Not From Above!

by Alexander Mayor

  Chris has been semi-coherently trying to interest you in the concept of an after-party. He’s booked a suite at the hotel, what with having a sensible house too far by train for this kind of night.

  You weigh the potential horrors. But in that moment’s pause, Stefanie Bickell (12th floor, private lift to the office’s mythic sky garden), rising star of complex repackaged degradations, has taken to the stage, wide-eyed and clearly much invigorated with her own award of just 10 minutes previous. She takes the mic with, you’ve got to say, an adorably naïve gait, given how many important human resource verticals are looking on. For a few moments the whole thing actually feels as gloriously real as television.

  ‘Hi everyone! Isn’t this amazing? Whoop! Okay, I am going to read this out properly, I promise… Gary! Don’t, you’re putting me off. So… exciting! The… 2014 award for Most Innovative Structured Investment Vehicle goes to…’

  More in-jokes and outward smiles. The prize-winners’ Oscar-ish figurines are featureless, blank and smooth, perhaps another dark clue as to what the future holds. You’re not marooned as such, just incapable of delivering on a stated desire to leave. A tall ladder extends out of the back of the stage, which you would jump onto in front of everyone if only it had some rungs. But it has none. Bugger. Would screaming help? Something for the after-party perhaps, but you only live one night bus away so there’s really no excuse to stay – and yet not enough impetus to be gone.

  With luck and the daily guidance app that nags you not to join the circus or form a cult and knows where you live, you’ll make it home again. Somewhere on the way home the two sides of the Venn diagram will blur back into one, and you’ll forget everything in the prize of sleep.

  * * *

  Remember to regularly check in to see what condition your terms and conditions are in. ↵

  Our Voyage Begins at Last

  We’re badly hit. I mean, really badly. We’ve lost Carlos, second mate, most of the gravity is failing on decks 12–18… the ship, the ship is really shot… It was the lasers I believe, mostly the lasers, we— I guess I hadn’t expected them to have such good lasers.

  God, Laura, so many good people. My science officer Velk, just out of the academy. Damn. So much promise, such brilliance. Beautiful too, in his way. He could plot the jump between Tau Ceti and Leonis Minoris in the time it takes me to operate that Italian coffee machine some fool installed on the bridge. This day will live in infamy, I tell you.

  God, these alarms never stop, do they? I guess that means we still haven’t repressurised the restaurants on Level 18. Those poor guys, no air and no escape.

  We outsourced the catering on the advice of the bean counters, and frankly I did it through gritted teeth. But you know what? Turns out the Saureenz might be cheaper than robots but their silver-service skills could go toe-to-toe with anyone I’ve encountered in a galaxy of dining encounters. So polite, so deft with the sauces and always on top of the specials. I swear, we shall mourn them just as deeply as the regular crew, assuming we ever get this crate back to the station. I shall personally see to it.

  I hope you get this vidcom message, Laura – you know I’m totally gonna be there for your graduation. I have such respect for adult education, you know that. I mean, Jesus, I didn’t make Captain until I retrained, you know that, right? This is all new, really. I was more on the marketing side of the fleet until four years ago. Funny. But you grow up pretty damn fast in that chair, I can tell you that, particularly on a day like today.

  ‘Support that bulkhead! For God’s sake hold firm and get him free! Use the robots!’

  Assuming we can re-energise the power grid I’ll definitely be there for the ceremony, promise. Sunday, right? It’s at the symphony hall?

  It’s a hell of time for it but you know me, relentlessly upbeat! Maybe after you get your gong, we could, I dunno, take a walk down by the harbour? There’s a nice little bistro, Giovanni’s I think, we could—

  ‘What do you mean we’ve lost all power to the shields? Someone get me Hansek in the engine room. I need power!’

  The sad part is this ship, this beautiful old girl; she’s seen some times. And I’d just personally overseen her complete refitting. New carpets throughout the social areas. Healthier food options in the Vendomats. Pretty state of the art. It’s about sharing a commitment, living a promise. I’ve always placed transparency at the heart of my captaincy. Don’t like to blow my own trumpet, Laura, but those internal feedback forms, they don’t lie.

  What I’m saying is, I think you have to see every setback in the round. Every captain must be big picture. Yes, we’ve lost the ability to steer the ship, and sure, a lot of people were vapourised in the initial blast, but when they were sucked through the airlocks they left a happy, integrated team.

  I want you to know that, assuming we don’t crash into the ISS Globalus, and assuming we make it back to Earth, I’m really a pretty stand-up guy. I know we’ve only known each other a few weeks but I’m very supportive of other people’s goals. Your goals, Laura.

  Well, this is me. Fridays are always a horror, right? Ha. I should really see if that hatch is still—. Ah. Well, really hope we can touch base on the weekend. Love you. There. I’ve said it.

  Trimmed Back: A Few Notes From the Brainstorm

  ‘Discomfort sensitising shave mousse’

  Nice… but bit of a double-edged sword? Twin virtues? Manliness? Maybe replace ‘s’ with ‘z’ spelling, for added power?

  ‘Smooth glide… smooth ride’

  Is the cowboy mentality still a thing in 2018? Visuals look a bit too ‘Brosnan’…

  ‘Age-attenuating action’

  … love the science-y angle (strong) & sounds purposive without overt narcissism (win). Negs: too brainy?

  ‘Fissionbalm smoothing layer’

  Love it! Possible atom-and-particles-type graphics? ‘The world rotates around you with new…’ A tad cold maybe?

  ‘Stubble-terminating powergel’

  Pros: confident, declarative. Cons: bit heavy? Maybe balance with an offsetting virtue? ‘Gently terminating’?

  ‘Nick-proof depilating masque’

  Possible application confusion? Man in the Mask? (too Jacko?) Positive: ‘Nick’ is popular guy’s name. Nicely projects social/career competency.

  ‘Mandation – now with smoothing guy granules’

  Mandated = governance metaphor – poss. copy: ‘decision makers use…’ more than just make-up? Makers – traditional male skills – alignment with carpenters and tradesmen (strong). Power from within? Reduces sense of the superficial. ‘Stay in control of the granular details with…’ suggests complete control. Love it!

  15 Words, Max.

  ‘Tell us a fact about yourself.’ In a different context this question could have come across as a little bit threatening. Give us a name and we’ll say no more about it. Where were you on the morning of the 13th? And so on.

  But as the final field to be completed on a luxury car raffle entry, the question was given to causing a more positive quickening of the blood. A happy anticipation that here at last was a chance to buck the fickle ways of Lady Fate. An open goal, really. Just win over the judges’ hearts and minds with something authentic, honest, even funny.

  Jane emptied this morning’s entries over the grey laminate desk. The luxury car entries were a weekly highlight in a fairly repetitive summer admin job, working at a clearing house full of retail competitions. A fragment of more or less every aspect of contemporary life was being offered in prize form from somewhere within this unremarkable building outside Croydon. From microwaves that roast to holiday villas in seaside resorts long past their best, sacks full of completed prize-draw forms arrived daily.

  Jane had long settled on the theory that it was all driven by context. You had to picture the scene. Somewhere in an airport terminal was a slowly revolving and undoubtedly red Ferrari, capturing perfectly the pre-holiday sense that things were definitely going your way. For just a tenner f
lutter, you drive off into a new world.

  By Jane’s reckoning the decision to even enter the prize draw had to be accompanied by a certain level of personal expectation management: ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ You were, after all, playing about in the same probabilistic neighbourhood as being plurally struck by lightning – the bit where numbers, good or bad, get a bit pointed. A little self-deprecating laugh, then, as biro bites down on card.

  As with any seemingly throwaway task, it soon dawns that a couple of minutes of actual concentration are required. Name, address, email – sure. A ticked agreement to appear in any eventual publicised award ceremony. But then there it is, at the end: ‘Tell us a fact about yourself (15 words, max.).’

  Jane had dined out on so many of the scrawled responses that filled this box. Insofar as you’d actually want to dine out in Croydon.

  There was something about a supercar’s inherent overemphases, its portal-like promise of another world, that brought out the entire spectrum of human experience and ambition in these 15-word pitches. Sudden displays of raw emotion; tentatively drawn connections to the world of high-net-worth driving; hints of insider smarts; comically ill-judged unburdenings. And always a gem or two.

  ‘I have risen at 5am daily since the age of 17.’

  ‘I love my kids, Bethany, Davis and Tarabelle.’

  ‘I once met Mika Häkkinen at Silverstone.’

  ‘I was at school with the drummer of Culture Club.’

  Jane had often wondered, with a slight smile, if the average punter would be disappointed to learn that the entries were being judged – well, read and reviewed – by an arts student who couldn’t even drive. True, the prize draw carried the endorsement of a certain car-obsessed TV presenter, which was a little disingenuous. But nowhere was it actually stated that the winner would be chosen by motoring’s self-appointed high priest, even if he appeared in a loose-fitting American flying jacket and beaming smile on all the promotional literature.

  Perhaps it was just a condition of entry that one surely believed such a momentous prize could only be awarded after sombre judgement by elders and betters.

  ‘I have a signed copy of every book by David Icke.’

  ‘My wife and I will have been married for 35 years in April.’

  ‘I have a collection of 300 Airfix planes in my loft.’

  ‘I love all humanity equally, taking no part.’

  At this last, Jane’s eyes skidded to a halt. The first five words had teased a smile – the jarring presence of fading hippiedom, or worse, recent Alpha-course graduate?

  But it was the final clause that brought Jane up short. ‘Taking no part’. What did it mean? That austere yet broad-reaching tone didn’t belong here in the world of macho material hopefulness. Weird. Weirder, the rest of the details were completely commonplace. Christopher Davis, 12 Langley Mansions, Oldwood Road, Lancaster.

  ‘Taking no part’ – was it a joke? A stab at religiosity? No, it was far too odd to be parody or satire. Jane read it again, softly but aloud. It actually felt difficult to say, like a piece of alien syntax from another time, another world. She didn’t want to read the others now. The task’s usual jolly mood was broken, yet a spell was cast, not from above, but speaking direct from history.

  A coffee was needed. Jane put the entry down and started to think what would happen if it won the prize.

  The office kitchen’s radio interjected with Earthly dramas. A plucky migrant rescue story, involving feats of faith and travel. A recently-repaired political career whose unlikely second act involved rock-climbing, now compromised by an ill-judged affair. An intelligent car with a death wish. Something upsetting about tennis.

  And now this. How could this second coming, if that was what it was, compete with all that? How could you be epic without sounding utterly mad? Revelations were a series of detonating roadside dramas, not peace-shaped missives from above.

  Jane put ‘Christopher Davis’ to one side. Perhaps there were other strangenesses lurking among the day’s remaining entries. But they were the usual mishmash of terrestrial hopes and dreams.

  An email dinged. ‘Entries sorted?’ David, her supervisor, had more stuff for her to do. She briefly toyed with the idea of raising her queries over the entry, and then realised that there was no way of broaching them without seeming hopelessly invested in… what exactly?

  Where was this day going? Something had been unplugged. Language had lost its invisibility and was proving troublesome. She felt a slight feeling of being overwhelmed. ‘Taking no part’; such a powerful statement. Presence in the shape of retreat. Overbearing in its myth-making, the phrase tripped up the everyday patter of declaration and conversation. Too bright a light from a door you regret propping open.

  Could meek and mild really bridge two different worlds? Could personal transcendence be reached at near 185mph among those kings of the petrolhead kingdom? It was a dazing possibility. Yes, it could win – no, it had to win – this was a necessary intervention, a righteous disruption in the usual order of things.

  Jane shivered and tingled despite the stuffy warmth of the room. A power surged across her head and behind her shoulders as she looked guiltily around at her co-workers. Her involvement would be unseen, unknown. The entry form in her hand was somehow both ticket and revelation, beginning and ending, promise and destiny joined.

  She would move in a mysterious way, then, guided by a new sense of purpose, one whose magic was making her beam like never before. She would make this happen, guided not from above, but still splendid and directed, true as an arrow, yet taking no part.

  Complexities at the ParagraphBar

  (哲学的 居酒屋)

  Yoko is laughing at the inflated mortar board on Charles’s head. It does look funny, squashed down on his sizey bonce like a swimming aid. Hardly striking a note of academe, but then the music is pretty damn loud in here.

  ‘You’re going to the bar? An Asahi if they haven’t got anything else, alright? Arigato Frank-san!’

  The mic is passed on, in what’s become increasingly a blur in the last 60 minutes, oh blast, ‘No more Camus!’ you josh. Try to stay on it. Sushi sets as ever proving no defence against the birthday boozy set.

  Back from the bar, and returning through the airlock-style doors, ah here we go, and yes, it’s always the big hits. Florence is up next, her eyes scan the listings for a fave to recite, while we all wait for the good stuff.

  The screen, whose lack of focus is either a clever dig at the performances or, as you suspect, just an ageing CRT buried in the wall, changes from blue to pink as the letters start appearing. Florence is hot, and she knows that we know she never looks hotter than when reciting Camus. She waves the mic unprofessionally below her chin, hardly the stance of a world-renowned miserablist with the world at his feet, but it’s a winsome display.

  It’s also worse yet better that her poise is slightly undermined by her inability to read it with the rhythm of the original French. Nevertheless, highly tangible levels of charm fill the room, as Florence’s brown eyes follow the dancing ball above the words, until you’re just a little bit devastated.

  ‘Provide to us for a look of eternal I think beauty, unbearable minute we would like extend over the entire time, to drive us to despair…’

  This being a paragraphbar at the rougher end of Lil’ Tokyo, they’ve used some godawful on-the-fly translation for the content, so this is French philosophy that’s come to London from Tokyo via Chinese economy class. The maddening mangle of the text is part of the fun of course. And it wouldn’t work for anything but continental philosophy, where a certain showy verbalising is very much de rigueur. The translation’s failure is sort of what sets it free. Or something.

  Florence is on to the hits now and Charles the postgrad looks a bit transfixed. Anna, who seems to be his new ‘possibly’, is dividing her gaze between them both, cautionary steel and righteous girl-love. Frank’s on the end of the sofa, far too far gone to follow the nuance of the p
erformance by this point, but throws over the inflatable umbrella, which Florence begins to twirl endearingly as she delivers the next line:

  ‘Nothing but this slow trek through the detour of art, to rediscover, man’s work is first opened the image simple and wonderful thing two or three in the heart of his existence.’

  We whoop enthusiastically, secretly a bit terrified of who’s going to have to follow this. Flo is in full flow. Yoko and Anna click their fingers and sway a little; their faces flicker with a campfire brightness, smiling as mid-20th-century ethical insights melt like marshmallows.

  ‘They will not be really willing to die except for free men. Therefore, they do not believe it completely dead.’

  You take a long draught of bubbly, savoury beer, letting the mood wash over you.

  ‘Thrift and loneliness: working conditions for I have become a thing of the monastic life at all times. With the exception of thrift, they so much so, what I am the violence themselves, the work is contrary to my nature…’

  Maybe it’s the booze that’s the dark matter holding all of this together, grammatically speaking? I mean, it’s definitely a fun and novel way to encounter the classics of post-1930 thinking, and yes, you must come in here almost twice a month despite half-heartedly always decrying the idea. Perhaps it’s actually a bit more sensual than your protestations to the contrary would admit?

  You gaze over at Rufus. He’s 29, that pivotal age where you can still imagine your mind a lava’d foundry of the new and daring, despite having spent the most recent decade mooching about on the fading carpets of academe. You have some fun and balletic arguments with Rufus at the university, but he’s a little more cloudy in social situations. A brooding red wine in one hand, but jacket still on, he seems to be making a physical nod to his own chief philosophical contribution to date. Of course, theellipma ‘..,’ never really took off as a mainstream theoretical concept. But as a social marker for one who is perpetually readied not to leave… well, maybe it has legs after all? ‘Jeremy frowned, umbrella in hand as he stood at the bar, caught in an ellipma.’ Perhaps things will work out for Rufus.