The Fandom of the Operator

by Rovert Rankin

  Presently Dave emerged from the launderette with a pale, young face and a bit of a sweat on.

  “That was nice,” he said. “I missed that in the nick.”

  “Didn’t they have a launderette in there?” I asked.

  “No,” said Dave. “You had to wash out your undies in the slop bucket.”

  “Were you ‘the Daddy’ in there?” I asked. “Did you have ‘bitches’?”

  “I think you’re in the wrong decade,” said Dave, shaking his shaven head. “We had snout and screws and vicars with long hair who taught us how to turn dolly pegs on a lathe.”

  “Will you be going back, do you think? Or, having paid your debt to society, will you henceforth be a model citizen?”

  “I liked the food,” said Dave. “I think I will become a repeat offender.”

  “Each to his own,” said I. “What shall we do tonight?”

  “We could break into the sweet shop and steal humbugs.”

  “Not keen,” I said. “There’s a dance on at the Blue Triangle Club. Pat Lyons and the Second Thoughts are playing.”

  “Is it booga-booga music?”

  “It’s Blue Beat, I think.”

  “Let’s go, then. I’ll nick some parkas from the cloakroom.”

  We went to the Blue Triangle Club.

  Every other day of the week, the Blue Triangle Club was a YMCA sports and social hall. But Thursdays were different. On Thursdays there were bands – real bands with guitars and amplifiers. Most of the bands had Jeff Beck in them. You couldn’t really have a band back then if Jeff Beck wasn’t in it. He was “paying his dues”, which was what you did in those days if you wanted to become famous as a musician. You didn’t go along to auditions that were being shown as a TV series, you learned your craft. You paid your dues. And you ultimately became Jeff Beck.

  Jeff Beck played lead guitar with Pat Lyons and the Second Thoughts on Thursdays. I don’t know what ever happened to Pat Lyons. Obviously he never paid enough dues. Because he never became Jeff Beck. I heard that he became a butcher, as did Reg Presley from the Troggs, before he gained a temporary reprieve when some nineties band took one of his songs to the top of the charts again and he got some royalties in. Spent it researching crop circles, I understand.

  But Jeff Beck did become Jeff Beck and he played some blinding guitar that Thursday night at the Blue Triangle Club.

  Somewhere, amongst my personal effects, exists my Blue Triangle Club member’s card. It’s blue and it’s got my name on and it’s triangular in shape. My membership number was 666, which meant a lot to me at the time.

  “Got any pills?” asked the bouncer, barring our way into the club. “I’ll have to search you.” The bouncers were so very big in those days. And they were bouncers then, not door supervisors. Harry was huge.

  “Turn it in, Harry,” I said. “We don’t have any pills.”

  “Would you like to buy some, then?” asked Harry.

  “Now you’re talking,” said Dave. “Got any purple hearts?”

  “Shilling each,” said Harry.

  “I’ll take a quid’s worth,” said Dave.

  I sighed a little for my bestest friend. “You’re on probation,” I said. “You’ll be in trouble if you’re caught popping purple hearts.”

  “Are you going to grass me up?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Then, a quid’s worth for my friend too.”

  “Nice,” I said, trying to look like I meant it.

  In truth I’d never taken any drugs. When people offered them to me, I accepted gratefully and pretended to pop them into my mouth. But really I pocketed them, took them home, sorted them out, packaged them up and generously handed them around when the time was right. So my friends thought I was pretty “right on”. But in truth I was afraid of drugs.

  I’ve never cared for being out of control – which is to say, not being in control of myself. I like what thinking I do to be of my own volition. I like to be the master of my own self. I took the quid’s worth of purple hearts and appeared to toss them down my throat.

  Dave made short work of his.

  We paid our entrance fees, had our hands stamped with ultraviolet paint for our pass-outs and entered the Blue Triangle.

  The joint was not exactly a-jumping. A few embarrassed-looking girls in droopy dresses half-heartedly slopped about the dance floor, circumnavigating their handbags. A few young blokes in full mod rigout lounged at the bar, too young to get served, too cool to admit that they couldn’t.

  Dave made for the bar, ordered drinks, was turned away and returned without them.

  “In prison,” he said, “we drank piss and got right out of our faces.”

  “What?” said I. “You drank your own piss?”

  “Certainly not,” said Dave. “Do I look like a pervert?”

  I shook my head, for in truth Dave didn’t.

  “We drank the piss of Goldstein the shaman.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Goldstein the shaman grew Peyote cactus in his cell. If you eat Peyote buttons the drug comes out in your piss stronger than when it went in. It’s something to do with the acids in the human digestive system.”

  “That can’t be true,” I said.

  “It is,” said Dave.[9] “I wonder if it works with lager.”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “No,” said Dave. “You’re probably right. So, shall we chat up some girls? What do you think?”

  I cast an eye over the womenfolk. There was a particularly pretty blonde girl chatting with a big fat friend.

  “There’s a couple over there,” I said. “But I don’t like the look of your one much.”

  “They all look the same in the dark,” said Dave, wise as ever for his years. “I think these purple hearts are kicking in. How do my pupils look?”

  I stared into his eyes. “Well,” I said, “that’s interesting.”

  “Have they dilated?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “But it would appear that both of your pupils are now located in your right eye.”

  “No?” Dave covered his left eye with his hand. “Damn me,” he said, “you’re right.”

  “This might affect your chances of chatting up that big fat girl.”

  “No probs,” said Dave, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a pair of sunglasses. “I was going to put these on anyway. They make me look like Roy Orbison.”

  “Who’s Roy Orbison?”

  “He’s the lead singer with a band in Acton. Jeff Beck plays bass for them on Tuesdays.” Dave put on his sunglasses. “How do I look?” he asked.

  “A bit of a nelly. Those are women’s sunglasses. Does Roy Orbison wear women’s sunglasses?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dave. “I’ve never seen him.”

  Drinkless, feckless, young, dumb and full of commercial enterprise, Dave and I set out to pull.

  Dave, the uncrowned king of the chat-up line, marched straight over to the fat girl and introduced himself. “Black’s the name,” said Dave. “Count Otto Black, swordsman and adventurer, and you, I believe, I have seen in the movies.”

  “Me?” said the fat girl. “Me in the movies?”

  “Come on,” said Dave. “Don’t be shy. I’ve seen you in a film, haven’t I?”

  “No,” said the fat girl. “You haven’t.”

  “Oh,” said Dave. “I could have sworn you were Robert Mitchum.”[10]

  The fat girl tittered foolishly, which meant that Dave was “in there”. The blonde girl, however, maintained a stony silence.

  “Don’t mind him,” I said to her. “He’s stoned out of his face. We both are. We’re wild ones. Live fast, die young, that’s us.”

  “Then don’t let me keep you,” said the blonde girl. “Feel free to die whenever you want.”

  “My name’s Gary,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “Mine’s a gin and tonic”

  “Are you a Red Indian, then?
”

  “What?” said the blonde girl.

  “Well, when they christen Red Indian babies, they baptize them in the river, hold them up and then name them after the first thing the mother sees. Like Standing Bear, or Sitting Bull, or Passing Cloud, or Two Dogs Sexing.”

  “What are you blathering about?”

  “You said your name was A Gin and Tonic. Perhaps your mum didn’t live near a river, so you were christened in a cocktail bar. That would explain it.”

  “Fugg off!” said the blonde girl, upon whom the subtle nuances of my sophisticated humour were obviously lost.

  “I suppose sex would be out of the question, then?” I said.

  “Fugg off or I’ll call the bouncer.”

  “Harry’s a friend of mine,” I said.

  “Harry’s my brother,” said the blonde girl.

  “Look,” I said, because I was rarely put off. Knowing, as most teenage boys have always known, that nine times out of ten persistence will eventually wear down a teenage girl. “I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot here.”

  “Take both your feet and walk.”

  Having a secret weapon in my bird-pulling arsenal, I chose now to employ it. “I love your perfume,” I said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s Fragrant Night, by Fabergé, isn’t it?”

  “It might be.”

  “And your lipstick. I love that too. That’s Rose Carmethine, by Yardley.”

  “It might be.”

  “And your frock is a Mary Quant. And your shoes …”

  “You know an awful lot about women’s fashion.”

  I leaned close to the blonde girl’s left ear and whispered the words: “I’m a homosexual.” Then stepped back to let them take effect.

  The blonde girl stared me full in the eyes. “Oh,” she said. “I, err … do you really like my frock?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “The colour really flatters your complexion. You have beautiful skin, if I might say so. Flawless.”

  “Thank you. My name’s Sandra, by the way.” And she put out her hand for me to shake.

  So I shook it.

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, dirty trickster. Yeah, all right, OK. But I was a homo; well, I had been a homo. I was all for having a go at heterosexuality. But it’s actually a great chat-up line. When you confide your homosexuality, the woman no longer feels threatened. She views you differently. And if she finds you attractive, she wonders, just wonders, whether she could “straighten you out”. Women won’t admit to this, of course, but then there are so many things that women won’t admit to, particularly when it comes to sex. And as this particular ploy had proved effective on several previous occasions, I had no reason to believe that it would fail upon this one.

  Sandra bought me a gin and tonic. Well, she looked eighteen. Then she led me to one of the tables at the end of the hall away from the stage and talked to me about fashion and boyfriends. I listened to it all, offering sensitive comment when I felt the need arose, but basically letting her do all the talking. Women, I have learned, like this a lot. They like a man who listens, rather than just rabbits on about himself. So I listened and I waited, waited for the question that I knew would eventually come.

  “Have you ever been with a girl?” Sandra asked.

  Result!

  “No,” I said. “Never.”

  “You must have thought about it, though.”

  I shrugged strategically. It was not a direct question – a direct answer could blow the whole thing. “The band’s starting up,” I said. “Would you like to dance?”

  Sandra nodded. And so we danced.

  Jeff Beck played a stormer that Thursday night. He was joined on stage by Alan Price, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page and Bill Wyman, who were all paying their dues.

  Sandra got the rounds in all evening, although I did pay for at least half of them. By checking-out time I was rather drunk and she was rather drunk and very stoned.

  I know it is an evil thing to slip purple hearts into a young woman’s gin and tonic every time she goes off to the toilet, but I was a teenage boy and few teenage boys have a conscience.

  We left the Blue Triangle and while Sandra was throwing up in a dustbin around the back I spied Dave in congress with the fat girl up against the fire door. He gave me the thumbs-up and I returned it to him.

  Then I took Sandra off to show her Mr Doveston’s marble tomb by moonlight. It was a favourite place of mine to bring my lovers. I even had a sleeping bag stashed nearby in one of the above-ground crypts, for those who felt the marble rather cold upon their backs.

  I think that Sandra was rather pleased with herself afterwards. She had, after all, “cured” me of my homosexuality.

  I might just have notched her up as one more easy conquest, but there was something about Sandra that I really liked. It wasn’t her perfume, or her lipstick, or her frock, or her shoes. I determined that I’d change all of them soon enough. But it was something about her. The person that was her. She seemed special. I couldn’t put my finger on quite how she was special. She certainly wasn’t very clever. But she had a certain something. And, as I had always seen myself marrying a posh woman and the whinnying noises she made whilst I was sexing her led me to believe that she was indeed very posh, I decided to see her again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  9

  And then I awoke once more. And my teenage years were behind me and I was twenty-two.

  And I was married.

  To Sandra.

  I was sitting in a dingy kitchenette in a ground-floor flat in a road called Mafeking Avenue in Brentford. I looked out of the window towards a dismal little yard and the back wall of a public house and I thought, Whatever am I doing here?

  I thought back to my teenage years, but they were all out of focus. A snatch of detail here, a little incident there. This was the real and for now and I was here and it was all rather dull.

  In fact, it was very dull indeed.

  I stubbed out my cigarette. The ashtray overflowed onto a pink gingham tablecloth of grubby vinyl. From upstairs came the sounds of arguing voices.

  “Mike! I hate you, Mike.”

  Mike had flown Spitfires in the war. Mike, I knew, was dying of TB.

  “Shut up, woman. You’re drunk!”

  The woman’s name was Viv. She drank a bottle of dry Martini a day and went to Weight Watchers on a Thursday evening. At the YMCA hall that no longer housed the Blue Triangle Club. There weren’t any clubs like that any more. The council had tightened up on the licensing laws.

  “Go out to work, Mike. Get yourself a job.”

  “I’m retired. I have a disability allowance.”

  “You’re a lazy skiver.”

  “I’m dying of TB.”

  “Liar! You’re a liar.”

  But he wasn’t and in six months he would be dead. I stared all around and about my dire surroundings. How had I come to this? What was I doing here? Was this my life? Was this my life?

  I took out another cigarette and lit it up. It was a Players Number 10. Cheapest fags that ever there were. I couldn’t afford Passing Cloud any more. I didn’t even know whether they made Passing Cloud any more.

  I was out of work. Again. Work and I didn’t get on. My face never fitted and I could not subscribe to the “company ethic”. I kept on getting sacked. Which was OK in those days. You could draw the dole immediately even if you were sacked. They knew me well enough at the dole office.

  “Wotcha, Gary boy,” they would say. “How did you screw up this time?” And they would tell me to get my hair cut. Get my hair cut? Get real!

  But the thing was, these were the early nineteen seventies and there was plenty of work about. Loads of it. There wasn’t any unemployment. The blokes at the dole office kept finding me more work. They said that I was the only officially unemployed person in Brentford and it looked bad on their records and I’d have to start
work again on the following Monday. And so here I was, sitting at this table, and Sandra had gone off to work at the new nylons company on the Great West Road and I had an interview at ten-thirty. And it was nearly ten now and I didn’t want to go.

  I was sure that I’d had some aspirations when I was young. I’m sure that I wanted to be a mortician. Or a coroner, or an embalmer, but I’m sure that I never wanted to be this.

  I turned the piece of paper between my fingers. A telecommunications engineer. What was one of those anyway? Telephone man. Rooting amongst wires. I wondered whether they’d let me empty the coin boxes in telephone booths. I knew how to do that anyway. Dave had shown me.

  I missed Dave. He was in proper grown-up prison now. For breaking and entering, this time. His brief had asked for over two hundred similar offences to be taken into consideration and Dave was away on a five-year stretch.

  The local authorities were never happier than when I was employed and Dave was banged up. It meant that not only was there no official unemployment in the area, but there was no crime either.

  I gazed once more at the piece of paper. Telecommunications engineer. What was that all about? How dull was that? What could you do? There wasn’t much to telephones. You spoke in one end, words went down wires and came out the other. If the wires got broken you joined them up again. Fascinating? Challenging?

  I didn’t think so.

  I won’t go, I told myself. I’ll make some excuse. I’ll be sick.

  A shadow fell across the piece of paper. I looked up to see Harry peering in through the window. Harry was now employed by the dole office to escort unenthusiastic would-be employees to interviews at their new definitely soon-to-be places of employment.

  One of the reasons that there was full employment in those days was that by law companies were obliged to employ the first person who arrived for an interview when a vacancy came up.

  Actually it was a blinder of a system. How many times have you seen some big fat blackguard on TV who was the head of some huge multinational consortium, wining and dining it, living high off the hog, burning the candle at both ends and indulging in numerous other clichés, and said to yourself, “I could do that job!”? But you know that you’d never get the opportunity to do so. Because it’s always “jobs for the boys” or the Masonic handshake, or nepotism, or some such thing.