Behind Me As Ever

I am alone in the dark.

My first instinct whenever I wake is to check the blinds to try and guess the time, but today I can’t move my head.

Or, as it turns out, my body.

As I’m wondering if this absolute darkness is a dream, it dawns upon my sleepy senses that I’m vertical, twisted, and immobile. Immobile? I wiggle my fingers slightly. Okay, I’m not immobile, but physically restricted from moving. This starts as relief, but quickly shifts into a new and unpleasant train of thought.

What I assumed to be a cool pillow is actually a solid textured surface. My back, behind me as ever, is also pressed against something that's cold, hard and slightly damp. There’s also an unpleasant smell.

This can’t be good.

Neither is the fact that I seem to be largely naked. Aside from my underpants chafing out of reach at my waist, I think I’m au naturel. It’s hard to be sure, as there’s some cramping in my thighs, and I can’t feel my feet.

Cold, naked, trapped, and in the dark.

Panic starts to rise in me. But I know the signs, and head them off at the pass. Get a grip, Indigo. I take a series of long, shallow breaths. In. Out. In. And Out. Miraculously, lost in this respiratory exercise, my heart slows.

Calm returns. That’s better.

I chuckle. This could be worse. I could be underground.

Oh good grief, am I underground?!

Panic, the first Horseman Of My Personal Apocalypse roars gleefully as he rides through me, shredding my nerves. His brothers Fear, Paranoia and Mum-Said-I’d-Go-Blind are close behind, mopping up any stragglers.

I have terrible claustrophobia, and always have. And now, perhaps as Karmic punishment for doing something weird in a previous week, I’m buried alive! Deep beneath the earth, cold and wet and lost, never to see the light of day again!

I start to thrash, feebly at first, and find nothing but the close brush of walls of my confinement to meet my shoulders, knees and hips. I stretch my neck upwards, and thump my head on a chilly ceiling. No way out! Have I worked by way up a pothole, shredding my clothes on unyielding rock, in a desperate attempt to reach the surface, only to find a dead end, with no way back?!

My thrashing becomes more frenzied, I rock and twist and finally feel some sensation in my feet. Spurred on by this, my heart racing, I force my knees outwards and shuffle my tingling feet apart. Something seems to give when I do this, there even seems to be the tiniest crack of light!

I’m breaking through!

With a roar of effort I shove my elbows out in a final desperate bid for freedom.

The fridge door opens.

And the light comes on.

I tumble from the frigid appliance into the humid early morning of my kitchen, and lay coughing, gasping and stretching on the floor. As fire rages through my cramping limbs, I vaguely register the food, drink and metal racking shelves that are scattered all around me.

I sigh in relief and resignation.

It’s no good.

I have to get air conditioning in my bedroom.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

The Panic Is Infectious

There’s nothing like a femme fatale screaming in panic down the phone at you at 6am to bring your mind into focus.

There’s a huge spider in my bathroom!

It’s Eolist. Ms. Petite, my tiny American friend, is not known as a panicker with wildlife. I once watched her straighten out a pair of delinquent anteaters who foolishly tried to lift her pocketwatch with a double-team bump and dip. It wasn’t pretty.

But let’s be honest, nobody likes spiders. Well, nobody who’s entirely sane, anyway.

Um, good morning? Grasping for etiquette is probably a poor attempt at calming the lady down, but I’ve not had a coffee yet.

Not here it bloody well isn’t! Please can you come help?! THIS SPIDER IS FREAKISHLY LARGE! she wails. It sounds like Eolist may already have had a few pints of coffee herself, possibly with a red bull chaser, but that’s not unusual, even at this time of day.

Um, sure. Just lemme get dressed and…

Please hurry! The line goes dead.

Good grief, it’s only a spider. I’m not fond of them either, but what is it about them that makes us so irrational? I've often suspected it’s something about the angles in the legs, the numbers of eyes, or the way they move. They could almost be an alien species.

Involuntarily, I twitch as I swipe an imaginary one from my hair.

Right, best get moving. I raise myself from bed, step into trousers and shuffle into shoes. What’s missing? Oh yeah, a shirt. Not strictly needed for heroics, but my string vest is in the wash.

I wonder where my spider-catching pint glass is.

Ten minutes later, I arrive at Eolist’s. It’s a lovely house, a nice white-painted wooden affair in an acre of land. A well tended gravel pathway heads out to meet the road, and there’s a decent-sized outdoor swimming pool which stop well short of; I don’t want to have to call the badgers to get my vehicle out of the deep end again.

Eolist runs out onto the driveway, a vision of early-morning dishevelment. It’s a good look on her. She takes one look at my pint glass and shakes her head.

You’re going to need a bigger boat, Quint. I chuckle, but not unkindly; it’ll be more than sufficient. We then exchange broken sentences, each interrupted by the next. I wave the pint glass.

I’m sure I can catch it with this pi...

I have some much bigger containers in the garage, I’ll go ge...

Never mind the garage, there’s no nee...

Did I mention how big this bloo...

IT’S JUST A SPIDER! I exclaim, gently putting my hands on her shoulders to stop her bouncing. We take a breath; the panic is infectious. I’ll deal with it. That’s why you called me, right?

Eolist pouts a little, but nods. Right.

I give her a quick hug and head indoors.

Upstairs bathroom! she yells at me as I pass the threshold. Please be careful! I'm annoyed that the tune Billy Don't Be A Hero starts up in my head.

One minute later, I’m standing chuckling at her bathroom sink. The spider is a couple of inches across, and distressingly hairy, but not worth the panic. It eyes me suspiciously before making another attempt to scramble up the side of the porcelain.

Feeling brave, I put my glass down and scoop the wee lad up carefully between my cupped hands. It tickles me with its thrashing, and a shiver passes up my spine, but I deposit him out of an open window and close it quietly.

Taking some deep breaths, I feel rather heroic.

Job done.

I turn at a noise from behind the shower curtain above the bath.

Ten seconds later, I’m on the drive with Eolist.

I’m doubled over, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. She fusses over me, but I regain my composure and try to look heroic as I raise myself upright.

So, tell me about those big containers you have in the garage...

I make a mental note never to answer the phone again.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

For A Stirring Chorus Rendition

It’s a well-trodden cliché that travel broadens the mind.

But cliché or not, it’s true. Nothing blows away the cobwebs of complacent thought more than an exotic location, immersion in an unfamiliar culture, and the babble of an unknown language.

Or unknown time.

It’s Vienna, 1892. I’m sitting in a street café with my best friend, the part-time evil genius, iDifficult; we’re having a late breakfast, possibly an early brunch. The smells of fresh bread, sweet pastries and hot coffee from our locale are intoxicating.

This why we arrived at 8am - the best of the food is always within a half hour of it emerging from the oven. It will be several hours before we’re trampling our shadows. And right now, our shadows are sitting as comfortably as us, just a few yards away.

We got lucky with the weather, I note, sipping an exquisite cup of joe as I contemplate my first snack. Ordering this delicious spread was awkward with minimal German skills, but I think the waitress quickly got the idea we were hungry. And mercifully, with us dressed in immaculate morning suits and top hats, we at least looked respectable enough to pay for our meal.

Oh, luck has nothing to do with it, replies ‘Difficult, fishing in his breast pocket. He produces an obsidian yoyo, frowns, and dips his hand again. Aha! He waves a small ornate brass device in my direction, which seems to be grafted onto a length of seaweed.

Temporal barometer?

Indeed. He smiles absently and gives the yoyo a few expert twirls. Its surface sparkles eerily with the stars of deep space. Taking a bite from a deliciously crisp bread roll crammed with butter and strong, gently-melted cheese, I decide to change the subject.

So, do we have a plan? My friend considers this as he tucks into his first cake of the day. It has cream and chocolate and nuts, and looks like it could kill a diabetic at ten paces.

Well, there’s some terrific museums and parks here, he muses, gazing distractedly at something on the pavement, and of course we could drop by in Sigmund Freud... His voice trails off, his attention still focused on ground level.

I follow his gaze, and slowly stop chewing and talking.

On the slate paves fifteen feet away, our shadows are out of synch with us. Mine waves his hands in an animated fashion, while 'Difficult's seems to shout periodically and scratch his head a lot. We watch for thirty seconds as this tableau unfolds.

Good gravy, are they playing charades?

My friend cocks his head while his silhouetted counterpart stands to begin his turn. With his arms held wide, he spins ominously, before descending and unleashing some kind of explosion.

Yeah, and I think I'm doing Independence Day?

Do they normally do this when we’re sitting quietly? Other shadows seems to be slipping further away from their owners to join the game.

Perhaps. I’ve never noticed, but we’re usually so busy! His consideration deepens. When we’re least active, we tend to be in a dimly lit room, watching movies while eating pizza.

He’s right, the evidence is inconclusive.

There’s quite a gathering of shadows now, each tenuously attached to its caster. Our doubles are both seated again, watching the shade of an artist from somewhere to our left act out the name of an opera.

Oh hell, I’m hopeless on opera, mumbles ‘Difficult past as the last morsels of the cake. I drain my coffee and eye up what looks suspiciously like an amaretto über-éclair. I sniff it experimentally; no, the strong scent of cherries suggests kirsch liquer. I pop it down and reach for some applestrudel instead.

Oh, I think that fella over there got it! The silhouette of a foppish fella to our right jumps up, dragging the darkness of his male companion with him. The two stand and appear to whisper, plotting their mime.

A double mime? Interesting... ruminates the evil genius, picking up the cake I’ve just abandoned. Hey, is this an amaretto éclair?

I shake my head, and the words No, cherry, die on my lips as the charade begins. Turning to 'Difficult, I whisper, This is a bit camp. And where did they get the cowboy hats?

My friend shakes his head, and then suddenly chokes on his éclair. Spluttering cherry cream, he wipes his mouth and finally manages to squeak, Good grief, are they doing Brokeback Mountain?!

I laugh easily, and after watching for a few more seconds I shout Home on the Range! at the assembled shadows. I receive some odd looks from the café’s flesh-and-blood patrons, but both of the mimers point at me with one hand while touching their nose with the other - Correct, Sir!

Some of the other shades then stand and, producing more cowboy hats, join their companions for a stirring, silent, chorus-line rendition of the wild west tune. There is thunderous mute applause.

I pick up the coffee urn and smile at ‘Difficult.

More tea, Vicar?

Ten minutes later, our feast complete, we settle our bill in broken German and head away from the café. Our shadows detach themselves reluctantly from their lively silent party, and snap back into step with us.

Well, that was interesting, I understate, as we pass through the archway to the Grand Park. To my right, ‘Difficult strolls along, once again playing with his yoyo. He offers a reflective Hmmm as he takes it Round The World, narrowly missing my top hat and a nanny pushing a pram. She starts and says something surprised in German. He apologises with a frown and a raise of his hat, and she then giggles and scurries away.

You know, I offer, considering my friend’s many eccentricities, it’d be an missed opportunity to visit Vienna in 1892 and not pop by to see Freud.

My friend scratches his short beard as he considers this proposition. Does he speak English?

Oh, I expect so, I cough, But I’m sure he’d be fascinated to have you on his couch even if he doesn’t.

Well, I’d love to ask him about his mother.

We continue our stroll through the park as our shadows shorten.

Travel does broaden the mind.

But time travel broadens, tenderises, rolls and roasts it.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

A Comfortable Silence Falls

There are never any ends, just a multitude of beginnings.

I'm thinking back to the first time I stood together with my two best friends.

It's 1992. Wednesday. Probably. After work finishes, I walk into town with iDifficult. We've worked together for almost two years since we received an honourable discharge from our boarding school. In this time, 'Difficult has denied on many occasions that he is my boss. Yet still he guides me, as he always has; randomly, anarchically, and occasionally with dazzling wisdom.

As boss-deniers go, he's pretty cool.

We stop into our local coffee house.

Aaah, Café Nehru! I exclaim as we walk in the door, inhaling the rich aroma.

The great taste of Indian Coffee! sighs ‘Difficult. We do this a lot, finishing each others sentences. Mostly because we lose our train of thought on a regular basis.

As we peruse the board above the counter, I’m aware that there’s just one person ahead of us in the queue. Though in fact, I’m not sure if she’s in the queue. The young lady is perched on a high stool as she argues some point with the barista behind the counter.

Her legs dangle a clear two feet above the floor.

Good grief, I whisper, pointing, she's tiny! How did she get up there?

My friend considers this engineering feat for a moment. Somewhere, a slide rule is screaming.

Sheer bloody-mindedness? he finally ventures, with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

Ahead of us, the woman offers a loud torrent of colourful metaphors at the guy serving her. She spins in the swivel-topped chair and regards us, fuming. She’s an attractive redhead in a jumper, jeans and tennis shoes.

The son of a bitch cut me off! she wails at us, I wanted just one more treble espresso! But no! Her hands wave expressively, frantically. He says I’ve had enough!

The barista stands nervously at the counter. She gives him The Bird over her shoulder. I exchange a glance with ‘Difficult and we nod in unison. I extend a hand towards her.

Perhaps you’d care to join us, miss...?

Petite. she says, taking my hand and hopping down. She’s almost two feet shorter than me. Eolist Petite. Mrs. And thank you.

Our pleasure Our pleasure we chorus, as ‘Difficult steps up to order.

Five minutes later, we’re in a circular booth with a single padded seat, as ‘Difficult distributes our scalding-hot beverages of choice. Eolist reaches forward to sip hers immediately, either oblivious or impervious to the heat. I can’t even touch my cup. While she drinks, she explains to us that she’s visiting from America on a Caffeine Exchange Programme.

Yeah, right now there’s some wired, neurotic twenty-something drinking a pint of espresso with my husband back in the States. She chuckles darkly. She’s pretty cute, and he probably thought it sounded like a sweet deal, but he has no idea.

Been married long? asks ‘Difficult as he sizes up an almond croissant. Like all public schoolboys, we’re not well versed with talking to women.

Sure. Though one of these days I’m gonna get me a woodchipper, and it’s hasta la vista, meester.

We both laugh, and wonder if she’s joking.

Gentlemen, bless you for your chivalry and this coffee fix. She smiles easily, So, how about you tell me your names?

My part-time evil genius amigo puts aside the half eaten croissant, creates an avalanche of crumbs and sugar as he stands, and pats his pocket for his monacle. Not finding it, he produces and eye patch from a trouser pocket and fixes it over his left eye. His voice projects beautifully.

A rag, a bone, a hank of hair, a scientist who dreams and dares. He blushes slightly. Dammit, he beat me to the punch - I was going to misquote Kipling. But my friends and the taxman call me iDifficult.

Eolist snorts happily across the top of her cup, and dampens his black velvet suit jacket with a highly-caffeinated mist. She looks apologetic. Sorry. What does the I stand for? My friend squirrels the eyepatch away again and grins.

Oh, more than you’d think.

They shake hands and exchange smiles. She turns to me as I straighten my necktie.

And how about you?

Roth. Indigo Roth. I try to put some Bond-ish swagger in it, but as I’m new to Her Majesty’s Secret Service, I don’t quite catch it right. She doesn’t seem to notice, and we shake.

That’s a very nice tie, by the way. Be careful a lion doesn’t steal it.

I blink and think. Nope, that’s lost on me.

I’m afraid I don’t follow. Eolist shakes her head.

Never mind, it probably loses something in translation. A frown crosses her brow a moment later, and she begins to rummage in her bag, muttering quietly to herself. Roth. Difficult. Roth. Difficult. She produces a piece of white cardboard and stares at it. From my seat I can see that one corner is torn and slightly charred. It seems to be an old photo. Wow, that’s weird.

We shuffle round either side of her and gaze at the image.

My friend takes it gently and turns it over, while Eolist explains that she’s been hunting down lost relatives in England. He reads the legend on the rear with growing amazement.

Masters Difficult and Roth with Mistress Petite, 1892. He scratches his chin thoughtfully. Exactly one hundred years ago. Good grief.

I don’t recognise the young Roth seated in the middle, but judging by the date and the setting, he might well be Orlando Roth or his twin brother Hugo. Perhaps both; we’re an unusual family. I notice ‘Difficult shaking his head bemusedly; clearly he has no clue either.

We all chat briefly about some possibilities, but then a comfortable silence falls as we attend to our cooling drinks.

There really are a multitude of beginnings.

Eolist finally breaks the silence.

Well, this is all rather surprising and charming, but perhaps it's merely a good sign. We have bigger fish to fry - I have a serious question for you. She squares her narrow shoulders as we hold our breath in mid-slurp. Can you boys recommend a decent curry house?

We heave a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, more familiar territory.

Yes indeed. Only the finest establishment in this world or any other adjacent ones. Eolist raises her eyebrows appreciatively.

Sounds intriguing. Where is it?

Standing, ‘Difficult tries unsuccessfully to dust the icing sugar and almonds from his velvet jacket. He resembles a partially wiped blackboard.

That’s a simple question with a complicated answer. He consults a compass, a pocket barometer, and a bus timetable writen on a turquoise napkin. Let’s just say it’s nearby if we're quick and leave it at that.

Eolist slips from the booth and looks marginally shorter than she did at the table.

Okay, definitely intriguing. Shall we?

I rise and join my two friends. This sounds like fun.

We head off to another beginning, and wherever it will take us.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011