Len Wein and Berni Wrightson, �Swamp Thing: Dark Genesis�
[The following is an excerpt from Chapter Eight of my book.]
I jumped up the next morning and headed off to school. Today was the day our entire class was going to see Stonehenge, so I practiced the opening speech from Spinal Tap in anticipation (�No one knows... who they were...�), and wondered if I should break into the song as well. It could be dangerous as I am, after all, a drummer, and Spinal Tap drummers didn�t have all that good of luck.
We all loaded onto the bus after a short lecture detailing the history of the area, and the instructors announced that in order to make sure everybody is on the bus, we needed to count off numbers which were then assigned. I waited to hear my name.
�Joad Cameron?�
�Yes?�
�You are number six.� (I am absolutely SO not kidding.)
A little explanation may be needed here. If you�re familiar with the 60s British television show The Prisoner, then skip this part. In the show, a British secret agent of some sort suddenly turns in his resignation. Soon after, he is taken captive and awakens on an island where everyone is stripped of their identities, being assigned numbers instead. The people in charge of the island use various forms of psychological torture on the prisoners in an attempt to break their wills. The main character, played by Patrick McGoohan, is assigned the number 6, which he immediately rejects, saying the catchphrase of the show, �I am not a number, I am a free man!� For more information, check your local library. Anyway, I love the show, and even have a large keychain attached to my backpack with the number 6 on one face, and the catchphrase on the reverse.
After the numbers are assigned, they announce that we are to do a practice run. The people start sounding off their numbers as the bus begins to pull into the street.
�One!�
�Two!�
�Three�
�Four!�
�Five!�
�I am not a number!�
Long silent pause.
�Uhhh... Seven!�
Stonehenge wasn�t the first stop, however. First we went to Avebury, another site with odd placements of huge stones in circular patterns. We marched through the mud in the freezing cold while our guide explained how the giant stones were (probably) erected, used, and moved again and again, furthering the theory that the Druids, or Celts, or space aliens, or whoever put the damn rocks there, were probably a matriarchal society, since whenever the stones were put in place, they used them for a short time and then decided to rearrange them. �No, I think that rock would look better over by the fireplace, dear. Take care of that, won�t you?�
Avebury is different from Stonehenge because the diameter and placement of the stones is on a much larger scale. It�s actually very hard to understand what exactly the placement is without the benefit of aerial views. Without them, it looks like a bunch of huge rocks, placed in the earth by their tips, and you just scratch your head, wondering what they were smoking.
We get back on the bus, repeating the number count off.
�...Four!�
�Five!�
�I am not a number!�
Pause.
�Seven!...�
We make another stop, this time to see a burial mound that is still preserved under a mass of stone. We all file off the bus and trudge up the muddy hill.
The line slows as we reach a gate that is only equipped to handle one person to pass at a time. There are iron bars that force you to make a small U-turn and you have to push the gate forward to enter and pull it behind you when you reach a small indenture. One of our guides is standing behind the gate telling a bit of local folklore, saying that if we can pass through the gate without touching it with our hands we get to make a wish.
The line, which was already slow, trickles to a crawl as people attempt to navigate the gate. I find myself wondering what to wish for.
World peace? Nah, too trite.
World war? No, that seems more like a self-fulfilling prophecy anyway.
A planet where apes evolved from men?
Hmmm...
Finally it�s my turn, and I still haven�t thought of a proper wish. I walk up to the entrance and words quickly form in my brain.
I want to meet an intelligent, interesting, and beautiful woman in a place that�s not inundated with Vanilla Ice and Michael Jackson, who likes me for who I am, and not for my ability to dance (or lack thereof).
Or something like that anyway. I stop, blankfaced. Did I just think that? Well, okay. I walk through the gate, hands raised, and pass through without touching the iron.
Another 20 minutes up the trail we arrive at another gate and our guide is again prodding us to make wishes. �How many wishes do we get in this damn place?� I ask.
�How many times do you intend to pass?�
�Okay, fine.� I think of an addendum. Remember the thing about the girl and the place that we meet? Well, I want the place where I meet this girl to have good beer at cheap prices � preferably around a pound for a pint. I pass successfully again.
We reach the top of the burial mound, take some photos of a lump of dirt where some royal asshole dropped an ashtray seventy million years ago, and turn back. Eventually we reach the gate again.
I decide I need to think bigger. Okay, gate, me again. Remember what I said about pints costing a pound? Well, make that 50 pence, will you? Thanks very much. We march on.
Finally I can see the bus � just one more gate to pass.
That girl I mentioned the first time around? I want her to buy the drinks.
We get back on the bus. I�m a little surprised how quickly the rest of the group accepts my refusal to claim my number.
�Four!�
�Five!�
�Not a number!�
�Seven!�
We finally reach Stonehenge � and it kinda sucks. Apparently, they�ve had trouble with people chipping away at the stone for souvenirs, or carving �Zeppelin Rules� into the base. So English Heritage, the conservation group, roped it off. This means you can only look at it from 30 feet away, like an exhibit of lions at the zoo � a prison for rocks. During Solstice, both winter and summer, they apparently let the hippies pass the ropes and dance around the rocks, but that�s probably only because nobody wants to have to physically touch them in order to pull them away from the site.
We have no personal tour guide for this site so we�re forced to carry cumbersome headsets/telephones with a recorded speech that�s attempting to be informative and entertaining, and failing miserably on both counts. No Spinal Tap was sung this afternoon.
That evening, two musicians from our group had managed to finagle themselves into a slot in a pub near our campus called The Hat and Feather. (Idiotic names for pubs dominate the area, other notables being The Slug and Lettuce, The Pig and Fiddle, and The Rat and Parrot.) After returning from Stonehenge, I informed my host family where I was headed that evening.
�Oh, the crack bar!� Philip said. �There�s a lot of drugs and hippies there, and don�t you dare bring either of them back with you.�
Great. I don�t like drugs and I can�t stand hippies. At least I�ll get away from disco and 80s music, though. Since my host mother and father were both retired and their ritual involved going to the same two private clubs four nights a week, I didn�t take their warnings seriously. How much could they know?
A lot, apparently. I walked in and saw bunch of rastafarian wannabe white boys. I walked through a cloud of what smelled suspiciously like marijuana smoke. Our San Jose compadres set was mercifully short, with one acoustic Nirvana song and two songs that sounded just like acoustic Nirvana songs. Another fellow climbed onto stage with an electric guitar and punched a button on a drum machine.
�I wish I was a letter,� he began to wail in an off-key, super nasal voice. �I wish I was a postcard, I wish I was a telegram, so I could mail myself to yooooooou! But I�m not a letter, and I�m not a post card, nor am I a telegram, so I can�t mail my love to yoooooooou!�
We started piling out in droves, myself practically running down the stairs.
A few people announced they were going to hit other clubs but they disappeared without warning and suddenly I was alone. I wasn�t tired, it was still early, and I still wanted to explore the city. I headed south in the chilly night air.
The problem was, I had no idea where to go, much less how to get there. I walked along the shops, peering into windows, but couldn�t tell if they were pubs, which would be closing soon, or clubs, which if they were, would be chock-full of people who seemed thoroughly uninteresting. Finally, I passed a familiar spot. Moles. True, both times I had been there the evening had fared poorly. But they were also both Tuesday nights and their fliers boasted a different theme each night. How much worse could they get? I decided to chance it.
Moles was much less crowded than usual, despite that it was past 10:30. I found my familiar table and started to work on my journal, the parts of which you�ve (presumably) already read.
Almost immediately, I noticed a difference from Tuesday. The music, while still not qualifying as �good,� was at least �better� � a little raw, a bit obnoxious, a trifle untalented � almost punk in a way. I smiled to myself as I wrote.
But then the music shut off. I looked up briefly, my line of sight almost entirely blocked by the underground pillars. There was a band setting up, almost ready to start. I folded my notebook and waited to see what they would bring.
Guitars blazed, drums thrashed. I couldn�t believe it � a fucking punk band! I shoved everything quickly into my backpack and got up to witness them from the stage area.
They were playing a cross between the Clash and something harder � Maybe the Supersuckers, maybe the Gits, maybe a little bit of X. They were take-no-shit rock that was too heartfelt to be classified as rock. And at the same time one of the guitar players who alternated for lead vocal position was an unbelievably sexy woman with a voice that was somewhere between Penelope Houston from the Avengers and Penny Rimbaud from Crass. She blared away, confident, brash, obviously into what she was playing and not for performance sake. I was transfixed.
I was also conflicted. Being in bands with beautiful women before and receiving fan letters (particularly for the second band) that would have one sentence about how they liked our music leading to five paragraphs about how �hot� our bass player was, I wanted to make sure the music they were playing � which I was starting to like more with every song � was good on its own accord, and not because I was smitten with this girl. I had to force myself to look away from her.
It wasn�t just her. They were good � passionate � real. I watched their entire show, riveted.
When they ended I waited for them to emerge from backstage so I could tell them how much I had enjoyed them. I went to refill my pint.
The male guitarist/singer eventually emerged, beer in hand, talking with his friends. I walked up.
�Oh Christ, please tell me you guys are from this area,� I stammered. But no, they were from London. I explained that I was visiting from America, and had been surrounded by George Michael and Michael Jackson since I had arrived, and they were the first tolerable music I had been able to find since. �I mean good,� I quickly amended. �Really good. I really liked you guys.�
I explained that I had helped put on shows in California and that if they could find their way down there, I could help them find places to play. He seemed excited about the prospect, but when the bass player walked up he introduced me saying I could get them places to play in America. The bass player looked at me quizzically.
�What, you�ll pay our fare?�
�No,� The Guitarist answered, �We�d have to pay our way there.�
�Oh. Well, piss off then!� The two of them started talking, and I was suddenly cut off from the conversation. I stood watching for a moment, then slowly walked away pretending I had seen someone I knew.
I noticed the Red Hot Punk Rock Goddess finally appeared from backstage. She was talking with The Guitarist and I saw from my peripheral vision that he was gesturing toward me. She looked over. I looked at my shoes. She looked away again, and I found an interesting patch of paint on the wall behind me and decided to study it carefully. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and was looking directly into her eyes.
�You�re the boy from America?�
�What kind of a name is Joad anyway?�
�My mother named me that after the Joad family in The Grapes of Wrath. It�s a California thing.�
�Steinbeck? I never read anything by him, except for Of Mice and Men.
�Basically, it�s a hard luck story of a family who moves to California to try and scrape out a living. They fail. Cheery, huh?�
�I like it. I�d love to see California.�
I hope to God that�s a hint.
�It�s not a bad place,� I say. �Especially if you�re in a punk band. There are a lot of people who will help a band find shows. My old band set up a tour all the way across the country without ever having to deal with an agent.�
�Why aren�t you in a band now?�
�I don�t know. Writing sort of took over my free time, I guess.�
�What kind of band where you in? Were you popular?�
�Popular enough, I guess. Not that we made any money, but it was enough to avoid real work for a long time. But the money didn�t matter for us. We were doing it to have fun, and more importantly, because we were saying something that we thought was important.�
�Unlike this shite band that�s playing now.�
�Funny, I was just going to mention them. See, I don�t know if you�ve noticed, but they�ve played eight songs, seven of which are about how sad he is that some girl dumped him. Now there�s a couple of explanations for this. One: This girl that he won�t shut up about really threw him for a loop, and he can�t stop thinking about it.�
�Possibly.�
�Except that I�ve heard references to seven different characteristics. That means either he was dating Sybil, or Two: He has the world�s worst record at relationships.�
�Doubtful. I saw him up close while I was backstage. If the looks of him weren�t enough to keep girls away, the smell of him certainly would. I don�t think it�s possible that he dated seven girls in his life.�
�Exactly. Although I�ll have to take your word about the smelling thing. So that leaves a third option: He�s writing songs about heartbreak because they�re easy. Everybody has had their heart broken at least once, and it�s easy to rhyme words with �sad.� He�s hoping they can have a schtick by being morose.�
�So you don�t like them.�
�No, I don�t like them.�
�But you like our band. Why?�
�I was listening to what you guys were singing about. I mean obviously, I couldn�t make out every word, what with the way you were screeching. Ow! Well, there you have it. Truth hurts. Do you want to hear this?�
�Oh, absolutely.�
�Okay. So I didn�t hear a single song from your band that fall under the category of �the big three�.�
�Oooh, and what�s the big three?�
�If you�d stop interrupting me, I�ll tell you. Turn on the radio to a commercial station. The first song subject that you�ll hear follows under this category: �Boy, I really love him/her.� That�s the most common song subject.
�And yet our current band on stage has played nothing under that category.�
�That�s not true. Song number four was an upbeat song about how happy he and some girl were together. The fifth song was probably the sequel to that tune, which follows under the second most popular category: �Boy, I really miss him/her�.�
�Okay, so I see a pattern,� she said, pressing her flank against mine in the crowded booth. �But where does that leave your third category? �Boy I really love/miss me�?�
�Close! This one is a little all-inclusive, but what the hell. The third category is what I call �I�m Really Cool.� Now that can mean a lot of things. It can mean I can dance, or I can fuck, or I can shoot you in the face. Or it can be the other extreme, saying I�m so sad and pathetic, but I know it, so I�m cooler than you are.�
�Okay, smart American boy, let�s see if you�re right. Let�s see what category their next song falls under.�
We waited for the song to finish in silence, if you could call the off-key caterwauling from the guitar �silence.� The song ended to polite applause from the now-dwindling crowd. Finally the singer, after a few flicks of his head to move the golden locks from his eyes, announced their next song was dedicated to the pigs that raided their flat last night. But, the singer explained there was no way that the pigs were going to STOP THEIR POWER!
�Oooh, you are good,� she said.
�Yes. Yes I am. So why aren�t you following the formula? That�s the way to become successful. Nothing sells like repetition.�
�We�re not that concerned with being successful. Well, that�s not true. We�d like to become successful, but for different reasons. We�re trying not to use those song subjects you mentioned. I find them boring. Why use your voice if all you�re going to do is spout off?�
I stared at her, a stunned look on my face.
�What?�
�Nothing, nothing,� I said. You just sounded like me when I first went into journalism.�
We sat in our booth for at least a half hour, her talking about her band, me talking about my experience thus far in England, the two of us swapping tour stories, trying to find similar bands that we either knew or liked, and the state of music in general. Conversation seemed to flow really easily from one subject to the next. At one point there was that �Pulp Fiction� moment, where we both stopped talking and weren�t uncomfortable about it. When it started up again, it wasn�t forced. And my god, was she gorgeous. She had these big expressive eyes that blazed with intensity and humor. Her hair was bleached white and hung midway down her neck, with black highlighting the tips. After seeing so many fashion victims over the past week, she stood in stark contrast, wearing a plain halter-top and a medium-length black skirt with high boots. I don�t know who invented the skirt, but I�ll bet dollars to donuts that it was a man. Regardless, to whomever did invent the concept of skirts � thank you. No really. Thanks. I can�t thank you enough. Even with the skirt though, it was her attitude that was sexy, not her sense of style.
I explained that our school would be travelling to London in two weeks, and asked if she�d be willing to show me around. She quickly agreed, pulling out a sticker from her pocket that read �Hubris� on the face, writing down her e-mail and telephone number in flowery scrawl on the reverse. As she handed me the sticker, she learned forward and kissed my cheek. Warmth flooded my face and for the first time since we sat down, I was glad the place was so poorly lit. I quickly finished my pint without acknowledging what just happened and when I put the glass down she handed me her bottle of Beck�s.
�What, you want me to hold this?� I asked.
�No, take it,� she answered. �We get free beer because we played tonight.�
I have got to find that gate again.
[End of Chapter 8]
---
The Red Hot Punk Rock Goddess is based on a real person. Based on? Hell, everything in that book with her happened, except for the part about calling me Joad.
Her house is less than a ten-minute walk away from the blast that occurred at the Euston station. Unless, of course, you�re me, because I described walking from that station in the book and I have a habit of getting lost walking from my bedroom to the bathroom. This is the station that she transfers trains at. She works standard commuter hours.
On the day of the blasts, I sent off a quick e-mail saying I hoped she was all right.
Last night I sent another.
Our communication since I was in England has dropped to nearly nothing. Occasionally, one of us will write the other a short note saying, �Hi, I�d like to write, but I�ve been really busy.� The other person will write back the same day, saying the same thing with the same amount of brevity. Then a few months pass and we start the process over again.
But this time I�m still waiting for the response.
She told me one night as we lay in bed talking until eight the next morning that she changed her name unofficially when she left Ireland to come to England. I don�t know her real last name. Searches under her stage name bring nothing but press releases about her band. The British media still haven�t listed names of those killed in the blasts.
I don�t know the time frame that�s supposed to pass before I can start to freak out. It�s now Monday evening there � maybe she�s been gone for the weekend. Her band�s Web site, which normally seems very busy in the public forum, has been totally silent. It�s possible that it�s moderated, with posts that have to be approved before they are updated. They wouldn�t do that if they�ve been gone over the weekend.
I�m hoping she�s been gone for the weekend.
The entire world feels very unsafe to me right now. I don�t know what to do about that.
I don�t even know how to ask.
