Chapter 1
The way I see it, the Big Bang is the most important orgasm in the history of the universe—like some lonely god lost his virginity to the void, was brought to climax for the first time by the touch of an indifferent darkness, and for better or worse, that cosmic ejaculation led to all life and possibility and consequence. Since then, said universe has been expanding, like semen seeping and spreading on a bedsheet, and some people postulate that one day it will fall prey to its own gravity and begin to contract, becoming smaller and darker as chance is curtailed and the stars go out, until it compacts to one super-dense point at the end of all things.
I can’t speak for your universe, but as far as mine is concerned, those people are right. Because I know exactly when the Big Bang occurred, and I know exactly when existence outreached its grasp and began its inexorable implosion. Both of these things happened on a Monday.
Figures.
* * *
It was many years ago now, and the person I used to be is long gone. I thought he’d always be there, a fundamental constant at the heart of chaos, but when I look deep into my reflection—when I stare beyond the flatness of my eyes to the wastelands beyond—I realise he’s been replaced, cell by cell, until even his memories are like a bad photocopy of an old diary. You go about your business day-to-day, certain that you remain true to yourself as the world warps around you…and then one night you catch a glimpse of yourself in an angled mirror, or see a new photograph of you with an old friend, and realise you’ve turned into a stranger. The songs that defined your youth now seem shallow and derivative; the magic of the movies that enchanted you as a child has grown weak with age, unable to suspend the ever-increasing weight of your disbelief. You consider yourself forever young, but teenagers have become incomprehensible and even somewhat intimidating, and the once-infuriating views of your elders reveal a dull, defeatist wisdom you begin to accept when you realise that nothing you do will ever truly matter. Dreams die, and the sepia tint of the past becomes a piss stain. You get the joke, and the joke is always on you. And you give up. Not life; just living.
It was many years ago now.
* * *
When I was seventeen, Mum and I moved to Lunar Bay so she could manage a caravan park. I was less than impressed at having to pull up stakes once more, and I didn’t relish the idea of working as Mum’s assistant in a tiny town where the local nightlife consisted of a dozen teens hanging around a recreation centre. But we had to go where the work was, and when this opportunity knocked, we were so hard up that the door practically fell off its hinges. So away it was to Lunar Bay, and goodbye again to everyone and everything I knew.
We moved into a small house that grew from the back of the Seven Stars office like a conjoined twin, and whatever time I had free from school and homework was largely spent cleaning caravans, mowing lawns, taking gas bottles down to the service station to get refilled. The work sucked, as any labour does when you’re a teenager, but it got us three squares a day and a little to spend on ourselves, and that was all the motivation I needed. We were doing well enough that within a couple of months Mum could buy me a Sony Discman without skipping any bills—a luxury I’d scarcely been able to imagine just a year before. I could even afford the occasional CD to play in it, and so I started playing catch-up with popular culture.
In my own time, I was drawn inevitably to the Rec and its subdued nightlife. I knew most of the guys there from school, and we spent the occasional evening playing Nintendo games and whatever alternative rock albums we could convince the local video store to order in. We weren’t close, but that was okay. As we rode the bus over to Killian every morning for school, we’d sit together but spend the trip listening to Pearl Jam or Live on our headphones, comfortably avoiding conversation of anything but the slightest import. Nice guys. I wish I could remember their names.
Bringing us closer to the Big Bang, I met my first girlfriend in Lunar Bay. Her name was Caitlin Dempsey. We shared classes at Killian High, but I barely noticed the skinny brunette with the regal nose and deep hazel eyes until we were properly introduced at the Rec. She was cute and smart and funny, and over the next few weeks we discovered a rapport that was all combative camaraderie on the surface and sweet unspoken tension beneath. We’d walk the streets of Lunar Bay by the light of its namesake, talking about nothing and everything, indulging in dares and tiny acts of vandalism because we were young and free and these nights were going to last forever. Oh, Caitlin! My first love; and my last.
We took it slow, and that was fine because I was a virgin in every possible way. Each small step for us was a giant leap for me. I remember the feel of her slender hand slipping into mine for the first time; it was chilly from the winter air, her fingers thin and bony, but it caused a riot of emotions that robbed me of speech. When we shared our first kiss, I got so hard I thought I was going to let go in my pants. But that didn’t happen until the first time I saw her topless, the fervour of her kisses combining with the thin velvet of her skin to blast sheer excitement right down the leg of my jeans.
Sweet little Caitlin Dempsey. I find it easier to remember her than I do myself, everything from her weird toes all the way up to the star-shaped scar behind her ear from a childhood fall—from her unfocused dream of becoming a marine biologist to her literal dream of a Green Door she could never open. If she’d known how things were going to turn out, what knowing and caring for me would do to her, would she have defied fate and chosen to be with me anyway? Whatever the answer, she’s keeping it to herself behind an impermeable wall of silence.
Because that awkward, funny, desperate girl is gone—another victim of the Big Bang.
* * *
It was many years ago now.