Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  I wanted to be on my own. I just wanted to sit somewhere and be entertained without having to make small talk and pretend to be happy and content with life, so I went to the cinema. To see an action movie.

  I ended up buying a ticket for a film I’d already seen the week before (with my brother, not with Sarah who always complains about the plots or the lack thereof), but it was the only pure action film out there. I didn’t want action-comedy, action-drama, action-mystery, I just wanted action. Bombs, guns, explosions, natural disasters, a bit of sex was okay, but no real relationship-forming stuff. I certainly wasn’t in the mood for that. As I’d seen it the week before, I knew what was going to happen, but then again, you always do: it’s the visual and audio effects combined with the fighting and stunts that make it what it is. I’d loved it the week before and I was thoroughly prepared to love it again. I knew that it could make me forget what a mess I, the sorry wimp, had made of my own life. It was worth spending half of my cash on a postmatinee, Saturday-evening show. I knew it would give me a buzz and a feeling of invincibility that would stay with me for a few hours at least.

  During the first half hour the action came thick and fast. The opening scene was stunning: I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many bombs go off, so many cars, trees, houses, and office blocks disintegrate. But then—I could hardly believe it—I came back to myself with a jolt. No longer was I lost in the adventures on the big screen, no, once more I was only poor unemployed Alex Fairfax and I was annoyed. People were talking. And being loud about it, too. There was laughter, giggling, and chatting from only a few rows behind me. Okay, okay, there weren’t any bombs going off now, but it was still exciting: the hero was crawling through a mine-infested jungle and the enemy were all around him, the music had that eerie quality so you just knew something was going to jump out at him at any moment. And people were talking. Why had they bothered paying to sit inside this cinema if they only wanted to chat?

  After a few minutes of this I shushed them. They only laughed louder. And then other members of the audience (I’d started a trend) tried shushing them, too. More giggles and talking. I turned and glared at them and shushed very loudly. There were six of them, three couples, all in their early twenties, old enough to know better. One of the girls stuck out her tongue at me—she actually stuck out her tongue—and they all broke into hysterical laughter.

  Livid, face flushing, I turned back to the film. I’d been right: the hero had been cornered and now he was busy busting noses and breaking necks, all the while protecting the token woman (sexy, of course, and her clothes had been half torn off in a previous battle scene) he was now duty-bound to protect.

  More laughter and talking from behind me. I squirmed in my seat. This wasn’t right. I forced myself to try and shut it out. I always found the volume in cinemas too loud, but right then I was thankful for the noise and I kept hoping that the big gun battle I knew was coming would begin. Surely the sounds of all that gunfire would block out the noises from behind.

  Then, suddenly, I heard, “Hiya, mate. Did ya see the game?” I turned once more to glare and one of the men, his arm around his girlfriend, was on the phone. I could see its glow next to his ear. He started talking about the day’s match.

  “Shut up,” I said, loudly.

  He gave me the finger and continued talking. “No, but did you see that second attempt? It was brilliant.”

  (Keep in mind that my head was practically entombed in a thick, white bandage that showed up quite visibly in the cinema lighting. I might have been dying. I might have been recovering from brain surgery.)

  That was it. I’d had it. I was so sick of these people. So sick of these people who thought they ruled the world and could do anything they damn well pleased. Well, no more. I wasn’t going to let them.

  I rose to my feet, clutching my nearly full Pepsi in one hand, and faced them. “Shut the fuck up,” I said.

  “And who’s gonna make me?” asked the bloke on the phone.

  That was it. I’d had it.

  I stormed up the aisle and into the row in front of them. By some quirk of fate it was completely empty, waiting for me to enact my destiny. This was how it was meant to be. I’d suffered enough and the Fates had decided it was time to even out the score. There had to be balance and redress and it was my turn to be the man on top. I was now the action hero of my very own movie.

  I stopped in front of them. The girls were laughing. And I threw my Pepsi right into the face of that bastard on the phone. They stopped smiling then.

  There were cheers from the audience and I knew I was center stage now.

  Spluttering, Wet Face dropped his phone and rose to his feet, cocking his fist.

  And I drew back my own arm and I socked him straight on the nose.

  There was an eruption of blood and the sound of crunching bone and cartilage. I’d hit the bull’s-eye.

  That shut them up. Let’s see them try that again. The girls were frozen in their seats, screaming at all that blood, too scared to flee, for I was still standing there. Waiting for their next move.

  The other two blokes stood up, trying to look threatening, but I just stared at them and they sat back down.

  Blood was dripping everywhere. (Noses bleed a lot when you hit them.) I rubbed my knuckles and I couldn’t stop smiling.

  I laughed. “Thank you for being quiet,” I said. “Have a nice day.”

  And I turned and walked, tall and proud, from the cinema.

  There was no cheering and clapping this time. I knew that my fans were shocked. I exited the cinema to the sounds of machine-gun fire coming from every corner of the room. Sure did like that Dolby surround sound.

  I went to the men’s toilet and washed my hands, being careful to turn the taps with pieces of toilet paper as I didn’t want to leave my fingerprints anywhere in case the police were called in. (I’d always known all those cop shows and films and books I’d read as a teenager would be good for something one day.) I was really lucky: there wasn’t another soul in sight. No members of the audience, no employees. Just me, the madly grinning lunatic in the mirror.

  And then, I like to think this was really clever, I unwound the bandages from my head, wrapped them and the bloodied tissues in toilet paper and stuffed it all into my pockets to be disposed of later.

  As I left the toilet, crowds streamed out of the cinema screen across the hall and I knew I was home free. I joined the swarm and headed toward the exit. In the lobby I could see the manager and a few employees clustered around the hunched and bloodied figure of the man I’d punched. (I’d punched someone, I’d punched someone. For the first time in my life I’d punched someone and it felt good. He’d deserved to be punched. He’d been asking for it. He was lucky I was in control or I’d have beaten him to a pulp. And he would have deserved that, too.) The man’s posse (his five friends) stood nearby scanning the crowd, looking out for me, a crazy man in white bandages. You don’t wind up a crazy man in white bandages. It’s like telling the man behind you in a darkened cinema in Times Square, New York, to shut up if you suspect he’s dealing drugs. You just don’t do it.

  Like everyone else in the crowd, I peered interestedly at the wounded man, but I didn’t smile, I didn’t gloat, I didn’t catch anyone’s eye, and then I was outside. I was free. I’d made it.

  I knew there was no way they’d trace me. I was pretty average-looking and nondescript without my bandages, this wasn’t my normal cinema, and I’d paid in cold hard cash. No one had been killed. It would go down in police records as an unsolved crime. They had more important matters to attend to. (Like looking for my wallet.)

  I have to say it’s a good thing I didn’t have a gun or I would have shot that little prick where he sat. I would have shot him through the heart. And it wouldn’t have been done in cold blood, no, my blood had been hot at the time. I’m glad I hadn’t had a gun because then he would have been dead and everyone would have blamed me (I’m not a fool: I know if I’d shot him the police
would have spent the time and resources necessary to track me down). And I hadn’t wanted him dead, I’d wanted him to suffer. No longer would he be so arrogant and inconsiderate. No longer would his friends look up to him and think him invincible. Oh, no, his little girlfriend, his little buddies, they’d all seen him moan and whimper with pain. He wasn’t such a man anymore.

  And I was an action hero.

  I knew that the audience, when they’d gone home, when they’d had time to digest what had happened, would realize that too. I’d stood up for them, I’d stood up for everyone. I, alone, had defeated the enemy. I’d punished the wrongdoer. I’d made everything right for us all.

  I’d never been a hero before and now I was an action hero. Pow. Jab. Smack. Punch. I was invincible.

  the night i was a hero

  In just one punch I’d moved from being a loser to a hero. Suddenly I had “It,” whatever it is. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins as I wandered the streets of London. It got later and later and the crowds thinned and I began trawling the streets near where I’d been mugged the night before, longing to bump into the thugs who’d stolen my wallet.

  I never saw them, but I did see other unsavory characters waiting for drug deals or prostitutes or whatever other mischief they were up to, looking menacing and hard, and I just didn’t care. In me they recognized a similar hardness and I was left alone. It was a shame, for I would have welcomed a fight (said I’d leave the film with a buzz).

  I’d finally grabbed my life by the balls. I was in control.

  just bad luck? i don’t think so

  After my moment of infamy in the annals of north London cinema history, I knew suddenly that my misfortunes of the past week had been no one’s fault but my own. That’s right. I was the one to blame.

  Sure, Jed, Sarah, Kenneth, and the others may have been the instruments of evil, but I had been at fault for letting them take advantage of me. It doesn’t mean I’ll forgive them—I never will—but they have opened my eyes to the wider world. Humanity, like the rest of the animal kingdom, however enlightened we pretend to be, can be divided into two categories: predators and prey.

  My whole life I’d been prey. Now I was a predator.

  But I was a new, self-aware kind of predator. I decided to become the so-called king of the jungle. My prey was going to solely consist of other predators. Oh, yes, they’d had their field day, they’d had their easy run, but now it was my turn. I was going to stand up and fight back for all those saps out there who were still too nice to do anything for themselves. I was going to be Superman and Batman all in one. But I was going to be his evil, darker twin. I was the Vigilante.

  I was a predator. And to predators, the ends do most definitely justify the means.

  In the early hours of Sunday morning, I reached epiphany.

  I was Alex Fairfax no longer.

  My name is Alexander Fairfax and I’m twenty-nine years old.

  Yesterday I was Alex, but today, from this moment on, I am Alexander. I have been born anew. Through blood and suffering, I have been forged into a better man.

  I am Alexander. Hear me roar.

  the first day of my life

  If I’m going to get my revenge—and I’m going to get my revenge—I need a plan. I need lots of plans.

  Revenge, revenge, revenge. Sounds good, doesn’t it?

  What better way to start a new life than clearing up the rubbish from the last life?

  the list

  If I’m going to get the revenge I deserve, does that make me the revenger and them the revengees? Is that my superhero title? The Revenger? The Great Revenger? (I can’t be the Avenger, too many associations, though the most recent one, of Uma Thurman in black leather, isn’t bad.) Or maybe I’ll be the Great Taker of Vengeance. For my cause is mightier than mere revenge, the greedy fools deserve to be punished for their betrayals, their cupidity and, most of all, for their hubris. It’s vengeance I’m after.

  Vengeance.

  They will be punished.

  My list of those who deserve to suffer (in chronological order):

  1. Spotty kids who trashed my car

  2. Jed, Thomas, and William for betraying me at Monday’s meeting with Kenneth

  3. Jed for assigning me the Shire Horse work

  4. Sarah and Jed

  5. (I’ve forgiven Noreen for her breakfast tirade. She’s not a morning person. Hurrah for Noreen. No vengeance required.)

  6. Sarah and Jed

  7. Jed’s even greater work betrayal on Friday

  8. Kenneth Wilmington-Wilkes for believing Jed and sacking me

  9. Sarah and Jed

  10. Glass-throwing brute at pub

  11. Two muggers

  12. Five-pound Ms. Head Librarian (I’ve included her just in case, though I haven’t decided whether or not she deserves punishment, as she’s only petty and annoying, not actually evil. I’ll have to think about this one.)

  13. People who talk in cinemas (Full stop)

  14. Anyone else I deem worthy of vengeance

  15. Any other bastards out there taking advantage of the innocent (a.k.a. the prey)

  A pretty comprehensive list you might think, but I have another way of ordering it.

  My list of those who deserve to suffer (from most to least):

  1. Jed

  2. Everybody else

  step one

  I have a plan. I have a great plan. I have a great, secret plan.

  This is what I chant to myself in the silly voice of a superhero villain—internally, I’m not crazy—as I head toward home. Suddenly I stop, I freeze in midmotion the way they always do in cartoons, and I smile. I smile this great beatific smile as it hits me. I’m free and single. I’m young, free, and single. And now I’m one of the elite: I’m a predator. Sarah was for the old Alex, the nice me. The new in-control me can do better.

  I know instantly what I’m going to do. Standing there, legs spread in the middle of a pace, I have a moment of perfect clarity. Everything will work out exactly as I want it to because I will make it do so. I will be a great puppeteer to the thousands of lesser mortals out there. I’ve worked in advertising, coming up with catchy slogans and clever ways to get the public to part with their cash: I’ve become an expert at manipulation without even realizing it. And now it’s time for the games to begin.

  Pah, I don’t care about fame. I’m not going to be some actor baring his arse on a thirty-foot screen. What I’m going to be is filthy, dirty, stinking rich. I’m going to set up my own advertising firm. I’m going to become the new Saatchi and Saatchi. I’m going to disembowel the firm of Wilmington-Wilkes as I draw away their clients one by one. I’m going to become a king.

  Sarah is going to wish she’d never given me up. She’ll rue the day she lost my love, the day she lost her chance to be at the center of it all.

  And if magazines and newspaper columns want to devote their space to me, well, so be it. I didn’t say I wouldn’t take fame, but for me it’s just a side effect. The power and money of success is what I want.

  I start moving again, walking, and then I begin to run, legs flying, arms pumping, eating up the pavement. In ten minutes I am home. The sky is lightening and it will soon be dawn, but I don’t need any sleep. I shower and change and then I start to work.

  I spend the day flying the wave of my euphoria, working on brilliant new advertising campaigns for my three chosen targets from the comfort of my bed. (I find the daisies oddly comforting and inspiring at the same time. They’re so bright and cheery and bold, simple and confident all at once with their 1,566 petals.) My chosen targets are three big—though not the biggest—clients of Wilmington-Wilkes. Three companies in which I have contacts, three companies I’ve worked with previously under the Wilmington-Wilkes banner, three companies I know will soon start thinking about new advertisements, three companies that need some fresh ideas.

  That evening I stop, satisfied. I’m like John Travolta in Phenomenon: my brain is working
so fast that in the space of fourteen hours I have completed three separate campaigns. And my concepts are brilliant, not so revolutionary as to shock the poor public but so original and breathtaking that I know, just know, that I, Alexander Fairfax, am going to have my first three clients by the end of the week. In the space of a single, albeit very long, day I have done the work it would normally take a four-man team two or three months to complete. I am free of the rules and restrictions, the protocol and politics of a big company, and my mind has no boundaries. It’s so easy to think when you’re free.

  And I don’t need fancy graphs, I don’t need models in bikinis holding client products to grab their attention, I just need me. Me and my ideas.

  Tomorrow I will enter the arena. The Jeds and Kenneths of this world won’t know what’s hit them. I won’t give them time to step aside: my stampede will crush them underfoot. But it’s not just about survival, it’s about survival with style.

  I don’t fool myself. Alex would have come up with the same ideas. He is, after all, me, and I am he, but Alex would never have had the balls to do what I am about to do.

  For a second I feel a flicker of unease. What if no one likes my concepts? What if they’re not good enough? What if I’m not good enough? Then I look up at the daisies and I smile. Of course I’m going to succeed. I am Alexander now. I’m no longer a loser. I’m not Alex. I will never be Alex again. I will never be that coward. I am Alexander. I. Am. Alexander.

  only for idiots or the unwary

  (sorry, mum, i know this includes you)

  I know that salesmen are supposed to be persuasive, that a good salesman is supposed to be able to sell anything, that I’m a sort of salesman myself, but I could strangle those who come door to door. The latest strategy seems to include knocking on one’s door with a clipboard and a wet, crumpled-looking badge or ID card and with nothing else. No literature. No terms and conditions. Nothing.