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| "Five Years" |
"Get out!"
That was what James, in his opinion quite rudely, woke up to on this bleak Tuesday morning. He felt stiff, groggy, and slightly hungover after a night of fooling around with his landlord-and-part-time-lover Marry, although that wasn't anything new. What was new was the anger he had, apparently, incurred in her, and consequently being unceremoniously evicted from his lodgings. This was plain from the fact that she had forcefully shoved his clothes, books, and old twelve-string guitar into his arms before kicking him out.
She had screamed that he had never paid for the spare room he let from her, and after too many missed payments, this was the final straw. Or it might have had something to do with the fact that Mary had found out about him leaving earlier last evening with a fiery redhead (Dana? Danni? Darlene?) before returning back to finish the night with her. Apparently, Mary had been under the impression that they were in a semi-exclusive relationship.
'The key,' thought James, 'was the emphasis on the word SEMI', which, speaking of, his had rapidly deflated after all of Mary's crying and shouting. Now he would have to look for a new source of almost-guaranteed sex in between his usual romps with the pretty birds that came around with a thing for "any British guy". What was worse was that he couldn't even get a word in edgewise before the front door had slammed in his face. His shirt was still unbuttoned and his pants undone, as he was shoved out the door before he could get dressed. That woman clearly had no decency. He only hoped she hadn't damaged his books in the process of unceremoniously kicking him out.
James groggily tried to zip up his pants with one hand while carrying all his worldly possessions with the other. Muttering under his breath, he decided that there was nothing for it but to get a cup of coffee. Without it he was useless, and with his throbbing headache he was even less than useless for figuring out what to do now. His brain hurt like a warehouse, with no room to spare for cognitive functioning. It was decided. He needed relief before anything else, and the Market Square was sure to have plenty in supply. Not to mention that he didn't want to be standing on Mary's front porch for long. Christ knew what that woman would do if she caught him still lingering on her property. Maybe she would set him on fire again.
James Odam knew on the surface he wasn't anything to write home about. Average height, slightly scrawny, with shaggy brown hair and mismatched blue eyes. One of his pupils was permanently dilated due to a fight over some long forgotten girl and a still remembered well-aimed punch. Academically, he barely achieved a single O-Level, and had "dismal prospects" for the future, as his teachers had put it. He was a potential burden on the state and just waiting to be another statistic, a youth that slipped through the cracks of the society. But despite all of this James knew deep down that he was meant for something greater. He had a sense of Destiny about him that he wouldn't trade for the entire world. He could feel it, and those perceptive enough could feel it too. All he had to do was wait, and he had been practising waiting for all of his, admittedly short, life, a mere quarter of a century. Mary could go to hell for all he cared.
After a short while stumbling along, James finally made it to the Market Square. It was the central hub of the small London suburb James had the misfortune to still live in (his childhood home was a mere hour drive away), as all the comings and goings both big and small were exchanged here. The Square itself was fairly standard, if a bit outdated. There was an old-fashioned ice cream parlour, a decaying opera house, abandoned warehouses, and lots of ma and pa stores selling everything and anything you never really wanted - old electronics, old furniture, and old ideas. They were a holdover from a bygone era that believed in Churchill and principles and had fought in the Great War.
'There were some glimmers of hope, though', James noted absently, 'some signs of life and progress were able to bleed through the dusty artefacts of thought and merchandise'. For instance, there was a great record shop, Dorbell's, on the corner owned by the "old married couple" Jimmy and Charles. There wasn't an American release they didn't have or couldn't get, and just as fashionable as any London based operation. There were also a few pubs where you could get a decent drink and listen to some new live bands that weren't complete shit. And the streets and alleyways interweaving around the Square were just the type that any aspiring artist could get lost in for an hour (or four), perfect for roaming around, seeking inspiration and Destiny.
As James trudged along looking for a place to rest and to obtain a cup of liquid consciousness, he spotted his mates sitting around a table at their local.
"James!" Tony shouted at him, "Come on over here and join us!"
Tony was one of James' best friends from secondary school. Tough as nails and ready for anything, it wasn't unusual to find him in the middle of a brawl over something like Honour or Glory. He was sitting by Sonny, Rudi, and Bevan, more of James' friends, and from the looks of it, the latter two were in the middle of yet another one of their endless debates. The four had been thick as thieves since they were kids, frequently caught either ditching school to wander the streets or else pouring over and debating the content of their books. Authors like Kerouac, Burroughs, Orwell, and Burgess were their real teachers, they all agreed, while school was only good for meeting girls. They just had the unfortunate fate of attending an all-boys institution for the entirety of their education.
James wandered over to their table, gratefully sitting down in the empty chair before throwing his belongings to the ground. He immediately motioned to the waiter to order coffee. Nothing else could happen before then. It was only after receiving his promised cup of ambrosia that he finally started to tune in to what Rudi and Bevan were arguing about. It seemed like the topic was their usual - a fight over whether or not the lads should try and change the world.
"-I told you Bevan, it really doesn't matter," Rudi was saying, "What does changing the world really mean anyways? Fighting to change from one reigning philosophy to another doesn't alter the fact that at the end of the day, we are all marching towards the inevitability of death. This world is pointless and so is spending the energy to change it. No one cares. Nothing really changes. So we might as well keep drifting on as we are."
"Rudi, mate, you're looking at this all wrong," Bevan countered, clearly frustrated with Rudi's blasé attitude, "Changing the world is possible. In fact, it's the only way we can be immortal. The ancient civilizations knew this. Whenever they conquered other nations, they would deface the likenesses and names of their enemies so that they could never be remembered. Never be immortal! And think about it. We've known about Aristotle and Alexander the Great for thousands of years. Their ideas have changed history and the way we think - forever! It's the closest thing to immortality any of us will ever have. And I, for one, wouldn't mind being remembered as Bevan the Great. Part of the group of guys who changed - and saved - this dying world forever. The ones who finally turned the death march of humanity around towards the light. God knows someone needs to. After all, these old geezers don't know a single fucking thing about how to LIVE. They're ruining our world - stuck in the past and they don't even know it. A new enlightened era is coming and we should be the ones to lead it! Our world isn't black and white anymore. Good and evil are only a matter of perspective, and their way of life is dying. Just like the planet they've killed a thousand times over wither their a-bombs and h-bombs - even their really small ones - sailing through the air at those poor Japs. I say they're acting awfully high and mighty with their Moral Principles and Sense of Righteousness. They're shitting all over us and it's time for us to fight back for our fucking right to be decent humans. To let well enough alone. Just because someone else is different doesn't mean we have to go and impose our sense of morality upon them. It's their fucking life. Let them live it."
'Rudi was always the cynic,' James thought wryly, 'But Bevan isn't much better with his fuck the world attitude.' He sipped the last of his coffee, idly wondering what his next course of action should be as he tuned out the rest of their conversation. It was the same shit he had heard before over and over again, and right now he needed to think what to do next. No lodgings, no promise of semi-regular sex, and no idea where to go was a serious problem. The fact that the world was constantly on the brink of collapse merely mirrored his internal struggle to get by. Suddenly, he couldn't stand being around his mates another second. He had to get up and move on. His Destiny wasn't going to find him sitting at this table at their local talking about the same ideas with the same people. And honestly, their conversation was starting to depress him.
Standing abruptly in the middle of Rudi's long-winded waxing defence, James proclaimed, "Well this was fun lads, but I've got places to be and all that. Don't wait up."
He dropped a few quid onto the table, grabbed his stuff, and headed off. His friends barely acknowledged his goodbye. This was a regular occurrence from James. He was a drifter, a wanderer at heart who enjoyed collecting everything from personalities to ideas in his soul and his writing. Although his abrupt mood swings and spur of the moment decisions didn't change the fact that he eventually always seemed to find his way back to their group.
Alone once again, although this time with a clearer head, James began meandering along the cobblestone paths. He pondered if he should go over to Dorbell's or check out the new graffiti on The Avenue - or maybe something else altogether. His feet led him towards the central courtyard in the middle of the Square. This was rather unusual, as James usually found himself clinging to the edges. His local, along with all his favourite spots, was on the outskirts of the Square, and he wanted to keep it that way. But there was nothing for it now. He should've been paying more attention to where he was going.
"Excuse me," James muttered, trying to push his way through the Market Square past the families and tourists and shopkeepers crowding the streets, "Pardon me, ma'am".
He glared at a young mother with her pram standing in front of him, who refused to move. She merely sighed, not even bothering to acknowledge his existence, as her gaze was fixated on the shop window. James started to glare angrily at her when he noticed that there were tears running down her face. Hastily, he began to apologize for shoving her when he noticed what she was looking at.
She was rooted in front of an electronics shop that proudly read "Newton Electrical" over its threshold, with dozens of televisions displayed in its storefront window. It truly looked unremarkable except that on every single screen was a single message: FIVE YEARS THAT'S ALL WE'VE GOT.
Suddenly, he realised he was cold. The dreary overcast clouds had finally started to pour down the rain they had promised all morning. Clearly, the weather was reflecting the bleak future and crushing despair that would reign for the next five years. Or perhaps it was just another Tuesday in Britain. James felt like an actor, thrust onto the stage to perform in a drama he wasn't sure he wanted to portray. Looking around the Market Square with new eyes, he took in the isolated interactions like a choreographed scene unfolding before his eyes.
Everything was inevitable and predetermined. All the fat-skinny people, all the tall-short people, all the nobody people, all the somebody people - their fates were all sealed with an ending that was revealed too early to the players. They all abruptly seemed so desperately important and so desperately separated from him.
A girl around his age looked like she went off her head, as she was in the middle of hitting the tiny children that were crowded around her. They had all been huddled around a radio in the center of the Square, but now she was solidly beating them within what looked to be an inch of their lives. Quickly a black man, most likely their father, intervened and pulled her off the bruised youngsters. Their toys scattered and broken, left forgotten on the ground as they were quickly shepherded away.
Meanwhile, a homeless soldier with a broken arm and no legs was lying in the streets at his usual corner. A long time ago he had asked for money, trying to save enough to buy himself prosthetic replacements. He wanted to walk again and rejoin society, but he had barely raised ten quid the entire time he begged. So he had abandoned his hope like the world had abandoned him after the War. His cardboard sign had been proclaiming the end of the world for years now, and it seemed as if his teetering sanity had finally been vindicated. Although it was hard to tell, as he fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac parked in front of him. A hollow victory, if it even existed.
Nearby there was a cop who knelt and kissed the feet of a priest. Clearly, he was seeking forgiveness for his sins, perhaps too numerous to count and too many to forgive, before the end. James wasn't sure what the priest would be able to do about it, and at any rate, it wasn't like a man of the cloth was going to save the world. They had been trying for centuries and where had that gotten them? Across the street a queer, James could tell from the earring, threw up at the sight. He was inclined to agree with the flamboyant fruit. It was rather sickening to think that any sort of salvation could be found amongst the corrupted and damned.
The only one who seemed unaffected by the news was a fine looking young black woman in an ice cream parlour. She had quite a few cold milkshakes in front of her. Obviously, she had been sitting there and drinking them for a long time. She was wonderfully oblivious to the chaos outside, the turmoil that the world had been thrown in, smiling and waving along with the cheerful tune playing from the jukebox. James was instantly drawn to her. She looked a little like his mother. Suddenly, he was overcome with the urge to go back home. Or maybe to kiss the beautiful milkshake girl. He wasn't sure what he wanted or even what mattered anymore. His brain hurt a lot.
The mise en scène ended, James was overcome with an urge to leave the terrible scene of chaos and grief behind him. He immediately spun around with his battered suitcases and started heading in the exact opposite direction of the Market Square. He walked and walked and walked aimlessly, unsure of what would become of the future or where he was headed. But somehow, underneath the shock and the panic and the desperation, he was excited. His long-awaited Destiny would be upon him within five years. After all, that's all he's got.
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