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Woke up this morning with bad romance playing on the radio gaga.
How many record sales you made now babe? I'm not sure, I txt him. You know, he said, my father gave me $10 to buy myself a Christmas present in 1970, and I bought Sg Peppers, and Let it Be, my first two albums, and the Beatles had already broken up.
Tell me a story, I ask him. Do you know Swan Lake, he txt back, the Stalin version with a happy ending? No, tell me the end of the other story about how John killed you, I said. Oh that story, he said. There was something I wanted to say first, but I've forgotten for the time. I'll have to come back to it. That's right, how is your mother's house? Which one, I ask him? The one on the farm, with the bird bath. Did it have a marble bench top? I remember hard edges, and a sunny warm room. Yes, I know the one you mean, I said, it's still there. Where were we? You were going to buy some petrol, I told him.
That's right he said. We roll up and John is struggling to change the front wheel of his tractor, so we give him a hand. His jack is too short, so Sing and I offer to lift it for him, and we did, except John was struggling with the nuts, and one went under, so he went to grab it just as Sing let go. I tried to hold on myself, but it was too heavy and the tractor fell on John. We got it up using a long bit of wood as a lever, and some blocks of wood, and put the jack under it and dragged him out, but he was unconscious. So Singh ran up to the house to call an ambulance, but there was no phone, or he didn't know where it was. John came to, and was sitting up, so I shot into his shed to see if I cold find a tap to get him some water. I probably should have stayed with him, because just then Singh came racing back, but slid on a patch of oil, and was trying to jump over John, just as John was on his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet. He kicked him in the knee, and in the chest, killing him. How could he kick him in the knee if he was on his hands and knees, I asked? He must have fallen over when he got kicked in teh chest, he said, and then got kicked in the knee. Maybe he got kicked in the knee, fell onto his hands and knees, and then got kicked in the chest killing him. It doesn't matter, as I wasn't there, but he was dead. Dousn't sound very plausable, I said. Well we decided to take him out to his orchard and make it look like a tractor accident, so we put him on the ground and pushed the tractor down the hill. He stayed there for four days, before he was discovered. Man killed in tractor accident, the newspaper said. Singh is a freemason, and used to wear a freemason's ring his father gave him, with three different colours of gold in in it, he said. But not like any on this page. So I decided to have a talk to my uncle Buster, who has died since, but is a member and a Grandmaster of the freemason's lodge. He said he'd asked Singh to do this for him so he could gain a promotion at the lodge, but that it was a secret, so he'd have a word with the coroner and it would all be sweet and put down as an accident. But why John, I asked him. Because he's a friend of yours, he said. Was a friend of mine, I said, he gave me petrol on a post dated cheque when I needed it. What was Singh going to do I asked him? He'd better shut up about it or it might happen again, he laughed.
That's a total load of bullshit, I said. You don't use the word bullshit he told me. I can if I want to, I said. So anyway, we both had a taste of his royal icing he'd been icing his Christmas cake with, and helped ourselves to the plums on his tree, and left. We found out later that his brother Colin had seen the whole thing from the orchard, but had been too scared to come forward and confront us. So why did you say that John killed you, I asked? I was John, he said. So you killed yourself, I said. No, Singh killed John, but I was Singh. So Singh was John, but who is Gordon, I said? Gordon was John, he said. Now I'm confused, I said. You were John, but Gordon was John, so was Gordon's wife John's wife? No John's wife left him taking half the orchard, so that's why John hates women. It cost him $500,000 but now it has PSA virus and his son runs it. Thank goodness for small mercies, I said. Yes, all's well that end's well, he said. What about Gordon, I asked him. Well his wife left him too, but he has a garage at Maketu, so he's happy. I don't think I'd go there, I said. No, you'd be better to get your own garage, he told me. I'll get mum and dad to buy me one, I said. And your mother could work in it and fix my car, he said. I could do that myself, I said.
Did you write this for me babe, he said, holding up a sheet of paper. What, I said. That stuff about being my backstage girl, he say. No I did not, I tell him, I wrote it for my fans. Do you mind if I pretend you wrote it for me, he asked. You can if you like, I told him. But you'd need a great imagination.
Superstars
I'll be your girl backstage at your showvelvet ropes and guitars, yeah 'cause you're my rockstar
in between the sets, eyeliner and cigarettes
shadow is burnt, yellow dance and we turn
my lashes are dry, purple teardrops I cry
it don't have a price, loving you is cherry pie
"Did you write this for me babe, he said? What? That stuff about being my backstage girl, he say. No I did not, I tell him, I wrote it for my fans."
Ben
Saw Singh again the other day, I said. He's been looking for work. Yrah, I know you told me. Well he's been driving his car to the beach, and sleeping there. Nothing, wrong with that, I said. I'd do it. Yes but he's been parking in a pick-up spot wheere gay men go for a blow-job, he said. I had to warn him that he's going to get guys knocking on his window if he parks there. But he's okay for money, I asked? For teh time being. He's sweet, he said.
I'd wite a song for you if I could write love songs, he said. I'd do anything for you. Oh you big softie, I said. Why don't you txt me some of your ideas? Why don't you phone me, and we can get together and discuss them, he asked. Are we having an argument, because I don't want any arguments. No we're not I said. Isn't it too dangerous for me to talk to you? You know what brutal thugs you are dealing with? You have a good point there, he said, look what they did to JFK? What did they do to him, I asked? They shot him, he said. Oh that JFK, I thought you meant the airport, I said. I thought they blew it up. You would, he said.
The government is considering legislation, he said. What is it this time, I txt him back, Another hair brained scheme, I thought. From what I can gather, they are thinking of requiring farmers whose properties adjoin a natural waterway, to fence the Queen's chain. What's that, I asked. It is a 20 metre strip of land from teh edge of teh waterway, or from the centre of it if it is very narrow, he said. They don't want animals walking in the water. Who doesn't I said. Surely not the animals? No teh animals like to walk down to the water and drink, but their shit gets in the water and pollutes it, he said. Smoke gets in my eyes, I said. Surely not, he replied. Surely there is crap on the land running into the water when it rains? Anyway, he said, I'm the owner to the genetic rights of the timber, so before they can force me to build a fence, they have to serve me with a fencing order so we can decide what type of fence. I see, I said. And then we have to decide on a price for materials and labour, and something for my share of the posts or wire. And you own the rights to the wire as well, I asked? Some wire, I said, and I'm using Anchor brand. How much is your cut, I asked. 15% he said, and I'll give you a third if you like. I'll have to think about that, I said. It's a lot of money he said, it's not just posts, it's building materials as well. Well I need to get some sleep, I said, so I'll let you know. Later, he said. Later, I replied. more