The Drowning Octopus
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: He's a legend in his own lifetime.
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They called him The Drowning Octopus. Some said it was because he had no backbone and drank a lot, others said that it was because he spat black spit in the faces of people who disagreed with his musical tastes. It seemed to me that the actual reason for his name was his inability to survive in an environment he should have been perfect for. When I met him he was twenty eight, a drifter and a man free from the constraints of responsibility or time. His musical talents were beyond those of many a million selling artist yet he’d never recorded a song. His lyrics evoked more emotion than many bona fide musical geniuses yet he was an unknown. Looking at him could make a person silent. Hearing him could force a person into meditation. He appeared to be a man of substance but no ambition.
They said that he never carried money and would play songs at bars or near market stalls and survive on the free food and alcohol given to him by the owners of the businesses and the passersby who appreciated his music. If they offered him money he simply refused and continued to play his guitar. They told me he spent most nights sleeping rough or on the couches of generous strangers. Yet every time he had been offered the second floor of the bar as a temporary home he had refused.
When I saw him the first time he was standing on a small stage in a travellers bar that I liked. He was singing songs and playing guitar. Some of his songs were happy, most were sad and all were written in an ink of honesty. His face was bloodshot, his cheeks red and his eyes were closed. His beard was so thick that the words of his song seemed to come from it rather than his mouth. He could have had the teeth of a Hollywood actor, they could have resembled a street of condemned houses or he could have had a mouth full of gums – it was impossible to tell through the black cave of scraggy hair.
“How many songs is that?” The Drowning Octopus asked the bar owner. “Eight,” he replied. “Not enough,” said the beard. I tried to listen to his accent, North American but from where precisely was unclear.
He played on, strumming his cowboy chords, saying nothing between songs and barely acknowledging the crowd’s existence. He didn’t even wait for the quietening of the applause before he began the next song. His songs were stories. They told tales of bars, of girls, of family and of childhood and yet he sang them as if they were written by someone else. He seemed to dislike them, he sang them with angry overtones and even when the song demanded a nostalgic voice or loving tone he projected aggravation or rage through his black beard. His eyes were closed throughout the music but his face drew pictures of unrest and tension.
As the thick cigarette smoke drifted around the dimly lit bar I began to wonder what his story was. How had he ended up in Taiwan? How did he survive without money? Was he Jesus? Who was his god? Was he happy? Was this an act? Did he sacrifice feral cats in honour of the devil? Why wasn’t he a man of his times?
I later found out from a young South African girl that his father was a labourer and his mother a shop assistant and that he grew up in a house that offered no Wilde reverie or delusions of grandeur or even mediocrity. He should have been the son of his father: a worker, a taxpayer, a homeowner, a debt payer, a voter and a husband. But he wasn’t any of those things, he was a drowning octopus. The South African told me he had heard a song when he was thirteen and was never the same again but he had refused to tell her what the song was. I wondered if it was a Dylan song or a CCR song or a Pink Floyd song or……. I thought about it endlessly. What song was so powerful that it could cause a boy to become a man of this condition? A man so inspired, so talented, a preacher and a poet, and yet a man whose hunched shoulders and worn clothes spoke of defeat.
“How many songs is that?” he asked. “Ten,” said the bar owner.
The Drowning Octopus slowly put down his guitar and stepped off the stage.
“What can I have?” he said to the bar owner but looking at the wall of alcohol. “Ten beers or five whiskeys,” he replied. “How about six beers and two whiskeys?” he said through his facial forest. “Ok,” the bartender replied.
Swearwords: None.
Description: He's a legend in his own lifetime.
_____________________________________________________________________
They called him The Drowning Octopus. Some said it was because he had no backbone and drank a lot, others said that it was because he spat black spit in the faces of people who disagreed with his musical tastes. It seemed to me that the actual reason for his name was his inability to survive in an environment he should have been perfect for. When I met him he was twenty eight, a drifter and a man free from the constraints of responsibility or time. His musical talents were beyond those of many a million selling artist yet he’d never recorded a song. His lyrics evoked more emotion than many bona fide musical geniuses yet he was an unknown. Looking at him could make a person silent. Hearing him could force a person into meditation. He appeared to be a man of substance but no ambition.
They said that he never carried money and would play songs at bars or near market stalls and survive on the free food and alcohol given to him by the owners of the businesses and the passersby who appreciated his music. If they offered him money he simply refused and continued to play his guitar. They told me he spent most nights sleeping rough or on the couches of generous strangers. Yet every time he had been offered the second floor of the bar as a temporary home he had refused.
When I saw him the first time he was standing on a small stage in a travellers bar that I liked. He was singing songs and playing guitar. Some of his songs were happy, most were sad and all were written in an ink of honesty. His face was bloodshot, his cheeks red and his eyes were closed. His beard was so thick that the words of his song seemed to come from it rather than his mouth. He could have had the teeth of a Hollywood actor, they could have resembled a street of condemned houses or he could have had a mouth full of gums – it was impossible to tell through the black cave of scraggy hair.
“How many songs is that?” The Drowning Octopus asked the bar owner. “Eight,” he replied. “Not enough,” said the beard. I tried to listen to his accent, North American but from where precisely was unclear.
He played on, strumming his cowboy chords, saying nothing between songs and barely acknowledging the crowd’s existence. He didn’t even wait for the quietening of the applause before he began the next song. His songs were stories. They told tales of bars, of girls, of family and of childhood and yet he sang them as if they were written by someone else. He seemed to dislike them, he sang them with angry overtones and even when the song demanded a nostalgic voice or loving tone he projected aggravation or rage through his black beard. His eyes were closed throughout the music but his face drew pictures of unrest and tension.
As the thick cigarette smoke drifted around the dimly lit bar I began to wonder what his story was. How had he ended up in Taiwan? How did he survive without money? Was he Jesus? Who was his god? Was he happy? Was this an act? Did he sacrifice feral cats in honour of the devil? Why wasn’t he a man of his times?
I later found out from a young South African girl that his father was a labourer and his mother a shop assistant and that he grew up in a house that offered no Wilde reverie or delusions of grandeur or even mediocrity. He should have been the son of his father: a worker, a taxpayer, a homeowner, a debt payer, a voter and a husband. But he wasn’t any of those things, he was a drowning octopus. The South African told me he had heard a song when he was thirteen and was never the same again but he had refused to tell her what the song was. I wondered if it was a Dylan song or a CCR song or a Pink Floyd song or……. I thought about it endlessly. What song was so powerful that it could cause a boy to become a man of this condition? A man so inspired, so talented, a preacher and a poet, and yet a man whose hunched shoulders and worn clothes spoke of defeat.
“How many songs is that?” he asked. “Ten,” said the bar owner.
The Drowning Octopus slowly put down his guitar and stepped off the stage.
“What can I have?” he said to the bar owner but looking at the wall of alcohol. “Ten beers or five whiskeys,” he replied. “How about six beers and two whiskeys?” he said through his facial forest. “Ok,” the bartender replied.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from South Shields, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.