Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm

by Ulrich Haarbürste

  “That is terrible, Roy.”

  “I do not wish to speak self-pityingly but all my life this tragic syndrome has set me apart and made me little better than half a man.” He wrings his hands. “Whenever seals are to be part of an evening’s entertainment I have to make my excuses and leave. My rock star friends are starting to think me a spoilsport and a poor stick.”

  “To be unable to go near seals! You must be the loneliest man in the world.”

  “It is so. More to the point, I cannot judge the contest in this condition!”

  I scratch my ear and clear my throat.

  “Roy,” I say, “I believe I have an idea. Are you perchance familiar with the tale of the Boy in the Bubble?”

  “What of it?”

  I take out a roll of clingfilm and unravel it a little way with that sticky rasp that makes my tummy flutter with anticipation.

  I say, “I happen to have a roll of clingfilm with me—”

  “Capital,” says Roy, interrupting me. “I perceive what is in your mind. Please go and garrote the seals with it at once.”

  I am taken aback somewhat and blink.

  “Alas, Roy, an archaic bylaw dating from 1423 forbids the killing of seals at a public festival.” This is a white lie as to the best of my knowledge there is no such foolish law. “I had in mind more—”

  “Yes, I understand now. If you make me some gloves of clingfilm I can go and illegally bludgeon them to death without leaving fingerprints.”

  “But Roy, if you are seen—the negative publicity—”

  Roy considers. “What you say is true, although it might boost my profile among disaffected and nihilistic teenagers from Düsseldorf’s deprived lower-middle-class areas.”

  “I had the idea that—”

  “Yes, I see. If you disguise my face with clingfilm I can kill the seals in anonymity.”

  “But your trademark black clothing would be recognized.”

  “In that case there is only one thing for it. You must completely wrap me in clingfilm at once!”

  “I—but of course!”

  I start from the ankles and work my way up. I must add several layers so that he may be disguised but I must wrap each limb individually so that he will be free to bludgeon the seals to death. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm. If I were a seal, I would clap my flippers and say “Arf.”

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say.

  “Now to massacre the seals,” says Roy, picking up a length of lead piping.

  “But Roy, perceive—you are no longer swollen and sneezing!”

  “Ach so,” says Roy. “It is true. This miracle substance is protecting me from the seal pollen. For the first time in my life I am a whole man!”

  Just then a little seal comes lolloping up to us, its wet nose glistening.

  Gingerly Roy pats it and it rubs its nose against him.

  “I never knew how beautiful they were.”

  He spends the rest of the day frolicking with the seals, rolling around on the floor with them and tickling them. Instead of bludgeoning them with the lead pipe he throws it for them to fetch.

  Regrettably he awards the prize rosette to a seal. Jetta comes second and is sulky and withdrawn for a week.

  However, the main thing is I enabled Roy to have a new experience and wrapped him in clingfilm again.

  Shrink Wrap

  In this story I am earning a living going round offering primal scream therapy door-to-door.

  I decide to start at Roy Orbison’s house as he is a rock star and so will be at home during the day.

  I step smartly to his door and ring his doorbell.

  “Good afternoon,” says Roy, opening the door. “How may I help you?”

  “I am going round offering primal scream therapy door-to-door,” I explain. “Would it be convenient for me to come in and extol the benefits?”

  “It would,” says Roy. “I was about to embark on some hoovering but the need is not pressing. You may enter.”

  Roy shows me into his living room. I set down my primal scream practitioner’s bag and my assistant Jetta and launch into my sales routine.

  “In primal scream therapy the subject achieves catharsis by regressing to early childhood and emitting a mighty scream,” I say.

  “That sounds admirable,” says Roy. “I am always keen on self-improvement. Let us proceed.”

  I nod. “So then. If you will imagine you are a young child.”

  “I am doing so,” says Roy.

  “Capital. Now if you will commence to scream.”

  “Argh,” says Roy.

  “Hmm.” I stroke my chin.

  “I feel no better,” he complains.

  I muse for a moment. “Perhaps if we were to regress you further and reenact the primal birth trauma itself,” I suggest.

  “By all means,” says Roy. “If a thing is worth doing it is worth doing thoroughly.”

  “One idea occurs,” I say. “I happened to bring a roll of clingfilm with me in case of emergencies. How would it be if I was to wrap you in it so as to enact a return to the womb?”

  “I see no objection,” says Roy. “Commence to do so.”

  “Then if you will assume a fetal position.”

  Roy curls up on the floor in a fetal manner. I start at his tucked-in feet and work my way around. I wrap tenderly and reverently. Soon, Roy Orbison is enveloped in a magnificent amniotic membrane of clingfilm. My very nostrils tingle with glee.

  “You are completely enwombed in clingfilm,” I say.

  “Capital,” says Roy, somewhat muffled.

  “For the therapy to work you must remain like that for nine months.”

  “Also?” says Roy, surprised.

  “So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for you I will keep you under a giant maternity dress I happen to have with me. I will stroke you and croon to you and feed you through an umbilicus made of clingfilm. If you require anything, just kick.”

  For the first time in our acquaintance Roy looks somewhat alarmed. Even his trademark dark glasses cannot dissemble his concern at this turn of events.

  “I am expecting my manager at five o’clock,” he says.

  “I will send him away,” I say. “I will send everyone away. A fetus cannot sing!”

  Roy looks distinctly nervous.

  “But my career?”

  “You are too small to have a career, my little budding blossom. When you are born and grown up you may, although banking is a much steadier line of work.”

  Roy fights his way out of the clingfilm and screams, an earsplitting window-rattling vaulting tenor shriek of terror.

  “There,” I say, “isn’t that better?”

  “Very much so,” admits Roy. “I feel a man reborn. How much do I owe you?”

  “I will give you a concessionary price of five euros. And,” I say with a merry twinkle, “that does not include the delivery charge!”

  “Please go away now,” says Roy.

  South Sea Pirates

  (This is another alternative world, or a somewhat-less-plausible-than-usual story. I make no apology. That is what the imagination is for and if there is at least a psychological truth then art may result.)

  In this one Roy and I are merry pirates of olden times plying our trade across the South Seas on a magnificent sailing ship.

  We also have a concession to sell clingfilm to any uncivilized natives we may find.

  “Yo-ho-ho, Mr. Haarbürste,” says Roy merrily, swinging jauntily from the rigging. He wears a trademark black eyepatch over each eye.

  “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of schnapps, Captain!” I reply equally merrily. “What a fine day to be a pirate and roving clingfilm salesman!”

  “Indeed.”

  Suddenly a bell is rung from the terrapin’s nest at the top of the mast, where Jetta is keeping lookout.

  “Land ahoy!” I say. Merrily.

  “Perhaps they will have some booty we can plunder! Gold deutsche mar
ks, or index-linked bonds for preference.”

  “Or we may at least be able to open up a new territory for the sale of clingfilm.”

  “Yes, having already cornered the Tasmanian market we would be salesmen of the month.”

  We launch a boat and with several of our crew row to the uncharted island, polishing our cutlasses and jaunty pirate boots so as to make a good impression.

  Little do we suspect what is about to befall. . .

  We land on the beach and romp intrepidly through the jungle, encouraging ourselves with merry pirate songs and cries of “Yo-ho-ho.”

  Then we come to a village of savage islanders! They are very scary and are covered all over in barbaric tattoos that say things like “Mother” and “LUFC.” They are armed with many spears so we put away our cutlasses and present our business credentials.

  “Good day,” I say.

  “Good day,” says the chief of the savages. “I hope you are well.”

  “I am very well, thank you. We come to bring you the benefits of civilization. We are here to sell you clingfilm!”

  I open my sample case and they gasp! They examine the rolls wide-eyed.

  “Shiny yet translucent!” they say. “Supple and yet clinging! You may demonstrate the benefits of this miracle substance to us by and by.”

  I am conducted to a place of honor.

  “However,” says the chief, “we do not do business on an empty stomach. First we must eat.”

  “By all means,” I say.

  “You shall be the guest of honor at our banquet.”

  “Nothing would please me more! There is nothing I like better than a simple repast of South Sea island pineapples and breadfruit.”

  “That is unfortunate,” says the chief, “for we are Polynesian cannibals and we are going to eat your crew!”

  “Also,” says Captain Roy, not so merrily. The crew also look rather dismayed at this plan but they are surrounded by spears before anyone can object.

  “So then. If you will please to enter the cooking pot.”

  Roy raises one of his trademark double eyepatches for a second so as to see where he is going as he steps gingerly into the pot. Lamentably his jaunty pirate boots will now be full of water. The crew are prodded in after him and a fire is lit.

  When the water is simmering they commence to take the crew out of the pot and kill and eat them one by one. They fall to with great appetite and there is many a cry of “Yum” and “Tasty.” So as not to be impolite I pick idly at the cabin boy’s ear and fill up on the salad.

  Soon, Captain Roy is the only one left in the pot. . .

  However, before they get to him they are finished. With a burp one discards the bosun’s arm.

  “I am full,” he says.

  “I too, I could not eat another morsel,” says a second.

  “It is agreed,” says their chief, “the meal has concluded. Now to dispose of the leftovers. Throw them off the cliff in the usual way.”

  Quickly I say, “But gentlemen, why throw away the leftovers when they can be kept fresh for another day?”

  “What is this you say? It is not possible!”

  “If you permit, I will demonstrate! I will wrap your leftovers in clingfilm and I guarantee they will remain fresh for a week.”

  “I will test that claim,” says the chief. “If the clingfilm does keep our leftovers fresh, we will order a gross and fill your ship with breadfruit, daughters, and interesting stones. If it fails we will remove your kneecaps and lightly braise them in a jellyfish sauce, as a lesson to you not to indulge in empty hucksterism.”

  I bow and take out the clingfilm.

  “I am sorry, Roy,” I say, “it seems you are leftovers and must therefore be wrapped.”

  “I confess to some hurt at being eaten last,” says Roy, sloshing from the pot. “I fancied myself far more appetizing than the midshipman.”

  I start from the jaunty pirate boots and work my way up. I wrap tightly and carefully so as to preserve all his succulent freshness. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm. My heart makes landfall on the Island of Dreams.

  “He is completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I report.

  Less eagerly I also wrap the arm of the bosun and cover a bowl of coleslaw.

  “Capital,” says the savage. “Now to embark on the taste test.”

  Roy is rudely stowed in a larder-hut for a week, completely wrapped in clingfilm. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant I accompany him, sitting as closely as I can and stroking his shimmery loveliness consolingly when he is not conscious.

  The week passes in an eyeblink and all too soon we are hauled out to undergo the freshness challenge. Barbarically they tear the clingfilm from Roy and the other leftovers without any ado and commence to sample.

  “Unglaublich!” exclaims the island’s leading food critic, chomping on the bosun. “The coleslaw is perhaps on the turn but the bosun’s arm is as fresh as ever! Thanks to this translucent miracle of civilization we need never go hungry outside the tourist season again.”

  “Then if you will please to free us?” I say.

  “I will not do so!” says the chieftain. “I confess to some peckishness and am very glad that Captain Roy retains his succulent freshness, for I am now going to eat him!”

  However, just then Jetta drops out of a tree onto his head, knocking him unconscious. A rescue party from the ship bursts out of the jungle armed to the teeth. The savages drop their spears and we conclude a treaty which gives us exclusive rights to supply them with clingfilm for the next ten years.

  “All is well that ends well,” says Roy. “Now to fill in a satisfying uptick on the sales chart.”

  “Of course,” I say roguishly, “by rights we should take you back to the ship in a doggy bag!”

  “Someone else is as fresh as ever,” comments Roy.

  “It’s a Wrap”

  In this one we are visiting a film set in the Düsseldorf film studios.

  Roy is seeking to branch out into a film career. From small acorns grow mighty squirrels, and he is starting out auditioning for a tiny part as a Roman soldier in a Hollywood studio’s remake of Caesar and Cleopatra.

  In addition I have applied feathers and a cardboard bill to Jetta so that she may test for the role of Cleopatra’s duck.

  That also is not a large part but any exposure may be valuable at this stage of her career.

  Alas, no sooner have we arrived than a studio flunkey gives us bad news.

  “The duck is out, it is now a terrapin.”

  I curse the random malice of fate that has scuppered Jetta’s chances of stardom. However, I decide to stick around and see if any good can yet be salvaged from the situation.

  The director is preparing to audition for the role of Cleopatra.

  “I want my Cleopatra to be mysterious and enigmatic,” he says. “Her eyes should be unreadable at all times.”

  An idea occurs. Discreetly I cough to attract his attention and incline my head toward where Roy is standing.

  The director’s mouth hangs open and the hotdog he is about to put into it slips forgotten from his grasp.

  “Stop!” he yells. “Stop everything! Cancel the auditions! Send Julia Roberts and Estelle Getty back to the coast! You there!” he yells at Roy. “What is your name?”

  “Orbison,” says Roy shyly, “Roy Orbison.”

  “That’ll never work on the marquee. We’ll change it to Alluria Schlupfwinkel.” Roy bridles somewhat at this. “No, don’t move!” yells the director. “Don’t move!”

  Roy remains still. The director paces around him making strange framing gestures with his hands.

  “Put your hand on your hip and say, ‘How do you do, Caesar, so you’re the guy they named the salad after,’ ” he instructs Roy.

  Roy does and says this.

  “Gentlemen!” the director yells. “I have found my Cleopatra! Put fake breasts on that man in black at once!”

  Roy is mounted with fake breasts a
nd exotic blue eyeshadow is applied to the upper portion of his trademark dark glasses.

  “We will go straight to scene one!” cries the director. “This is a dynamite scene. Caesar has just conquered Egypt and Cleopatra has herself delivered to him rolled up in a fancy carpet and is then unrolled provocatively at his feet.”

  Nervously a flunkey bows and says, “Due to industrial action in the carpet-weaving sector we have been unable to obtain a carpet for this scene.”

  “You are fired!” screams the director, who is American. “You are all fired. You will never eat sauerkraut in this town again.”

  Diffidently I cough and say, “If I may be permitted to offer a suggestion. For sundry reasons I happen to have with me a roll of clingfilm, an exotic substance far more fitting to a Queen of the Orient than any moth-worn piece of carpet. Indeed, I have sometimes contemplated replacing the carpets in my own house with it. It strikes me that rolling Cleopatra up in clingfilm instead of a carpet might bring just that surprising twist required to give this timeworn scene new life.”

  “What a shit idea, assbandit,” says the director, who is American. “You are fired! Clear out your locker and throw yourself down the commissary steps. I have a much better idea. We will use clingfilm instead of a carpet! You there!” He points at me and I bow. “Wrap that man in black with fake breasts in an exotic carpet of clingfilm at once and a golden future in this industry awaits you, kiddo.”

  “If Roy does not object?”

  “If it will further my film career I do not object.”

  It is strange to be wrapping him while he wears fake breasts. Indeed I have noted before that it is hard to wrap breasts in clingfilm as they protrude in unsightly ways. This was one of the factors that led to my unfortunate divorce—that and the fact that the woman was not interested in wearing. . .a certain costume.

  Nonetheless I work diligently and with a craftsmanship befitting a Technicolor cinematic epic. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely rolled up in a carpet of clingfilm. In the final edit of my life this will go on the highlight reel.

  “He is completely carpeted in clingfilm,” I announce.

  “Action!” cries the director. “Unroll the carpet!”