Due to my virtual lack of employment, Lydia forced me to go to court to fight for a reduction in my latest speeding fine. Even some half-hearted Internet research between online games of Uncharted 2 made it clear that this was unlikely without going to trial (where I would lose because I am guilty), yet over the past three weeks I had diligently composed and recited a hundred times an impassioned speech that touched upon my relative newness to the country, the higher speed limits in Britain and my clean record in my home country. Neither the second or third parts were true, but my hope was for a middle-aged female judge who found my accent charming. And if my rhetoric appeared to be failing to achieve the desired effect, I had an optional, potentially devastating finale hinting at police corruption and government conspiracies.
In the event, a bored Asian man climbed into the chair, blew his nose into the microphone and, without looking at any of them, told the seventy anxious citizens in his court room that he wasn't interested in anything we had to say and that he was merely here to hear our plea and administer fines. Deflated but relieved, I instantly forgot my planned speech and made sure my wallet was in my pocket.
The woman before me (booked for making an illegal U-turn), claiming that she had a low income, asked for and received community service in place of the fine, and in a rush of blood to the head I found myself doing the same. The judge asked me how much I had earned in the past twelve months. Having no idea, I made up a figure. It must have been low, because the judge asked me to repeat it, and a murmuring rose up around the court room (which, when I got home and went through my payslips, made it all the more dispiriting when I discovered that I had in fact, earned less than my estimation).
“Yeah, you qualify,” the judge said with a bemused shake of his head, and sentenced me to forty hours. Which is why, this morning, I find myself wearing a blue apron and carrying a never-ending stream of clothes from a rail to, in theory, their correct spots in the shop. I am almost immediately able to slip mentally away to somewhere else and carry out my duties, incredibly badly, on auto pilot.
By chance, only a couple of hours into my first shift, Jeff walks into the shop. Jeff is the closest thing I have to a friend in Los Angeles, and I have never seen him outside of a bar or in a car on the way to or from a bar. It seems weird that he exists in the everyday world, walking around and experiencing things the same as everyone. But here is the proof.
Because it's only Jeff, I am not embarrassed by my appearance or my location, and I don't try to hide as he unwittingly approaches me in the electronics section which is largely stocked with single speakers. When he eventually spots me, he shows no surprise and merely nods his head and says, “Alright?” as though we have arranged to meet here.
“Hi,” I say.
He scratches the back of his neck. “What's going on?” he mumbles.
I shrug. “Nothing unusual with me. Just a day like any other day.”
“Cool,” he says, looking around distractedly. Already it seems that our conversation has ground to a halt, and I feel justified in blaming him for not asking questions in this situation.
“Fancy a drink this week?” he says eventually.
“Yeah,” I reply.
Jeff picks up a battered copy of a Harry Potter book that someone has thrown on top of a broken cassette player. “J K Rowling has made loads of money off these books,” he says.
Unable to handle this type of stupefyingly banal conversation without a drink in my hand, I stroll away and pretend to tidy a rail of shirts in the kids section. I can sense that he has followed me over.
“I was reading your old blog,” he practically whispers into my ear, and I disguise a shudder by turning to face him. “Have you ever thought about making it into a cartoon?”
“No, I can honestly say that I have never thought about that, Jeff.”
“Huh,” he mumbles.
“What do you mean anyway, a cartoon? I can't make cartoons.”
“You could write a script, though,” he says.
“Yeah, I suppose so. But why would I bother? I'm done with trying to be a professional writer. Besides, I hate cartoons.”
“Oh, just an idea.”
I realise I have been fiddling with the same shirt for a full minute so I step round to a pair of jeans that don't need rearranging and rearrange them. Just to break the silence, I ask him “Why?”
“It's just that my best friend is an executive or something over at Adult Swim.”
It is rare that a sentence uttered by Jeff contains something of interest, but two items of interest is unprecedented. It takes me a few seconds to decide which one to respond to first. “You have a best friend?” I say.
He looks at me blankly. “Yeah. I guess.”
“I thought that I...” I clear my throat, and move to another pair of jeans. “So your friend works at the Cartoon Network?”
“Yeah. Some big shot on those cool Adult Swim things. Not your kind of thing, I suppose.”
“When I said I hate cartoons, I thought you meant, like, Disney things,” I say. “I like the Adult Swim ones. And when I said that I was done with being a professional writer...” I trail off, searching for any possible turnaround. “That was just a figure of speech,” I end up with.
“Oh cool. Cos I sent your blog to my friend and he loves it. Said it has real potential as an animation.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “How can you mention this so casually? I mean, I try to have patience with everyone that crawls through my life but, Jesus Christ. Y'know?”
He just continues to look at me blankly, clearly not knowing. “So, you are interested?”
“Well,” I say, moving to another item of clothing, barely aware of what it is through my whirling thoughts. “I suppose I could give it a try.”
“Alright, I'll introduce you,” Jeff says, for some reason picking up a child's pair of jeans and – hopefully just my imagination – sniffing them. “I'll see you,” he says, and makes his way to the counter with the jeans.
I find it difficult to concentrate on the job for the rest of the day as I try to work out some way of writing in a style I neither admire or understand. But, at least for the moment, I am determined to make it work.
In the event, a bored Asian man climbed into the chair, blew his nose into the microphone and, without looking at any of them, told the seventy anxious citizens in his court room that he wasn't interested in anything we had to say and that he was merely here to hear our plea and administer fines. Deflated but relieved, I instantly forgot my planned speech and made sure my wallet was in my pocket.
The woman before me (booked for making an illegal U-turn), claiming that she had a low income, asked for and received community service in place of the fine, and in a rush of blood to the head I found myself doing the same. The judge asked me how much I had earned in the past twelve months. Having no idea, I made up a figure. It must have been low, because the judge asked me to repeat it, and a murmuring rose up around the court room (which, when I got home and went through my payslips, made it all the more dispiriting when I discovered that I had in fact, earned less than my estimation).
“Yeah, you qualify,” the judge said with a bemused shake of his head, and sentenced me to forty hours. Which is why, this morning, I find myself wearing a blue apron and carrying a never-ending stream of clothes from a rail to, in theory, their correct spots in the shop. I am almost immediately able to slip mentally away to somewhere else and carry out my duties, incredibly badly, on auto pilot.
By chance, only a couple of hours into my first shift, Jeff walks into the shop. Jeff is the closest thing I have to a friend in Los Angeles, and I have never seen him outside of a bar or in a car on the way to or from a bar. It seems weird that he exists in the everyday world, walking around and experiencing things the same as everyone. But here is the proof.
Because it's only Jeff, I am not embarrassed by my appearance or my location, and I don't try to hide as he unwittingly approaches me in the electronics section which is largely stocked with single speakers. When he eventually spots me, he shows no surprise and merely nods his head and says, “Alright?” as though we have arranged to meet here.
“Hi,” I say.
He scratches the back of his neck. “What's going on?” he mumbles.
I shrug. “Nothing unusual with me. Just a day like any other day.”
“Cool,” he says, looking around distractedly. Already it seems that our conversation has ground to a halt, and I feel justified in blaming him for not asking questions in this situation.
“Fancy a drink this week?” he says eventually.
“Yeah,” I reply.
Jeff picks up a battered copy of a Harry Potter book that someone has thrown on top of a broken cassette player. “J K Rowling has made loads of money off these books,” he says.
Unable to handle this type of stupefyingly banal conversation without a drink in my hand, I stroll away and pretend to tidy a rail of shirts in the kids section. I can sense that he has followed me over.
“I was reading your old blog,” he practically whispers into my ear, and I disguise a shudder by turning to face him. “Have you ever thought about making it into a cartoon?”
“No, I can honestly say that I have never thought about that, Jeff.”
“Huh,” he mumbles.
“What do you mean anyway, a cartoon? I can't make cartoons.”
“You could write a script, though,” he says.
“Yeah, I suppose so. But why would I bother? I'm done with trying to be a professional writer. Besides, I hate cartoons.”
“Oh, just an idea.”
I realise I have been fiddling with the same shirt for a full minute so I step round to a pair of jeans that don't need rearranging and rearrange them. Just to break the silence, I ask him “Why?”
“It's just that my best friend is an executive or something over at Adult Swim.”
It is rare that a sentence uttered by Jeff contains something of interest, but two items of interest is unprecedented. It takes me a few seconds to decide which one to respond to first. “You have a best friend?” I say.
He looks at me blankly. “Yeah. I guess.”
“I thought that I...” I clear my throat, and move to another pair of jeans. “So your friend works at the Cartoon Network?”
“Yeah. Some big shot on those cool Adult Swim things. Not your kind of thing, I suppose.”
“When I said I hate cartoons, I thought you meant, like, Disney things,” I say. “I like the Adult Swim ones. And when I said that I was done with being a professional writer...” I trail off, searching for any possible turnaround. “That was just a figure of speech,” I end up with.
“Oh cool. Cos I sent your blog to my friend and he loves it. Said it has real potential as an animation.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “How can you mention this so casually? I mean, I try to have patience with everyone that crawls through my life but, Jesus Christ. Y'know?”
He just continues to look at me blankly, clearly not knowing. “So, you are interested?”
“Well,” I say, moving to another item of clothing, barely aware of what it is through my whirling thoughts. “I suppose I could give it a try.”
“Alright, I'll introduce you,” Jeff says, for some reason picking up a child's pair of jeans and – hopefully just my imagination – sniffing them. “I'll see you,” he says, and makes his way to the counter with the jeans.
I find it difficult to concentrate on the job for the rest of the day as I try to work out some way of writing in a style I neither admire or understand. But, at least for the moment, I am determined to make it work.
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