Short Story Challenge - Day 1 - PricklyJesus.Org
Carl pulled his kafia a little closer round his ears. It seemed to make little difference to the sharp January wind. He tried to leave his tiny flat by the canal in Islington rarely, even in the summertime, and his battered leather jacket - and his wardrobe generally - flapped ineffectually, inviting the cold in. Icey water pumped up through a hole in his vintage converse - a bad choice of shoe, he realised. He pushed open the door to The Shepherdess and stood at the bar, panting, trying to catch his breath.
The barman appeared from behind a display unit at the corner of the pub, where he was removing Christmas decorations from the windows. Carl ordered a pint of guest ale, then immediately wished he’d ordered a soy latte. He watched the barman pull the pint glass from the top of the bar, and almost said something before he pulled the tap back, but instead kept his mouth closed. Halfway through the pint the pipes spluttered and ran dry, and Carl got his latte instead.
The Shepherdess was quiet. Even though it was 12 midday on a Tuesday, the dark oak of the pub was usually generously sprinkled with a variety of East London types from opening at 11am til closing. Carl chose the booth opposite the pub’s door, closest to both a heat vent and electricity, and pulled out his MacBook Air, plastered with various band stickers, as well as a decal that had been given away free with the book he’d had published in September just passed - entitled ‘Prickly Jesus’.
The monitor vibrated quietly back to life, showing a Skype text conversation he’d been involved with before realising he was late for his meeting. Behind that, two windows were open, showing the blogs that had birthed his book: a tome of fad non-fiction, a coffee table book featuring pictures of cacti shaped like jesus that he had found online, doctored on photoshop (giving them jesus sandals) and added captions to. Each cactus had a different caption, depending on what it looked like, or the kind of situation it was in. There was a tiny cactus on the dashboard of a car, which he gave the caption: What Would Jesus Drive? There was a picture of a huge cactus with two hipsters hanging out in front of it, one of with holding a joint in his hand, to which Carl added the caption: What Would Jesus Doobie?
Carl had spent the months just before he dropped out of Goldsmiths (an art college in New Cross) agonising about what kind of clever website he could set up. The world - his world - was completely online. His music, his fashion, his culture - everything he consumed he found online first. Studying anything - other than website design - seemed to be a total waste of time to him. Somehow he’d ended up at Goldsmiths studying English Literature, which he had found it easy to blag through but hated passionately. As a result had ended up repeating both his first and second years. He’d taken a year out before going to Goldsmiths, so by the time he was halfway through his third year he was nearly 25. He’d been living with the same dropout friends, but decided he needed a clean break. He dropped out, moved out, and found himself a tiny one bedroom flat in Islington. He’d met some cool, arty people through various websites - people who’d left comments on Holy Moly or VICE - people that he ended up connecting with through Twitter, eventually befriending them in real life too. Most of them lived in renovated warehouses in Hackney, but Carl had already signed a 12 month contraxt on his box-room, and would have to wait a few more months before he could move again. Besides, most of the warehouses were bitter cold at this time of year, and he was so slight that any cold chilled him to the bone.
The door of the pub clattered open, and Carl started in his seat, almost knocking his latte onto his lap. “Fuck,” he muttered, then looked up quickly to see who had come through the door. A local, by the looks of things, with a huge sheepskin jacket, tight jeans, leather satchel and impossibly long fringe. Carl was jealous of the jacket for its warmth, but equally repulsed by how unfashionable the thing was.
The laptop beeped quietly. A new Skype chat window opened up. It was his friend Windsock, a poet from Tunbridge who had just moved to one of those draughty warehouses in Hackney. Carl had met Windsock on the VICE website, trading smart comments about a new art show consisting solely of photographs of vaginas.
“is she there yet” asked Windsock.
“no. place is empty. this was a stupid idea” replied Carl. He looked around the empty pub again. He looked back at the screen and continued typing. “what u doing”
“freezing balls off. boiler gave out last night. am in multiple jumpers and sleeping bag. desperate for piss but its too cold to get up”
There was a pause. Windsock continued: “what u going to say to her when you c her?”
“dont know. didnt really think that far ahead. sure something will come to me” Carl replied.
He flicked screens back to pricklyjesus.org and read through the comments under the last post. Since the book had come out interest in the website had peaked in October, but had gone worryingly quiet over Christmas. Some new art blog called oeufenouef was all over the usual sites - some girl filling empty eggshells with lard and coloured dye, freezing them, smashing them and filming herself doing it. Stupid performance art stuff. Carl smoothed his hair flat with the back of his hand, and looked at the clock. @missmarshal had said she would be there by 11.30. He was starting to think she’d lied.
He clicked a shortcut on the desktop and opened his Twitter, but paused while deciding what to post. “Taking time to work on new material - bloody freezing in old street.” Click. He opened the search column in Hootsuite - the third party app he used to manage his Twitter accounts - and where he had a search column dedicated to all of @missmarshal’s tweets. He scanned up the column. Nothing more had been added since her first post at 9:21 that morning. “too cold to work in the house! off to my darling shepherdess for latte and inspiration.” It was nearly 12. Carl started to feel decidedly uncomfortable.
“so what u doing today. want to meet later” asked Windsock.
the door banged open again. the first thing he saw was a huge fur coat. it looked real too. vintage though. From Portobello, he thought. Grey jeans. Tiny white plimsoles. He opened up his organiser and made a note about a potential blog about shoes.
She ordered a latte - with cherry syrup - and set her bag down on a table near the door. She pulled out her Macbook and glanced over. He looked down quickly, trying to avoid her gaze.
“shit shes here - think she just caught me loking” he blasted to Windsock.
Windsock didn’t answer. @missmarshall - first name Lauren, according to those who left messages on her blog, surname presumably Marshal - opened up a notebook and stared intently at it.
“wtf am i supposed to do now” he asked Windsock.
Still nothing. Looking down at the screen, Carl opened up her Twitter page and set it to refresh once a minute. He clicked idly for a few minutes, still checking it. She hadn’t posted anything.
He covered his face with his hair, then looked up through it over to her table. All the times he’d tried to accidentally bump into her around Old Street - and every time he had failed. He even went to the Barbican one time when she said on her Twitter that she was going there alone to watch Akira. He positioned himself on the balconey before the show, and studied every face that went in. Even though he only knew her from photos on Flickr - and really, had no idea what she looked like in real life - he was certain she wasn’t there. Her Twitter was a fairly unreliable source of information, truth be told. In fantasies where they became friends and went for coffee, Carl admitted to her that before they met he had made an art project out of following her Twitter trail. She found it flattering and hilarious, and it reaffirmed her growing - but suppressed - desires for him. Even in fantasies, his love life was fraught with anxiety and opportunities lying just out of reach.
She looked up again, but Carl managed to look away before she made eye contact.
And now what, he wondered. What the fuck was he supposed to do now.
2 years ago • 4 notes
