Googlewhackless |
adjective: being without any googlewhacks. |
Gorman |
noun: me. |
I screwed my eyes up tight. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe when I opened them again my tattoo would be gone. I opened my eyes but no, it was still there.
It was real. For the rest of my life my left arm would carry these marks, a permanent reminder of that night in Austin. The madness of the night before made me shudder. Was this how Dr Bruce Banner felt the morning after a night of Incredible Hulking? Did Dr Jekyll ever lose control and wake up the next day to discover a tattoo? Did Hyde ever ink his hide?
And of all the tattoos to get, I end up with a State of Texas Driver’s License. A legal document. With small print. Yes, my tattoo had small print. Looking down across my own shoulder the tattoo was upside down. I tried to look at it in the mirror but it was back to front. Seeing myself, bare-chested in the mirror triggered a painful memory from last night:
I’m standing in the street. My shirt clutched in my sweaty palms and I’m screaming. Screaming at bouncers, screaming at anyone who’ll listen.
‘I’ve got my ID now! You won’t turn me away next time! I’ve got my driver’s licence now! Davey’s got some picture ID!’
People stop and stare. Gangs of college students point and laugh. There are wisecracks at my expense. I can only hear the laughter. But I’m defiant.
‘What are you staring at? Huh? Mr Cap-on-backwards? Where’s your ID, huh? I’ve got mine.’
More laughter.
A policeman. Two. Politely, calmly taking me to one side. Some of the crowd follow but they get shooed away. This is between the cops and me. They make it very clear to me. I don’t want a night in the cells, so I put my shirt back on and start walking back to the hotel.
Ow. The memory hurt. Alone in my hotel room I found myself blushing.
Contorting my neck and twisting my arm I manage to take in the details. The tattoo was about the size of a credit card. In the top left corner sat a Texan flag. In bright red lettering (red with ink and blood) the word ‘TEXAS’ and then in the top right, a Lone Star. Of course. Why have a plain old ordinary left arm when you could have the Lone Star on it? Below that, in blue ink, the words, ‘DRIVER LICENSE’. Below that: ‘DOB: 03-02-71’.
Hang on. That’s not even my birthday! That’s my birthday if you’re American. I’m not and in spite of the fact that it has a Texas driver’s licence, neither is my left arm. I can’t read that without thinking it says 3 February. I was born on 2 March. It will never look right to my English eyes.
Below that: ‘SEX: M.’ At least they got that right. Below that: ‘GORMAN, DAVID’ and an address; somewhere on 6th Street, Austin, maybe it was a bar, maybe it was the tattoo parlour, I didn’t remember.
To the right of all this; the ‘photo’. Oh my God. A passport-photo-sized image of a face. It looked nothing like me. Except it had a beard. A bright red beard.
I suddenly realised I was trapped in my beard for the rest of my life. If I shaved my beard off I might as well have a stranger’s face tattooed on my arm. The birthday was wrong, the face was wrong; only the name was mine. (But then, I’d met plenty of other Dave Gormans, it could be any of theirs too.) If I was clean-shaven it would look like I had someone else’s face tattooed on my arm and that would be even harder to explain away. It was me. But it was only me if I had a red beard.
I walked through to the bathroom and there sitting in the basin where I’d dropped it the night before, was the razor. Another painful memory came flooding into my head.
The tattoo parlour. I’m sitting in the chair. The tattooist is shaving my arm. He’s an artist cleaning his canvas, preparing to go to work. He wipes my arm down with some sterilising solution. It feels cool on my skin. He’s wearing rubber gloves. He places the specially created transfer on to my hairless skin, presses it down and peels it off like the fake tattoos we used to get in bubblegum wrappers when I was a kid. A feint purple line marks out the shape: a template for him to follow. If only that was it. If only it was that simple.
He produces the needle. For all the world it looks like a tiny pneumatic drill, preparing to shatter my tarmac skin. I look away.
‘Ow.’ I wince.
Only when he laughs do I realise the needle hasn’t touched me yet.
I’d already reasoned my way through this yesterday:
Dave Gorman the bearded novelist didn’t exist. I didn’t deserve to be taken seriously. Be the person you’re clearly meant to be, I’d told myself, shave off the beard, admit who you are, be honest with the world and be that idiot.
I’d had a two-part plan:
Well, Part One had gone a bit awry. Part One had gone so wrong that I’d completely scuppered Part Two. I couldn’t shave off the beard now. I was trapped in it forever.
Unless … unless … what if I amputated my left arm?
Stop it, Gorman, you’re going mad. Going? Pah. Gone.
What was I going to do next? How could I tell people about this? I didn’t know the answers. Without knowing what to do next I decided to carry on as normal and work out my next move over breakfast. I got dressed, concealing my tattoo – it felt like sunburn – and then headed downstairs.
Four or five doors down the landing the tiny cleaning lady was pushing her cart full of shampoo refills down the corridor. It was bigger than she was.
‘You can clean my room now if you like,’ I said with my best singsong voice and smile.
The look in her eyes was one of abject terror. A short while ago she’d walked into my room to find me a desperate, manic, trouserless loon. Now I appeared to be calm and collected. The only clue that I was the same man was the carpet burn on my forehead. Maybe she was wary of entering my room, frightened that she’d be the one to find the body.
Downstairs I opened the door to find ten or twelve people politely working round each other at the self-service breakfast counter. There were four urns dispensing different brands of coffee, a selection of muffins, three toasters and my favourite item: a waffle iron. I’d never seen one of these contraptions before but it was fascinating to watch. You poured a pre-prepared batter mix into what looked like a giant sandwich toaster and closed the lid. Two minutes later the machine beeped and you had a perfectly fried piece of egg, fat and sugar latticework. Breakfast: the most important meal of the day.
The waffle iron was the most popular part of the breakfast production line and so inevitably the queue bottlenecked around it, forcing people who didn’t really want to acknowledge each other into conversations. Platitudes floated around among the ‘please’s, ‘thank you’s and ‘excuse me’s, but when I tried to join in I met silence.
‘Morning,’ I said to the cheap suit in front of me.
He turned his back. The scene was watched by a young Mom with two toddlers in her skirts. I met her gaze and raised my eyebrows in a ‘did-you-see-that?’ way, expecting her to return the look but instead she turned away too, pulling her charges protectively towards her as she did so. Her daughter, maybe six or seven years of age, turned to look at me, but a maternal hand scooped round the back of her head and turned it away from me in an instant.
What was it about me, about my aura, that offended these people so? What was it about my appearance that made me so unacceptable? They couldn’t possibly know about last night. They didn’t know of my shame. Maybe it was just the look in my eyes. Whatever it was, I felt like I’d stepped into some 1950s movie, set in small-town America and I was cast as the young rebel. The one who rides into town on his motorbike, corrupting the locals with – shock horror – rock ’n’ roll.
I knew there and then that I had to leave Austin. I put down my plate, picked up a blueberry muffin, turned on my heels and left. I returned to my room – it was still unserviced – threw what belongings I had with me into my backpack and prepared to check out. But where was I going to go? I knew I couldn’t stay in Austin, but could I really go home?
Suddenly it came to me. I’d made some new friends on my recent travels but they were all part of my googlewhacking, they were part of the problem. There was only one old friend I’d seen all year. Los Angeles was a couple of hours behind but it was late enough now, Julie would understand. I picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Julie, it’s Dave—’ I stopped because I didn’t know what else to say.
‘Hey Dave,’ said Julie brightly, ‘you got any news from your top-secret meeting yet?’
‘Erm … no.’
There was an awkward pause. I wanted to tell her everything but I didn’t know how to start.
‘Dave, are you OK?’ asked Julie, concern entering her voice.
‘Yeah,’ I bluffed.
‘You don’t sound good, Dave,’ it was clearly a bad bluff. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘No.’ My voice cracked.
‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know, Julie. Everything’s gone wrong. Life’s just turned to shit.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been googlewhacking,’ I gabbled. ‘I’ve been trying to get ten in a row. I’ve failed. It’s shit. I’m shit. I went out last night and … I’ve got to wear this beard for the rest of my life, Julie. I’ve done some really stupid things. I’m in trouble. I’ve spent Jake’s money. I haven’t written anything … it’s all gone wrong.’
I was speaking too fast to be understood, especially for poor Julie who knew nothing about (a) googlewhacking, (b) Jake or (c) my publishing contract.
‘Dave—’ she tried to cut in.
‘I’ve gone too far this time, Julie,’ I blurted. ‘Don’t you see? It’s out of control, Julie. I’m out of control. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what to do next.’
‘Dave, listen,’ she snapped, her voice the telephonic equivalent of a slap across the cheek. ‘Tell me where you are?’
‘Austin.’
‘Austin? As in Austin, Texas?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Do you want me to come to Austin or do you want to come to LA?’
‘What?’
‘OK. Go to the airport. Fly to LA. Let me know what time you land. I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. Nothing. Do it.’
*
The cab to the airport cost me $25. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. It always takes me a couple of extra seconds to select the right notes in America as they’re all the same colour and size, but in this confused state of mind I was slower than normal. Adding to my confusion were other scraps of unfamiliar paper that were getting in the way. They fell out on to the back seat of the cab and with too much going on in my head I didn’t think to pick them up.
‘Hey, take your trash with you, mister,’ said the driver.
‘Sorry,’ I said, reaching back in and picking up the scraps.
I was about to drop them in a bin when curiosity got the better of me. I’m glad it did because the first piece of paper had on it neatly typed instructions on caring for my tattoo. I made a mental note to look out for an ointment called ‘A + D’.
The other scrap of paper was also related to my tattoo; it was a receipt. Take that fact in for a moment, why don’t you? You’re reading a book written by the kind of man who asks a tattoo parlour for a receipt! What was I thinking? That I might want to take it back?
The receipt’s existence was damning enough to my sense of self-respect but it contained two pieces of information that really put the final nails in the coffin. The first was the price, the second was the name of the tattooist. Not only had I paid $190 to have this abomination on my arm (ow) but I’d given this money to a man named Boo Boo!
Boo Boo for crying out loud! Not even Yogi! Would anyone in their right mind entrust their skin to a man called Boo Boo?
No, but someone who was out of it might.
I didn’t buy a fridge magnet from Austin. I already had a souvenir from this city. One that would be with me forever.
*
As I stepped off the plane into the blazing heat of Los Angeles I felt hollow. It’s difficult to explain the almost complete lack of sensation I was experiencing because it was precisely that: a lack of sensation. I felt like I’d experienced an internal power cut. My emergency generator had kicked in, but it only had enough power to keep the bare essentials going, it couldn’t cope with any of the body’s more complex systems. I had to concentrate so hard just to walk and talk and even breathe that there was no chance of me exhibiting anything as draining as thought or emotion. I was numb.
Julie was in the arrival’s lounge and came racing over to greet me with a big hug, inadvertently squeezing the tender tattoo and making me wince slightly. I didn’t tell her about the tattoo. I couldn’t. I felt such an idiot.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, but it was just noise, my words meant nothing.
‘You are so not fine,’ said Julie resting her palm on my cheek. ‘You’re not well. Come on, let’s go.’
The journey passed in a haze. As did the hours that followed. As did the rest of the day and beyond. I don’t know how long I was in this zombie-like state because I wasn’t really aware of the passage of time. I can remember fragments and nothing more.
I can remember sitting on the sofa and being confused because I didn’t recognise the clothes I was wearing.
‘Dan’s away filming,’ said Julie. ‘I lent you some of his stuff because I’m washing all yours. Don’t you remember?’
I can remember soup. And a bath. And sleep. Lots of sleep. And every now and then Julie asking me what was wrong.
‘Do you want me to ring anyone?’ asked Julie. ‘Does anyone back home know where you are?’
‘No.’
‘What’s happened, Dave?’ she asked. ‘I want to help.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m OK.’
I can remember sitting on the sofa, watching a video and eating pizza, but I couldn’t taste the pizza and the film was a nothingness, just pretty colours moving around in front of my eyes.
‘What did you think?’ asked Julie.
‘What?’
‘Of the film?’
‘Film?’
And then one morning I ate a strawberry and it was amazing to me because it tasted like a strawberry and suddenly I remembered what it was like to taste things and smell things and hear things and see things and touch things and all of a sudden I wanted to explain and I wanted to talk about it and it all came flooding out of me right there and then in the kitchen.
Julie sat in stunned silence as I recounted my travels. I told her how it began and how it got to this point. I tore off some pieces of kitchen paper and scrawled a diagram explaining the connections between the various googlewhacks and how all the chains had broken down and then … and then obviously I had done the same.
‘I’ve been trying to get ten in a row,’ I explained. ‘I don’t really understand how it became important, it just did. But I couldn’t get more than five in a row. There are too many dead-ends. Look at that …’ I slid the paper towards Julie ‘… four-in-a-row, five-in-a-row, it’s useless.’
‘There’s a lot to take in here, Dave,’ she said, a look of utter disbelief playing across her face. ‘So when you came to Los Angeles and told me you were meeting a writer and an actress you were actually meeting a googlewhack?’
‘No. Not really,’ I struggled for the words, ‘I mean … yes. I was meeting Psychosomatic Rambunctiousness,’ I said, ‘but she is a writer and she has just appeared in a movie. I wasn’t lying to you, Julie. I just wasn’t telling you the whole truth.’
‘So instead of writing a novel you’ve travelled the world … googlewhacking… and all you’ve got to show for it is a chain of four and another of five?’ said Julie, her voice growing less concerned and more appalled with every syllable. ‘That’s what you’re telling me?’
‘And another chain of five,’ I said defensively.
Even though I knew I’d let the whole googlewhacking thing get out of hand, hearing the scorn creeping into Julie’s voice made me feel protective towards it. Yes, it had been madness, but it was my madness. I tore off another piece of paper and quickly scrawled another diagram explaining my first foolish five-in-a-row foray into the googlewhacking world.
‘You see,’ I said, ‘I just can’t get more than five.’
‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Julie, ‘the world’s largest publisher has given you a contract to write a novel and you haven’t written anything and this is the reason?’
‘Well yeah, but the thing is…’
‘Because you were trying to get ten googlewhacks in a row?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Dave, this doesn’t make sense… googlewhacking is supposed to be a distraction, a half hour’s worth of wordplay to while away a slow day in the office, not … not…’ Julie picked up the pieces of kitchen paper with disdain, ‘not this.’
‘I know, but…’ I protested.
‘No,’ said Julie, determined to say her piece, ‘this isn’t a real game. There are no rules, Dave, you’ve invented these rules…’
‘It wasn’t me, Julie,’ I pleaded, ‘it was David Gorman.’
‘Listen to yourself,’ said Julie with fire in her eyes. ‘You are David Gorman. You invented these rules…’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It was David Gorman. Not me. He challenged me. Meet ten googlewhacks in a row. Find no more myself. Everyone I meet can find me two more…’
‘In which case,’ yelled Julie, ‘why has this one only found you one?’
There was silence. Had I heard Julie correctly? Which one? If I had… if there was… then there was still hope for the adventure. Our eyes were locked across the kitchen counter but I broke free of Julie’s gaze. My eyes darted to the counter where Julie’s hand rested still pointing at my badly rendered diagram. She whisked her hand away as if that would somehow make the facts disappear too but it was too late. It was there. It was obvious.
It was Dork Turnspit.
Marcus – had only found me one googlewhack. Of course! He’d found Unconstructive Superegos! He’d led me to David Gorman and it was only then that the rules were established. Of course I hadn’t asked Marcus for a second ’whack – the two ’whack rule hadn’t existed at the time.
I looked back up at Julie. She looked at me. We both knew what this meant.
‘No!’ she shouted at me.
‘Yes!’ I shouted back. ‘The game is still alive. Marcus owes me one more googlewhack. Don’t you see, Julie, this is my chance—’
‘Your chance for what?’
‘Dignity!’ I cried. ‘Right now there’s no dignity in this situation. I’ve screwed up the novel, I’ve lost the game, I’ve … I’ve …’
‘What?’
I still hadn’t told Julie about my tattoo. No one knew about that and I was determined to keep it that way. That was between me and Boo Boo.
‘I’ve gone too far, Julie,’ I said. ‘But what’s the point in turning back now? If I go home and tell people what I’ve done now, I’ll have nothing to show for it but a story of failure. Meeting another googlewhack isn’t going to make what I’ve done any more stupid; it’s too late for that. But if I can do this … if I can get ten in a row, I’ll be a winner. I’ll have done something. I’ve still got time; there’s a month left. What choice do I have?’
Before Julie could offer me any choices I raced out of the kitchen and into the study. I went to work and within a few minutes I was back at WomenAndDogsUK.co.uk and looking once again at Marcus’s email address.
From: Dave Gorman
To: Marcus
Subject: Whack my google one more time.
Marcus,
I need a really big favour from you. I need you to find me another googlewhack and I need it as soon as possible. Please Marcus, it’s really important.
I needed him to do this for me. What could I offer by way of encouragement? Ah ha!
I’m away from home right now but I have found a really great photo of a woman and a dog. When I get back to the UK I’ll stick it in the post.
Please remember the googlewhack, asap,
Dave
‘Julie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do any of your neighbours have dogs?’
‘Uh. Yeah.’
‘Great. I’ll just get my camera.’
*
The next morning I checked my emails:
From: Marcus
To: Dave
Subject: Hydroids Souvlaki.
Hi Dave,
Howzat?
Marcus
‘Zat’ was absolutely perfect. I googled the pair and whack, there it was all present and correct. Two words, one hit and every googlewhacking rule obeyed.
‘Wicked!’ I whispered. I’d never known my accent wander that far before.
I tentatively clicked on the link and watched as the page – written by a Dr M. Dale Stokes – opened up before me. It contained good news and bad news, which is how my doctor likes to package things too.
The good news was that an email address was very easily found. The bad news – the very bad news – was that the website was entitled: The Antarctic Journal of Dr. M. Dale Stokes.
Was it possible for a regular Joe like me to visit the Antarctic? I suppose I was about to find out.