I just binged Fleabag this past weekend. What a gem. What an absolute gem. The acting, the writing, the lack of character names ... the meaning in the space between the words. The humor, the absurdism, the fourth wall, the tragedy, the pain, the love. THE PRIEST. Phoebe Waller-Bridge is a storytelling genius. Absolutely perfect.
Recently, I went to a coworker's house for a casual dinner party. No sooner had I walked through the door when a 15-lb meat rocket came careening around the corner at me, barking and wheezing and jumping all over me. Behold the pug.
I forced a smile and said, "I didn't know you had a dog!"
"Oh, are you afraid of dogs?" [doesn't try to make the dog stop]
"No, I'm not really a dog person." [reluctantly takes off shoes because apparently this is a shoe-free house]
Edit: I live in a place where it's the cultural norm/default to take off shoes inside someone's home. I naively assumed that this would be an exception due to the mutt and have since changed my habit to asking someone if they have a dog before accepting an invite.
"Oh, then are you allergic?" [pug is actively chewing on my shoe]
No, Sarah, believe it or not, the problem isn't me. I know it's difficult to wrap your head around the fact that someone might not adore being licked by a stinky washcloth that has just been wiped around its own butthole, and it's difficult to understand why someone would want to walk forward in a straight line without being tripped by a canine mutant, and it's difficult to understand that someone would want to have a human conversation without having to shout over the world's ugliest bullhorn, but believe it or not, I just don't like your dog.
Throughout dinner, the creature wheezed constantly under the table, going from person to person and looking at us with one of its eyes (they didn't point the same direction), licking its chops loudly, and being rewarded by table scraps from its cooing owners.
It never ceases to astound me how people can seem so rational/reasonable at work and then you find out they have a dog-shaped blind spot in their emotional intelligence.
Once enough time had passed for it not to be obvious, I told everyone I couldn't stay long because I had somewhere to be in half an hour (the somewhere I had to be was my dog-free house).
I think we all sometimes sense independent, lingering veracity, each reality.
– William Roane
Chapter 1
Every now and again, the world turns up an impossible human. Harker Locksteel is one of them, and that is why I have broken into her home. Getting through the window was a simple jimmy, but my shaking hands made it as tricky as the gate of the Maxwell Unnatural History Museum a couple years back.
As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see that room isn’t particularly neat or messy. There are a few scattered papers, a windup piano music box, some cheap paintings, a potted orchid … and that dreadful gramophone, its brass tooth crouching over disks of pain and truth.
I wouldn’t be here, sweating and shivering in Harker’s home, if it weren’t for a hot June night eight months ago, when I went to a soiree to scope out a subject. I’d never met the man, but the whispers that rode his scandalous wake simply dripped of artistic possibility.
It’s a hot June night, eight months ago. I’m wearing a wine-colored evening jacket: memorable, but not obnoxious. My goal is anonymity unless I decide to make myself known. The only potential snag will be if Silver shows up, which he shouldn’t; yesterday, he was complaining to me of his “swampish amount of work.”
So, I arrive at the sprawling Elm House Mansion in my own car, fashionably late, sketchbook in pocket and entirely unaware that this evening will jolt the trajectory of my life.
After the obligatory formalities at the door, I enter the first ballroom and slide along the edges of the stylish crowd, scanning for my subject through the dim light of a dozen casual chandeliers. I’ve only seen him in media: Giovanni Ricci. Entrepreneur, billionaire, owner of Ricci’s Shoe Salon, and purported pimp of the city’s largest droid prostitution ring. I don’t know if I believe it – I’ve never seen evidence of droid prostitution – but it’s a juicy tale to be sure.
I don’t see him in the first room. So far, only two people have recognized me, and one of them was deeply drunk. Think of it: not even eight o’clock and already drunk. I pass through a hallway and into a larger ballroom. Still no luck.
I duck into an archway, lean against the wall, and make a quick sketch of a wineglass and a clock.
And then I hear the voice. You always hear Silver before you see him. The fool that I am, I think I can observe without being observed, and so I move into the next room.
His clear voice asserts itself through the uproar, enjoying itself and the reaction it produces, joyful and arrogant, the party animal of party animals. I push through the first five or six layers of attendees, following the sound. I see him now, at the center of a large, laughing ring of admirers: wiry body perched on a chair in a shocking blue tuxedo, my friend Silver.
Bright blue eyes, shiny black hair slicked to a pert point, pale, perfect face. He’s riding the crest of his mid-twenties: quick and dapper, obviously aware of his charm but so happy with himself you have to forgive him. He’s as cocky as a fighter pilot, as graceful as an ice skater, and as slick as a used car salesman. But he always, always, always pulls for the underdog.
Silver plucks an object off a tray and holds it up with the air of a conductor. “Chocolate-plated strawberries,” he says, and takes a bite. “I love chocolate-plated strawberries. All except for the red part.” In the burst of laughter, his eyes catch mine. I realize my mistake too late, and, before I can dodge for cover behind a wall of partygoers, he breaks into a huge smile and shouts, “Oy, it’s me man Tipps, fresh from the bath house! Folks, notice the wetness of his hair and the absent expression of one recently come from a long session of philosophizing in the shower.”
I’ve already turned away, my face hot.
“That’s me man, everyone,” says Silver.
The next hour is both aggravating and exhausting. I make no progress finding my target, and Silver’s introduction of me has made me a subject of interest to several people, most of them women. I have absolutely no time for any of them, but as a human being, I can’t be flat-out rude.
After a while, I’m standing in a corner, drinking champagne (which I hate) out of sheer defeat, and I see Silver again. He’s conversing with a stout, middle-aged man in a dark green suit. My first reaction is intense irritation, and I almost decide to leave the party then and there. But then I notice Silver scratching his nose. This is a bad sign, or at least for the other man. Silver only scratches his nose this way when he doesn’t like someone.
I move subtly closer, positioning myself behind a large potted jungle plant.
Somewhere in the background, a violin and piano begin an elegant but sinister rendition of Faure’s Berceuse.
“What do you do?” Green Suit is saying.
“Do?” says Silver innocently. “I do a lot of things. Tonight, I’m doing a lot of talking. Eating. Chocolate-plated strawberries.”
I grin despite myself.
The man fumbles with his hands, a little off balance. “No, I mean, what do you do?”
“Do …” says Silver, making, for all the world, a believable idiot out of himself. “Oh!” he lights up. “You mean, ‘How do you do.’ Oy, Tipps! Listen to this!”
I feel my cheeks reddening. Silver knew I was eavesdropping and has added my embarrassment to his own stage of amusement at others’ expense. I ease my way out from behind the plant and stand at an awkward distance.
“This man meant to say, ‘How do you do?’ Well, sir, I am doing well. Doing splendidly.”
The other is obviously annoyed now. “What is your occupation?”
Silver’s eyes grow round. “Occupation?” he says, as stupidly as humanly possible. “Oo-oo-ooh. You mean job. You mean work.”
The man’s face is a little flushed, feet shuffling. He’s ready to get Silver off his hands. “Yes, I mean work.”
Silver laughs and puts a hand on the unwilling shoulder. “I don’t work, me man. I just play all the time. Tootles!” He pivots off the shoulder and propels himself toward me. Shaking hands, he mutters, “Some people have no respect at all.”
I nod in agreement, though perhaps not with his implication.
“Worthless personal investigators are ten cents per twelve these days.”
We weave slowly around glamorous couples, not speaking, as Berceuse slithers tragically into the air, nosedives, resumes its happiness, turns itself inside out, and begins again. He waves toward one of the refreshment tables. “Would you care to try a chocolate-plated strawberry?”
“Are you unable to say ‘chocolate-covered’ like the rest of the world?”
“Yes.” He blinks. “Want one?”
“No, Silver, I don’t want one. I don’t even want to be here. And I thought you had a ‘swampish amount of work to do.’”
“Yes, of course. I don’t think I’d ever go to parties at all if I had time for them. Whose life are you here to ruin tonight?”
“I don’t ruin people’s lives. I expose the truth of them.”
“I know your spiel, Tipps. Who’s the target?”
“His name’s Giovanni Ricci.”
“How horrible.”
“You know him?”
“No,” says Silver. “I’m just pointing out that his parents gave him a jump-start in the life-ruining business when they slapped him with that title.”
“I don’t think it’s so bad.”
“Let’s go find him.”
“Silver!” I halt in the middle of the dance floor, couples twirling to avoid slow collisions and spinning away in all directions.
“What?” As if he doesn’t know.
“That’s the whole point. I’m trying to keep a low profile. Which, by the way, you ruined earlier.”
He wheels to face me, hands on his hips, blue eyes darting back and forth as he concocts some wild plan of mischief. “Such a harsh word, ‘ruin.’ I choose to look at it as an advantage. Too much working and not enough playing around makes Tipps a dull Tipps.”
We move out of the dance floor and toward a more conversational room. “That’s not remotely how that goes.”
“Precisely. Have some fun. It’s a party. You know what’s wrong with your artwork?”
I open my mouth. This is too far, even for Silver.
But he doesn’t notice. “The problem with your artwork is the same problem with you: it’s too ideal. Sure, it’s perfect, but that’s just where the dullness is. What your art needs is a good-old fashioned heartbreak.”
“Are you drunk?”
“I wish I were.” He shakes his head sadly, then flashes me with a winning smile. “Spice things up. Look around. See all the heartbreak potentials? Go get yourself one.”
I’ve known Silver virtually his whole life, and I’m pretty sure heartbreak is as foreign to him as it is to me. But pointing that out would explode his bubble of smugness, and Silver’s smugness bubble isn’t a death I want on my hands.
“I know good looks are a nuisance (believe me, I’ve been cursed with some of the better looks of the evening), but they’re an asset, too. See how much traction you can get by exposing your jawline in conversation rather than pointing it downward into a sketchbook. Go blink those chocolate eyes at –”
“Okay, okay, modulate your voice, please.”
“Chocolate-plated,” he murmurs. “What you need, Tipps, is practice. Talk to a woman about something other than the consistency of oils or the cost of canvas these days. Have you met Harker Locksteel?”
“Of course not.” I take out my sketchbook and pretend to draw something.
“She’s a woman.”
“Oh,” I say, flipping the cover closed and returning it to my breast pocket. “I thought she was a droid.”
“Fair point,” says Silver. “Does have a droidish name. Good thing this party is human-only.”
“Sh! You can’t say that anymore. ‘C-BLO’ is the proper term now.”
“Honestly, my lad, I don’t think ‘Carbon-Based Life Forms Only’ is much of a step up from ‘human only.’ It’s not my fault people have prejudice.”
“And you don’t?”
“Evolution is prejudice, Tipps. Let me introduce you.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve got to find this Giovanni Ricci.” Apparently, I spoke too loudly, because a slim woman in a gray evening gown halfway across the room turns her head and raises an eyebrow.
I lower my voice and continue. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”
The woman turns completely and walks over to us. Her dimensions are well-balanced, artistically pleasing. She would make a fine portrait. I’d draw the neckline a little lower. She has shiny, copper hair and large, gray eyes that match her gray gown. Her beauty is ambiguous: I can’t determine if she’s somewhat pretty or very pretty. She wears elegant, silver heels, and her skin glimmers a subtle metallic sheen, a cosmetic trend common to those with droid-sympathetic political views.
“Ricci left an hour ago,” she says.
“Blast.” I turn away.
“Why don’t you like my dress?” she asks.
I stop, letting the words flow through my mind. Her voice was low and liquid smooth. And she’s staring at me. I blink. “What? I didn’t say … I didn’t say anything about your dress. It’s a fine dress. You look nice.”
Her gray eyes peer steadily into mine. “Nevertheless, you don’t like it. You wish the neckline plunged.”
I’ve never been in such a position. I look at Silver, but he is conscientiously observing the ceiling.
Berceuse ends on a high, trembling violin note. For a moment, we’re caught like insects in silent silvery amber.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t have any intention of insulting anyone.”
“At least not with your words,” she says.
Silver coughs loudly into his elbow, but it sounds fake. He snatches her hand and kisses it. “This is my friend Tippy.”
“Timothy,” I correct.
“I know who you are,” says the woman. “You’re Timothy Coleridge, the artist.”
I don’t like her sarcastic emphasis on the word. “That’s me.” Suddenly aware of the silence, I say, “Who are you?”
She looks surprised. “I’m Harker Locksteel.”
“Of course you are,” I say, mostly to Silver. But he’s gone to the refreshments table.
“I understand you are here to observe Mr. Ricci.” Her voice remains mechanically smooth.
“I would have liked to talk with him,” I say.
She doesn’t respond to this, but I can see that she knows I’m lying. I make a point never to directly interact with my subjects. I don’t want the possibility of introducing personal bias.
Silver returns with champagne and a peach-colored ornamental cake. I glare at him. He must be having the most entertaining time.
I’m ready to leave now, but, for some reason, I find myself saying, “What do you do, Ms. Locksteel?”
“Oh, I just try to understand people,” she says with a straight face.
First Silver and now this lovely but horrible person.
I smile tightly. “What is it that you do? For an occupation?”
“I work in human-droid relations over in Maxwell. They’re so misunderstood, the droids.”
“Ah,” I say. I can’t think of anything else, so we stand there for a bit, avoiding eye contact.
“Beautiful people make Tippy stupid,” explains Silver.
“Silver!” his impertinence is reaching my limits. “This is not always the case,” I tell Harker.
She smiles. “Are you saying that I’m not beautiful or that you’re always stupid?”
Silver and I exchange a meaningful glance that translates roughly to, “I won’t go on a tangent about logical fallacy if you won’t.”
Her smile vanishes. “I understand that you are a political painter.” Paralyzing disapproval in every word. “An investigative vandal.”
“Well, I like to say a ‘commentator through art.’”
“You like to say, of course. What is art, other than what you like to say?”
“Exactly.”
“You only paint what you see.”
I stare at her, unsure. “Yes … what else would I paint?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What others see, I suppose.”
Silver is grinning openly now.
I stop trying to be polite. “What’s the point of that?”
In that even voice of hers: “What’s the point of living if you don’t understand others?”
“What’s the point of others if you don’t understand living?”
“You are a selfish, selfish man.”
Silver steps between us, hands raised in peace. “Ms. Locksteel, I apologize for my compatriot.”
I start to protest, but he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tippy here possesses the innate ability to make a perfectly normal situation uncomfortable for everyone. Observe, he’s doing it now.”
“You’re uncomfortable, Silver?” says Harker with a devious glance at me.
I reject her attempt to ingratiate herself.
“With the exception of myself,” says Silver. “I gave up being uncomfortable about ten years ago with the realization that nothing matters.”
“How bleak,” says Harker, a hand on her hip. “Nothing matters at all?”
“What do you think matters?” I ask her in a frail attempt to re-enter the conversation.
“Do you believe in love?” She pins me mercilessly with her gaze.
“I believe in happiness.”
“That’s not what I asked at all. I might have well asked if you believed in God and you answered that you believe in your little brother.”
“Incredible, folks!” says Silver. “She has the gift, too!”
“Well,” I say, smiling through gritted teeth, “I should be going.”
“Let me tell you about Giovanni,” she says. “I used to work for him.”
I’m torn, dangling between my pride and the possibility of juicy information.
“He’s a repulsive man,” she continues. “You can tell so much about a person from what they find funny. What sense of humor he does have is small, twisted, and unnecessary. Like an appendix.”
Silver chokes on his champagne. She just stares at me, eyes questioning.
I shrug. “All right, I give up. Tell me about him.”
“Splendid!” says Silver in a weak voice. “You two have a lot in common. Chocolate-plated strawberry, anyone?”
That was eight months ago. That was the evening that jolted the trajectory of my life, the evening I met the woman who wouldn’t stay out of my head, or my heart. Simply put, she’s an impossible human. I’ve always known it, in a way, but I’ve had my suspicions on what my subconscious meant by that. Until today.
This is the reason I have broken into her home. Every other break-in I commit is to leave something, but not today. Today, I am here to steal.
After listening to the gramophone entry from August ninth, when I say that Harker Locksteel is an impossible human, it’s because I’m not entirely sure that she is one.