People of Consequence
The street writing group is full of drunks and yahoos. I know I know… where do I sign up? But you must know, dear reader, it’s not all so serious.
On my way to our meeting I came across our Dirk, the starving writer with the uncommonly handsome penis. This time he wasn’t lying in the gutter. Jovially I asked if he was feeling alright? He ignored me and announced his protest. He was refusing to make an appearance at the writing group; he was making a stand against the dress code. You will see the absurdity in this soon dear reader.
Last week, I spent the entire time trying not to tread on Dirk’s dreams to be a male escort. Well this week he had a bone to pick. Dirk swore there must be some guy out there who knows how to get women into bed but has absolutely no idea what to do from there. “And this guy is making such a hash of it,” cried Dirk, “all these women are in no hurry to be with the next guy. He’s just spoiling things for everyone!”
This week, dear reader, Dirk had a new goal. He was hatching a plan to become a sperm donor. The details were hazy, but this time he was sure about it. And at last he said, “if that doesn’t work out I will go join the French Foreign Legion.” I didn’t tread on his dreams this week. I was very careful. I tipietoed the whole way. And nor did I offer any encouragement either. He doesn’t seem to need much. But he seemed busy with getting himself in some kind of order. Although last time I saw him he was heading towards the gutter for a rest.
And don’t judge me dear reader. I’ve done so well for so long. It’s been weeks. I haven’t mentioned it once. But finally I’ve been dragged back. It’s not my fault this time. It’s the only place an unholy rabble like our writing group can meet. Where our shouting and shrieking will pass without the bat of an eyelid. That’s it dear reader, I’ve been sucked back down; down to the greasy depths of the street, down down in the underground, where no one has even heard the term “dress code”. I’ve been sucked back down the Drain bar.
For a moment I thought they’d cleaned the joint. But my second step was just as greasy and sticky as I remembered. In the darkened bar I follow my ear. The writing group could only be found by the shouting.
First I see the new dude. He insists we use his pen name “Quentin”. He has a dark past. Once he committed a terrible crime of passion. He doesn’t even remember it. So he joined the French Foreign Legion. And now, now he writes childrens stories.
Quentin is standing with Patty the Morrisian potter and he’s cheering boisterously. They’re both watching as Pud - Pud the madman who might just be right - swings from the Drain chandelier one handed while singing some sea shanty.
Patty waits quietly for her moment. As a Morrisian potter she has frequently asked, “what do you find after a civilisation disappears? After thousands of years of decay, beneath all the dust, what’s the only thing they leave behind? And therefore, when our civilisation disappears, it will be my pottery they found in the archeological digs”. She claims her depictions of our times will have the final say.
And then her moment comes. Pud is exhausted from singing and now simply hangs. And she launches straight back into her argument from where she was interrupted, “…that’s just not socialism. The hammer and sickle are a symbol of meaningful labour. Not factory labour. Not industrial scale waged slavery!”
A red faced Pud hung upside down at this point. But he shrugged an upside down shrug in some kind of upside down approval.
Seizing her moment, Patty continued, “We’re going back to the cottage industries! Back to the land! The work ethic is breaking down. And not because we want it. It won’t be because I told them to. We won’t miss the 9-5. No. It will be because we collectively lost faith in it as a religion. It broke its promises. It was to be a technological utopia, and all we got was this mess.”
Patty the Morrisian potter glazes her pots with depictions from the street. What will they take from this as an artefact I wonder? “It’s not a hobby,” she demands, “It’s the sacred act of bringing heaven to earth.”
“Every time,” says Pud swinging as he gestures, “Every time, I have this one question Patty: who’s going to man the industrial weapons systems? When you have your homemade community markets and your nice little communes, who is going to keep the marauders at bay? Who’s going to repel those who intend to lock us up, right back in the factories? Who’s going to keep those weapons up to date and ready and more advanced than our enemy? Volunteers?”
Then Pud hollared for a drink. But Blitz at the bar grumbled and told him to come down from there, which he was rather polite about since Blitz himself had been asked the same plenty of times before.
Pud mumbled something like, “what’s a chandelier for anyway…” and at that very moment he came crashing to the Drain floor. “I think I’ve made my point,” he said as he strained to unstick himself from the floor. Pud returned to his typewriter with a groan. I place my needle and thread on the table. Pud has some kind of disliking for shirt buttons.
The Drain writers group is where we go to test our ideas. See if they’re ready to stand on their own yet. And it’s where weak ideas go to die. And it’s where their hosts come to cry.
This week I have brought my own idea for systemic brutality. It’s about people of consequence. “Don’t mix with people of no consequence,” I say, “that filth will rub off on you”. And, “Mark my words,” I say, “in 50 years no one will remember that clown who became the richest person. Set a reminder in your phone”.
“You don’t even have to wait,” I say, “here’s one I prepared earlier: Does anyone remember the clown who became the richest person 50 years ago? And more than that - who cares?”
“These are people of little consequence. Don’t waste your time wondering what they ate for breakfast or what they think about the spring colours this season, or if they like what you like”.
“Everyone knows the spotlight is always moving. And these clowns know they only have it for a short moment until they disappear forever and turn back to dust”.
And I really need to learn a bit more about delivery dear reader. For I do try to become someone of greater consequence. But for you dear reader, I wish that you can find better and better ways to distinguish what’s worthy of your time. And that you too succeed in your endeavours to be people of consequence. And thank you for thinking of this as being worth your time. I’m honoured.