I AM KJELD

KJELD @ 41

He hated the sound; his fingers plunged into the cool liquid, he discarded the rest of the ice. Two cubes now bobbed kissing in a sea of vodka. He put the drink down beside the water pistol so he could type.

He liked to think of himself as a complicated man, confused since birth. No, not confused more like childishly cynical.  Actually he had been acutely aware of everything from a very early age. He watched men land on the moon as a two year old and asked his father what they were looking at.

“The earth” His father had said. “That’s where we are, you can’t see us, we’re too small”

After that he instinctively knew that he meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. He had the love of those around him and that was it. But even that wasn’t guaranteed.

He was repulsed by those whom he found ugly or dirty. As a working class child, surrounded by coal grimed trolls his retinas were burned out before he hit five, even before he ventured out into the real world, the cesspool of the  government school system. He held a few hopeful memories, but repeated exposure to Top Of The Pops, Glam Rock, Alice Cooper and Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells skewed these into petunia infused nightmare. An older sister struggling through adolescent hormones and polytechnic popularity hoops will do that to a boy. Sixteen year old girls have great tits and no confidence… easy prey for a six year old boy going on thirty. At that point he knew it was so easy he started putting obstacles in his way.

One of these obstacles was erections, pajamas would bulge each time a bond film aired or TV advertisements with too many attractive people or any raunchy ‘Carry On’ flick.

Later this would come to a head, pardon the pun, as our little man, strewn with cushions, lay on the floor, pretending to be asleep, watching ‘Get Carter’ through one eye; thus he discovered the powerful sexual manipulations of filmmaking via a telephone call from Michael Caine to Brit Ekland, clad in black undergarments… inter-cut with the metronome of a certain landlady’s rocking chair… “Tayk yowa bra owf!” mumbles Caine into the Bakelite handset of the rotary phone.

Bang, instantly our boy’s chunky little frame rose another 3/4 of an inch off of the carpet. He tried to breathe quietly. He nearly passed out trying. After the credits, still sporting a lazy-lob he pretends to wake up, ambles upstairs clutching at one of the larger cushions to hide his still throbbing shame.

Thirty five years later the ‘original’ Get Carter still leaves him weak at the knees; he thinks about getting the DVD out and watching it, but knows he won’t make it the whole way through and he isn’t that type of fella’.

He takes the drink, stops before it touches his lips, the vodka has devoured the ice, minute slithers remain floating like lost contact lenses, he watches their last moments, takes a sip, picks up the pistol and heads into the bedroom to squirt the wife. It was is birthday after all!

Maloha… Hawaii… Aloha… Rewrites… Trading one ‘longboard’ for another!

…but my thanks to the volcanic dieties, cos’ that was one spiffingly productive day!