Sweet Delivery

Short 3-page story which starts with a delivery.

A delivery slot of ‘9am-1pm’ could mean hours of torture or swift release. An extended period of watch-checking or an early reprieve.  The torture of your eyes being drawn to the window by every van that passed or a sentence commuted. Except that the latter never happened.

Only four minutes before the end of the slot. Nearly the full four hours of distraction. The last thirty minutes full of what-ifs and anticipated testy phone complaints. A childish dab of a plastic stylus on a rubberised screen and the two men started to bring in the boxes. A cardboard promise of rich content.

The online selection of installation and assembly was a small humiliation, but being present as these two strangers went to work in his domain was further emasculation. He adopted a manner that implied he was too busy to do the job himself rather than incapable. Without word or eye-contact, he felt that the men were not convinced.

Cardboard gave way to polystyrene and synthetic wrapping sheets. The size of contents dwindled disappointingly from that of the boxes. But size was a means to an end. Power, amplification, immersion. With the job complete, he thanked the men and rushed back to the source of his desire.

The disc slipped into the drawer which withdrew with the faintest of hisses. Declining song selection, he started the concert from the first echoing audience stamps in the stadium. The stamps reverberated from the heavy, brooding bass speaker. The screen showed the band taking the stage to the audience’s delight and rich chords emerged from the other speakers, mingling like a rich casserole in the air. He picked up his guitar and started to follow.

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And so, these sessions grew in importance to him. His outlet, his sanctuary. Drifting into a reverie of anticipated guitar heroics became his response to every perceived slight at work. The clichés of patronising managers lost their sting. The mediocrity of his life had a counterweight of growing power.

Waiting for his meagre selection of items to advance along the supermarket till’s conveyor became an instant to go through a solo one more time in anticipation. As he passed a couple arm in arm, he now had his own reason to rush home.

The fantasy deepened to a fetish. The room became restricted to just the one use. The jeans, jackets and t-shirts of his heroes were tracked down and adopted. The room’s lighting changed from the fabric-shaded domestic to functional chrome casting a colder white light.

The occasional ritual shifted to daily, but soon even waiting until the day’s end was too hard. Early morning fixes left enough of an adrenaline trace throughout the day, a lover’s promise of more to come.

 

But even the layered sounds and sensual immersion began to let through chinks of incompleteness. The stamping crowd vibrated the room’s floor but the experience was almost too clinical, too clean. Searches for upgraded speakers gave way to searches for gig reviews, which in turn gave way to ticketing sights and stadium seating plans.

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The effect was somehow more perfect and yet less. The shared anticipation of the crowd added a new dimension but somehow tainted the sacrament, making it less holy. As he sat in silence, neighbours chatted and joked like children in pews being tutted by neighbours until parents said something.

But this annoyance diminished as signs of readiness grew. Hunched roadies made final checks of effects pedals and placed water bottles onstage. The lighting on the stadium steps dimmed and the few fans out of place moved purposefully back to their seats.

These teasing signs grew more frequent and less ambiguous. Anticipation built tangibly. As more minutes passed, an edge of frustration could be felt within the calls and whistles. There were no more clues or signs of progress.

Was it always like this? He had no way of knowing.  Such moments would not make it to his treasured DVDS, no matter the number of extras offered. But no, as time dragged on, there was no mistaking the crowd’s displeasure. The tension built.

Then he saw it, on a small screen above his seating section, a screen which had been scrolling unwatched reminders of merchandise availability. His name, but why? Some mistake, but with his seat number alongside. He rose unsteadily to follow its bidding, to report to one of the fluorescent-jacketed ushers.

His neighbours were surprised by his exit, but stood to comply and let him out. His ankles felt weak as he descended the steps. The delayed concert, his name, his polarised mind could see no other answer. The guitarist had been taken ill and he was being summoned to stand in. The hours of practice had all been leading to this.

His t-shirt clung to his back, the sweat cold. He seemed to float down the steps, his feet acting independently. He stumbled towards the usher, anticipating more emotion from him: relief, joy, gratitude. This was the point at which he would be whisked backstage, a guitar pressed into his hands and his life’s destiny delivered.

The fluorescent-jacketed figure indicated a message on his phone. His name, his number, damaged vehicle in car park.