Dxas

By D. Bainbridge

These are the worst of times, these are the beast of times. Its Dxas, so tag it on something. Enter James Aberdeen, half optimist, half masochist, and half something else. This pensive, young immigrant is about to take a leap from high school alienation to university angst. Centred in London, this passage evokes the contemplation that his days of frivolousness are numbered and his descent into responsibility is about to begin. During this careful evolution into adulthood, taking place over summer vacation, he ponders daily encounters and muses about the mysteries and ironies of life; all while trying to have FUN. Naturally, James opinions are developed relative to the naivety of a new adult, ranging from the enigma of heavy petting to that of laymen quantum mechanics.

As summer draws to a close, the story winds to an unexpected finale. In fact, in this tales quaint imitation of life, many things are not as they appear.

The narrators adventures, both in mind and body, are often complimented by the presence of three close friends, each with very different perspectives. All four are characters in their own right, hobbling along on lifes comical journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 12, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469100340

Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by D. Bainbridge.

Preface lyrics to Good Old World ©1991 Jalma Music

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

This work is dedicated to my Clara, family, and friends. Strange yet charmed,

up, down, bottom, and top.

Dxas

a novel by D. Bainbridge

When I was a boy, the moon was a pearl,

The sun was a yellow gold.

But when I was a man, the wind blew cold,

The hills were upside down.

T. Waits

chapter 1

Out into the world through half-closed eyes. Past black scratches made by long, obstructing, curved eyelashes, and beyond the window, to the dark hovering clouds. Such are the last earthly visions of a dying man; well, at least that’s what I’m pretending. If I’m going to have to lie around the house all day, a prisoner, I might as well make the most of the situation. So, here I am, an old man of ninety-nine years, whose kids never come to visit. Now, it matters not, for I’m about to die. Meanwhile, until I die, I will indulge in some self-pity.

A substantial effort is required even to open my weary eyes. I’m a little concerned that opening my eyes too wide may stress my poor heart, and I could end up dying with them wide open. Better save them for now. Being dead is bad enough, all jaundiced and drooly, without having died with one’s eyes bulging out. Beyond that, my wandering mind is too ancient to care about anything right now, even death. Life brings the unpredictable and the unexpected, but death is the only certain thing from the moment of birth. I now find comfort in clinging to this morbid thought.

All of this might seem quite dramatic; however, today the furrows of my brain happen to be particularly active, dispatching ideas like a plough spews out soil. No doubt an attempt by my energetic imagination to compensate for my physical inertness.

Were I an old man of ninety-nine years, whose kids never came to visit—though now it doesn’t matter for I’m about to be gone forever—I’d probably be rationalising about how all the good ol’ days have come and gone. Blow me if I do die; it’s not worth living now anyway. My dearest England has gone to the dogs during this last century in a whirlwind of crime, tainted technologies, and genetic engineering. My country is probably glad to see a crusty old reminder of a grander past, like me, go.

With the din of fastidious footsteps, these many self-devouring sentiments are suddenly interrupted by the entrance of my eldest sister, Marcia. Perhaps she has come to whisper her condolences in my final moments upon this earth. I tilt my head to position an ear to absorb what kind words she might offer.

Still lying about, eh James, like a useless old bum?

True horror and dismay. How wrong I was in anticipating her compassion. Indeed, her insensitive words nearly did my poor heart in right there on the spot. For someone who’s not even two years older than I, she sure is zealous in dispensing her opinions.

Marcia has joined the living room in glancing down upon my worn frame. On a steady course to the other side, she sharply throws, Why don’t ya get off the couch and do something for a change? Clean up around here. You’ll be hearing it when dad… .

Oh, the derogatory criticism; never can I escape its cruelty. Although, it is possible to filter out some of the undesirables through the art of selective perception. It is an art I have mastered.

With that, the volume of Marcia’s commanding voice is mentally muted. I’m pretty good at blocking out noise when the need arises. Concentrating on the crazy swirling print of purples and mauves covering the couch upon which I’ve been reclining and, next thing I know, Marcia ceases to exist. I did not dare respond to her commentary, a small portion of which I happened to endure before I disregarded her. It is well known that a response would have involved the risk of enticing further inane dogma. Frankly, I’m not up to the challenge.

Fortunately, Marcia notices that I’m ignoring her and, like the taste of a bad peanut, she goes away. I’m not usually the lazy, apathetic type. I’m just trying to relax and coax the sickness out of my system. The problem around here is that unless you are dramatic as hell about being ill, coughing up chunks of lung and pissing blood, no one will spare you any sympathy. Not that I go out of my way to obtain it, but my family should ease up a little on the Protestant work ethic.

Finished with the old man portrayal, I’ve returned. The mood was ruined by my sibling’s insensitivity. A truly unique moment now gone forever. I might as well rise from the couch and be productive. Not that I’m listening to Marcia. Believe me, she’s been duly banished, along with all the other opinionated freaks, to the distant land of Let-Me-Tell-Ya-Somethin’. Still, I should get up and accomplish something today—perhaps when the sunburst wall clock radiates two o’clock. This gives me ten more minutes of humble solitude, and more time to procrastinate, before I have to make the phone call.

The truth is, lying around isn’t helping me feel any better. If I lie around too much I develop househead. It must be a blood condition or something. I begin to feel groggy, like it’s raining inside my skull. Eventually, the rain freezes and turns into a headache if I continue to remain inactive. Househead is usually a deterrent for my idleness. Though today I’m not feeling my best and I needed some time to think about something—resulting in my having been sprawled out on the couch for the past hour or so. No worry; I’ll arise soon enough to stomp out any inclement weather in my brain.

The call is about a summer job for which I applied earlier this month. I have worked before, no sweat. Still, I’m not that anxious to be working full time until September. I’ve barely had a week to recover from finishing thirteen years of public schooling. Having the next three months off, before I carry on to uni, will do just nicely. This is the last summer before my descent into the world of seriousness, so I’ve got to make it good. That begins with avoiding employment in the service industry.

Spilled out upon the cushions, I lie wondering what the years will bring. What will I be pondering when the universe has shifted forward, and the instant of my thought is a decade from now? Chances are that I won’t even remember that I’d previously pondered what I would be thinking at that time. Sometimes my memory is not very good. No matter, to remember too much is to remember nothing at all through the loss of distinction anyway. In ten years, all I will have are a few brief memories of whatever happens this summer, bound up with some faint recollections of all the other seasons up to that point.

Before the future gets underway, I’m seizing this motionless moment to think about what I’m going to say when I make that call. I know it’s not such a big deal talking on the phone. It’s just good to rehearse such things to avoid screwing them up too badly.

Hellloo, Walter’s Videorama. Obviously the nasal voice of an underpaid adolescent employee assigned phone duty.

That’s right, I applied to Walter’s Videorama. At least to go through the motions of looking for a summer occupation. Walter’s is close to home, and if hired, I’d get some free rentals. Watching flicks is something most agreeable. The video outlet is owned by this German bloke. I think the shop’s name is supposed to be pronounced Valter’s Videorama, so it sounds harmonious or something, but no one except old Walter wants to bother with harmony.

I’ll begin my job-procurement effort by saying something savvy like, Hello, this is James Aberdeen, and I am phoning to inquire as to whether you have had an opportunity to consider my job application.

The reply will be a disheartening, Ah, hold on a sec; I’ll fetch the manager.

Meanwhile, I’ll wind up to prepare for a second assault.

Hello, the shop manager, owner, and CEO, aka Walter himself, will say in his baritone voice, after I’ve waited ten hours for him to find it convenient to walk three-and-a-half short steps from the cash register to the phone.

I’ll repeat, more nervously this time because, in waiting, I’ve had far too long to contemplate things that could go amiss, "Hello, this’ James Aberdeen, and um, I’m phoning about whether you’ve had a chance to look at my job description, I mean application."

The manager will undeniably then deepen his voice, emphasising his authority because he’s but six inches short of being a five-foot-six runt. Uh hum. Ve have not made a decision as of yet. Vhen ve do, someone vill contact you.

Here I am lounging around in June—June 16th. The time is now five past two. The outcome of my call scenario didn’t appear very promising—I think I’ll put off that onerous task until later. Since it’s Saturday, Valter’s probably at home veeding his garden. A call at this moment would only necessitate a later phone-back anyway. I don’t want to go through the whole ordeal any more than is necessary.

Getting vertical, or even diagonal, may not be a bad idea. Househead is coming on to join my malaise. If I do something, and get my blood circulating, maybe I’ll feel better. I don’t think I shall take Marcia’s advice to do housework; that would make her too wet, believing that I had submitted to her will. Not that I evade work whenever possible or anything. I’m just particular when labour is demanded of me. I guess I’m just lazy-fare.

It’s also not that I mind helping people; it’s just that I prefer to do it discreetly. It takes all the fun out of lending assistance if it’s expected from you. If part of someone’s plan is to have you come along at a specific time and perform a specific service of goodwill, it takes all the spontaneity out of being altruistic. You become more of a sucker than a saviour. Aiding someone is best when they are standing there expecting that they’ll have to do the whole job by themselves, and then you come along. In this case, your help is sort of like a Christmas present.

It’s no joy helping someone if they make a big deal about it, either. When people go on about what a great person you are for lending them a hand, it’s just too much. It makes it look as if your assistance was gratitude dependant all along. I guess helping someone for a few minutes and then waiting around to be idolised in return just doesn’t turn me on.

Housework has definitely been eliminated from the possibilities of things to do today. I could watch television. That’d still amount to lying around. Watching television has been eliminated from the possibilities of things to do today. My fish tank could use a cleaning. That’s not the type of thing to do when you feel like crud. Cleaning the fish tank has been eliminated from the possibilities of things to do today. Maybe if my sisters aren’t occupying the phone, I’ll give a friend a ring. I’ve got to do something; otherwise, I will lie here in the same place for the rest of the summer.

In case someone’s interested, I was out with my three closest friends—or The Group, as we are often referred to—last night. We watched movies. There was a decanter of apricot brandy on the table in the room where we were watching movies. As we watched, the substance in the bottle beckoned to be consumed. We watched movies, and occasionally passed around the vessel to sample its contents. Seated comfortably in the den.

The mother of the friend whose house we were at watching movies peeked in once in a while. Aware of her occasional presence, we had to make sure that the bottle was back on the table whenever she happened to poke her head in. It was like a game of hot potato, except instead of a crappy potato we had a nice decanter of liqueur. We played hot brandy decanter and watched movies, as we were seated comfortably in the den.

Later on, The Group was invited into the kitchen and cordially asked to help ourselves to some cookies that my friend’s mother had baked. Quite a juvenile turn from the luring of liquor. Still, I accepted with ravenousness. I haven’t felt very good since. A dozen deceptively moist and tender cookies are festering somewhere in my lower intestine. Though the cookies probably aren’t the true root of my indisposition, they sure are mighty suspicious.

Starting to recover from possible cookie poisoning, I’ll give one of the gang a ring to find out if anything mildly exciting has occurred since our meeting last. I imagine this phone call scenario will go much better than the last one I envisioned. Raising my arm to peal one more strip of caulking away from the windowsill, gradually I manoeuvre myself off the sofa to the plane of the animate. Walking towards the kitchen, the locale of the nearest phone, I have overcome the tyrant that is idleness.

Shhhit! is my response to brutally stubbing my toe on a kitchen chair. Unfortunately, inanimate objects can run into and damage animate beings. I should’ve stayed immobile, or at least turned on the kitchen light before attempting this dusky obstacle course.

Picking up the receiver, I hear that familiar static hush of a conversation, regarding a cute guy or some new nail polish, being interrupted, "Get off the phone, please," and the familiar protest of Marcia’s voice following it, except that this time she said please. This I can hardly believe. She must have thought it was one of my parents who’d picked up the phone—it wouldn’t have been me as, in Marcia’s mind, I’m still where she saw me last. I am still a disdainful old bum, loafing about on the couch. Her realisation of my picking up the phone would not have resulted in such politeness.

There goes that idea. Phone calls have been eliminated from the possibilities of things to do at this moment. Well, I am mobile, and in the kitchen. What better thing to do in the kitchen than get something to eat. The truth of the matter is, our kitchen is probably as unlikely as any place in this house to find sustenance, unless of course you can live on mustard, pickles, and HP sauce. That is about all that’s available in this paltry pantry. Now, my mother would adamantly disagree. She claims there is always an abundance of food in our house—my near starvation is the result of my just being too fussy to please and not imaginative enough to find something to eat. If being too fussy means you won’t go out and eat the corn out of a cow’s arse, then I guess I am too fussy. I still support my conviction that there’s nothing to eat in this house. In the meantime, I will satisfy my appetite by making toast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It has only been fifteen minutes since I last picked up the phone, which is relatively negligible compared to the duration my sister usually spends on it at any given time. The day is rapidly diminishing. Moss is beginning to germinate on me. I have got to do something. Time to try again to see if she’s finished tending to the latest gossip.

Normally, I would not be this daring in possibly interrupting her telephone chatter for the second time in fifteen minutes, for fear of releasing hell’s fury in a pony tail. In Marcia assuming it was one of my parents the first time, it will be of little consequence to me if she’s forced to screams. I will still be a distasteful, yet innocent, subject of the couch. Do you understand?

I guess I have a personal vendetta against people who have a phone stuck to the side of their head most of the time. In my opinion it is social slothfulness. You can call someone on the phone and communicate with them while you sit around watching television, in yesterday’s underwear, trimming your toenails. You could be doing pirouettes around the room while they yakked on down the telephone line to you. They’d never know the difference, except perhaps for your intense breathing, which, then again, is perfectly acceptable. All you have to do is say oh and uh huh occasionally. There’s no need to give the person your undivided attention because they cannot visually judge your attentiveness.

The ability to occupy yourself with other things while on the phone detracts from the need for quality content. Ninety per cent of the time, the subject material is off-the-tongue, irrelevant particulars. No one would bother to write down stuff like, Not much goin’ on ’round here. Not much at all—and yourself? Umm humm, Umm humm, Umm humm… . though we wouldn’t think twice about saying it over the phone. I suppose you could write a letter to someone while you were sitting around in undergarments. Maybe even your mother’s, if that’s your thing. Still, a letter is different from a telephone call. A letter, in theory, requires a concentrated effort to write and eye contact has to be made with the writing material. Most importantly, the content must be somewhat planned and concise; otherwise, you wouldn’t bother wasting your time scratching it down. On the phone, it basically doesn’t matter what’s being said—it just flows off into space. If my sister is on the phone now, she’s probably providing the tragic details of a mutant nipple hair she grew when she was seven-and-a-quarter years old.

What really gets me is that some people talk longer to acquaintances when on the phone than when in their actual presence. Someday we may all be blind as cave fish, communicating to one another on mobiles. The phone has become a necessary convenience of our daily lives and such reliance can only become more prevalent. As technology advances, the devices we rely upon become more comfortable and convenient to use—in effect, more human. Phone lines shall eventually become an extension of ourselves.

If I want to have a long conversation with somebody, I go on over to their house. That’s my policy. I can only bear to use the horn if I’m going to make plans to go somewhere, for which the phone is a necessity. Especially with my friends. If I had to walk over to each of their houses to get their input on what we’re going to do that evening, I’d be a dried husk in the garden by the time we reached some consensus.

I pick up the receiver. Success! The line is no longer engaged. Marcia must have connected to the wrong person to be done this quickly. I think I’ll phone Alex first. It was his house that I was at last evening.

chapter 2

I hate to get autobiographical, but sometimes when boredom creeps in, there’s a need to entertain myself by secretly recounting and pondering personal events of my past. This includes reflecting upon people I have met, as if I were writing a blurb for the local newspaper. Written in neuro-electrical ink, I have constructed little quips about almost everybody I know; simply for the purpose of self-amusement. People are more interesting once they have been dissected, with their personal traits and behaviours emphasized as if scripted. Viewing individuals as characters in a story gives purpose to their idiosyncrasies. It is this content of people’s lives, properly concentrated, that gives every human being on the face of this planet their very own unique value, and, perhaps, recognition, depending on who else bothers to notice.

Only so much diversion can be spared in being entertained by the lives of others. Our attention is usually consumed by family and friends and the personal goings-on of a few celebrities who happen to catch our eye, often by being force-fed to us through the media meat grinder. The limits of our attention restrict the number of famous people there can be on society’s plate. Too many people in the limelight at once diffuses distinction, and they become ordinary. The planet is oblivious to most people in the world, who remain lost in the multitude of Earth’s population.

There is an odd exception to the general fame phenomenon—closet confidences. The opportunity to glimpse the intimate secrets of others, in the form of private memoirs, letters, or photos, tends to hook our interest regardless of how unexceptional those individuals may be. Even though ninety-nine per cent of what we do in private is the same as everyone else, our privacy is still our secret—it’s our soul. We like looking at others’ souls.

Perhaps such voyeurism allows us to fill up our lives with the lives of others at an intimate level. Maybe it’s the godlike, all-knowing power that it bestows on us that gives this seemingly humdrum material its value. Certainly, the rarity of such revealing bestows a uniqueness typically only reserved for details about individuals of greater acclaim. Someday, video cameras the size of a gnat’s toupee will expose our personal worlds, publicising our private perversions. You can never imagine the queer things that people do outside the common scope of perception. Humanity’s secret garden will become a public park. Ironically, once out of our control, these behind-closed-doors moments will become ordinary and expected, losing their distinguishing deviance. Seeing the head of state with a bottle up his arse will be as shocking as walking the dog. People will come to care about such displays as much as they do about having a fly watch them piddle. Invasive entertainment too will lose its novelty, and the stage will be narrowed.

The lure of everyday intimacies aside, everyone still has a few grains of stardust in them, waiting to be captured in society’s eyepiece. No matter how slight the twinkle, a memorable book or movie could be made based solely on the best or worst five minutes of the lives of any twenty people in the world. Best or worst, naturally, because audiences are most intrigued by extremes. After all, some people’s existence is pretty mundane, so anything longer than a Bugs Bunny cartoon (of the good stuff) might be pushing it.

Even a day in the life of a cesspool of ill fate could whet the appetite of entertainment seekers, as long as this melodrama is considerate of short attention spans. The fact is, in the true spirit of the human condition, people are hardly amused by individuals who have everything always go perfect for them. Rather, they are entertained by those who have struggled a little—after which, a few nights on easy street are permitted.

Presently, I am sitting here, temporarily considering my own situation during the few moments required for someone to answer his phone. I hope my life is good enough that a movie could be made from its content. Not just a five-minute blip, either. Even if the movie was only about me having to deal with my inciting-to-wrist-slash sisters. At least it would give my dead bones a good laugh at themselves.

I haven’t mentioned her yet, but in addition to Marcia I was reluctantly blessed with a younger sister, Elizabeth. She is the reincarnation of Lizzy Borden, if such a phenomenon is possible. To get it all out, Elizabeth and Marcia teeter on each side of me by equal years. I’m in the middle at eighteen—to think of it, sort of in the respect of Scylla and Charybdis. All I can say is that my sisters sure ain’t no Phoebe Caulfield. The only logical explanation for those two is that they are an eternal curse placed upon me by a malicious witch doctor, whom I must have squared in the bollocks in a previous life. I guess, overall, my sisters provide pretty strong evidence for reincarnation and bad karma. It would be consoling to know that I at least deserve their companionship for some reason or another.

A mother, a father, two sisters, and a wiener dog that goes by the name Napoleon—all in a two-storey, medium-size house. I’ll dive into the details of this nuclear family later—a professional image of which, the only one that will ever be taken, is posed proudly on top of the telly. Straight up, we have four bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a sitting room, a dining room, a den, a few halls, a dog house, and a shed leading from cinderblock steps that possess a diabolical crack (which shall later be further divulged), not to forget the kitchen where I am presently; still waiting for Alex to pick up his phone.

Relating back to my point on the analysis of personalities, my friends would hardly be jumping for joy if they had any notion of my extensive deliberation on their peculiarities. Right or wrong, I’ve made them immortal in the novel of my consciousness, and that’s not too bad. My friend Alex Xuereb, or Alex Xuereb the II as he likes to be referred to when he’s feeling particularly eccentric, whom I shall hopefully be talking with any second now, has been awarded by me a title of his very own. Old Alex’s claim to fame is as the tidy practitioner of immaculate endeavours.

The boy has a cross-eyed last name, so you wouldn’t think he’d want to bring any more attention to it—but that’s Alex. Not only that, since I’ve known him, Alex has always been extremely sensitive about people touching his personal stuff. In his universe, everything has a specific location, position, and order (alphabetical, if possible). Although he doesn’t become terribly upset, like an idiot savant or anything, if you pick up an article of his to look at and then set it down, after a few minutes he will casually waver over and place the item back in its precise original position. It makes you want to deliberately rearrange his stuff just to spite him, and sometimes I can be just that spiteful. He even laughs at himself when he realises that I am walking around his bedroom picking up things and then putting them in their wrong place simply to watch his automated reaction, so at least he’s not too neurotic.

And then there’s his hair. Though he never allows it to grow beyond an inch in length before running to a barber for a clip, he has to gel and style it to absolute perfection. The thing is, his hair is so short that it wouldn’t look that bad if he got up in the morning and deliriously fashioned it with a handful of cat crap. Yet he is as particular as possible.

Alex’s hair even gets politically involved when we go for a drive. Like a little old, silver-maned lady, as soon as Alex gets in a car he wants all the windows up so that the wind won’t mess his hairstyle. There’s not much you can do to harm a virtual brush cut. Inch-long hair isn’t around long enough to develop a mind of its own.

Some people assume that just because they spend hours on their appearance, they look like they do. They obviously haven’t learned the fundamental principal of effort-and-result efficiency. If they comb their hair for five hours, they believe this action makes them look five hours more handsome. The truth is, this scalpal abuse will only make them five hours older, and perhaps bald ten years earlier.

On the other hand, some people take pride in their disregard of cleanliness and order. They are happy to have had the opportunity to acquire a presence of personal dirt and insectum. They wear their bodily filth illustriously, like a medal of valour. I once knew this farmer whose neglect for visiting the bath during the past year forced his wife to take up residence upwind on the opposite side of their house. He smelled worse than the manure he’d been out spreading all day. No doubt the guano would wince whenever he drew near. Eventually, his wife and children pushed him into the tub, accompanied by a box of laundry detergent. That smelly farmer probably felt he’d been stripped of his soul, setting out the next day doubly determined to gain back his personal expression.

It’s amazing how fast the mind can race in a few seconds. Five telephone rings have passed and still no answer. Finally, the sound of the phone engaging travels into my right ear. A creaky old voice creaks out a painful, Hell-looo.

Oops, that’s not the creaky old voice of anyone I know. Instead of reaching Alex, I’ve phoned some centenarian.

To save time in substantiating this obvious error, and to avoid having to apologise for getting an elderly lady out of an old