Old Flames And Time Machines
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: The writer is the censor of himself.
_____________________________________________________________________
Draft 34
He found her on the internet. What was it called, whenwewereyoung.co.uk, one of those sites that promise smiling faces, happy trips down memory lane and everlasting friendship. And Chat, of course. They don’t mention that the Chat will last for five minutes before imploding into embarrassing small talk. They had created a market in Nostalgia. The Chat was something extra, a throw-away add-on; take it or leave it. They knew the punters would be hooked soon enough.
Oh, Catherine.
His latest book had just been published. It was flying off the shelves, as they say. He was on a good whack, too – he’d negotiated a new deal with his publisher, a massive 19% on hardback sales. Unprecedented in the book trade. ‘How To Keep Her Happy When Your Battery’s Gone Flat’, a ‘hilarious’ (Sunday Times) account of marital fidelity when you can’t get it up. ‘This rib-tickling tome’ (Daily Telegraph) was into its fourth impression, and it had only been out for a month. Number 7 on Amazon (Stieg Larsson took a bit of beating, now that he was dead), and the Kindle edition was on fire. The cash was rolling in. Well, it soon would be, when his next royalty cheque came through. He’d spent the advance already. God knows how.
He wasn’t married. He never had been.
His alter-ego, though –the name that was on everyone’s lips – had been married to the same woman for twenty five years. Sexual acrobatics three times a week. Nothing wrong with their marriage, oh, no. Thank you, Viagra. His readers didn’t know it (most of them didn’t have the nous to realise the ‘author’ was a figment of someone’s imagination), but he had been paid a generous donation from Pfizer to mention their product. Only one critic had hinted at the possibility; she had slated the book as being ‘a cheap vehicle for little blue pills’ (Scottish Review of Books).
She was right.
He had sold out, and he was beginning to regret it.
He was a writer. Whatever that meant. It meant something different to everyone. He knew it was all a con, but the ladies at his readings – they were mostly ladies, fifty-plus, well-heeled – held him in great esteem. They looked at him with wrinkled doe eyes as he recited his deathless prose. He’d caught more than a few of them staring at his crotch, smiling. This was only to be expected when women came to see a man reading a memoir about erectile dysfunction. They wanted to check out the writer with the floppy. The man with the embarrassing problem, who knew how to write about it. They needed a man who was ‘in touch with his hard-on’ (The Guardian). His publisher had got that one lasered onto a sheet of Perspex – it was hanging on the wall in his office. The Marketing Team had done a splendid job. Their research, mostly gleaned from the tabloid press, had shown that impotence was the scourge of our times. Everyone should be having sex, and it’s kinda difficult for a man to enjoy himself when there’s no air in his pump. Not fair on his spouse, either. Penetrative sex was back in vogue. The market was crying out for an exploration of the theme. His premise...
His premise?
The book was shite.
He knew it.
His publisher knew it, too, and wanted more of the same.
Catherine. He sent her a message. He didn’t know why. Not really. He’d found a handful of old girlfriends on the internet, but there was nothing sinister about it. It wasn’t a stalking deal. He remembered them because there hadn’t been that many. Everyone did it. They were adults; this kind of thing went on. Nothing could ever come of it. The Chat saw to that. But there was something about her. She hadn’t even been his girlfriend. She had come to stay at his sister’s place in Edinburgh, when was it, some time at the end of the 80s. She lived up north – Peterhead. A trainee librarian. At that time he was nothing. A college drop out. On the dole, sleeping in his sister’s spare room while pondering what to do with the rest of his life.
Things happen. Something happened when his sister went to work. An 8am shag on the fold-down sofa bed in the living room. That was it. No romance. The sex had been bad, he realised that now. At the time, though, how old was he, twenty two, twenty three, it had been all that was on offer. You grab your chances when you’re that age. He was on the rebound, and so was she. They had talked, briefly, about their relationship status (it wasn’t called that then), and she’d said ‘Well, let’s make a great big bounce together!’ They were kids, for Christ’s sake. He’d felt like shit afterwards, and had gone to great lengths to make her feel the same. She left the next day. He was lying on the sofa watching the news. He waved to her as his sister showed her out. She wrote to him a couple of days later. She wanted him to know that her behaviour wasn’t typical, and asked if she’d done something to upset him. He put the letter back in its envelope and tossed it into his bag.
She replied to his message. Of course I remember you! How have you been? He took this as a green light. She had forgiven the stranger for being a bastard. He wrote back, filling her in, laying it on thick about his writing career. God, you’re him! I am indeed. Of course – I’ve seen photographs! Oh, good...guess what? I’ll be up in your neck of the woods at the end of March. I’m doing a reading at The Aberdeen Bookshop. She already knew about it. They had a poster in the library. She was the boss now. Congratulations! Would you be able to come along? If not, would you like to meet up afterwards?
That was the last contact he had with her. Months ago. They had never got round to anything other than his success and that she managed a library. Maybe if they’d been on Chat he would have gleaned more details before it all fizzled out.
He got there early. It was an all-ticket event. All the tickets were gone, of course. Another sell-out. He hung around in the kitchen at the back of the shop drinking coffee. Bashful smiles from the staff. He scribbled a few autographs when asked. Then it was showtime. The star. The Published Writer! The Best Selling Author!! They loved him. He could feel it, coming at him in waves after each ripple of applause. But it was all a fraud. They didn’t love him. They loved this character, this imaginary other bloke, the guy with the famous name. It wasn’t him. They loved something that he had created, sure enough, but that wasn’t what he wanted, not any more.
The reading went well. Of course it did. He was an old hand by now. He tried to pick her out in the sea of faces, but couldn’t. Would he have recognised her after all these years? Probably not. The End. A Standing Ovation. Thank you.
She was there.
‘It’s for Catherine,’ she said.
He took the book from her, his hand shaking. It was all he could do to flatten out the page. She hadn’t changed at all, as if she had stepped out of one dream into another.
‘I...could I...’ he stammered. There was a line of people behind her, right back to the door. ‘Could we meet later on? I won’t be long.’
‘All right,’ she smiled, and ran her eyes over the inscription. She put the book in her bag. ‘I’ll be browsing in the History section.’
This was insane. Things were moving too fast. They were in his hotel room. Strangers. This wasn’t the way. Maybe she thought she was giving him what he wanted. The window was open. He had opened it before he left to let some air in. It was freezing. There was a view of the North Sea. It felt like they were standing on the edge of something.
‘My husband is in the oil business,’ she said. ‘He’s on one of those rigs. Look.’ She raised his right arm by the wrist, sighting along it, guiding him out to the depths. ‘Look, look closely,’ she said. He smelled perfume in her hair. ‘You can just see the flare on the horizon.’
She looked at him.
His hands moved to her waist.
Her eyes.
The North Sea.
A man and a woman.
Strangers.
The edge of the world.
‘We are old,’ she said.
‘You are beautiful,’ he said.
She touched his mouth with her fingers. ‘We are old,’ she smiled. ‘We were young, once.’
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you,’ he said.
‘None of that matters,’ she said. ‘It was all such a long time ago. We’ve moved on.’
He hesitated. ‘I want...’ he said.
‘I know what you want,’ she said. She moved across the room and dimmed the lights. ‘You want...’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Please stop. This isn’t what I want. Believe me. I want...’ God, this was difficult. ‘I want to build a tim
Pounding on the door.
‘David! Come on, the car’s on its way!’
Balls.
‘I’m busy!’
That was typical.
He came in and marched across the room. I tried not to see the disapproving look on his face – there was a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Black at my elbow. He leaned forwards. I could hear him breathing. He was reading my screen.
‘Are you still typing out that romantic guff?’ he said. ‘Old flames and time machines. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times – it doesn’t sell, mate.’
‘I am an artist,’ I said through clenched teeth.
‘Art don’t pay my rent,’ he said, and screwed the top on the bottle. He lifted the phone. ‘Yeah, room service? Pot of coffee to room...’ He looked at me. ‘...to D.D. Maxwell’s suite. Oh, and just the one cup. A large one.’ Then he was at the door. With the bottle. ‘You need a shave,’ he said. ‘We’re at Russell Brand’s table. For God’s sake, get a grip.’
If it hadn’t been this it would have been something else. There is always an interruption. The story never comes out the way I want. It would seem that someone is not on my side. Perhaps I am my own worst critic. Or my best critic.
I am the censor of myself.
I should start again. One more time, but not the same. Something is missing.
Face it.
You are avoiding the issue.
I am avoiding the issue.
I am.
Let them wait.
Draft 35
I found her on the internet. What was it called
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: The writer is the censor of himself.
_____________________________________________________________________
Draft 34
He found her on the internet. What was it called, whenwewereyoung.co.uk, one of those sites that promise smiling faces, happy trips down memory lane and everlasting friendship. And Chat, of course. They don’t mention that the Chat will last for five minutes before imploding into embarrassing small talk. They had created a market in Nostalgia. The Chat was something extra, a throw-away add-on; take it or leave it. They knew the punters would be hooked soon enough.
Oh, Catherine.
His latest book had just been published. It was flying off the shelves, as they say. He was on a good whack, too – he’d negotiated a new deal with his publisher, a massive 19% on hardback sales. Unprecedented in the book trade. ‘How To Keep Her Happy When Your Battery’s Gone Flat’, a ‘hilarious’ (Sunday Times) account of marital fidelity when you can’t get it up. ‘This rib-tickling tome’ (Daily Telegraph) was into its fourth impression, and it had only been out for a month. Number 7 on Amazon (Stieg Larsson took a bit of beating, now that he was dead), and the Kindle edition was on fire. The cash was rolling in. Well, it soon would be, when his next royalty cheque came through. He’d spent the advance already. God knows how.
He wasn’t married. He never had been.
His alter-ego, though –the name that was on everyone’s lips – had been married to the same woman for twenty five years. Sexual acrobatics three times a week. Nothing wrong with their marriage, oh, no. Thank you, Viagra. His readers didn’t know it (most of them didn’t have the nous to realise the ‘author’ was a figment of someone’s imagination), but he had been paid a generous donation from Pfizer to mention their product. Only one critic had hinted at the possibility; she had slated the book as being ‘a cheap vehicle for little blue pills’ (Scottish Review of Books).
She was right.
He had sold out, and he was beginning to regret it.
He was a writer. Whatever that meant. It meant something different to everyone. He knew it was all a con, but the ladies at his readings – they were mostly ladies, fifty-plus, well-heeled – held him in great esteem. They looked at him with wrinkled doe eyes as he recited his deathless prose. He’d caught more than a few of them staring at his crotch, smiling. This was only to be expected when women came to see a man reading a memoir about erectile dysfunction. They wanted to check out the writer with the floppy. The man with the embarrassing problem, who knew how to write about it. They needed a man who was ‘in touch with his hard-on’ (The Guardian). His publisher had got that one lasered onto a sheet of Perspex – it was hanging on the wall in his office. The Marketing Team had done a splendid job. Their research, mostly gleaned from the tabloid press, had shown that impotence was the scourge of our times. Everyone should be having sex, and it’s kinda difficult for a man to enjoy himself when there’s no air in his pump. Not fair on his spouse, either. Penetrative sex was back in vogue. The market was crying out for an exploration of the theme. His premise...
His premise?
The book was shite.
He knew it.
His publisher knew it, too, and wanted more of the same.
Catherine. He sent her a message. He didn’t know why. Not really. He’d found a handful of old girlfriends on the internet, but there was nothing sinister about it. It wasn’t a stalking deal. He remembered them because there hadn’t been that many. Everyone did it. They were adults; this kind of thing went on. Nothing could ever come of it. The Chat saw to that. But there was something about her. She hadn’t even been his girlfriend. She had come to stay at his sister’s place in Edinburgh, when was it, some time at the end of the 80s. She lived up north – Peterhead. A trainee librarian. At that time he was nothing. A college drop out. On the dole, sleeping in his sister’s spare room while pondering what to do with the rest of his life.
Things happen. Something happened when his sister went to work. An 8am shag on the fold-down sofa bed in the living room. That was it. No romance. The sex had been bad, he realised that now. At the time, though, how old was he, twenty two, twenty three, it had been all that was on offer. You grab your chances when you’re that age. He was on the rebound, and so was she. They had talked, briefly, about their relationship status (it wasn’t called that then), and she’d said ‘Well, let’s make a great big bounce together!’ They were kids, for Christ’s sake. He’d felt like shit afterwards, and had gone to great lengths to make her feel the same. She left the next day. He was lying on the sofa watching the news. He waved to her as his sister showed her out. She wrote to him a couple of days later. She wanted him to know that her behaviour wasn’t typical, and asked if she’d done something to upset him. He put the letter back in its envelope and tossed it into his bag.
She replied to his message. Of course I remember you! How have you been? He took this as a green light. She had forgiven the stranger for being a bastard. He wrote back, filling her in, laying it on thick about his writing career. God, you’re him! I am indeed. Of course – I’ve seen photographs! Oh, good...guess what? I’ll be up in your neck of the woods at the end of March. I’m doing a reading at The Aberdeen Bookshop. She already knew about it. They had a poster in the library. She was the boss now. Congratulations! Would you be able to come along? If not, would you like to meet up afterwards?
That was the last contact he had with her. Months ago. They had never got round to anything other than his success and that she managed a library. Maybe if they’d been on Chat he would have gleaned more details before it all fizzled out.
He got there early. It was an all-ticket event. All the tickets were gone, of course. Another sell-out. He hung around in the kitchen at the back of the shop drinking coffee. Bashful smiles from the staff. He scribbled a few autographs when asked. Then it was showtime. The star. The Published Writer! The Best Selling Author!! They loved him. He could feel it, coming at him in waves after each ripple of applause. But it was all a fraud. They didn’t love him. They loved this character, this imaginary other bloke, the guy with the famous name. It wasn’t him. They loved something that he had created, sure enough, but that wasn’t what he wanted, not any more.
The reading went well. Of course it did. He was an old hand by now. He tried to pick her out in the sea of faces, but couldn’t. Would he have recognised her after all these years? Probably not. The End. A Standing Ovation. Thank you.
She was there.
‘It’s for Catherine,’ she said.
He took the book from her, his hand shaking. It was all he could do to flatten out the page. She hadn’t changed at all, as if she had stepped out of one dream into another.
‘I...could I...’ he stammered. There was a line of people behind her, right back to the door. ‘Could we meet later on? I won’t be long.’
‘All right,’ she smiled, and ran her eyes over the inscription. She put the book in her bag. ‘I’ll be browsing in the History section.’
This was insane. Things were moving too fast. They were in his hotel room. Strangers. This wasn’t the way. Maybe she thought she was giving him what he wanted. The window was open. He had opened it before he left to let some air in. It was freezing. There was a view of the North Sea. It felt like they were standing on the edge of something.
‘My husband is in the oil business,’ she said. ‘He’s on one of those rigs. Look.’ She raised his right arm by the wrist, sighting along it, guiding him out to the depths. ‘Look, look closely,’ she said. He smelled perfume in her hair. ‘You can just see the flare on the horizon.’
She looked at him.
His hands moved to her waist.
Her eyes.
The North Sea.
A man and a woman.
Strangers.
The edge of the world.
‘We are old,’ she said.
‘You are beautiful,’ he said.
She touched his mouth with her fingers. ‘We are old,’ she smiled. ‘We were young, once.’
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you,’ he said.
‘None of that matters,’ she said. ‘It was all such a long time ago. We’ve moved on.’
He hesitated. ‘I want...’ he said.
‘I know what you want,’ she said. She moved across the room and dimmed the lights. ‘You want...’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Please stop. This isn’t what I want. Believe me. I want...’ God, this was difficult. ‘I want to build a tim
Pounding on the door.
‘David! Come on, the car’s on its way!’
Balls.
‘I’m busy!’
That was typical.
He came in and marched across the room. I tried not to see the disapproving look on his face – there was a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Black at my elbow. He leaned forwards. I could hear him breathing. He was reading my screen.
‘Are you still typing out that romantic guff?’ he said. ‘Old flames and time machines. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times – it doesn’t sell, mate.’
‘I am an artist,’ I said through clenched teeth.
‘Art don’t pay my rent,’ he said, and screwed the top on the bottle. He lifted the phone. ‘Yeah, room service? Pot of coffee to room...’ He looked at me. ‘...to D.D. Maxwell’s suite. Oh, and just the one cup. A large one.’ Then he was at the door. With the bottle. ‘You need a shave,’ he said. ‘We’re at Russell Brand’s table. For God’s sake, get a grip.’
If it hadn’t been this it would have been something else. There is always an interruption. The story never comes out the way I want. It would seem that someone is not on my side. Perhaps I am my own worst critic. Or my best critic.
I am the censor of myself.
I should start again. One more time, but not the same. Something is missing.
Face it.
You are avoiding the issue.
I am avoiding the issue.
I am.
Let them wait.
Draft 35
I found her on the internet. What was it called
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford was born in Grangemouth and now lives in Greece. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, Junk Junction, The Athens News and Ink Sweat and Tears. His first novel, Drive! – a story of 1980’s Edinburgh pub rock, attempted patricide and arson – was published last year.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.