Here’s a little taste of a chapter from one of my novels. Bare in mind that this is still very much a work in progress, and of course is my own work, of which I’m fairly protective, so no copying ok?
At age 38, Robin Metcalf hasn’t really achieved everything he wanted, but who does, really? He hasn’t started up the charity organization he wanted to, or gotten into standup like he told everyone at High School, but he is doing okay. He works in a job with people he gets along with, doing reasonably interesting work (Telesales) and earns about $35,000 a year, which isn’t that much, but is enough for a single guy like him, living on his own. He’s been working there for about twelve years, and maybe that might seem boring, or maybe it might seem that the cheap blue short sleeve shirt and grey slacks, the black polished shoes, they could be prison garb if they had a number on them. It could be seen that way by some people but plenty of people would kill for that kind of job security. Jobs don’t grow on trees, after all. And sure he hasn’t really advanced in the job, hasn’t been promoted, but who would want the pressure if they were offered it anyway, right?
Sure, he hasn’t got a girlfriend at the moment, and yeah, it’s been a while since he’s had sex, but hey, everyone has dry patches. Besides, who says that’s the be-all and end-all of existence? Porn-magazine peddlers and condom manufacturers, that’s who, sex-toy makers and lubricant manufacturers. And who could believe such a seedy, immoral gang of people anyway? And they say you can’t be happy with someone else until you’re happy with yourself, right? That’s what they say on TV. But he does have Sabrina, his best friend and confidant.
Hypothetical A: A woman has a close male friend. This means that he is probably interested in her, which is why he hangs around so much. She sees him strictly as a friend. This always starts out with, “You’re a great guy, but I don’t like you in that way.”
This is roughly the equivalent for the guy of going to a job interview and the company saying, “You have a great resume, you have all the qualifications we are looking for, but we’re not going to hire you. We will, however, use your resume as the basis for comparison for all other applicants. But, we’re going to hire somebody who is far less qualified and is probably an alcoholic. And if he doesn’t work out, we’ll hire somebody else, but still not you. In fact, we will never hire you. But we will call you from time to time to complain about the person that we hired.”
Once a year Robin gets away on holiday, relaxes, gets to be on his own. Been to the Gold Coast a few times, stayed at the same place each time. A Back-packer’s Hostel. Cheaper that way. Gets his own room instead of one of these four-to-a-room deals where you share with strangers, not to be antisocial you understand, just for security. Hasn’t been to Europe or America, but those places are over-rated anyway right? And so expensive. He has a few good friends, mostly from work. He is doing okay.
Granted, he’s lived in the same suburb, or one nearby for the past fifteen years, and maybe that’s a little boring, but how could he move when his job is so close? And he’s got a brand new car and a nice place he rents for $250 a week. He is doing okay. He is doing okay.
Martin Delchampes has it all. The big house, the hot wife, the sports-cars, the self-made-millions, the sporting achievements, the adoring crowds, the gaggle of back-slapping friends and family cheering him on to greater and greater heights of egotism, the business opportunities, the dodgy deals behind the doors, the money leeches, the blood-pressure medication, the screaming board of directors, the suspected infidelities, both intimate and commonplace, the kaleidoscope of sex-parties and popping Viagra like panadols between shots of vodka.
Weighing your time up, rationing it out. Stocks and Bonds versus Stockings and Bondage. The pieces of ass on the side who want more and more money to keep their collective mouth shut, sporting possible ill-gotten heirs to his fortune, birth-certificates like ransom notes, bastards and bastardesses, flowering into ominous existence like recurring STD’s. You reap what you sow, that’s what they say.
The pretending to care about stuff that just doesn’t matter anymore. Secretly caring about the things that make you weak. Smiling to keep from crying; thinking instead of feeling. Not being able to, or wanting to, get it up with his wife on a weeknight at 9:30pm, apologizing with a sigh, and trying to sleep facing opposite walls.
It’s the backstabbing and watching your own back, and watching the guy who’s watching your back, and backstabbing the other guy before he even gets a chance to sharpen his blade, because he would get you if he could, and because that’s the way it is.
“Et tu, (insert name)?”
It’s all about getting away with whatever you can, and reaping the profits of Fuck You Industries, Pty Ltd. Corporate Vikings, scouring the coasts of the Stock Exchange. Quick and easy, fast and loose and it’s Dog Eats Dog – that’s what they say.
The lies and the shit, and more lies about the shit, and lies about the lies about the shit. And at least half of the shit is his own shit, and the lies are big and small. Remembering who knows what about what and who hasn’t seen him cry and who has seen him in the fetal position at 3:30am on a Sunday morning, and what they think he is, and what he thinks he is, and being the business-magnate one moment and the sex-magnet the next. Living up to the image he has built around himself, the layers of the onion, the multi-faceted diamond, the hall of mirrors, the suitable metaphor.
Yes, Martin Delchampe has it all.
