The Information Junkie

by Roderick Leyland

  'So, Mitch, your time is close.' His breath was foul with garlic and neglected teeth.

  He let a few rounds rip, pressing the gun's barrel close to my skin. I could almost taste the gun oil—it was clear he maintained the piece with love. The stench of singed hair and scorched flesh stung my nostrils and cordite hung in the air.

  Soon I'd have to make my peace with God. Now, He and I had never had a great deal in common and any communication had been limited to the God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy variety. But that was lost in childhood. No, I'd never had much time for Him. But since it looked as though I might shortly be on my way to meet Him, I tried to focus my thoughts and recall the proper form of words.

  I flung my mind back twenty years to my school days. What was it...? Oh, yes: Love your enemy, do good to those that hate you. I was now in an ideal position to start practising.

  But how, in the name of God, had I got myself into this pickle? And why, in the name of all that's holy, had I taken this last foolish risk?

  The advertisement in The Times had seemed harmless, but hooked me:

  HUNGRY FOR ADVENTURE?

  BORED WITH THE NANNY STATE?

  CAN YOU HANDLE RISK?

  So, I'd called the telephone number—

  —STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!

  Oops! Sorry, folks, wrong story. How the hell did that leak into this? Some sort of literary osmosis, I suppose. Phew! Let's get back on track:

  So, there I was (and I'm Charlie, remember, not Mitch Maverick, the militant mercenary, chucked out of the SAS for rough behaviour), lying on the carpet with Belinda at my side, shortly after Christmas.

  'I just need a few days away, sweetheart,' I said.

  'Alone...?' There was hurt in her voice. She cupped my face in her hands. 'No, no, Charlie, not again. You'll just brood or—worse—wander Romney Marsh, trying to find that ginger-haired phantom. It's crunch time, buddy.'

  I smiled at the idiom. 'Crunch time...?'

  'Time to face yourself, to face reality.'

  (Panic time, gentles.) 'You mean that I'm not a teenager any more? That I can't live a life of fantasy as if I were a character in a novel? And that—like a flower—I, too, must pass?'

  'You clever psychic,' she said and kissed me. 'How did you know what I was thinking?' She kissed me again. ' You clever sidekick.'

  'It's in my jeans [oops!—my genes], doll,' I replied.

  (Doll...? Where did that come from?)

  As I laughed she hit me playfully, thereby proving the adage:

  Always hit a cheerful psychic. Always compromise. (Strike a happy medium.) Now, that's a sign of wisdom, isn't it? I asked you—centuries ago it now seems—How old do you have to be to get wise? Oh, yes, now we're really beginning to pull all the strands together. How old?

  I keep thinking of meditation which is, inter alia, a surrendering to that which is. And, since I am fifty-two, perhaps we're beginning to get an answer to my question. Nicht wahr?

  Yeliena's black (trust, me buddies, they were black) mince pies kept repeating on me or, rather, I kept remembering them. Lithuanian pastry—bad news, folks. (Black. Was it made from putrid potato?) B and I rarely eat at her folks' house because of Yeliena's cooking. That's (probably) why Alan insists on doing the Christmas lunch. Don't get me wrong—he adores his wife, loves her to bits, but he needs one day a year of real food. They come to us more often than we go to Barnes. Mm? Where's here? Didn't I tell you? Wimbledon, gentles. Right at the bottom of the green line on the tube map. I knew a girl once—a stunner, thanks to the scalpel. Yeah, lineless face but the back of her neck looked like a frenzied map of the Underground.

  B's a beaut in the kitchen. Gordon Blue? Forget your Gordons, mate—B's a chick who can seduce you with a wooden spoon at a hundred culinary paces. Trust me, buddies, I know. Why? Because I eat the stuff. Lucky me.

  So, there I was, on the steps of the British Museum, when I heard an old man call:

  'Are your een bigger than your pokey?'

  I turned. It was Anthony Burgess.

  —Pardon...?

  'You're a Scot, aren't you?'

  —Sort of—

  He repeated the question pointing first to his eyes, then to his stomach. I screwed up my face, inviting an explanation. 'Damn youth,' he muttered. 'Are your EYES bigger than your TUMMY?'

  —What do you mean?

  He muttered something I couldn't catch, then shouted, with over-emphatic enunciation:

  'Have–you–bitten–off–more–than–you–can–chew?'

  I thought for a moment.

  —Probably.

  He came across to me. 'There's more to subversion than breaking the rules, you know.'

  —Really...?

  'Oh, and you've broken way too many. There must always be a clear line throughout a narrative otherwise people cannot follow. You're writing for your reader, you know, not your pleasure. You may wish to be provocative but you can be provocative and still observe the disciplines of storytelling. If you want to muddy the distinction between narrator and writer there are more subtle ways.'

  —Viz...?

  'Take Clockwork Orange. I have my narrator speak to an author who is writing a book called A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, and my narrator reads out a gloss. D'you see?'

  —So, what's my best bet now?

  'I know you won't do it but I suggest a rewrite, adopting a simpler style.'

  —You mean I'm buggered?

  'Up the creek without a bird in the bush.' He paused. 'But you may not think me the ideal guide.' He lifted his hat. 'I'll bid you good day.' He stopped, turned: 'Oh—good luck,' and walked off towards Bloomsbury Street.

  So, there I was, on the veranda of a ranch house just outside Reno, Nevada.

  'Roddy,' said Marilyn, 'do you follow a regular method or do you—' here she sucked in air, trying to find the word; and, having found it—'extemporise,' she smiled with relief.

  'Yes—I make it up as I go along.'

  'Roddy, don't you think it's wonderful to be creative?'

  'Sometimes, Miss Monroe.'

  'Won't you call me Marilyn?'

  'Okay, Marilyn.'

  'Poor Roddy, you're all red,' and she flung her arms around me, kissing my cheek. 'Oh, Roderick...' Her passion was bottomless.

  The screen door swung open. Elvis lounged in the frame:

  'Grub's up,' he mumbled.

  'Oh, Roddy, don't you just adore eating?'

  Inside, JFK was already eating the food which Elvis had prepared—hamburgers in toasted buns. He could scarcely cram it quickly enough into his mouth. As we sat Elvis said,

  'Rod, I hope you like hamburger.' He smiled a publicity-hardened smile. 'Ah-hm, just like momma's.'

  Marilyn said, 'Roddy, did you have a real momma?'

  'Yes, but not the apple-pie variety. She was Scottish.'

  'And is Scotland a big place?'

  'Big enough.'

  She smiled without understanding, searching my eyes for reassurance. Her question could just as easily have been: What's life really all about? There was a desperate vacancy, a desolation which nothing could fill.

  When JFK belched, Elvis mimicked him. Marilyn giggled, then said,

  'Bill, can you let rip like that?'

  'Both ends, sweetheart.'

  JFK released a short presidential fart: 'How's that for the top man?'

  Marilyn giggled again, partly to please him, I thought, partly to keep me on her side. She incorporated a Grand Canyon of vulnerability.

  'How's your burger, Rod?' said Elvis.

  'It's a real ripsnorter.'

  JFK raised himself up onto one buttock and released another presidential one. He looked at Elvis. 'Beat that, King?'

  'I'm not sure as I'd like to, especially in front of ladies and house guests.' Elvis, who'd been moody from the start, now threatened a major scene.

  'Oh, you guys are so neat.'

  I said to MM, 'You don't seem embarrassed.'

  'Do you think I
should be?'

  JFK, with mouth full, exchanged glances with the King before turning to me: 'Bill, how are you finding our atmosphere up here?'

  'Are we that high above sea level?'

  He smiled winningly, as one who is never wrong, or wronged. 'No—this rarefied atmosphere.' Like an infant corrected by his headmistress.

  I nearly said: Never ask what an atmosphere can do for you, rather what you can contribute to an atmosphere. But, resisting the temptation, I said: 'I'd find it difficult to get used to.'

  He finished chewing, took a sip of cola before engaging my eyes—his eyes, like MM's, projected the life force—and saying:

  'Rod, be not afraid of greatness: some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.' He made it sound like a personal summation, before: 'That's your William Shakespeare'. He held my gaze just long enough to make me feel a small humiliation; noting this he smiled—a soft stroke after the harsh one.

  Marilyn said: 'Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night. And that's William Blake.'

  Elvis said: 'Are you lonesome tonight?'

  There was a silence. Jack looked at the King, weighed up his mood, stared at him for a little longer than was comfortable. Elvis cleared his throat; I thought he might start to sing but he didn't—his cough had heightened the silence. Marilyn broke it by standing to kiss the King on the cheek.

  JFK, noticing this, took a swig of cola, swallowed it, stood. 'Marilyn,' he said, extending an index finger, 'pull that.'

  'Oh, Jack, what'll it do?'

  'Pull it and see.'

  As she did, his knuckle cracked and he released wind of magisterial quality.

  She giggled.

  'Do it again,' he said.

  She did—and with the same result, but this time Kennedy prolonged the eruption and varied the pitch.

  Elvis said, 'Well, I guess the King'll have to abdicate.'

  'Do it again, Jack,' pleaded MM—the child who'd been denied a childhood.

  He pulled her towards him and placed a hand on her rear, allowing a finger to drift and explore her cleft. She stood there unembarrassed. The president smiled, looked at me before looking at Elvis. Jack's was a healthy, freckled face: the face of someone groomed to lead, the face of someone who loved winning, the face of someone who would stamp on anyone to achieve his goal. Elvis, uncomfortable, rose and strutted out of the front door, allowing the insect screen to clatter. The camera came in close on Jack's eyes and mouth, then cut to Marilyn's lips, where it lingered. When Jack looked at me I read his eyes: they said, I caused all this to happen. I'm proud of my achievements. It was time for me to join Elvis on the veranda.

  He sat at one end playing acoustic guitar and singing 'Love Me Tender', I sat at the other, allowing my boots to make patterns in the dust. I felt ill at ease, not knowing what to do. From inside the house we heard the sounds of laughter—first both, then just MM, until it went quiet; and then a longer silence.

  A little later, having finished his song, Elvis stood, laid down his guitar and without speaking, walked off into the scrub. Shortly after, JFK and MM reappeared and took up the King's position at the edge of the veranda. MM's arm crawled round Jack's waist but his stayed by his side. She looked to him, as if to say, What's the matter? but he, too, rose, turned and walked off into the desert. MM sighed, sat by the corner and, flicking off her shoes, allowed her toes to draw patterns in the dirt. She turned, took a breath and half-asked me, half-asked the sky:

  'Is love real?'

  There was bruising beneath her eyes, a dark puffiness. A poor sleeper, she had suffered too much medicated sleep, too many chemical reawakenings. Her clock, for too long suppressed, would never recover.

  'Is it...?' she persisted.

  I considered for a moment. 'I suppose,' I said, unsure how to continue, 'that if you believe in it, then anything's real.' But before I'd finished I knew I sounded like a movie cliché.

  She wasn't happy with my reply so picked up a handful of dust and watched it trickle through her fingers.

  The sun had already begun its descent and a breeze made her shiver. Soon reddish light played across her face, delaying the moment when it would have to leave, until it could wait no longer. And, when it went, it did so with selfish reluctance, like a disappointed thief. It grew darker and darker until she stood—a dark form against a bloody sky—before slipping back into her sandals and wandering off into the waste.

  But it was Clark Gable, not one of the others, who returned. Against the darkness, he was illuminated by the house lights. He stood before me, hands on hips, sweating and smiling. That smile the camera loved, the trademark moustache, those much-photographed teeth. He flicked his hat backwards.

  'Lose your way, son?'

  The 'son' sounds patronising, but that wasn't his intention.

  'I'm not quite sure what's happening,' I said.

  'Are you in the right movie?' Again that smile.

  'I didn't think I was in a movie at all.'

  He listened carefully. 'Well, you're in one now.' He paused, looked around, noticed the King's guitar. 'Where have you strayed from—a musical? Or are you some other kind of misfit?'

  'I've always felt an outsider.' He looked so real I felt I could touch him. 'But, tell me, Mr Gable—'

  '—please call me Clark—'

  '—tell me, Clark, where's the camera?'

  He chuckled. 'You misunderstand. We're not filming a movie. You're in it.'

  'I don't follow.'

  He sat down beside me. 'When the camera stops, the action doesn't. Film has a life of its own—it's continuous.' He left a silence. 'Didn't you suspect that?'

  I smiled.

  'So, which movie do you think you've strayed from? You don't look dressed for shooting in the desert. Are you in costume? And you sound English—with a queer accent.'

  He was shorter than I expected but radiated more charm than I could have imagined. And it wasn't something he turned on—I understood how men, too, could find him attractive.

  I asked, 'Do you know where Marilyn and Elvis are? And I'm sure JFK was here a short while ago.'

  'Jack?' he said, and laughed. 'Oh, Jack and me go ways back—he's a great pal of mine. I guess you could say we share a passion. As for Marilyn, she's not too well and is resting up a while. And Elvis? He's in Germany—completing his tour of duty.' He must have seen consternation in my face. 'You really have got your wires crossed and your movies confused, haven't you?'

  'Will I soon meet Eli Wallach and Montgomery Clift?'

  He smiled again. 'Monty's pursuing that which Monty pursues best.'

  'Such a tortured face...'

  'His whole life's been a heap of trouble. Always wrestling with his demon. Eli—well, Eli's a regular guy. Straight down the line. He makes us all laugh.'

  'Will Marilyn be coming back?'

  He slapped me on the shoulder. 'You have got it bad, haven't you? Fallen under her spell just like the rest of us.' He smiled, dropped his voice and came closer, almost conspiratorial. 'Does she make you want to live for ever?' He waited, knowing I wouldn't reply. 'You want to make love to her? Stand in line, cowboy. The whole world thinks it can love her, single-handedly. We're all half in love with her, but she'll never belong to anyone.' He smiled and left a silence. 'She'll be with us presently, just as soon as she's rested up.'

  He stood to stretch. 'Well, I'm turning in.'

  'Are you hungry?'

  'It's kinda late to eat.'

  'Elvis made some hamburgers.'

  He chuckled. 'I think you'll find, my friend, that Elvis doesn't do a whole lot of cooking. He must have gotten his domestic staff, or the location caterers, to run them up for him.'

  One thing I was burning to ask. 'The film we're in, Clark—how does it end?'

  He stopped, laughed, scratched the back of his neck. 'We don't have that yet. The boys are still working on it. But I've got script approval and I'm not satisfied with anything they've
offered so far.'

  'What sort of ending are you after?'

  That smile again. 'This movie needs an abrupt, even brutal finish. As you can see, we're shooting in black and white, so no one can ride off into the sunset.'

  That's right: he was in monochrome but when I looked down at myself, and around me, everything else—despite the darkness—was in Technicolor.

  'So, not a happy ending?'

  'They're dying out.' He left a silence. 'Was there anything else?'

  'No.'

  'Well, if you think of something let me know in the morning,' and he went into the ranch house.

  He reappeared shortly afterwards with a bottle and two glasses. 'Drink...?' I shook my head. Before he disappeared he smiled and tipped his hat with the neck of the bottle. 'Night, cowboy.'

  It was now completely dark. Marilyn, JFK and Elvis would not be able to find their way back tonight but I left one light on just in case. Before my head touched the pillow, I was asleep.

  The next day Clark and I sat outside. He saw me following something in the sky.

  'Why are you so taken with that aeroplane?'

  'I've seen so many, lately, all so high—and always in improbably-blue skies.'

  'The skies may seem impossible but these Panaflex cameras rarely lie.' I didn't allow his substitution of impossible for improbable to faze me because this was his movie and he had script control. He searched my eyes with genuine interest. 'What is it about that particular plane...or are you imagining moon rockets?'

  'No, it's any plane—any plane high enough to look like a metal cigar tube.'

  'One helluva smoke!' He released a soft whistle, and smiled. This time I saw his dentition for what it was: Gable didn't have a natural tooth in his head, though his smile was real.

  We watched the plane disappear before the light became too strong and stung our eyes.

  Clark said: 'Fly much, dude?' I felt confused, didn't know how to answer; he picked this up. 'Why, you don't know where in hell you are, do you?'

  Embarrassed, I smiled. This was Clark's movie—I was the interloper. And, since only he had a script, I had to improvise. Living life spontaneously, I was finding, was hard work.