Looking For The New Black
by Steven Porter
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A new girl in town has a dream that turns into a living nightmare. (This story includes lines from Wallace Stevens' poem 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.)
_____________________________________________________________________
Mona awoke sweating, more tired than ever. Reluctantly, she rose, turned on the heating and parted the curtains. The odd window lit up in distant tower blocks where Saturday’s workers were surfacing. Someone kick-started a motorbike in the street. Mona was definitely awake now. She made some coffee and sat down at her computer.
Mona checked her e-mail and read a few daft comments about things that had happened after work. She no longer needed excuses to avoid the Friday sessions. On her first day she’d been told that the Bounced Czech was brilliant. It wasn’t. So the next time Mona said she’d arranged to go see a film. The week after that she claimed to have started yoga classes. At the end of the month she was just going to tell them that she had to wash her hair, but nobody bothered to invite her again.
She was glad to lose herself in her own weekend thoughts and typed in the address of the arts website that had “hired” her. The assignment was unpaid, but she thought it might lead to something and provide an escape route from the insurance company. In fact, the editor had no such intentions. It’s easy to find people to work for nothing nowadays. They are queuing up. You can often take your pick of volunteers. Nobody wants to pay to read anything. That’s how it is. Keeping in with the advertisers is all that matters.
Mona put the finishing touches to the questions she’d prepared for the poet and printed them off. Then she caught the Tube. Her senses were heightened at the weekend. She felt at home in the tunnels of subterranean darkness and artificial light, and soaked up the few minutes of rare winter sunshine at the end of the journey. Although a newcomer to the city, and still at the stage where most days threw up new sights, Mona would say this area was nondescript. I’ll briefly describe it for you: row after row of faded red brick houses with panelled fencing that could do with a fresh coat of paint. It looked as if a giant needle had extracted blood from the house exteriors. Gardens were neglected and weeds fought for control of broken paving stones.
The overall impression was like Coronation Street before the advent of colour. It had occurred to Mona that this was not the dream she had bought into on moving to the city; but reality was virtual now anyway. The great outdoors had been relegated to the fringes. She swung open the door of the pub. Right away, the stench of stale beer and last night’s vomit made her nostrils contort.
The Kings Arms indeed. The Tramps Armpits more like. Two old geezers looked up from their game of dominoes for a moment. They supped at their pints. It was hard to tell which one had the greyer skin. Mona wondered if these doleful masks would slide off their faces if the central heating came on. Not much chance of finding out in the freezing Kings, mind you.
The poet was isolated on a stool at the other end of the bar. Mona recognised him from a photo she’d seen.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I love your work.”
In truth, she didn’t know many of his poems. But she liked the one about the blackbird. And it was strange that she’d had the dream last night, about the blackbird flying in through her open window, tickling her back with the tip of its wing and whispering filthy suggestions in her ear. A talking blackbird. How strange.
Mona ordered herself a red wine. The barman stepped back in amazement. He took a few seconds to locate a bottle and mumbled to himself, “Wine! What would they ask for next? Changed days round here.”
The poet, let’s call him WS, wanted a pint of lager and a bag of cheese and onion McCoys, which Mona bought. They went to a nearby table. WS tore open the packet and spread the offering in front of them. Mona took one and pecked at it like a sparrow coping with a crumb of bread. WS wolfed down the rest as if it was the first thing he’d eaten in days. He was pale and spoke little. When he did, it was not with the eloquent voice or refined accent that Mona had expected from reading a handful of his poems. He reminded her more of Ross Noble than the Nobel Prize. She could see now why he had chosen the Kings Arms for their meeting.
Mona tried to mentally remove herself from the surroundings, particularly as football supporters were entering the bar in dribs and drabs. She had no idea there was a match or even a football ground in the area. Mona wasn’t the least interested in what team these fans supported, but she did notice that they were wearing red in their scarves; it was the only splash of colour in the pub, apart from her wine.
She focussed on the poem she knew best: A man and a woman are one/A man and a woman and a blackbird are one.
In a sense, this was true. She’d had a dream that had brought the two of them together in a way. Did the dream stem from the poem and the fact she was going to meet WS? Possibly, but right now she didn’t appreciate the intimacy as he held the packet about nine inches above his face and tipped the broken crisp crumbs down his gullet. This sight, combined with the tufts of uncombed hair on his head, reminded Mona of a baby chick feeding in a nature documentary she’d seen recently.
With her aspirations to fine poetry, Mona could hardly believe what was happening. More so when WS raised his knee and made no attempt to suppress a loud fart.
“That’s better,” he said. “Sorry, couldn’t hold it in any longer.”
They’d been there for quarter of an hour, although it was beginning to seem a lot longer to Mona. So far this obnoxious odour was the most she had got out of WS. Where was the “beauty of inflections or the beauty of innuendos” that he had written about in his verse? Had she got the wrong guy? Maybe the editor had set her up and there was a hidden TV camera somewhere.
“Are you working on anything at the moment?” she asked.
“Poetry you mean? Nah. I’ve pretty much given up on that. I’ve said all I need to say.”
“You must be working on a project of some kind?”
“Well, depends if painting and decorating counts. I’m painting my flat. Black. You probably don’t remember when black was black. Somebody made that observation years ago but it just isn’t the case any more… I can’t find any colour dark enough to satisfy my mood… I think we’re always looking for the new black. The real thing just doesn’t exist.”
He laughed. Mona wasn’t sure whether to join in but allowed the corners of her mouth to turn upwards.
“You know I have to get something from you,” she said. “I imagine you’re getting paid for this?”
“Honesty is the best policy,” said the poet, swirling the dregs in the bottom of his pint before finishing it off. “Maybe I could write about you,” he went on. “You could be my muse. Poets are supposed to have muses, aren’t they?”
It was getting difficult to hear what he was saying because the fans had started singing. And the old men a few tables away had put their dominoes aside and were smashing dice repetitively onto the table in a show of manly bravado.
Mona and WS left the Saturday boys to their games, sliding between the fans that stood there clutching pint glasses to their hearts.
Outside the air seemed much fresher in spite of the carbon monoxide from thousands of car exhausts. WS lived nearby and decided to try a chat-up line.
“I think I’ve got a jar of Nescafe at home somewhere,” he said.
Mona declined and went shopping instead. There were some vintage clothing shops not too far away with a neat line in dresses. She was little the wiser about the poetry article but she had agreed to swap e-mail addresses with WS. There was always the chance that he might be more electronically responsive.
After night fell, Mona walked in the park near her home. She was wearing the polka-dot dress she’d bought from A Certain Vintage. Exposing a fair portion of her thighs to the night, she was oblivious to the potential muggers, rapists and doggers who might be on the prowl. As it turned out, only the bark of a dog broke the silence.
She thought little more about WS and stayed in bed until noon the following day. She had no desire to get up and start writing. When she got bored with gazing at the ray of light slanting through the curtains, she threw on a dressing gown and slippers and made herself some bran flakes. She switched on her computer at the kitchen table and began to read the Sunday newspapers. About an hour later, she opened her e-mail. WS had written to her already. In the subject line was TIRED OF WAITING FOR THE NEW BLACK.
She opened it and read:
Hi Mona,
The walls were merely dark. Only death is black. At least that’s how I see it and I will know for sure soon enough. I wish we had got to know each other better but it was already too late. I am up to here with debts and my benefits have been stopped. Poetry has no answer to that. Fuck them all and take care of yourself.
WS
A bran flake lodged in her throat. Mona felt a sickness in the bottom of her stomach and ran to the bathroom. She tried to spew up all memories of the meeting with WS, wishing she could rewind and start again from the moment she left the Tube yesterday. She would take a different turn and go straight to A Certain Vintage, missing the appointment with WS.
She tried calling me to see if I had heard anything, but I recognised the number and didn’t bother to answer. She sent me a text but I didn’t want my weekend interrupted by a dogsbody who did stuff for the website.
So she spent a long-drawn out Sunday surfing. During the night, she dreamt about the blackbird again. It wheeled high above the city, and then swooped like a suicide bomber. The bird rattled off Mona’s window pane and hit the ground with a cold hard thud.
The culture pages confirmed her fears the next day. I stumbled upon the news before she got a chance to tell me about all this. There was a photo of a quite handsome WS with flat hair, taken in the days before he shrivelled up like a helpless chick: Poet Found Dead – no suspicious circumstances.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A new girl in town has a dream that turns into a living nightmare. (This story includes lines from Wallace Stevens' poem 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.)
_____________________________________________________________________
Mona awoke sweating, more tired than ever. Reluctantly, she rose, turned on the heating and parted the curtains. The odd window lit up in distant tower blocks where Saturday’s workers were surfacing. Someone kick-started a motorbike in the street. Mona was definitely awake now. She made some coffee and sat down at her computer.
Mona checked her e-mail and read a few daft comments about things that had happened after work. She no longer needed excuses to avoid the Friday sessions. On her first day she’d been told that the Bounced Czech was brilliant. It wasn’t. So the next time Mona said she’d arranged to go see a film. The week after that she claimed to have started yoga classes. At the end of the month she was just going to tell them that she had to wash her hair, but nobody bothered to invite her again.
She was glad to lose herself in her own weekend thoughts and typed in the address of the arts website that had “hired” her. The assignment was unpaid, but she thought it might lead to something and provide an escape route from the insurance company. In fact, the editor had no such intentions. It’s easy to find people to work for nothing nowadays. They are queuing up. You can often take your pick of volunteers. Nobody wants to pay to read anything. That’s how it is. Keeping in with the advertisers is all that matters.
Mona put the finishing touches to the questions she’d prepared for the poet and printed them off. Then she caught the Tube. Her senses were heightened at the weekend. She felt at home in the tunnels of subterranean darkness and artificial light, and soaked up the few minutes of rare winter sunshine at the end of the journey. Although a newcomer to the city, and still at the stage where most days threw up new sights, Mona would say this area was nondescript. I’ll briefly describe it for you: row after row of faded red brick houses with panelled fencing that could do with a fresh coat of paint. It looked as if a giant needle had extracted blood from the house exteriors. Gardens were neglected and weeds fought for control of broken paving stones.
The overall impression was like Coronation Street before the advent of colour. It had occurred to Mona that this was not the dream she had bought into on moving to the city; but reality was virtual now anyway. The great outdoors had been relegated to the fringes. She swung open the door of the pub. Right away, the stench of stale beer and last night’s vomit made her nostrils contort.
The Kings Arms indeed. The Tramps Armpits more like. Two old geezers looked up from their game of dominoes for a moment. They supped at their pints. It was hard to tell which one had the greyer skin. Mona wondered if these doleful masks would slide off their faces if the central heating came on. Not much chance of finding out in the freezing Kings, mind you.
The poet was isolated on a stool at the other end of the bar. Mona recognised him from a photo she’d seen.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I love your work.”
In truth, she didn’t know many of his poems. But she liked the one about the blackbird. And it was strange that she’d had the dream last night, about the blackbird flying in through her open window, tickling her back with the tip of its wing and whispering filthy suggestions in her ear. A talking blackbird. How strange.
Mona ordered herself a red wine. The barman stepped back in amazement. He took a few seconds to locate a bottle and mumbled to himself, “Wine! What would they ask for next? Changed days round here.”
The poet, let’s call him WS, wanted a pint of lager and a bag of cheese and onion McCoys, which Mona bought. They went to a nearby table. WS tore open the packet and spread the offering in front of them. Mona took one and pecked at it like a sparrow coping with a crumb of bread. WS wolfed down the rest as if it was the first thing he’d eaten in days. He was pale and spoke little. When he did, it was not with the eloquent voice or refined accent that Mona had expected from reading a handful of his poems. He reminded her more of Ross Noble than the Nobel Prize. She could see now why he had chosen the Kings Arms for their meeting.
Mona tried to mentally remove herself from the surroundings, particularly as football supporters were entering the bar in dribs and drabs. She had no idea there was a match or even a football ground in the area. Mona wasn’t the least interested in what team these fans supported, but she did notice that they were wearing red in their scarves; it was the only splash of colour in the pub, apart from her wine.
She focussed on the poem she knew best: A man and a woman are one/A man and a woman and a blackbird are one.
In a sense, this was true. She’d had a dream that had brought the two of them together in a way. Did the dream stem from the poem and the fact she was going to meet WS? Possibly, but right now she didn’t appreciate the intimacy as he held the packet about nine inches above his face and tipped the broken crisp crumbs down his gullet. This sight, combined with the tufts of uncombed hair on his head, reminded Mona of a baby chick feeding in a nature documentary she’d seen recently.
With her aspirations to fine poetry, Mona could hardly believe what was happening. More so when WS raised his knee and made no attempt to suppress a loud fart.
“That’s better,” he said. “Sorry, couldn’t hold it in any longer.”
They’d been there for quarter of an hour, although it was beginning to seem a lot longer to Mona. So far this obnoxious odour was the most she had got out of WS. Where was the “beauty of inflections or the beauty of innuendos” that he had written about in his verse? Had she got the wrong guy? Maybe the editor had set her up and there was a hidden TV camera somewhere.
“Are you working on anything at the moment?” she asked.
“Poetry you mean? Nah. I’ve pretty much given up on that. I’ve said all I need to say.”
“You must be working on a project of some kind?”
“Well, depends if painting and decorating counts. I’m painting my flat. Black. You probably don’t remember when black was black. Somebody made that observation years ago but it just isn’t the case any more… I can’t find any colour dark enough to satisfy my mood… I think we’re always looking for the new black. The real thing just doesn’t exist.”
He laughed. Mona wasn’t sure whether to join in but allowed the corners of her mouth to turn upwards.
“You know I have to get something from you,” she said. “I imagine you’re getting paid for this?”
“Honesty is the best policy,” said the poet, swirling the dregs in the bottom of his pint before finishing it off. “Maybe I could write about you,” he went on. “You could be my muse. Poets are supposed to have muses, aren’t they?”
It was getting difficult to hear what he was saying because the fans had started singing. And the old men a few tables away had put their dominoes aside and were smashing dice repetitively onto the table in a show of manly bravado.
Mona and WS left the Saturday boys to their games, sliding between the fans that stood there clutching pint glasses to their hearts.
Outside the air seemed much fresher in spite of the carbon monoxide from thousands of car exhausts. WS lived nearby and decided to try a chat-up line.
“I think I’ve got a jar of Nescafe at home somewhere,” he said.
Mona declined and went shopping instead. There were some vintage clothing shops not too far away with a neat line in dresses. She was little the wiser about the poetry article but she had agreed to swap e-mail addresses with WS. There was always the chance that he might be more electronically responsive.
After night fell, Mona walked in the park near her home. She was wearing the polka-dot dress she’d bought from A Certain Vintage. Exposing a fair portion of her thighs to the night, she was oblivious to the potential muggers, rapists and doggers who might be on the prowl. As it turned out, only the bark of a dog broke the silence.
She thought little more about WS and stayed in bed until noon the following day. She had no desire to get up and start writing. When she got bored with gazing at the ray of light slanting through the curtains, she threw on a dressing gown and slippers and made herself some bran flakes. She switched on her computer at the kitchen table and began to read the Sunday newspapers. About an hour later, she opened her e-mail. WS had written to her already. In the subject line was TIRED OF WAITING FOR THE NEW BLACK.
She opened it and read:
Hi Mona,
The walls were merely dark. Only death is black. At least that’s how I see it and I will know for sure soon enough. I wish we had got to know each other better but it was already too late. I am up to here with debts and my benefits have been stopped. Poetry has no answer to that. Fuck them all and take care of yourself.
WS
A bran flake lodged in her throat. Mona felt a sickness in the bottom of her stomach and ran to the bathroom. She tried to spew up all memories of the meeting with WS, wishing she could rewind and start again from the moment she left the Tube yesterday. She would take a different turn and go straight to A Certain Vintage, missing the appointment with WS.
She tried calling me to see if I had heard anything, but I recognised the number and didn’t bother to answer. She sent me a text but I didn’t want my weekend interrupted by a dogsbody who did stuff for the website.
So she spent a long-drawn out Sunday surfing. During the night, she dreamt about the blackbird again. It wheeled high above the city, and then swooped like a suicide bomber. The bird rattled off Mona’s window pane and hit the ground with a cold hard thud.
The culture pages confirmed her fears the next day. I stumbled upon the news before she got a chance to tell me about all this. There was a photo of a quite handsome WS with flat hair, taken in the days before he shrivelled up like a helpless chick: Poet Found Dead – no suspicious circumstances.
About the Author
Inverness-born Steven Porter is recognised for his versatile output: fiction, short stories, poetry, memoir, travelogues, reportage and sports writing. He is the author of several books, and his work has appeared in a number of collections and anthologies.
Looking For The New Black comes from his latest book, Blurred Girl & Other Suggestive Stories, which is available from Oystercatcher eBooks and Amazon.
Looking For The New Black comes from his latest book, Blurred Girl & Other Suggestive Stories, which is available from Oystercatcher eBooks and Amazon.