Under utilised, under-valued, under the radar, (non unionised super) hero. No costume, no cape, no logo, no sell-out...no job, no rent money

Whateverman is a slacker

He's a hero. He'd be a 'Super'-hero if he could regularly pay his membership to the guild and attend the conferences.

Sample:

WHATEVERMAN

1.

I FEEL THE PAIN

The clock struck 12pm as it usually did at this time of day, announced by the off pitch and slightly muffled chirps of a tourist trap souvenir cuckoo clock, hastily purchased seven summers ago from Lanzarote. Almost immediately after the imitation cuckoo clock’s final melody chimed, the steady breeze that had been picking up outside had formed a draught inside strong enough to cause a door to slam shut loudly. As loud as both the cuckoo clock and slamming door were neither had an effect enough to disturb the patient vigil and peaceful napping of the two occupants in the room. Neither had stirred or had their attention broken or diverted from their course of napping and waiting for a nap to conclude respectively. Noises continued to permeate the room from outside; two voices in the tone and volume of disbelief and persuasive storytelling spoke loudly and passionately over largely indistinguishable tinny music emitting from both of their phones, which filled the gaps between the mechanical whirring of the loud outdated council lawnmower as it traversed its route up and down the verge becoming louder and quieter and providing no counter argument to the Doppler effect. After the lawnmower had finished and left, the conversation outside continued at the same volume making no real discernible progress, with their tinny music still mostly drowning out their exaggerated storytelling and exaggerated response.

The clock struck 12pm, as it usually did at this time of day. It was announced by a loud ringing of the striking-chiming clock. The mechanical hammers struck the internal hollow metallic tubes inside the large kitsch clock as it had done more or less hourly since it was purchased nine years ago from a tourist market stall in Athens. The 12pm chimes started exactly 8 minutes 42 seconds after the previous clock had begun its noon notification which was significant of nothing. The previous clock to sound; a garish cuckoo clock with various spinning mechanisms and trouser-less rosy cheeked figurine men dancing a circular jig whilst holding beer steins, began its noon notification in its usual way at 5:27pm, according to the most accurate wall mounted clock in the room - a plain looking office type clock with slightly warped crooked hour and second hands and a missing glass face cover, and the number ‘8’ manually taken off and stuck back on horizontally like the symbol for ‘infinity’, which was significant again of nothing in terms of space-time, but more the result of the opportunity to be mischievous at the most minute silly way available that bore no consequence.

The time on an accurate time-piece, in this part of the UK, in this part of London, taking into account summer day light saving observance would have the time at 5:13pm. Of the several clocks and devices in the room that displayed the time only two displayed this information correctly; a mobile phone that was having a game played on it by one of the rooms occupants, who was sat patiently waiting and occupying himself in one of the best ways he knew how; the other an off-brand digital music player that was playing music at a volume marginally louder than the ticking of the accurate office clock.

Over the last few hours the music playing on the sound system varied in its volume; ranging from hushed whispers often indiscernible from the static from the speakers, to just above polite indoor conversation. On a Spinal Tap scale the volume varied from 1 to 3 out of 11. The songs played could be described as mostly sing-a-long album fillers and not jukebox anthems, even in the trendiest of hipster bars. They were mostly of the indie-alternative genre, spanning 30 or so years, with the occasional old soul hit thrown in, played on a random shuffle setting. Despite being off-brand and costing the equivalent of two medium sized bottles of flavoured vodka from an off-licence with a strict adherence to their policy of not asking for ID’s, the music player was greatly more than proficient. In the old soul songs almost every crackle from the original ‘60s recordings could be heard, even the occasional micro inhalation from the horn and sax blowers as they put lips to mouthpiece could be detected, or at least if you listened closely enough, with the volume turned up high enough and with no other noise or distraction you could conceivably convince yourself that you had heard it. Conceivable partly because you were very likely to be quite close to one of the 12 large top-of-the-line speakers in the room; each set of 4 costing £10,000 brand new; each set two maxed out credit cards.

Eight of the speakers were immediately around a 3-seater sofa; four lined up behind the sofa, and two by the front and back of both arm rests, or in the context of how it was currently being used – two by a makeshift headrest and two at the opposite end; gently directing vibrations towards a pair of feet. The pair of feet, and indeed the sofa and speakers, belonged to the principal owner-occupant of the room Scott Bennett. Scott Bennett was currently enjoying his most frequent, if not favourite, past time – a late afternoon nap. There are of course other times to have a nap, and Scott took these on as well very often, but for Scott the late afternoon nap was superior to all others. It came soon after returning from a late lunch or a very, very late breakfast and often was not intentional but succumbed to with a sense of inevitability. It was usually, but not always, taken upon the sofa he was currently laying on, an old, discoloured, cream and multi-coloured chintz sofa that like much on the contents of the room was acquired simply by being unwanted surplus elsewhere, and like much of the contents of the room it has several accidental burn marks.

Scott shifted slightly, now laying flat on his back, his feet hanging just off the arm rest, one arm holding a large cushion against his chest loosely, the other arm dangling off the sofa, the back of his hand on the carpeted floor, his messy wavy brown-black hair almost completely covering his face, his blue check flannel shirt now mostly on the floor after being used as a makeshift blanket. He was in REM sleep; the rapid movements of his eyes detectable through his closed eyelids. He twitched randomly and minutely; an arm, a foot, his neck, his lips quivered.

The volume of the music started to increase. It was now as loud as a television set being watched by an elderly couple in the middle of the day. ‘…I feel the pain of everyone, Then I feel nothing, I feel the pain of everyone, Then I feel nothing, Is it up to me? You won’t wait to see, Screwed us both again, About as close as you dare. I feel the pain of everyone, Then I feel nothing, I feel the pain of everyone, Then I feel nothing…’

The arm holding the cushion tensed and the hand formed a fist, his body trembled and convulsed and his lips parted and he mumbled: “…the moon…”

“Dude! Wake up, wake up!”

Scott was being shaken urgently and awoke, eyes wide open: “What what what?” he replied startled, looking around the room for something to focus on, something that needed his attention.

“Dude, you was talking in your sleep again.”

“Ohh, right, what did I say?”

“Something about ‘the moon’”

“Yeah, what did I say about it?”

“Nothing, that’s when I woke you up.”

Scott let out a disgruntled sigh. “Did I say anything else? What did I say exactly?”

“I dunno man, it was something like…it was either, definitely either “pining for the moon” or “cowboy on the moon”…definitely”

Scott rolled and closed his eyes, and tossed his head back; he audibly exhaled through his nose and slowly took a deep breath in through his nose again. “You were meant to listen to what I said after that, after ‘the moon’”

“Ahhh, my bad man, my bad, completely forgot, was a bit freaky hearing you talk in your sleep. My bad”

“Don’t worry about it” replied Scott genuinely reassuringly. He put his feet against the arm rest and pushed against it forcing himself to sit almost upright against the other arm rest. “I didn’t say anything else?”

“Nah man, just ‘pining for’ or ‘cowboy on the moon’; sure you don’t want me to set up a camera and record it next time?”

“Na, don’t worry about it, it’s probably nothing, and can’t have it recorded in case it isn’t.” He pushed his hair away from his face, stroking it back three times before yawning and stretching out his back which cracked, he massaged the back of his knees which as usual were hurting from hyperextension due to the downward pressure from lying on the sofa like he had been with his feet resting elevated on the arm rest. “Fuck it, next time Bub.”

Bub, known as ‘Bub’ by pretty much everyone, continued to play his game on the phone as Scott pulled out two incense sticks from its box which sat on the table in front of him and held it over the flickering flame of the strawberry scented candle that was seconds away from dying out and poked holes with the end of the incense sticks in the collection of red wax and left them there to stand and burn. Within seconds the intense smell of jasmine and patchouli overtook the weak strawberry scent and soon filled the room. Bub screwed his face, frowning with displeasure. Outside, in the distance, the not uncommon sound of several police sirens, followed by an ambulance siren, a helicopter and an ice cream van could be faintly heard against the music playing inside.

“I know” said Scott acknowledging the response “lucky dip” he offered by way of apology and explanation.

“Nah man, that shit stinks!” Said Bub wafting the air in front of his face “that’s an unlucky dip…” he held the back of his hand to his nose “ucky dip”

“Did you say ‘ucky’ or ‘yucky’?”

“Ucky, but yucky is better.”

“And an actual word”

“Yeah, but like…onomatopoeia, or whatever, that shit is just…ucky. Ucky as fucky”

The argument was won. There was no real argument really. Whatever word was chosen the fact remained that the two incense sticks combined to make an unpleasant smell, which they both agreed on. There was just a difference in reaction, partly due to expectation; with Scott lighting the sticks he could have anticipated a chance that the sticks pulled out without looking could be on or both of the unpleasant varieties in the box, his tolerance level raised seeing the comical reaction from Bub, had it not been for Bub the incense sticks would have already been snapped so as to not burn anymore. There were likely many people, incense stick users that is, that liked the scent of jasmine and of patchouli, zero of them were in this room right now.

“You’re gonna make me smell like a hippy dude. Like a hippie dude, dude, argh(!) like a flippy hippie man.”

Scott looked at him silently, with a look of ‘sorry, I don’t understand’, he knew what he meant, but he enjoyed the verbal acrobats Bub regularly contorted himself with; they were Bub-isms that always ended with a relieved innocent Stan Laurel-esque smile or a dissatisfied Oliver Hardy style look and a mumbled “fuck it.” Scott took a half smoked joint offered by Bubs, licked his lips and took two drags – two small short pulls and a longer one.

Bubs put the phone down gently as if not to wake it from an infant slumber and with equal care and deliberation picked up a pre rolled joint from the table in front of him, one of several that had been rolled primarily to fill the time waiting for Scott to wake up. Then placed it back down as gently as he picked it up, and with the same care and attention picked up a 20” wide bottomed bong. When suddenly a thought struck him, and in true Bubs fashion, the thought paused, festered and then continued to be sorted; this in the ‘urgent’ box.

“Dude! Ain’t you supposed to be at the Exhibition Centre?”

“Huh? Why?” Scott replied holding back a caught-off-guard cough; essential when amongst fellow stoners lest be deemed a ‘light-lung’, joint held between thumb and fore-finger.

“It’s the thingy today…the thing…I need a light…” The thought had now moved from ‘urgent’ to ‘pending allocation.’

“You had it last man, check your pockets”

Aside from a few exceptional circumstances checking pockets usually doesn’t take a great deal of effort. When you’re 16 and at the front of the queue for an over 18’s club and avoiding eye contact with the club bouncer you check your pockets twice, maybe three times with a feigned panic-stricken look before rolling your eyes at yourself when reaching the logical that you ‘must’ve left your passport/ID in your other jacket’. When you’re stoned and in the process of getting further stoned checking your pockets becomes a much more deliberate task the outcome of which could have far reaching consequences for the entire three-to-five minutes you remember it; be it looking for loose change for a petrol station Cornish Pasty, a bit of hash resin, a song you need to hear or in this case looking for a lighter.

The consequence of this search was immediate and went as follows:

Person A (Bub) believes it essential to stand up in order to carry out a thorough search for the errant lighter; but has not taken into account weed (and time) induced lethargy; in particular Person A’s legs having fallen asleep.

Person A stumbles as he gets up.

Person A (and Person B simultaneously) than realise that the lighter dependent bong has not been securely placed on the floor or table and instead came crashing down, smashing against the table and then floor; having, until a moment ago, been happily resting upon the lap of Person A.  

“Ah man!” Person A (Bub) said, genuinely despondent, “I think we’re out of bongs now, sorry man”

“Have you broken all three?” Scott replied in a low, almost resigned to the inevitable tone, not shifting from the discoloured ugly sofa on which he lay draped over almost camouflaged in his equally discoloured once white t-shirt speckled with various colours of paint, and  his ubiquitously worn blue flannel plaid shirt; his grey-brown cardigan rolled up under his head on the arm of the sofa.

To the casual observer Scott’s tone of voice could be said to be symptomatic of the large and seemingly increasing section of his generation enduring an economic recession leaving many of them hopeless and more and more alienated. It should also be stated that the casual observer would probably need to nap or search their immediate vicinity for Pringles as Scott seemed to spend a great deal of his time smoking marijuana. It was a service he provided, and at times outsourced. It didn’t pay particularly well but the benefits were much enjoyed.

“Yeah, sorry, what should we do?”

“Got any papers?”

“Had, had 3 spliffs rolled; they’re covered in bong water now. Man, your mum is gonna be pissed. “

“Yeah, probably…you’ve gotta get some papers”

“Cool, where we going?”

“I’m going sleep, I need a nap; you’re going to get papers. I don’t know where my keys are so just climb back in through the window.”

“Yeah, ok. Wait; I’ve got a couple drink bottles: bottle bong?”

“Alright…what drink?”

“Fanta; it’s full, want some?”

“Fuck that! I’ve told you before; it’s the drink of the Nazi’s” replied Scott with almost enough energy and vitriol to sound slightly indignant.

“Huh?”

“Coca Cola” Scott started, knowing he was repeating himself, “were banned from making ‘Coke’ for the Germans during the Nazi era, so instead they made Fanta in Germany just for them”

“Oh yeah…shit; “the choice of a Nazi generation”, that’s bad man; there’s a huge Fanta billboard near the Synagogue. We should do something!”

“Yeah…” replied Scott in an almost trademark non-committal tone.

Bub wandered about the place lifting cushions from the floor and sheets of paper that lay about the place; stopping quizzically with deliberation after each one before moving on to the next. His face, as ever a poker player’s dream opponent, relayed his every thought and emotion: optimism, confusion, disappointment and renewed optimism with the lifting of each potential hiding place.

“What you looking for?” enquired Scott

“My trainers; think it’s raining outside.”

“You’re wearing flip-flops”

“They’re yours; I think I left my trainers here last night”

“Oh…your feet are massive! And really fucking hairy! …have you got hair growing on your toenails?”

“No, it’s just curled onto them I think, or, I don’t know, maybe they’re just hairs from off the floor.”

Scott stared at Bub’s feet and wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before. Bub’s entire heel hung off the back of the flip-flops, which would probably no longer be a snug fit for Scott, and they were exceedingly hairy. The size of his feet was not especially unusual as Bub is a large man, who would struggle to go through most doors without making some effort of stooping, let alone a window as Scott suggested previously. That they were hairy was not particularly surprising either as Bub is also a hairy guy. With his size, hirsuteness and placid affable nature he resembled ‘Sulley’ from Monster’s Inc., except for him being less mobile and less multi-coloured.

“What was in the bong?”

“Erm, that was bag number nine, second go. It was good, like ice cream…” Bub walked around the room some more; his feet seemed to slide, never leaving the floor making his theory of his hair collecting toes seem quite plausible.

“Hot knives?” asked Scott

“Nooo, I burnt my lips last time we did it without a bottle man, not good” replied Bub in what for him would qualify as his most determined, well-reasoned response. “Have you got any other bottles?”

“I dunno, maybe, have a look” he said as he turned to face the back of the sofa and curled up.

Bub had begun his search before he had asked Scott; he was fluttering about the place like a hummingbird, his head jerking and bobbing about like a pill-popper from the ‘aceeeeeed’ summer of love.

Both in their late 20’s Scott and Bub were too young for the second ‘summer of love’ a fact that severely irked Scott; not that he particularly aspired to be a glowstick waver. In fact he had never been keen on ‘dance music’, which he always said in a northern accent for no real reason other than perhaps to slightly lessen its value further; nor did he find appealing the prospect of being amongst the ‘loved up pill poppers’ (or “Accountants” as he termed them).

For him the period was significant for two real reasons: ‘The Pixies’ and Kim Deal. Of course the era had other notably good bands (Lemonheads were particularly held in high esteem), and there were other women but none compared to The Pixies, and no one came close to Kim Deal (her identical twin sister included). Perhaps the point that really got to him was that a band as good as they were played a gig at The Mean Fiddler; about 15 minutes from where he lived. Scott had never been to The Mean Fiddler in North West London, every gig he had been involved a day travel-card, which was now at times near double the price of some of the gig tickets.

There were no decent venues near him; he didn’t mind that so much as he quite like that going to a gig involved some effort and travel. It made it seem more worthwhile. What did frustrate him was that there never seemed to be an opportunity of popping out for a few drinks and being surprised by a band that happened to be playing. Pubs near him fell into four categories now (in his order of preference): sedate overpriced bistro pubs, closed down pubs, Wetherspoons, and pubs with really rubbish covers bands – invariably the ‘band’ knew the bar manager or they also work there and Saturday night was “whoa, living on a prayer.” He probably didn’t make it up but he called it the ‘Zone 4 zone out.’

“I found some bottles!” yelped Bub with renewed enthusiasm, waking Scott who has just started to doze.

“Alright, go on…wait, what bottles?”

“Erm… Domestos, Dettol, Toilet Duck.” He replied with a tut and sigh “But they’re all full… dude why have you got bleach in your room?”

“Mum always buys things in bulk, and we don’t have enough kitchen or bathroom cupboards” he said slightly frustrated at still being awake.

“…should I empty one and use it?”

“Empty what for what?”

“Bleach bottle…bong…yeah…no?”

“No…no! You kidding?”

“I was gonna empty it and clean it first”

“It’s bleach; it’s pretty fucking ultra clean as it is!”

“Oh! I’ve got a bottle of Fanta! We could use that?”

“For fuck sake! Where’s my phone?”

“I dunno… why?” He responded, unsure why his Fanta bong was shouted down.

“I’ll phone for a pizza, and get a few drinks.”

“Nice, I’m quite hungry; here” Said Bub reaching into his pockets and offering Scott a pizza menu from his wallet

“Cheers, seen my phone?”

“I can’t remember, want me to phone it?”

“Yeah, or call the pizza place”

“I can’t, not enough credit to call them…I’m ringing you now…”

The distinctive opening bars of The Pixies’ ‘Debaser’ started to sound, with both Bub and Scott looking about the place unable to fix a location on the sound until they both looked up to the ceiling to see a trainer hanging from a ceiling mounted fan/light. Bub hung up and rang again to ensure the call wouldn’t go through to voicemail, he then tip-toed and reached out for his trainer eventually knocked it off the fan blade using a rolled up partly soaked newspaper. Scott’s phone bounced around inside the large trainer due to the vibration, although the more poetic may stipulate that the phone was moshing to Kim Deal’s bass and Joey Santiago’s screeching guitar. The more cynical would suggest that the phone was attempting an escape from being inside the sweaty, hairy, smelly trainer. The more cynical still would further argue that the phone was just a phone, and not even a new fancy phone, and was not acting under any emotion, and was incapable of escape. They would also refute any claim that the bong made a successful suicide attempt; fed up with the ennui it had become accustomed to.

“Why was my phone in your trainer…up there?” asked Scott quizzically just as Bub simultaneously asked:

“Where’s my other trainer?

They both looked at each other trying to piece together the mystery.

“Oh I remember!” Said Bub “You kept looking at your phone to see if that girl…Katie had called or replied to your text, and you also wanted to keep texting her and then you…or me… I can’t remember how it got up there…any calls or texts from her?”

“No” came the solemn reply.

“Oh…what pizza are you gonna get? Don’t bother getting any drinks, I have some Fanta’s”

Bub wasn’t sure why this led to a stern stare from Scott; it made him uncomfortable so he continued to lift sheets of paper and flick through magazines to find his other trainer.

Scott called the number on the Pizza menu and studied it; half the menu appeared to be missing. If the casual observer had woken up now they’d assume that the torn sections of menu were the deal coupons, but a hardened (even a semi-hardened) smoker knew that torn bits of menu were used as roaches. At this point it meant that Scott wasn’t aware of any promotions and other such variable information.

“Hello….what’s the minimum order for delivery?...ok, can I get…any three, no four, no three, sorry three pizzas…yeah, any three medium pizzas and six bottles of…what drinks have you got? Haven’t you got anything that isn’t by Coca Cola? Any water? Nestle?! No, no Nestle; what else have you got? …what? …that’s water? …Where’s it from? …You’re  kidding? The whole region’s practically a desert but they’re exporting water. That makes sense…No, I don’t want dessert….Haagen Das is how much?...that’s about a pound a spoon! Ok, just 3 medium pizzas and six…yeah gimme the desert water…how’s it taste?... dry tap water? Are you in advertising? …yeah, half an hour, ok bye..ok..bye..bye.”

He hung the phone up and was about to put it on the table but lost a fight his better judgement and instead stared at the phone again, almost trying to divine the long awaited text. Nothing. He pushed at the few buttons and placed it on the table, turned back in sofa nap position and sighed.

“Bub” he shouted “…Money is on the table, pizza guy will be half an hour. Imma nap”

He shifted as he lay there curled on the sofa, turned 180degrees and then back on himself again. Bub wandered back into the room as a loud beep came from Scott’s phone. Bub watched on with a politely optimistic smile as Scott picked up his phone and read his message.

“Was it Katie?”

“No, I… I sent a text to myself to make sure it was working…it took nearly 2 minutes to be delivered. I’m going sleep”

“Did you phone Carl?”

“No,” Scott looked at the phone again, willing it to beep for a few seconds before scrolling through the names and placing the call… “Hello…Hello Horse, yeah it’s Scott...yeah cool…you? Cool…can you do me a favour; I ordered a pizza. Tell you boys not to nick the moped…yeah, yeah… the way back is up to you, I’d prefer if you didn’t to be honest. Yeah…well leave him with the money so I paid for the pizzas. Nice one. Cheers. Bye…bye.”  He hung up and slid the phone across the table out of reach.

“What time is it?” he asked Bub

“6.45.”

“Dude! Ain’t you supposed to be at the Exhibition Centre?” The thought from earlier had seemingly caught up with him and placed back in the ‘urgent’ file.

“Why?”

“It’s that secret ‘Superheroes Awards ceremony’ tonight; it’s on TV soon. Aren’t you meant to be there?”

“Nah, I’m not getting anything”

“Huh?”

“It’s all politics” Scott replied

“You’re not working?”

“Fuck it; I won’t make it in time. And I hate dressing up.”

“Your agency are gonna be pissed! “

“Yeah, I’m a bad temp”

“What you gonna say?”

“I’m gonna tell them to get me a proper fucking job as I’m capable of more than just being a waiter…or that I was ill”

“Fair enough. Got any cigarettes?”

“On the shelf”

“Nice…got a light?”

Scott shifted and moved his right arm from under him and held out his right hand towards Bub before rubbing his thumb over his index finger which produced a little flame.

“I keep forgetting you can do that”

“Me too” replied Scott almost snoring

“It’s probably why you have no pubes! Ha!” replied Bub 10 minutes and 6 cigarettes later.

Whatever Man's friend/sidekick has a superpower as well. In his presence people become their natural selves. They seem to open up, shed pretention or newly formed agendas and habits that aren't in keeping with their true selves.