Simone Sanders
They’re dead. Both of them. It was kill them or get kicked out on my ass. So in the end what kind of choice did I have? Believe me, I argued my case. Tried to make the authorities here accept my needs, to show leniency, but they wouldn’t.
“The situation has been made abundantly clear to you, Miss Sanders. You know the consequences if you continue to ignore our warnings.”
I made the officious asshole stand on my doorstep when he told me this last Tuesday. It was raining so hard water was bouncing off the cheap plastic awning above my doorstep and landing on his moustache as he spoke. Didn’t shake him though. Terrier-like these Brits when you give them a bit of authority.
“Our rules are there to protect everyone’s best interests, Miss Sanders. There are no exceptions. You’re an intelligent young woman; I don’t expect to discuss this matter with you again.”
Intelligent young woman? At school, I was the girl who vetted who could sit on the most popular table; at Stanford I graduated Phi Beta Kappa; I was the youngest female vice-president at the brokerage. While my female acquaintances, (I don’t have girlfriends), were reading The Rules or The Celestine Prophecy, I was devouring Liars Poker and Play Like a Man, Win Like a Woman. I drank beer with the boys and bitch-slapped the women, metaphorically of course, well most of the time. This place is lucky to have me. Tell that to these small-minded bureaucrats though. Assholes would flunk me in a heartbeat.
I arrived here last month, England in the fall. So quaint, I felt excited. It was to be a fresh start after all the shit I had to put up with in San Francisco. At first it was fun, the workload was heavy but I was used to that. From the start there were a few people who didn’t like me. Little tell-tale signs. They’d sit two seats away from me and then in the next class they’d be all up close and personal with someone else. But I decided it wouldn’t affect me. I was here to get my MBA, have a little fun, then go back to the States and cash in. As I expected I’ve had to break some balls in my study group. The first meeting was tense but I remembered all the advice I’d had from people who’d done this kinda shit before. Basically take a few moments to size up the opposition then hit them hard and take no prisoners.
“Simone, we’ve all got a valid contribution to make. We need parity of esteem here in order to realise our potential as a group.”
Just listen to this stuck-up Brit, Hilary Jenkins-Spires. A real hard-ass bitch from the start. Gotta give her credit for laying down her marker from day one. Needs to be stared down though.
“So just to clarify your position, Hilary, you’re proposing that we all have equal air-time, even those of us who barely speak English?”
“That appears to be the most equitable approach to me, Simone. Anyway, everyone here speaks excellent English.”
Couple of eyebrows raised at this comment.
“Yeah, well life ain’t always equitable, Hilary; neither is business school. We need our biggest hitters at the plate. That means me, and OK, seeing as I’m a committed team player, you too.”
She half-heartedly continued to insist we should all present for an equal time, but we knew this was a good deal on the table for both of us. Before coming here I made my living in equity sales, where you eat what you kill, blowing smoke up the ass of hedge fund managers who act like they’re God’s greatest creation. You can’t seriously tell me you can compare that to what the rest of these clowns bring to the table: mindless enthusiasm coupled with no sense of their own inadequacy. Talk the talk but piss their pants at a second stage McKinsey call-back.
“Guys, don’t think for one second I don’t have your best interests at heart, I lead with a tough mind and a big heart. That’s why I want to put myself on the line for you here.”
Look around the table here. Focus in on one particularly sorry looking specimen, little weird looking dude, think he’s from Mongolia or somewhere like that. Only speaks when spoken to.
“Balbeck, I value your input here. If you’ve got an issue with what I’m proposing, share it with us all please.”
He looks spooked and shakes his head. In the face of this display of selfless team-spiritedness, Ms Jenkins-Spires was forced to swallow hard, back down and allow us to host the presentation jointly. I decided to outflank her a little, be magnanimous, and suggested Olaf from Finland take five minutes of what just happened to be the most boring crap, explaining the statistical significance of our conclusions. Sometimes you’ve got to throw the little people something, I mean it keeps you popular, right? Plus the guy’s English is OK, and shit is he ever built. I know the others appreciated my generosity, especially Olaf. Maybe I’ll cash in on that later in term, after all a girl has needs. Of course, in the end Hilary couldn’t present for shit, but hey what do you expect from someone with a name like that?
I wasn’t surprised the dumb English bitch let me down; my expectations are always high. What’s disappointing is other people not meeting them: family, friends, workmates, classmates, partners. My parents are a particular let-down: they just don’t get how significant my achievements are. I was a latchkey kid. My father owned a hardware store in Tipton, Iowa, then Walmart opened and good as cleaned him out. To this day he’s never understood it, still stays open steadily losing money, believing he’s hanging on to his status in the community. Working himself into the ground running a loss-making business just to be in the local rotary club, even continues to vote Republican. Still kids himself about the loyalty of his customers, even when they walk into the store with their chain store carrier bags, making their little top-up purchases, or more likely asking for something he hasn’t got and being sent to Target in Iowa City. Makes excuses for them, how what with the economy being so subdued and all that they have to watch every dime. My mother just wanted to stay at home and bake cookies, but my father’s shitty business-sense forced her to work first in the store to cut down on the wage bill, then part-time as a receptionist at the local vet’s surgery. It’s hard-wired into my brain how she’d got the job there, the embarrassment of it. Bunter, our pet dog, (just a mutt, my parents couldn’t afford a pedigree), got hit by a car. They weren’t insured of course and the vet’s bills, well, even in Tipton they were gonna put a hole in their already sketchy finances. So the vet took dear petrified mother aside, in front of a waiting room full of people, and said he’d operate on Bunter, they’d sort something out later. The only sound in the waiting room when he was telling her this was silence. No way were these good folks missing out on the latest instalment of humiliation for the Sanders’ family. Bunter died anyway and Mom’s still working there, twelve years later. Last time I saw her she was dropping me off at the airport to catch a flight here. She was squeezing my hand so hard it was hurting. Then she shoved a package in my hand. Something small, hard and flat.
“Please, Simone, take this to remind you of home. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, that you won’t drive yourself too hard, let things get on top of you. You know how much your father and I worry about you.”
She’s clutching my hand with both hands so tightly her veins are coiled like blue rope under the surface of her aging skin. Take a look at her, you’d think she’s too frail to lift a pitchbook, but there’s a fierce strength in her grip today.
“Mom, I’m going to England, not another planet. Look they’re calling my flight. I gotta go. You always worry too much. Anyway it’s not that different to home.”
Forget the shit I tell her, things here better be very different to home. I’d already worked out what I needed to do; concentrate on some serious networking, focusing on the handful of people who might actually achieve something with their lives. Make sure I stay outta trouble too, don’t want to screw things up before I return to the States. Already put a few feelers out on that front, well it’s never too early. All told, things have been pretty cool here. Who’d have thought it a year ago after all that happened in San Francisco.
Which is why I decided to kill these two a week ago. That afternoon, when the guy turned up on my doorstep making it clear the authorities weren’t fooling around. For weeks I’d pleaded, even tried bribery, subtly at first, then more obviously, but it was no good. Goddam British are so uptight! I knew then I had to act, couldn’t afford to flunk out here. No way am I going back to smiling and dialling to overpaid, undersexed assholes. Of course I could have tried to move but there was nowhere suitable, it’s just too much hassle, everything over here is so damn bureaucratic. Nope, I’m staying here and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen.
Once I’d decided to kill them it was just a question of how? I thought of poisoning but they are picky eaters. Not surprising, the food over here sucks. Shoot them? Too difficult to get a gun in this goddamn country. No wonder the crime figures are so high. Anyway, needed a solution, ironically came to me after yet another phone call from my Mom, this time rambling on about her work. Something about the nice new drug rep who had called in last week and was asking after me, turned out we’d been to school together. Was making my lack of interest clear to get her off the damn phone when it struck me, minimum risk of getting caught and sure to do the job. All it required was a call to my dealer, asking for something a little different this time, premium price offered of course, and I’ll take a little of the usual. Shouldn’t really as I barely touch it, but this is all very stressful as I’m sure you can appreciate. Next, venue and timing. Wednesday late afternoon was ideal, a popular study group time and less people around as it’s apparently sports afternoon. Like I care. Informed my study group that we’d be meeting then, I might be a little late, but expected them to be there. After killing them I’d dispose of their bodies in the river.
By ten past four, they’re dead. I came up behind them in the sitting room of my one bedroom flat and injected them with a shit-kicking dose of ketamine. Wasn’t easy. Thought I’d found the perfect needle, but plunging it through the gristle and bone at the back of their neck was damn difficult. The first one was quicker ‘cause he was still fast asleep. But the second started stirring soon as I climbed astride him. Tried to pin him to the floor between my thighs but he was strong. Didn’t help that I was still in high heels. He whimpered a bit after I punched the needle through his skin. Just stroked his head softly and told him to go back to sleep. I loved my babies, really I did, but when they told me I couldn’t keep my Dobermans here with me in my university flat, I couldn’t bear to let anyone else have them. You see, no-one else could have looked after them properly. Sometimes you know, you just have to make the hard decisions in life. Anyway, I should parcel the bodies up and get rid of them. Gonna need a bit of help. Not some eurotrash playboy with a two seater sports car either. I need a dumbass with a strong arm, a car with a trunk and a lack of curiosity. Better get into gear, don’t want to keep my study group waiting too long. Can’t give Hilary any excuse to challenge my position. Anyone would think this place was Harvard!
Harry Stanton
“You see, Marianna, the capital asset pricing model is all about the relationship between risk and return. Just think of it this way; your boyfriend is the risk free rate, OK? The average, friendly, platonic, let’s-go-have-coffee-relationship you have with the guys on the course, that’s the market rate, yeah?”
She squints her big brown eyes and bites her bottom lip, but I think she’s getting it.
“OK, now stay with me here. Let’s say our relationship is the beta. Right now I’m just one of those ‘Hi, how-are-you-guys’, but what if we were to start to have an affair? Then I become more than just the normal bloke you hang out with. Sure the risk to your relationship with your boyfriend would increase, but so would the return you get in terms of the fun you’d have with me. In other words Marianna, let’s get naked and raise the beta!”
“Stop it, Harry! All you ever think about is sex, you know I’m not going to sleep with you. Don’t you ever take anything seriously?”
Despite trying to appear offended, she’s struggling not to start giggling.
“Marianna babe, the Capital Asset Pricing model’s a load of crap, you’ll never need to know it again after January’s exam. Just practice solving the equation until it’s second nature then forget about it.”
“Yes, but Harry, I want to work in finance afterwards, don’t I need to know this stuff? Ulrich says…”
“Fuck what Ulrich says. He’s never worked outside a University classroom in his life. Listen, Marianna, you’re hot….”
“Stop it!”
“Why? It’s true, you’re a babe and you’ve got personality. Babes with personality get jobs, and it won’t be down to your knowledge of modern portfolio theory. Trust me, I’ve spent enough time working in the markets, unlike Ulrich. These lecturers want to scare you into thinking their subject’s dead difficult just to make themselves look like less of a loser.”
“OK, maybe, but I still need to learn this damned thing now.”
“Indeed, but that’s why I’m here isn’t it?”
Here being Marianna’s student bedroom. Whilst it may lack the opulence of a five star hotel, consisting as it does of a meagrely proportioned but neatly made-up single bed, study table and chair and antiquated sink, it’s still a venue any red-blooded male would consider a prime location. The next hour I spend helping her goes quick. I flirt a bit, she learns a bit. Marianna’s a smart girl. She smells good too, like she’s wearing body lotion. Probably put it on after she’s worked out and showered. I’m getting distracted, the only place we can sit is on her bed and my flirting’s getting clumsier and more suggestive. She’s acting a bit cooler now; realise I’m flogging a dead horse here. Time for a swift exit, there’s somewhere else I want to be.
“Anyway, I’ve got to shoot off now, I’m meant to meet someone. I’ll call you and we’ll pick up on this again later in the week.”
She comes to her door and kisses me quickly on the cheek. On the way out I get to thinking that Marianna’s a really nice kid. I mean she’s hot and she knows it but she handles it well, doesn’t play on it. Is she the hottest babe on the course? In all honesty no, that honour has to go to Simone Sanders, as officially voted number one in the MBA (that’s as in Measured by Boobs and Ass) count-down in one of our male bonding sessions. Marianna polled well. There was clear blue water between her and Petra Kominski from the Ukraine who scored heavily in the ass department but fell away a little elsewhere. But in the end there was only ever one winner, Simone. Obviously I’ve set my lecherous little heart on gaining carnal knowledge of all three by the course end, but to date progress has been disappointing. At least with the top two. Petra can wait. Little problem of accessibility with Simone. Basically I can’t get any, even when a chance came, my performance was well below par.
“Hi, it’s Simone isn’t it? I’m Harry. Don’t think we’ve spoken before. So how you finding things so far?”
We’re in a lift together about a month ago. She’s wearing tight black trousers and a fitted red cashmere jumper, tasty. It’s the first time I’ve got Simone on her own, a moment of truth.
“It’s a little slow. If this is only a one year programme, they need to maintain momentum.”
She starts ruffling through her leather bag before pulling out her lipstick.
“Yeah, right. Anyway, I notice you worked in equity sales in the States. I worked in fund management in the City before coming here, I’d love to have dinner with you and…”
She looks at me for the first time with what might just be a flicker of interest.
“So, who did you work for in the City exactly?”
“KCT, they’re a Belgian bank.”
“Never heard of them. You like run a hedge fund there or something?”
“Ran a kind of mutual fund, UK equities.”
She looks distinctly unimpressed at this disclosure and turns her attention back to the contents of her bag, retrieving a small mirror and then concentrating on applying a serious coating of scarlet lipstick. Then she looks up briefly as the lift door opens.
“Oh, right. Anyway, I gotta run. See you around.”
So that was it, my first and so far last personal conversation with Simone. Of course I’ve ogled her from a distance like we all have. I mean what’s not to fancy? She’s a tall, I’d say good 5’7’’, blonde, tanned, gym-buffed, teeth-bleached all-American babe. Best of all she isn’t a Park Avenue princess, try as she might. Nope, Simone still has that little hint of small town alpha female about her. In short, you know she’s had to work just that little bit harder to get on in life and just imagine what that could mean in the bedroom.
Of course, as a Brit my antennae weren’t quite as tuned to these things initially, but you pick up on them quick enough, at least if like me, you look for any scrap of information to tilt things that marginal degree in your favour. That’d been how I earned my living, and a good one too, before I came here. I mean, it was the mother of all bull markets and anyone who had a pulse and could talk the talk could make money. Then things got a lot harder. Basically the market was fucked along with pretty much anyone working in it. I hung in there better than most, managing by stealthy political manoeuvring to survive the first two culls. Long nights of team building and client arse kissing yielding dividends. Then October 2002, a market that had been haemorrhaging losses just gave up. I got tannoyed.
“Will Harry Stanton please report to the fifth floor immediately. That’s Harry Stanton to the fifth floor please.”
Classy. That’s it, grab your personal effects, along with any stuff that might prove useful in the future. Respond with derision to their initial pay-off offer, call your solicitor, then get to the pub for a post-mortem with the rest of the refugees.
“No point staying on anyway, compliance crawling all over us for shorting stocks PA. Looking at zero bonus for the first time in twelve years. Tell you, Noah, this game’s fucked. Way my fund’s been performing was only a matter of time before I got carried out.”
“So what now? Hedge fund? Sell-side?”
“Maybe, I mean I’m thirty-one, got a bit of cash put away. Don’t know if I can be arsed with it all for a while.”
“Thought about an MBA?”
“Go back to college? You’re fucking joking!”
“Seriously, Harry, my brother-in-law did one. Went to the States for two years. Said it was a piece of piss. He’s living over there now. Good job on Wall Street and shacked up with some sexy undergrad chick.”
“Seriously? Never thought of the shagging potential. Don’t fancy the life of a student again much though.”
“Who said anything about living like a student? Visited Melvin a couple of times, had his own apartment, brought over his Plasma and Bang & Olufsen and all his other gear. Tell you, mate, he said it was like being on holiday for two years. Best of all no-one gives you any grief for it. In fact, it’s the opposite: our whole bloody family were singing his praises for doing it.”
“Yeah? Doesn’t sound too shabby, might have to look into it. Nice one, mate. Anyway, what you up to next?”
“Off to do my sailing skipper’s certificate. Buy my own yacht and skipper it off the Cayman Islands. Been a dream for years. Only reason I put up with this shit for so long.”
Fair play to Noah. Used his inalienable right as a black man in a white man’s world to up his payment to almost half a million. No need to even mention the words ‘racial’ and ‘discrimination’, the very mention of the lawyer he was retaining proving sufficient. Got an e-mail from him the other day, sent from a yacht in the Caribbean. I’m sure the picture of him being served a bottle of Legends beer by a bikini wearing babe wasn’t meant to make me jealous.
More I thought about what he said afterwards, more it made sense. I’m thirty-one years old with no discernable skills, expensive tastes, a complete lack of personal morality, inestimable self-belief and an aversion to hard work. An MBA could save me going through the motions of looking for non-existent equity fund management jobs, give the market a year to recover, be talked up appropriately to gullible employers and best of all allow me to indulge my favourite pastime, myself. As an added bonus, the course didn’t even start for almost a year, giving me the perfect excuse to blow large sums of cash on trivial pursuits without taking any crap for it. On that note, the timing of my departure from the City had been rather unfortunate meaning I’d miss the December party season. The month when little or no work is done, multiple piss-ups are held with all the attendant opportunities for sexual conquests, information gathering on colleagues and clients, settling of personal vendettas incurred during the year and all the other little delicious treats of the season of goodwill. Still a trip to Thailand more than compensated for these lost opportunities. Sexual harassment is unfortunately beginning to permeate down the professional scale nowadays and some of these new graduates are surprisingly clued up on such matters. Not a situation pertaining in the fleshpots of Phuket, I’m pleased to say. So much for globalisation.
Anyways, a bit of R&R in the East, then back home to a pile of glossy brochures all offering me the opportunity of a lifetime to ‘make a quantum leap’, ‘gain the clarity to triumph’, ‘learn without frontiers’ or ‘seize my future’. All of course providing I could render the necessary five figure sum. Quick guide to choosing an MBA the Harry Stanton way: if they charge a fee to apply, fuck ’em (money grabbing mercenaries); ask you to write a dozen essays to persuade them to sell you a place – life’s too short; course lasts more than a year – bin the brochure, too much opportunity cost, (hey, I sound like one already); requirement to write answers to vague and essentially meaningless open ended questions, (sample: ‘describe a moral dilemma you have faced and how you resolved it’) – perfect, apply immediately! Any school that affords so much opportunity to sell oneself by engaging in meaningless generics is fine by me. Certainly augurs well for ‘the MBA experience’.
Of course once I arrived at University, I dragged myself along to the freshers’ fair event where all the various clubs were touting their wares. A cursory glance was all that had been required to discern that no bloody way I was joining any of the MBA societies. I mean entrepreneurship, that’s taking the piss; someone wants to start a business, they don’t exactly go back to University. Anyway, the choice elsewhere is much more to my tastes, although even there I am distressed to learn that some individuals will be wasting three years worth of invaluable leisure time on pursuits such as the Investment Society. I mean, would you employ anyone who spent their spare time as a student comparing the differing implications of international accounting standards? Darts? Now that’s another matter, actually quite fancy that, used to take clients to the World finals at the Lakeside, but will have to be very much a secondary pursuit due to unfavourable gender demographics. Sailing? That offers possibilities, mind you this is England, not exactly the Caymans where my old friend Noah is hanging out. Polo? Nope, going to be full of Argentineans and Australians, too much competition for the ladies’ affections. Hang on a minute, what’s this? Two young bits of totty clad in tight jodhpurs and knee-high boots, the Hunt Society. Now this has real potential, excellent marketing effort, shame they’re not carrying whips though! Twenty minutes of flirtatious conversation later and I’m a fully signed up member, via Gold Amex, of course. Such a good sign when a student society accepts one. No experience of horse riding, naturally, but that’s irrelevant - it’s the Hunt Balls I’m interested in. Black tie, champagne and young, impressionable drunken girls. Now that, I do have plenty of experience in.
The actual course itself is proving a breeze. I’ve done the CFA exams through work, which covers Finance and Accounting, and most of the rest of the stuff’s just psycho-babble. Being such an altruistic soul, I’ve been delighted to be able to offer academic assistance where appropriate. The appropriateness being determined by the sex and looks of the individual requiring assistance; hence my helping Marianna understand the practical implications of the Capital Asset Pricing model. Unfortunately, I’m so helpful she’s told a couple of her friends. Recently, I’ve also found myself hosting revision sessions in the cheap hotel lobby style environment which constitutes our common room. Understandably, this change of venue does not encourage Marianna to feel relaxed enough to wear the skimpy pyjamas she favours in her study bedroom. Of course, the realisation that devotion to Carlos, her boyfriend back home, means lingering glances of Marianna’s honey dew thighs, not to mention the numerous photos of herself in a bikini on the bedroom wall, are as far as I’m likely to get does force me to diversify my efforts elsewhere.
Thankfully, this has proven fruitful, particularly amongst the undergraduate population, and the decision to join the Hunt Society proves an inspired one as evidenced by events at the Hunt Ball. The turnout amongst the young ladies was heart-warming, made even better by the bunch of fools who constituted their male counterparts. The latter were split into two distinct categories: chinless wonders who’d clearly rather be rogering each other; and thrusting young blades who undoubtedly would provide some competition in years to come but for now lacked experience and, in particular, an ability to handle alcohol. I had, of course, spent a little time on the Internet prior to attending the Ball, familiarising myself a little more with the pursuit of hunting. Not a difficult task. In fact, the posing of the question as to where I hunted was a golden opportunity to market myself. Allowing me, as it did, to explain that due to my highly successful, but extremely stressful career in the City, I hadn’t been able to ride out as much as I would have liked in recent years. The MBA and its time demands were unfortunately precluding me from taking as active a role in the hunt as I had hoped this year, but I was delighted to be here on such a celebratory evening. By some perceptive questioning I was able to narrow the field down to a couple of possibilities. Henrietta, twenty and blonde from Shropshire, just had the edge over Theresa, nineteen and brunette from Essex. In fairness it was a close call, Theresa was shorter with fewer generations of money behind her (I’d guess two at most, more likely one), but she had bumps in all the right places and was definitely one for the future, provided she was knocked back very delicately. Which, of course, she was, straight into the arms of young Somerled who I’d met at the bar and cultivated for this very purpose. This left me free to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh with the beautiful and modestly pissed Henrietta.
Which is why I find myself pulling into the car-park at Theresa’s halls of residence. Theresa, it has to be said, has proven a much more fruitful acquaintance than the frankly, rather disappointing, Henrietta, who proved to be much more pissed than I had first imagined. All situations are salvageable, however, and so this one proved, after managing to persuade Theresa that I had stepped back purely because I thought that she and Somerled were a couple. Now, having accepted defeat at Marianna’s, I’m eagerly anticipating a little afternoon sex with Theresa, one of the great pleasures of student life, which only those of us who have worked for several years truly appreciate. Jumping out of the car, (bought on very favourable terms from my employer as part of my settlement), in eager anticipation, I notice a familiar figure approaching. Well, well, if it isn’t the MBA chart-topper herself, the beautiful Simone, looking particularly tasty. Looks like I’m about to get a second bite at the cherry, although I’ve no idea why.
Danny McMullen
“Danny, man, you gotta start getting your head around some of this new slo-core stuff that’s coming outta the East Coast. That early ‘90’s English stuff was cool in its day, but times have changed, my friend.”
The gospel according to my Brazilian amigo Miguel. Three years in Miami promoting an indie night at Churchill’s pub, and he’s a self-pronounced expert on the ‘gaze scene. ‘Course when he pitched up here to do his PhD on the appropriate capital structure for proprietors of modelling agencies, he reckoned without running into me: a dude who’s dedicated the past decade of his life to the short-lived musical phenomenon that was Thames Valley shoegazing. Or, as famously described by the music press, ‘the scene that celebrates itself’.
Man, why waste time listening to something that ain’t gonna cut it the way the old stuff does? It’s opportunity cost, just like they teach us on my course.”
“Opportunity cost my ass. Don’t start quoting that crap to me, Danny. You’re just lazy and tight. Any fool can download a lot of this new shit for next to nothing nowadays; you’re one sorry ass dinosaur.”
OK, so Miguel wants to step it up a level.
“So, dude, you’re telling me none of the following made the play list at your little Wednesday night residency: Ride, Slowdive, Chapterhouse, Moose, the Valentines, Lush, Spaceman 3, Whipping Boy…”
“Whipping Boy are Irish, my friend, as technically are the Valentines. And strictly speaking they’re not really shoegazers; more a kind of post-rock vibe. Anyway, correct me if I’m wrong here, Danny, but wasn’t it you who told me that true shoegazing began and ended with Slowdive’s 12-inch debut: the imaginatively titled, ‘Slowdive’?”
“You’re taking me out of context here, dude. What I meant was that it was the epoch of the genre. The other bands still made a valid contribution, they just didn’t define the moment.”
“Danny, mate, you’re so full of shit. How the fuck did they ever let a loser like you in here in the first place?”
Miguel’s laughing at this but tell you the truth it’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since I got here. I get up to change the record on the turntable as it’s my choice now. Time to hit him with a classic: Chapterhouses’s debut, ‘Whirpool’, complete with guest appearance by Rachel Goswell on stand-out track, Pearl. Made John Peel’s festive fifty that year: 1991, I believe. I’ve got a shit-eating grin on my face at Miguel’s pathetic attempts not to acknowledge just what a kick-ass tune this is.
Cool dude, Miguel. He saw me come into the pub one evening beginning of term, when we were having a kind of getting to know you gig with the PhD students, with a bag of vinyl from a trip to Rough Trade in Notting Hill. ‘Course most of the PhD’s act like they’re there to save capitalism from itself, whereas most of our gang like to think they’re its Praetorian Guard. No matter, pretty much everyone else there, MBA and PhD alike, probably thought I was mentally retarded carrying a bag of plastic. Miguel, though, dug the fact I liked to listen to my music the only true way: through the grooves. We got rapping and turns out we had something in common. ‘Course once we realised we actually had similar tastes in music we’ve spent the entire time since denigrating the finer points of each other’s. So here we are, just kicking back, having a smoke and listening to some old school ‘gaze. Suddenly my mobile goes; it’s Simone Sanders, real hot chick off the course. Wonder why she’s calling me?
“Danny sweetie, I’m like soooo stressed, can you drive over here with a little weed and we can chill? Come on, be an angel.”
“Simone, Hi. Sure, I’d love to hang out with you, but Miguel’s here. Why don’t you come over and join us; we’re just hanging out smoking and listening to some music.”
Man, that doesn’t go down well. She reminds me that I told her earlier in term just to call me any time she wanted to hang out. Well, now she wants to hang out, but at her place, ‘cause she wants quality time with me.
“I guess so. I mean, I’d be delighted to come hang out with you, Simone Where’s your dorm room?…Oh right… OK, sure I know where that is. I’ll be over in like forty minutes… OK, sure, I’ll leave right now then, no sweat.”
Miguel’s looking a bit pissed; think he’s got an idea what’s going down here.
“So, what’s happening? You bailing out man?”
“Sorry dude, I need to be somewhere. Listen, we can pick this up again later…”
“Screw that. Who was that, anyway?”
“Simone from the MBA. You know her, she’s…”
“What the fuck you wanna go and hang out with her for? She’s a grade A bitch, man. You think you gonna get anywhere with her, you’re sorely mistaken. Better believe she just wants you for something.”
I just shrug my shoulders. It’s a bit lame bailing on Miguel like this, but Simone, well, she don’t seem like the sorta girl who takes no for an answer. Plus, she is hot: you never know, share a little smoke maybe get to know her a little better. Deep down, below the teak-tough exterior, I think maybe she’s looking for a sensitive guy like me.
Miguel collects his vinyl, picks up his stash and leaves. Say I’ll call him later, but he needs to do some work on his paper. Know we’ll kiss and make up over a spliff. Don’t usually smoke dope with people from the business school other than Miguel. I mean some of these MBA types - whole different zoological species to the rest of humanity. Most of ‘em don’t do drugs and the ones that do are mainly coke fiends. Good old weed is just too chill for them; scared it’ll make them into environmentalists or something. I don’t do coke; nope, nice bag of draw and Danny’s at peace with the world. Simone though, she’s a good time girl. Had me sussed right from the first time we met. Asked me if I knew where she could buy some Rizla paper. Tell her just to let me know any time she wants a smoke; always got a little spare to share with friends. The smile I get in return, coupled with the “thank-you sweetie” and squeeze on the knee as we’re seated at the pub table may sound banal, but it gave me a feeling I’ll bet my life most men never have; the kind that only comes from having the gratitude of a beautiful woman.
So I get up, take Reading’s finest off the turntable. Sorry, Rachel, you’re still the one for me but duty calls. Pull on my fleece and am about to leave then think, hang on - this is a one-to-one audience with the gorgeous Simone. So, I change my shirt, fix my hair, put on my leather jacket and swallow half a packet of tic-tacs. Am too stoned to drive so need to grab a cab; decide to walk to the rank rather than call one. Traffic’s pretty heavy so took a bit longer than I thought, but now I’m outside Simone’s place. Pretty modest from the outside, but has its own entrance so guess it’s not a dorm room or flat share like most of the rest of us. Anyway, I ring the buzzer and she’s at the door in a second.
“Danny sweetie, so good to see you.”
But she’s looking behind me as she says it, sees the taxi pull off. What’s her problem man, she’s glaring at me like I’ve screwed up or something!
“Where’s your damn car, Danny? I need the motherfucker to move some stuff”.
Simone Sanders
Of course I’d already decided who to call beforehand: that stoner, Danny. Real loser, Canadian or something, so what d’you expect? Remember getting stuck beside him at a table in a bar early in term. Asked what he did in his spare time and he starts giving me some hard-luck story about how his daughter lives couple hundred miles away, somewhere called Manchester. Said he drives up there when he can, so made a mental note at the time that he must have a car. Then he starts asking me if I’m a lesbian. Say what? Least that’s what I thought he meant when he asked whether I’d checked out the gay scene in San Francisco. Turns out he meant some stupid shit called the ‘gaze scene. Something to do with this music he’s into. Cut him dead there. One of my cardinal rules is to never get involved with artistic types, surefire bet you’ll end up with a dead-head who’ll drag you round town on public transport, stopping in every seedy shithole of a bar with a welfare friendly door policy. Danny’s sole topics of conversation that night revolved around this dumb-sounding music I’d never heard of, his daughter and smoking grass. Still, life’s taught me it’s always worth spending five minutes on everyone, even losers like him. So dropped a few hints, leaving him thinking I was into grass too. As if. Haven’t touched that stuff since junior year undergrad. Simone is one drug and alcohol free individual. I mean obviously there was the Prozac last year and coke at times of professional necessity, of course, and well maybe just the odd glass of champagne to appear sociable. That’s the thing about the British, they’re a nation of fuckin’ alcoholics. You have to drink to fit in. Couldn’t believe it when I first arrived. These guys just drown what little ambition and talent they have in a sea of booze, even the supposedly smart ones. Makes them easy pickings of course. Want to control a study group full of Brits? Easy, just schedule it for 8am. Even better if it’s on the weekend: they’ll acquiesce to anything just to get through it quickly. That’s if they even turn up.
Danny finally turns up, clearly stoned, in a fuckin’ taxi, no way! I’m stuck with this lame-ass dork, stoned, car-less and expecting to sit here and smoke dope with me. What the fuck was I thinking of anyway, relying on him? That ridiculous little beard thing on his chin shoulda warned me that he’d screw up. Shit, this sucks the big one. I’m going to struggle to make the study group at all now. Damn, that could cost me some marks in this ridiculous peer group marking exercise this place insists on. Fuck, nothing for it but to get another car out here. Although this is a small self-contained apartment, it’s in a block and you never know who’s gonna call round. Those damn dogs will start to smell before long. They’ve gotta go, like now.
Racking my brains to think who else has a car when a big black SUV pulls into the car-park. Some guy comes swaggering out of it looking pretty pleased with himself. He’s a bit older and better dressed than the dorks you usually see round here. In fact, I’m sure he’s on the course. Harry? Henry? Something like that. Haven’t had a lot to do with him; tried to hit on me once but it was a half-assed attempt. From what I’ve heard, he treats this as a year out from the real world, an excuse to party and sleep with girls half his age. In fact, that must be what he’s doing here, as come to think of it, I’ve noticed that car parked here before in the morning. Not hard really - it sure stands out in that company. Shit, I don’t really know this guy but right now he’s the only game in town. Time to introduce myself properly.
Harry Stanton
“Hey, Harry! How you doing? Listen I’m kinda stuck; I need to schlep some stuff out of here and I don’t have a car. Look could you help me just for 10 minutes? I’ll be like, so grateful. I’d just ask to borrow the car but you guys drive on the wrong side of the road, and I’d hate to risk a crash as it’s such a beautiful car. It’s a BMW right?”
Damn she’s sexy: brown trousers, cropped white shirt, tied just above a washboard stomach; but it’s the hand on hip pose that clinches it. Effortless really.
“Yeah, it’s an X5. Listen, what do you need to move? I’ve got golf clubs in the back so not sure how much room there is, but I’ll be delighted to try to help if I can.”
“It’s two bin-liner bags. I’ll be honest; it’s my ex’s stuff, Harry. I found out the bastard was cheating on me and dumped him. Then he starts rumours about me sleeping around. I’m real upset. I just need to get rid of his stuff; he hurt me real bad. I can’t bear being reminded of him. Please help me Harry. Everyone says you’re a good guy. Most of the people with cars I know are his friends. I can’t ask them. I’m just a bit vulnerable at the moment.”
God, now she’s starting to sniffle and I’m getting all kind of sexual cravings just looking at the pleading look in her eyes. Almost let her beg a little longer but decide to play the good guy. This situation has definite potential. Theresa can wait.
“Sure no probs, it’s cool. Are the bags upstairs?” She nods, sobbing. “Then let me help you load the car. We’ll have you sorted in no time.”
She nods agreement and leads the way towards what must be her apartment; looks like one of those flats for married couples. Make a quick appraisal when we get inside. Pretty tidy really; couple of those idiotic self-help books scattered on the glass coffee table, release the power of your innate self in thirty days and all that crap. No sign of any blokes’ stuff though. Good. Look for any tell-tale photos of square-jawed GQ types but there’s only a family shot: two adults and a couple of kids. Must have been taken a long time ago judging by the bloke’s sideburns. The young girl in the photo looks about six or seven, has that willing to please expression on her face that kids sometimes do. Hear someone clearing their throat behind me and realise I’m not alone. Turn around and recognise this scruffy looking guy from the course - Danny, think he’s Canadian. I remember him because one night, early in the first month, when we were doing the whole tedious getting to know you thing, we got talking. Anyway, this clown finds out I’m from Reading and starts banging on about a couple of bands from the town that he’s really into. Apparently, they had a real cult following back in the early ‘90s. Told him I’d never heard of them as was away at Leeds University at the time. Funny thing is I remember my younger brother was into them after he mentions it. Shoegazing, that’s right. Michael used to have posters on his wall, these pale, weird-looking fuckers with floppy hair. I exchange grudging pleasantries with Danny, then we go into a tiny kitchen where there’re several diet books stacked on the shelf but no sign of any food alongside them. Simone’s standing in the doorway behind us.
“That’s his stuff on the floor, in those bin bags. They’re pretty heavy; he had a lot of shit like guys do. Best if you guys take an end each and carry them out one at a time.”
Me and this Danny bloke look at each other and shrug. He takes one end, I take the other. Fuck, this stuff’s heavy. We carry it through the lounge. I make an attempt at conversation.
“Fuck me, this guy must have had a hell of a stash of porn, judging by the weight of this.”
He half-smirks. This guy doesn’t appear too pleased at my presence here. Also, unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s stoned. This is a weird set-up. I open the boot door, shift some stuff around and we heave the bag in. After one more trip with the world’s greatest conversationalist, we’re done. Now where to?
Danny McMullen
So I’m here on Simone’s doorstep, but I’m sure not getting the welcome I anticipated. She’s pissed big time, and man is she letting me know it.
“Danny, be my friend please. Go back and get your car. I don’t care how stoned you are. I need it, now!”
What the fuck is wrong with her? We can move the stuff any old time. This is one stressed chick. Talk about high maintenance, dude.
“But Simone, babe, let’s just chill, we can move the stuff later. Let’s kick back and have a smoke… mellow out together.”
She looks as if she’s about to lose it big time at this when all of a sudden she’s distracted by something behind us. I look around and a black jeep kinda thing pulls into the car park. I recognise the driver; it’s that guy from Reading, Harry. Real flash son-of-a-bitch. Tried to have a conversation once with him about the ‘gaze scene, when I saw from the profile book he’d grown up in Reading, but he wasn’t interested. Since then, we just nod now and again, two lives just brushing past each other. To be honest, it’s like that with most people on the course. People get categorised pretty quickly: those that are worth knowing and those that aren’t. It takes an investment in time to get to know someone and these dudes expect a dividend. Me, I just wanna get by. Only came here because I got the scholarship. Didn’t expect to get that but they had quite a few on offer for public sector workers. Given I’d worked in local authority town planning in London for four years, I was eligible to apply. Guess I just thought, why not? My five-year-old daughter Caitlin’s over here, living up in Manchester now. No way I’d get to see her if I went back to Canada. I was bored at work, so fuck it here I am, all fees paid and my job held open. Shit, it could be worse. Plenty of time to chill and after all, there aren’t many chicks like Simone at the local authority offices in Croydon. Right now, though, Simone is one stressed individual and it has to be said, not a whole heap of fun to be around.
“OK Danny, what’s this guy’s name? Harry? Right, you go into the flat out of the damn way. Stay in the living room. I’m going to get him to help, OK.”
And off she goes to talk to Harry, who looks pretty made up to see her. Damn, her walk’s as mean as her temper. Guess that’s why I’m still here.
Simone Sanders
So, finally we load these goddamn bags into the car. Now I’ve got to come up with a plausible reason why we’re dumping them in the river, then I’m home free. Usually I cover every base, but because I thought it was just that dumb-ass Danny, I hadn’t prepared my story as carefully as I might have. Got to play the emotional wronged girlfriend angle, worked with that Harry guy before. He’s obviously a sentimental wuss. Harry, I just can’t bear to have these things around me a minute longer. It’s breaking me up. Please take them to the river and we’ll just throw them in and let them sink. Then I can start to get over this.”
“OK. I mean, if that’s what you want. There’s the council dump not far from here. We could go there instead. It’s up to you.”
“Harry, the river just feels right; it feels like closure. I know I’m probably not making any sense, just be my friend please. I really need a friend right now.”
He seems a bit doubtful, then dead-head Danny butts in.
“The river’s kind of appropriate. It’s like metaphorical. I mean the relationship has sank, let these final reminders sink with it. That’s what you want, isn’t it Simone?”
You’re shitting me! Why didn’t I think of that? This joker actually has his uses.
“Danny darling, you’re so right. I guess subconsciously that’s what I was trying to say, it’s just so hard to express what I feel at the moment. The river’s only a couple of blocks away, we can just find a quiet spot and ditch the bags.”
So off we drive; ten minutes later we’re there. On the way, Harry’s making heavy-handed attempts to flirt with me. Danny’s just sitting there looking uncomfortable; whatever. I use the excuse of being upset over my imaginary boyfriend’s infidelity as cover for ignoring them. It’s a windy, damp afternoon, the kind that England seems to specialise in at this time of year. Depressing, with no redeeming features. Bit like most of the student body here. Eventually, we find a quiet spot. I pass it every day when I’m running. Only one shitty old car there, which looks like it’s been abandoned. There’s a little wharf, the guys drag the bags out along it and throw them into the river where it looks pretty deep. I’d put weights in there so the dogs will sink quickly and stay sunk, least long enough for it not to matter if they’re found. Anyway, they weren’t electronically tagged and I’d removed all their ID. I only bought them two months ago when I first came here and found out these assholes wouldn’t let me have a gun. It’s not like anyone’s gonna miss them. Certainly not the guys I bought them off, couple of South Africans I met on the train to London one Saturday afternoon at the beginning of term. Was on my way down to hook up with some former hedge fund client of mine who was in London for the weekend. The guy’s a plank but he’s got cash and contacts and I know he’ll stand me a decent dinner. Anyway, like what else was I gonna do on a Saturday night - go to the student union bar? So my head’s buried in a text book, usual bone dry bullshit that almost breaks your goddam arm carrying around, when a can of beer lands in my lap.
‘Hoesit girl? Want something from the bottle store, ya?”
“Actually I’m all set for now, thanks.”
“You from States, hey?’
I tried to ignore them but they were drunk off their ass and pretty insistent with it. Sometimes it’s easier just to talk to people like that. At least that way you can try and control the conversation.
“Yeah, San Francisco.”
“San Fran hey, now that’s a lekker dorp. Lot of poofters though, so what you doing in England hey?’
‘I’m studying for an MBA actually.’
“No shit! Me and the ous here, we’re on like a rugby trip, spend most of the time on the dagga though…Deutsche over there, he lives here, don’t you man.’
This red-faced man mountain staggers over.
“Ya man, breed the dogs man. Best damn dogs in the country, no shit. You want a guard dog, you come speak to Deutsche, hey that right my broer?’
‘It’s true man. Damn Dobermans are lekker mean.’
I get to thinking of all the stories I’ve heard on the radio of murders and shit. In fact, there’s a newspaper lying on the seat opposite, Daily Express or something. Had quick read of it when I got on. I tell you this country sounds worse than the States. Maybe I could use a little protection now that I’m all on my own. I mean, I’ve got my pepper spray but that’s not gonna stop a rapist. So I get this Deutsche guy’s number just before a football is produced leading to a mass brawl. Turns out he lived near-by and true to his word did have some goddamn mean Dobermans for sale. Bummer the University wouldn’t let me keep them but reckon I’ll get by OK. Turns out this country’s pretty safe if you stick to what you know.
The whole disposing of the bodies deal only takes about five minutes and it’s job done, as they say over here. Do like that phrase; think it’s one I’ll use back home.
Harry Stanton
“OK, that’s the past over with Simone. How about you and I go for a drink? Danny, I’ll drop you off at the business school if you like?”
“Harry, you’ve been such a sweetheart and I’m like so grateful and everything, and of course I’d love to have a drink with you guys, but you know what my study group are like. They’re such a bunch of ball-breakers. I don’t show up, I’m screwed.”
Which is more than I’m gonna be, at least by Simone. May as well play the long game here, get rid of laughing boy as well. He looks as pissed off as I feel. Reckon she’s played us both here. Won’t be happening to me again, I can tell you.
“I guess your ex was one of those rich dudes with all kinds of shit he didn’t need Simone?”
“What the fuck are you asking me that for?…Sorry Danny, that was rude. I’m still just a bit raw. Yep, he did. We were together for a while.”
“So, he like moved over here with you then, I guess?”
“Huh…yeah, he did. Just didn’t work out though…Listen do you mind if we don’t talk about it. In fact we’re almost at the school - just drop me off here.”
I drop them both off. Simone thanking me curtly, Danny grunting. Last time that dope-head’s riding in my car. Then, head over to Theresa’s. She’s still there, and accepts heartfelt apologies for my late arrival, together with the compensatory bottle of Lanson I’ve picked up on the way. Had hoped it’d be a bottle of Krug with Simone, but you gotta play the hand your dealt, know what I mean? Been a funny old day really, but when Theresa proudly shows me the freshly inked tattoo of a little butterfly on her left hip, I think it’s one that’s definitely ending well.
Danny McMullen
“Maybe have that smoke we talked about later Simone. Should I call you, or…”
“Sorry, too busy.”
And she’s off down the road without so much as a good-bye. I’m pissed at how this afternoon turned out. I mean, what the hell was I doing out there in the rain throwing bags of Simone’s ex-boyfriends shit into the river when I coulda been back toking and listening to ‘gaze with Miguel? And for what? To be treated like I’m not even there. I’m still a bit hazed and just wanna get out of here, go back home and chill. Had enough of miss Simone Sanders for one day. Maybe I’m being a bit hard on her though. I mean, she just split from her boyfriend and all that. Must kinda suck moving all the way over here with him and then finding out he was cheating on her. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know what it’s like to be screwed over by someone you care about. That’s life though man, shit happens. I’m gonna go home, skin up and listen to Swervedriver.
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