
‘But in Mexico they still make it with sugar. I prefer it with sugar.’
‘So we’re going to Mexico to buy Coca-Cola?’ I asked, unwinding, calming down, giggling childishly and immediately forgetting my father’s birthday once more.
‘Yes,’ said Byron.
‘I’m sorry I thought you meant we were going to buy drugs,’ I said, my eyebrows throwing in a ‘tsk – get me’ gesture for good measure.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Byron. ‘I forgot to say we’re going to get some drugs as well.’
‘Wha …?’ I said, my head spinning immediately back into confusion.
Nightmarish images of Mexican jail cells flashed through my mind. Somewhere in the back of my brain a cruel and corrupt police officer with a Zapata moustache and stubble you could light a match on cackled insanely at the sadistic pleasure ahead.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what was in my email or what makes you think I’m up for this kind of thing, but I’m really not very happy about this whole buying drugs thing …’
‘Well, it’s perfectly legal,’ said Byron with a shrug, ‘and prescription drugs are much cheaper over the border.’
‘Prescription drugs?’
‘Yup.’
‘So we’re going to Mexico to buy Coca-Cola and prescription drugs and that’s it?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘So we’re not going to buy anything illegal?’
‘No,’ said Byron. ‘I might buy a Cuban cigar, but I’ll smoke it while we’re in Mexico so that’s OK.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘So there’s nothing illegal about this? You’re not a drug dealer?’
‘No.’
‘You own this car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Byron with a rueful shake of the head.
As my heart returned to a more regular beat I started to chuckle. I looked across at Byron. He wasn’t going to let on, but he was quite pleased with himself. The corner of his mouth twitched a little. He was funny, Byron.
A few more miles passed in silence.
‘So, you must have travelled a lot recently?’ said the law-abiding citizen at the wheel. ‘D’you get on well with folk?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I generally do. I think most people are good people.’
‘That’s a nice way to be,’ said Byron, ‘and I think you might be right, but do you really like everyone?’
‘I’ve liked every googlewhack I’ve met,’ I said, a bit too quickly.
‘Really?’ asked Byron, clearly unconvinced by my happy answer.
‘Really,’ I said unconvincingly.
‘Really?’
‘No.’
I always crumble under interrogation.
‘So, who didn’t you like?’
‘Well, Dripstone Ingles was weird. He was an 81-year-old creationist,’ I said. ‘I mean obviously we didn’t get on! They’re all loonies, aren’t they? Creationists? It’s incredible in this day and age that people hold on to that kind of view of the world and—’
I stopped. Byron wasn’t nodding along. There was no ‘uh huh’ of encouragement.
‘Just so you know, Dave,’ he said. ‘I’m a creationist.’
‘Ha ha … right,’ I said. ‘Yeah … the coke is Coca-Cola and the drugs are prescription drugs and … and … you’re not joking, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Damn. I didn’t know where to look or what to say. There was a horribly awkward pause. I was grateful when Byron finally took up the slack.
‘Don’t worry, Dave, you haven’t offended me,’ he said. ‘I have a very thick skin.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but … but …’
I was floundering, trying to find a way out of this conversation without causing offence but then I suddenly realised it didn’t matter. I didn’t have to stand on ceremony here; I already had my googlewhacks. The emails had already been sent. It wasn’t important for Byron and I to get on, there was no need for me to watch my words. What was the worst that could happen?
I mean, OK, he could abandon me in Mexico, but apart from that, what’s the worst that could happen?
Well, yes, he has a gun so, yeah, I guess the worst case scenario is pretty bad, but really … apart from that what’s the worst that could happen?
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I just can’t see how creationism can be true. Besides, what really got me with Dripstone Ingles was the lies …’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘He said that evolution contradicts the Second Law of Thermodynamics,’ I said, and prepared myself to explain as best I could why that wasn’t so.
‘Well, that’s just plain wrong,’ said Byron who didn’t need an explanation. ‘He shouldn’t have told you that. It’s not true and it doesn’t help the argument any.’
‘Right,’ I said, surprised by our ready agreement on that part of the issue.
‘But of course neither of us knows how old the world is because neither of us were there,’ said Byron, ‘and I believe the story of creation.’
‘But—’
‘Well, you weren’t there, were you?’
‘Well no, but—’
‘Well then, we’re both choosing to believe what someone else is telling us … and I look around the world and I see how beautiful it is and I think it must have been designed.’
For the rest of the day the subject of creation versus evolution was never far from our conversation. We disagreed about it all the way, but we both did it with a smile on our faces and I know that I for one I enjoyed the conversation.
It made me feel a little guilty about my meeting with Dr Gish. I wished that I’d engaged in the same kind of robust debate with him. Instead I’d tried to nod and agree and appease my way through it, allowing my feelings to fester inside and become something more malign. Don’t get me wrong, I still disagreed with him and I still loathed his (mis)representation of the facts, but I wished I’d said so at the time. I’m sure I’d have liked him more if I’d done so and I know I’d have liked me more too.
*
Laredo was a dusty, downtrodden and downbeat kind of town. It’s known as the city under seven flags because, obviously enough, it’s been governed by seven nations. Most of Texas has, in its turbulent history, been governed by Spain, France, Mexico, the short-lived independent Texas, the Confederacy and of course the United States, but Laredo was also part of the even-shorter-lived Republic of the Rio Grande. In fact Laredo was the capital city of the country, which existed for less than a year in 1839/40.
I don’t know the ins and outs of setting up a country – although for tax reasons I might look into it – but less than a year does seem like a particularly poor showing. I doubt you could get much country-style stuff done in that time. It’s not just flags that need designing; there are uniforms, stamps, currency, passports and national anthems to think of. I bet someone ended up with a warehouse full of sheet music they couldn’t sell. But I digress.
The border between Mexico and Texas has been the subject of much dispute over the years but eventually they decided that nature had provided the obvious boundary in the form of the Rio Grande and so, Laredo being on the north bank of the river, it ended up being part of Texas. The Laredo Mexicans who wanted to be in Mexico immediately moved to the south bank and set up a new town, cunningly named Nuevo Laredo, and these days the bridge that joins the two is the busiest crossing on the whole frontier.
It was across this bridge that Byron and I walked, paying a mere 25 cents each to stroll unimpeded into a foreign country. No one examined our passports; we just paid the money and walked through the turnstile.
We spent a couple of hours walking round Nuevo Laredo but I didn’t feel like I was getting an authentic Mexican experience. Both Laredos, old and Nuevo, are shaped by their relationship with each other. The two economies are vastly different which means most things can be bought cheaper on the Mexican side. Seeing as getting there involves only a three-minute stroll and a 25-cent door-charge it must be pretty difficult setting up a competitive business on the American side. Of course the other side of that coin means that on the other side of the river, Nuevo Laredo is a hustling bustling marketplace, a cacophony of noise with hundreds of small shops competing to sell you knock-off goods and tacky souvenirs for the best price they can. Cheap plastic goods compete for window space with home made Mexican piñatas representing icons of American (and now world) culture: Homer Simpson, Bugs Bunny, Spiderman.
Laredo seemed to exist purely as the gateway to Nuevo Laredo and Nuevo Laredo seemed to exist purely to take money from tourists. I guess I had visited Mexico but only in the same way that someone who does a booze-cruise to a Calais wine superstore has visited France. I’d crossed the border but seen nothing of the country.
We walked back over the bridge. Byron had a crate full of sugary Coca-Cola, a carrier bag full of cheap pharmaceutical goods and lungs full of Cuban cigar smoke. I had an ‘I’ve Been To Mexico’ fridge magnet to add to my collection.
Walking through the turnstile cost us a full 50 cents each this way and, unsurprisingly, our passports were scrutinised this time.
The crate of coke was heavy and quite awkward for one man to carry so we walked through the streets of Laredo with it suspended between us. As we approached the car park we found our path blocked by an incredibly large woman who in turn found her progress blocked by two men and a crate of Coke. I guess the two units were about as wide as each other and a little wider than the sidewalk. We shuffled one way and then the other a couple of times before one of us realised that Byron and I had the advantage of being able to split up and let her pass through the middle.
‘Did you see her T-shirt?’ I asked, taking half of the crate back.
‘No,’ said Byron.
‘It said, “God made the Big Bang!”’ I said. ‘Maybe that’s the answer to our creation/evolution argument?’
‘But maybe it isn’t,’ said Byron, committing us to another 300-mile long debate on the topic.
*
In fairness, while the subject of creationism was never far away we did talk about other things. Byron must be one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met. He’s full of entrepreneurial spirit, he’s an authentic dotcom millionaire (on paper at least) and he seems to have achieved this in a wholly admirable fashion.
His company, pagewise.com, has, among other things posted the entire 1911 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica online. There are two reasons for choosing this particular edition.
The first reason is that it’s widely considered to be the best encyclopaedia ever written. It’s known as the ‘scholar’s edition’ because of its ridiculously star-studded list of contributors. Among the 1500 authors there were 47 Members of Parliament while various world-renowned experts wrote about their specialist subjects. It’s hard to argue with an encyclopaedia that has Henry Ford writing the entry on Mass Production while the subject of Anarchism is ably defined by Prince Peter Kropotkin, a famous Russian anarchist of the day.
The second reason is that it’s out of copyright.
Even so, putting 44,000,000 words on the internet isn’t easy or cheap and yet it’s there, online as a free service to anyone who cares to visit.
Essentially the company makes money by creating websites that contain genuinely interesting information that you can’t find elsewhere online, which means they’ll get a lot of visitors, which in turn means they can sell advertising space. But there are clearly far more tawdry ways to attract people to your website and the evangelical zeal that appeared in Byron’s eyes when he talked about the 1911 Encyclopaedia Britannica showed me that he was genuinely passionate about the educational content of the project.
Byron was a wonderfully entertaining raconteur with a host of absorbing anecdotes and I found it impossible to second guess him on almost any subject, such were the apparent contradictions.
He gleefully described a day spent as an extra on the movie Miss Congeniality …
(‘I spent the whole day sitting next to Candice Bergen and William Shatner.’
‘Did he? I expect she was furious.’
‘What?’
‘If William sha … oh never mind.’)
… but he also proudly declared, ‘I don’t own a television machine.’
He once ran for office and yet he doesn’t vote.
He’s met every US president that’s served in his lifetime, which is quite a thing in itself, but the manner in which it’s been achieved only makes it even more impressive. He hasn’t used his business contacts and influence; instead the stories mostly seemed to involve him having a brass neck and pretending to be a waiter. (Byron that is, not the president concerned.)
Spending time with Byron wasn’t exactly relaxing. The conversation was never throwaway; instead he constantly challenged me to think about my beliefs and consider my words and he expected the same kind of challenge from me. At the end of the day I felt as though my brain had been to the gym. But I enjoyed the workout.
In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed disagreeing with someone quite that much. His religious convictions (and my lack of them) mean that he’s convinced I’m going to Hell and yet I really liked him. And I think he liked me too.
Byron dropped me off at the hotel, I waved him off and walked back up to my room exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. I boiled the kettle even though I had no intention of standing up again once I’d sat down on the bed.
I lay back and looked at the ceiling, taking in patterns that weren’t really there. I suddenly realised that that was about the longest I’d gone without thinking about googlewhacks all year.
The instant that thought hit me, I was thinking about them again. Byron had delivered me two beauties that morning, the emails had been sent, all I had to do was wait for the replies. Well surely, I figured, a 600-mile round trip to Mexico was wait enough. My exhaustion disappeared. I sprang into action.
Like most of the American hotels I’d stayed in there was an in-room internet service using an infrared keyboard and the TV set. It was a bit slow and clunky and the keyboard was a bit unreliable, but it only cost $10 for 24 hours and my morning’s use meant it had already been added on to my bill for the day. It was time to check my mail.
I opened up the TV cabinet, propped myself up on the edge of the bed and got online. The hotel was probably full of scenes like this: lone men crouching over unfamiliar keyboards, awkwardly negotiating their way around the net. Businessmen checking their stocks and shares, travelling sales reps emailing home, bored tourists killing time. But I wasn’t one of those people. I was a hunter. I’d set my traps this morning and now I was returning to see if Propolis Dhow or Dubitable Quaalude had taken the bait.
I knew that everything rested on this. I needed at least one of these two to deliver or it was all over. But I was confident; failure didn’t even cross my mind. Why would it? These ’whacks had come from Byron, the googlewhacking Fonz; how could they fail to come good?
With supreme confidence I clicked into mail2web.com and scrolled through the list of names in my inbox. My buoyant mood didn’t last long. I felt like I’d taken a punch to the gut. My email to Propolis Dhow had bounced. Suddenly the frailty of the project was all too apparent. Every chain of ’whacks was no more than a fragile house of cards, threatening to collapse at any time. What about Dubitable Quaalude? Where was it? Feverishly my eyes roamed up and down the screen desperately seeking a missive from what was now my last hope.
‘Yes!’ I yelled and punched the air in delight. It was there after all. There, sitting in my inbox, almost lost, swamped by a morass of junk email adverts, the name ‘Julia Roberts’, the subject, ‘Googlewhacking’. ‘Yes!’
Surely this could mean only one of two things:
Whichever way I looked at it, it was going to be a result.
I clicked on the link and the email opened up before me and, this being the real world, it was from Julia Roberts: quilter.
My blood ran cold. My body turned numb. My eyes lost focus. My hearing turned muddy. There was a third option I hadn’t considered:
From: Julia Roberts
To: Dave Gorman
Subject: Googlewhacking.
When will you creeps leave me alone? I’m putting a block on this address so your emails won’t reach me anymore. I’m taking my website down. It’s not worth it. Eat shit you moron. I hope you die.
And that was it. The room started spinning. Propolis Dhow had delivered a body blow, but now Dubitable Quaalude had followed through with a perfect uppercut. I was floored, flat on my back, out for the count. Dead. Who did she think I was? What did she think I’d done? What kind of hellish behaviour went on in the world of quilting to inspire such anger? What had I done? What could I do? It was over. My googlewhack adventure was over. For good.
There was nowhere else to go. Rarebit Nutters had found me two googlewhacks, setting me off on two chains. One chain took me to Bushranger Doublespeak, Bibliophilic Sandwiched, Dripstone Ingles and then nothing. The other chain had taken me to Pomegranate Filibusters via Hippocampi Wallpaper, Verandahs Plectrums and Psychosomatic Rambunctiousness but now, again, nothing. And that was it.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was pale. I’m normally pale; I have skin the colour of an aspirin but now I looked transparent. Nothing made sense any more. What was I doing? Why was I here? 4000 miles from home and for what? What had I done with January?
Nothing made sense any more. Had it ever made sense? What was the point? What was the point? I’d spent a month running. Running after googlewhacks or running away from life? I was angry. I was upset. I was embarrassed. I was confused. I couldn’t feel my fingers or my toes. I felt like all of my mass had pulled itself into my gut, concentrated itself into the size of a fist, deep in my belly. Every ounce of flesh and blood and phlegm and bile and shame and rage and fire, knotting itself up into a ball then swelling, welling up inside of me and I tried to scream but no sound emerged, just tears, tears, I couldn’t stop the tears. I fell back on to the bed and gave into the tears, let them come, let them fall. Clutching a cheap pillow to my chest I sobbed, each sob making me feel more pathetic but what else did I deserve? I was a pathetic, wretched waste of time and space.
I turned myself inside out. Then I sobbed some more …
*
… until eventually there was no more sobbing to be done.
I needed to pull myself together. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water in my face. I stared at myself, at my red puffy eyes and I hated what I saw. I hated who I was. I hated myself. I was a liar.
My beard made me so.
I’d grown that beard to tell the world I was putting my life of youthful folly behind me. But it wasn’t behind me, was it? Here I was in a hotel in Austin, Texas having spent weeks trying to meet ten googlewhacks in a row. Not only was I still doing stupid things, I was failing at them. Not only was I still living a life of youthful folly, but I’d got worse at it!
I’d grown that beard to tell the world I was going to write a novel. But there was no novel, was there? I hadn’t written one pissy word. I hadn’t just failed to write a novel, I’d failed to realise that there was no novel in me. It was time for me to face the facts. I had to face my demons.
So, this is who I really am, I thought. Novelist? Pah! That’s nothing more than an act of vanity on my part; a preposterous idea above my station. I’m no more a novelist than I am an astronaut. Face up to yourself, Gorman, be who you really are. You’ve run away from it for long enough but now there’s nowhere else to run, it’s time to turn and face the music. It’s time to give up and give in. The beard represents the lies, shave it off and be true to yourself; be the person you’re clearly meant to be: a young idiot. Stop being a bearded liar and become a bare-faced teller of truths.
I strode out of the hotel into the cool, early evening air, across the road and into a pharmacy. I bought myself a pack of disposable razors and some shaving gel and returned full of determination.
In the bathroom I lathered up my lying chinny chin chin and prepared to make an honest face of it. I’d shave myself honest and then I’d ring Jake and confess. I’d tell him there wasn’t a novel, that I’m not a novelist and I’d find a way of giving him back the money.
I lifted the razor to my cheek. I held it there steady, the blade reaching for the first contact. My hand began to shake. Something was stopping me. The flimsy plastic felt heavy, like lead in my hand. Why so heavy? I knew I was holding the razor at my cheek but in the mirror I could see myself holding Byron’s pistol, the barrel resting at my temple, my finger caressing the trigger. I was scared and excited and scared of my excitement and … I shut my eyes, relaxed my fingers and let go.
The razor clattered into the basin and I dropped my head into my hands. I just couldn’t do it. I knew it had to go, but I wasn’t ready to let it go.
It’s a game, Dave. That’s what I told myself.
It has to go. But of course you can’t just shave it off. Human nature means you have to try leaving different patterns and shapes first. This is your opportunity to try out different looks. If you’ve ever been curious about how the Hitler toothbrush-tache would sit on your top lip, or how a big gay-biker-handlebar-mo would suit, now is your chance to find out. It’s a game. That’s all.
But it needs careful thought. You can’t try out everything you might like because some combinations cancel others out. For instance, you can go from gay-biker to Hitler but in doing so, you forsake the chance to try the Abe Lincoln chinstrap underbeard.
Back in the bedroom I picked up the notepad and pencil from beside the phone. This project required a little planning. In the bathroom I started sketching faces, mapping out journeys from full beard to clean-shaven, a facial topiary flow-chart calculating the most scenic route from A to B.
I don’t know how long I spent doing this. What I do know is that I eventually found myself staring at maybe 30 differently bearded, badly drawn, cartoon faces staring back at me. What was I doing? I was manic and I needed to get a grip. Somewhere deep inside of me I summoned the strength I needed. I breathed deeply. I needed to think. I needed to analyse. I needed to be calm.
I sat on the bed and took some more deep breaths. Again. And again. Think. I tried to separate my emotions – breathe – tried to work out how I really felt.
There were two sides to this. I was upset because I’d failed, because it was all over. I’d lost myself in the adventure of it all. I’d allowed this … this thing to consume me, to take over my life. But in failing I was being forced to confront the bigger situation. My failure on a grander scale: my failure to grow up. I’d let so many people down. I’d let myself down. And now it was time to deal with it.
But slowly. I needed to look after myself. There were two strands to my disappointment and I would deal with them one at a time.
First, I would accept that the journey was over. The adventure had come to an end and I needed to recognise that fact. I would mourn its loss. I’d go out tonight and see it off with a drink, commiserate, drown my sorrows, whatever it took to get it out of my system.
The bigger picture could wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow I could shave my beard, call Jake and make my confessions. Tonight I would face myself. Tomorrow I would face the world.
I emptied my pockets of everything but my wallet – no need for a Mexican fridge magnet – now and headed for the door. I needed a drink.
On the advice of the hotel receptionist I headed for 6th Street. This was supposed to be the centre of Austin’s nightlife, the best place for a drink. She wasn’t wrong.
I turned the corner and was stunned to find a row of old Victorian brick buildings, a stark contrast to the high-rise blocks that dominated the rest of this modern city. Small signs explained the history of each building, which of Austin’s forefathers had built it and what business he pursued there, but now they were all bars and each one seemed to be hosting some form of live music. Walking down the street past the open doorways was like spinning the dial on a radio, hearing split second snatches of different styles of music before the next doorway and the next tune grasped for a foothold in your consciousness.
Neon lights hung in the windows, hordes of young revellers filled the street walking boozily from bar to bar. It was perfect. No one would notice me quietly drowning my sorrows amongst all of this.
I strode nonchalantly towards the first doorway without a queue.
‘ID?’ asked the doorman.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Where’s your ID?’ he said in patient tones.
Not this again. I looked up at the doorman with desperation in my eyes. He was a big man, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail that fell back over his muscular shoulders. He had forgiving eyes.
‘Look, I don’t have any ID on me,’ I said, attempting to reason with him. ‘I’m English. We don’t really need ID at home. Look at my face. Look at my beard. I’m 31. I couldn’t grow a beard like this when I was 21. I appeal to you to use your common sense. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. All I want is a quiet drink to go with it.’
What could be more reasonable than that?
‘You need picture ID,’ he said, patient still.
‘Look, earlier on today I walked into Mexico without any ID. That’s a country!’
‘Well, this is a bar, and you need picture ID.’
‘Does your little brother work at Little Brothers in Columbus?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘Never mind,’ I said, my hackles rising. ‘You’re not going to let me in, are you?’
‘Not without ID, no.’
‘Fine.’ I turned on my heel. ‘I’ll take my custom elsewhere then, shall I? I’ll spend my dollars somewhere I am wanted, thank you very much.’
I turned and strode purposefully across the road to the bar opposite. Confidence was the key.
‘ID?’
I was turned away from at least five bars before I finally conceded the point. Pride didn’t come into it, I needed to get drunk and so I needed to get my passport. It was sitting on the bedside table back at the hotel in a small bag with a fridge magnet. I left the pedestrianised 6th Street, hailed a cab and with fire in my eyes headed back to the hotel where I ordered the cab to wait.
Ten minutes later I was getting drunk on 6th Street. But I wasn’t quietly drowning my sorrows. Now I was drowning them angrily. Now I was on a mission. I wanted to obliterate the day. How could a day start so right but turn so wrong?
‘Bourbon? Sure. Make it a large one. Aaah. Another, please. Cheers.’
ID? The arrogant bastards! I’d show them I was man enough to drink in their bars.
There was a band on stage knocking out solid cover versions of classic soul songs. A poster behind the bar told me they were called Joe Valentine and The Imperials featuring Lynn, which was quite a lot of names considering they were only a three-piece band. Joe Valentine was running the show, Lynn was sharing vocal duties so presumably the guy on drums was The Imperials.
Lynn was belting out a gutsy rendition of the Aretha Franklin classic, ‘Respect’. I was singing along. My pores were opening up to let some of the alcohol out and in the process some of the lyrics got in under my skin. Except the song was too fast and only the word ‘respect’ seeped in. Respect. That’s all it needed. ID? The arrogant bastards! I’d show them I was man enough to drink in their bars.
The band took a break. As they left the stage I gave The Imperials a big thumbs up and he returned the gesture. I wanted more music. I wanted more bourbon. I wanted more. I wanted Joe Valentine and The Imperials featuring oblivion. I wanted oblivion. It was time to move on.
‘Hey, dude,’ called out Al, the barman.
I didn’t know his name but he looked like an Al.
‘Yeah?’
‘You left this …’
‘What’s that?’
He was holding out my passport.
‘Thanks, man,’ I said. ‘You don’t know how much trouble I’d be in without that.’
I didn’t know how much trouble I was heading for with it.
I moved on. Bar one. Bar two. Bar three. More? I can’t remember. All? Bar none.
I’m swaggering. I’m staggering. I’m sniffing out another experience. I’m alive. I pause in every doorway. Have I already been here? How does it look, sound, smell? This place is new to me. I haven’t been here yet. It’s bright for a bar. Fluorescent lights. Hang on. Of course. It’s not a bar. It’s a tattoo parlour, no wonder I haven’t been here, no wonder ... I wonder …
‘Are you interested?’ asks a voice. He’s leaning on the counter. I can’t focus on anything but his ears. He has piercings in his ears you could pass two fingers through.
‘It makes my skin crawl,’ I shudder.
‘So you’re not interested?’
Earlier that day I’d wanted to hold the gun.
‘Well … I’m interested.’
‘Come upstairs,’ he says and I follow him up.
The walls are white, the light is bright and the air smells clean. One wall is covered in pictures, each one a potential tattoo. There are hearts and Harleys and dragons and flames and anchors (they actually have anchors!) and Vikings and Chinese letters and Celtic bands and what am I doing here? I don’t belong.
‘So, are you interested?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, meaning no. ‘I’m interested.’
‘ID?’
Idea.
‘ID,’ I say, nodding.
‘No. You need ID,’ says holey ears.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I want ID.’
‘You need ID.’
‘I’ve got ID,’ I say, my passport hitting the counter. ‘I want ID. Do you have a driver’s licence?’
‘Hey!’ he calls out through a secret doorway. ‘You got a driver’s licence?’
‘Yeah,’ comes a disembodied response.
‘I want one. A tattoo,’ I say, ‘of a driver’s licence. His driver’s licence,’ I point through the door, ‘these details,’ I point at my passport, ‘and this face,’ I point at my face.
‘This sounds cool,’ says the voice emerging from the back room. He’s big, he has a goatee beard, a beanie hat and a lot of tattoos. ‘It’s more expensive than getting something off the wall,’ he says, indicating the wall of available tattoos, ‘but it’s more off the wall too. It’s cool.’
‘You can do it?’
‘Yeah.’
ID? The arrogant bastards! I’ll show them I’m man enough to drink in their bars.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say.
‘Cool,’ they say together.
I’m sitting in a chair. A dentist’s chair. I hate the dentist. The sound of the drill makes me feel feint.
Buzzuzzuzzuzzuzzuzz.
So does the sound of the needle.
Why am I doing this? I don’t know. I feel a prick. I look away and grit my teeth and feel a thousand pricks, buzzing, buzzuzzuzzuzzing away, scratching, stabbing, penetrating, piercing, permanently painting under my skin, my ID under my skin, I’ve got me, under my skin, I’m doing it, with a skin full of drink and a skin full of ink, I’m doing it.
ID? The arrogant bastards! I’m showing them I’m man enough to drink in their bars.