Allow me my indulgence! Let me tell you of the first time that a splendid ray of madness shone through the dark warehouse and covered Ed Dempsey with a Christ like appearance. As the first sip of cognac warmed his throat when he was sixteen, he didnt think, but feared, the future, the adulthood and the new responsibilities that might accompany this new state of existence. He felt the same when the line he drew on the side of one of the boxes spoke to him for the first time. He feared whatever might lie outside of what was so far considered real. He feared this time recess into childhood and with it the idea that time might flow backwards. By taming the human he feared, he might have released the animal within. For Christs sake, what business did this damned line have to speak to him at all, even if it was justified at some point by the fact that it was his own creation? Lines drawn on a carton box with a black marker pen didnt speak, couldnt speak. He was some fifteen years older than Alice and most importantly stone cold sober (as sober as Dempsey could be). That is if you dont consider the job at the warehouse as some kind of magic mushroom that slowed the pace of the thought down to the point of breaking it into inconsiderable lunacies that turn considerably dangerous when lines speak at you. For it had been a whole week that he opened boxes, counted the pieces in them, closed them, marked them, shelved them. Open, count, close, mark, shelf. Open, count, close, mark, shelf. Open, count, close, mark, shelf.
What are you planning to do with me? it said. Im too curved to be the horizon line. Too curved and the angle is too funny to be the line of a female body, even if you have in mind another erotic picture which seems the only way of getting anywhere close to masturbating in this place. And of course, Im too straight to be psychedelic. But you could consider me as part of a giant leaf or part of the sun even. Depends on what are your plans with me. You cant leave me alone though. Id feel like a human forsaken by his god. It had a dry voice that reminded Dempsey of a big pile of dust that was kicked around until everywhere you stepped sounded the same, starting with a thud and finishing with tiny cracks. Too scared to continue he got back to counting the stock, but he could still hear attractive thuds and cracks coming from the forgotten corner of the warehouse the box he drew the speaking line on was in. And if it started moving around the warehouse, how would he explain to the boss where it came from? Why did he draw it? And if he drew this line, he must have drawn the erotic pictures around the warehouse too. And so on, and so forth with the questions. Just dont fucking move, he murmured angrily as he got up and started walking back to the irritable line.
What do you want from me? he said when they were face to face again, fearing his colleagues would hear him, with a dry shout.
You created me, not the other way round. The question is: what do You want from me? it thudded and cracked again.
Thats right. I created you, and to piss you off, to prove you wrong, you are the part of a human body. To be precise, you are a beer belly holding a pint of beer in thus angle, he said as he drew a glass resting in it. Now dont move, or youll waste the beer, he said, finally proud that he had chained the line to the glass.
But my angle is not right, protested the line, its voice fading in shameful tones of accepting its loss. Unless, the drunk man is lying somewhere.
You said it, line, now hush, for it is my break and I think I know how to spend it. Ill buy Alice in Wonderland. Only in childrens books do animals or even the strangest things speak. Not in a bloody warehouse.
What lips have touched mine, said the glass of beer, for I am a hygienic freak.
Can one go on his break in peace? So you speak too? Jesus! Leave me alone. Pints of beer dont speak let alone drawings of them. Fucking hygienic freak?. He kicked the box to the wall as he got up and left the warehouse.
Entering the used books shop, he noticed a painting hung on one of the walls. It was oil on canvas, a sunset by the beach and the colours were as intense as it seemed that they might speak through the dimly lit shop whose large windows provided the only light in on that dark afternoon. Keeping a fair distance from it he started checking the bookshelves for Alice, all the while expecting in fear a word coming from the painting. He finally found the book and went to the counter to pay for it, but the sunset hadnt spoken yet.
Do you like it? asked the girl as she gave him the change, naturally, mistaking his state of fright for interest in the picture.
Not bad, replied Dempsey. Do you mind if I have a closer look?
Not at all, darling.
It was put in an oak frame and it was as dusty as the shop was old. There was no signature on any of the corners to claim the painters rights, but as far as his amateur eye and his ignorance on the art of painting were concerned, it might as well have been from bloody Dali, or Leonardo Da Vinci himself. On the bottom left hand corner there was a man with the back to the viewer, whose left shoulder finished somewhere outside the boundaries of the painting. With the swing of the chair he was sitting on frozen underneath him by the moment the painter had chosen, he was eternally gazing at the shadows of a woman and two children that were playing with the waves. There were a sand castle and a bucket close to where they were playing and a palm tree that had just about made it in the frame further down the beach. The sun had sunk its invisible feet in the great waters and two seagulls had managed to leave a couple of black marks like ticks on its red surface. That was it. The sky was sky with shades of purple, the sea was blue and red where it reflected the sun and the sand was white.
So, who was going to speak first? He feared neither the sun, nor the sea, nor the land, even though it was them who deserved the first word, on grounds of their great age and by means of which could do more damage as they spoke. He didnt even fear the people and the words they could say. Now let me rephrase that. He didnt fear: he waited in excitement for the sand castle and the bucket to speak, for he knew, that only those pathetic objects could dare as much. Looking at the painting his fear had turned into longing fuelled by the inner knowledge that he could be the master of the conversation; just like a tamer, who after being beaten and hurt and bruised by the wild beast on the first day, can not wait for the dawn, to start again, until even the animal has learnt that man is master and without him, he is nothing but it.
But was it the animal who was tamed to the laws of man, or man who learnt its language? Did the line and the glass really speak, or was it that he wanted to have a conversation so bad, that he imagined it, for even if this painting he was staring at might have once spoken to its painter, surely wasnt going to speak to Dempsey right now? There was not a sound in the shop, but the breathing of the girl who was standing right behind him. He felt she wasnt looking at the painting at all. Maybe she was looking at him. He turned around rather suddenly and his doubts were confirmed, she was standing too close, so he couldnt help bumping his elbow on her breast. That must have hurt, he thought, and feeling very uncomfortable he apologised. And as he was looking at her from the big breasts he hit, in her eyes, the breasts, the eyes, ready to apologise again, thank her and say goodbye, she said:
Have I seen you somewhere?
I dont know, he replied and thinking rapidly, added: Maybe on the train to work.
Somehow, she wasnt pleased with the reply and with a disdainful gesture and a Maybe, thrown in the air with contempt, she started walking back to behind the counter. She had only made a few steps when Ed Dempsey was already out of the shop. No way he could have dealt with her when he had so much to do. Alice didnt seem to be such a long book, but it would take him at least one hour, and after that, the drawing and the possibility of a conversation with it, the thrill of which couldnt be diminished even by a big pair of tits. And finally, he had to work too, even if it was Friday.
Now, what would you think if you opened the door to your place of work and cut from the evening standard, pined on the wall, you found an e-fit of your facial features with the nickname trophy rapist and, Dempsey, written with a marker underneath it? No wonder the girl from the bookshop thought she had seen him somewhere. It was a joke to the chaps in the warehouse that had put it up on the wall and to him too, but people that didnt know him could even phone the old bill.
He sat on the couch and started reading Alice. Lewis Carroll has justified her imagination, or rather his own, as dreams and nonsense of a child, maybe with the greater purpose of taking the piss out of the royals. My objectivity towards Dempsey on the other hand, is very partial on his favour, yet even I dont know what to make of his story on his terms, but to suggest him for a part in the lunatic collection.
As he read for half an hour, disappointed that there were no similarities between what was happening to him and what was going on in the book, (it was a childrens version, with loads of figures), he decided to get up and challenge the results of his drawings.
Putting the box up to a comfortable position, he made sure that the line and the glass realised that he was ignoring them on purpose. After he had put the marker pen on top of the box and was studying what hed drawn earlier, he said as if to himself:
To the great risk of sounding sexually incorrect, Im going to say this, and then looking at the lines he asked: How can I put an end to this lunacy, at the same time giving pleasure to your beautiful lips and your robust belly too?
Well, spoke the line, it seems you are left only with the usual option of a naked woman whos touching me and kissing the glass. Why dont you draw a wedding ring to the hand, it might give a certain feeling of lack of freedom?
Though you are the simpler line, you seem to have higher expectations than mine. Dont forget, there is only a marker pen to our help, said the glass. And if such an attempt would be made, as to have a wedding ring on the hand of a woman, why not turn the attention on a mole that might be on the upper lip of the young lady. I particularly like the mouth of Cindy Crawford, its so upper class dirty.
Even though trying hard to imagine something better than what the lines were suggesting, he couldnt take out of his mind the image of the tamer and the beast. Tell me, he said. What makes possible the communication between us, and we might have found ourselves the answer.
I think I know where youre going, said the glass. You can not escape your human condition of needing to be on top, forgetting that we are part of a two dimensional system. What is your diet? Dont answer, I know, its sausage, chips and beans, day after day. In your quest of taming the world you have managed to tame yourselves. Remember what you said to the line earlier on: we are nothing but your creation, no matter on what form of existence. So consider this idea: instead of crossing the Ts, trying to tame us, why dont you let us annihilate your ideas, just like every generation annihilates the ideas of the previous one? We are your unborn purpose.
I love this, thudded the line. What if I wasnt a beer belly, but a pregnant womb carrying an unborn child, whose umbilical cord is connected to the bottom of the glass? In that case, even though your lips would miss Cindys touch, you would stay in good hygiene, glass.
Alright said the trophy rapist, let me imagine it. He shut his eyes, trying to picture the unborn baby, but even imagining it was proving to be a hard task. He had to use all tools possible to reach the perfect understanding with the lines; the marker pen, his arms, his face, his imagination, his every secret in the skills of communicating, even help from other people or entities. If only the marker pen could also speak, he thought, but that was too much to ask for. The head has to be out of proportion with the body, he said as if he was asking advice. And the umbilical cord should have only a curve or two, otherwise Im afraid I wont be able to tell clearly whats what, because I want to put some womb matter lying around, to keep the child protected.
Protected from what? asked the line whose thuds and cracks gave away a certain excitement. Hey, its idea was being put black in brown, why shouldnt it be excited?
Whatever might come its way, answered the glass. We are talking about an unborn child and any supporting line that might be drawn, could do harm, just as it might be good, so by having some womb matter around we could actually help ourselves along the way.
Youve got to love a pint of beer. Replied the cheeky line. Refreshing, wouldnt you say?
At that moment his phone rang. That was I.
How are you going Dempsey? Have you seen the papers today?
Its hilarious, isnt it? Promise me that youre going to pay my bail, if it ever happens to get that funny! What have you been up to?
Not much. Were going out tonight. Its Jonathans birthday were going to get bollocksed.
Damn, I forgot about that. Ive been too busy with lines.
Apparently his dad has bought him a return ticket to new Zealand. Hes going right after Christmas. Whats that noise?
Nothing, Im scribbling on a box. Im in the warehouse. Your voice is like a sweet choir of angels, Tommy boy. As he said that, the line thudded with jealousy. Whos going to go out tonight?
Everyone I suppose. Theres going to be Dean, the Albanian, Michael is going to join us as soon as he ditches some bird he pulled a couple of weeks ago, even George might come down from Liverpool for the weekend.
We did carry on for some time about matters non-important to the subject we were talking about. If I could express the state of the lines on Dempseys terms, Id say that they were anxious that, as he was talking to me, he was drawing the baby in the same time. What happened to the carefulness we were talking about; would have cracked the line, if it wasnt for fear of being heard over the phone, -it also knew the importance of keeping the conversation with a human, between the only human it was talking to.
He had finished drawing the baby when he hung up the phone. It had come out just as he expected it. With one of the tiny hands stretched towards the beer and the umbilical cord furnishing it (an unborn baby, like the untamed animal is still, it) with liquid from the glass it said: keep the change!. Oh, what a voice. So much were they impressed, that the line and the glass didnt speak at all, while Dempsey wrote down on the top left hand corner the very same words it spoke.
We all know Marys version of being pregnant by god, but what puzzled Dempsey at that very moment was gods side of the story. Since the moment the line spoke to him for the first time, his feelings had changed as if they were being thrown around by a tornado. Fear had turned into excitement and excitement in draining expectations that the lines had for him, for if he failed (whatever they were expecting), how would he be able to face them again. Finally, he was hoping that he could somehow share the load with someone as pure as an unborn baby.
If he followed this train of thought though, he would have sooner told the child that in the future, it would be the line and the pint the ones that were going to crucify it, than carry on at all. And most importantly, that would jeopardise his perception abilities, because after a future crucifixion, he would have to be one with him whose veins were filled with marker pen material. How did god deal with such a metaphysical problem? So to take his mind of off this lunacy, he started drawing a breast, round and appealing in form, but filled with black veins and black milk ways on the inside.
Whats the point of having a breast to drink from, when one has a pint of beer. You fucked it up this time. I want a bag of peanuts, not a breast of milk: I hope youve given me teeth for solid food. Dry roasted peanuts and a refill of the glass. Only Id love to have some Guinness instead of beer. My blood is as black as Guinness just as much as it is Irish. And one would have thought that existence hanging from the umbilical cord is not very comfortable; Id certainly like to rest my head on a pillow. After drinking I feel very tired. Dont stand there looking at me like an old man whos lost his mind, do something.
Never mind the teeth, youve certainly given him a spiked tongue, said the glass. How do you deal with a spoiled Jesus? It had a point, though: whats the need for a breast of milk when one has a pint of beer?
Youre right, said Dempsey to the child, but it was already sleeping and yet sucking from the glass with an inconsiderable noise. And then turning to the breast: how am I to justify your existence now? Though it pains me to admit it, maybe I shouldnt have drawn you at all? It must have been a moment of male rage.
The boss was going to Portugal on Monday, so it seemed a much easier option to Dempsey, to indulge in the drawing while the boss was indulging in Portugal. With the weekend in between, the drawing that talked might even die. That seemed like he would finally wash his hands with the whole idea.
The thought made him fall from god to Pilate. Too much beer could kill an adult. Let it drown in it if that was what it wanted. Up to now, the conceiving of this child was a very important issue, but once it came to life everything went upside down. There is a whole old testament that prepares the arrival of the lamb, but when the lamb arrives, not only do they kill it like it is predicted, but they also do not accept it as the lamb. An impostor, thats what it was, just like in the old book. Where did he go wrong? He drew the child like he was supposed to, what the ****? There was only one explanation: it wasnt his child. It was a bastard.
Speak, he shouted to the breast. Justify your existence.
I dont need to justify anything. I am but a breast, longing to be touched. Theres no need to wonder in religious dogmas. Dont look at the mantelpiece when youre poking the fire, they say, and fair enough, there is no need for a face. But do not confuse me with the mantelpiece. Do not confuse my existence with anything divine either.
Talking of needs, I think I need to finish with you all. It is very clear to me, now. A pint on a pregnant surface and breasts longing to be touched, are nothing but needs of an erect cock.
Credence Clearwater Revival were filling the warehouse with its rhythm. Under this rhythm Dempsey started stroking the box with the marker pen. When he had finished, the head of a penis was almost touching the head of the child. Yet feeling for the child, he drew a protective line that surrounded it and a bed with a comfortable pillow underneath it.
Only with a whip can the animal be tamed, he said to himself. When it wakes up, I want you to tell it that in absence of peanuts I found the next best thing and that Ive said to keep the change.
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