the tv was broken and there was no beer in the house either. man was i at a loose end. the repair guy had told me he was backed up until the start of next week, tvs were going down everywhere for some reason, he blamed it on a certain model's built-in obsolescence chip that kicked in after five years, and said that was the soonest he could do it. just thinking about all the programmes i was going to miss almost set me off crying like a baby.
the wife said, 'let's get the children round and look at the family album together, pretend at least to be normal, cultured folk,' until i reminded her that we'd never owned a camera and the children had left home years ago.
'are you sure?' she said, 'i thought i heard regan in her room this morning.'
my wife drinks, she has many problems. if i could find her stash, all our problems would be solved.
'it wasn't regan,' i said, 'just go and look if you don't believe me.'
she went upstairs and came back to tell me we'd been burgled. i sighed and looked at the grey screen, trying to project something to save us from the imminent threat of conversation.
'i could always tell you stories,' storyman said, 'if things are at a low ebb.'
i figured why not suffer another one of his tales, it beat the hell out of having to turn the pages of a book and do the reading yourself.
'ok,' i said, 'but no moral, i hate morals. and i want a hero in it who more than slightly resembles me.'
storyman smiled and took a little bow, half of his tales are performance he says.
'what about charades?' said my wife, 'if your friend wants to play we'd have enough to make it interesting.'
'will you shut up?' i said, 'he's trying to tell.'
storyman cleared his throat. 'once upon a time, there lived a girl who danced all day from morning through until night without her feet ever feeling even the slightest bit tired,' he said, then paused to check that his magic was working on us.
'is this girl going to be the hero?' i asked, 'because i'm not too interested in people dancing to be quite honest, i was hoping for something where tv manufacturers were rounded up and shot for their poor quality workmanship.'
'i was going to give her a leading role certainly,' said the storyman, 'i for one am rather fond of girls dancing, it reminds me of being young and carefree and the beauty of movement.'
'no sale,' i said, 'girls dancing are just girls dancing, you aren't satisfying my criteria so far, you'll have to start again i'm afraid.'
'but i liked the dancing girl,' said my wife with gin tears in her eyes, 'she reminded me of the unlimited possibilities one is presented with as a girl, where the whole world is still available.'
she was looking over at me like it was my fault she wasn't some dancing girl all of a sudden.
'you've never danced in your life,' i told her. 'and you,' i said to storyman, 'i don't even want her in as a minor character, scratch her out of it. let's try again shall we?' i said and stretched my legs out.'from the top.'
'once upon a time, there was a boy...'
'much better.'
'...who didn't like dancing in the slightest, he found it to be girlish and fey.'
'excellent,' i said and slapped my thigh, 'what do you say, wife?'
she shrugged. 'i think i preferred the first version.'
'ignore her,' i said to storyman, 'tell us more about this boy, he appears to be a most well-rounded character, firmly rooted in real life. well done, a fine creation.'
'well, this boy liked doing the things that normal boys do, running around for no good reason, killing bugs, fighting with his friends without knowing why...'
'a fine upstanding boy no less.'
'...and when he grew older, he carried on the same, he got a job where he could break things all day working as a reverse engineer in a rubbish dump and carried on having disagreements with people whenever he could.'
'do i know this fellow?' i asked storyman, 'i mean, i know you've probably used a little poetic license, but he sounds such a fine citizen that i'd very much like to be friends with him.'
'i don't think that would be possible,' storyman said in his snooty voice, 'he does tend to fall out with everyone he meets as i said. plus, it's a story isn't it, there's not a grain of truth in it, is there?' he continued with a twinkle in his eye at seeing what a powerful spell he'd cast over me.
what a fool i felt, tricked by storyman no less. 'fine,' i said, 'well continue then, what happens to this boy?'
'how should i know?' said storyman, 'why don't you tell me, whatever i say will be wrong anyway no doubt, so let's just save the trouble, eh?'
for a man who makes his living by pleasing people with his tales, that storyman sure had an unpleasant mouth on him, i should have stuck one on him for that.
'let him fall in love,' piped up my wife, rattling her ice cubes, 'let him begin a beautiful courtship with that wonderful dancer from before, what was her name now?'
'piffle,' i said, 'that dancer is dead, she got run over by her brother in this story, so let's hear no more about it. love indeed! that would ruin everything.'
'i think love might be a nice touch, actually,' remarked storyman, who you may well have observed takes my wife's side in everything. 'it might smooth off his rough edges, we could make it a tale of character evolution, with a big epiphany when he realises that only love can melt a man's heart.'
my wife clapped her hands together and gave storyman one of those looks as if her own heart was melting.
'look enough of that nonsense. the way i see it, the boy is an avenger and has to commit untold atrocities in the terrible name of revenge.' storyman rolled his eyes and my wife folded her arms. some people just don't know a good story when they hear one.
'who do you suggest he avenges then?' storyman asked.
'ooh, the dancer, the dancer,' said my wife suddenly perking up, 'her brother could have killed her in a fit of protective jealousy, her ghost could tell this ne'er-do-well of the awful end she suffered.'
'no ghosts,' i said, deciding that it was time to put my foot down. 'when people die in this story, they stay dead. and will you stop going on about that bloody dancer, she's nothing to do with this anymore.'
storyman started tapping his feet impatiently. 'there are others who want stories you know. can we decide what's going to happen here?'
'ok,' i began, 'the way i see it is, this boy has a father who gets really badly beaten up by this loan shark pimp who claims he's owed money, and dies. someone tells the boy that is was a particular person who did it, only they're lying for motives of their own which will be revealed later, and unfortunately the boy brutally murders the wrong person. with a laser gun!'
i expect gasps of amazement, but instead hear only yawns. and just as i'm building up to the first twist of my crescendo.
'is this science fiction?' storyman asks. 'you're marginalising yourself by stepping into that arena.'
'of course not,' i snort, 'it's all set now. he got the laser gun with his time machine.'
'he has a time machine?' asks storyman, obviously feeling threatened by my introduction of a new narrative device.
'well then why didn't he use that to stop his dad being killed instead then?' asks my wife. 'plus, he could have checked up on who did it, i wouldn't take someone else's word for it if i'd been him.'
'time travel's not like that?' i suggest.
my wife pours another drink. 'does he kill the loan shark pimp in the end?' she asks disinterestedly.
'of course he does,' i fume, 'he kills a whole load of bad people along the way, everyone he meets is bad.'
'well that's ok then,' says my wife, and settles back in her chair with a miraculously full-again glass of gin.
'this is just stupid,' announces storyman, 'i'm going. you people wouldn't know a good story if it came and slapped you in the face.'