DISCONNECTED

By Joannebarbarella

Frustrated, he went through combination after combination to see if he could get a connection, but no matter what, when he tried to log on to the internet, he ended up with the same display on the screen of the laptop.

He tried to get onto the server, but, naturally, you needed a web connection to make a complaint. Typical. Particularly when it was out of hours. Just like the notices you see for courses to remedy illiteracy.

He wouldn’t be able to do that until he got to work after the weekend. His normal evening was stuffed....probably the next two as well. At least it looked like it was a server problem, which meant the laptop itself was all right, no software to worry about. He could access Word but what good was that?

Yeah, I know, get a life!

He usually spent the evening hooked into the net, reading stories on Big Closet Top Shelf, a site catering mostly to those who believed they were the wrong gender, reading, commenting, or conversing with people like himself (or herself), all the while gently supping on glasses of wine, not getting drunk, but just having a bit of a buzz on, dulling the reality of everyday life, taking off the sharp edges of the ever present longing..

Living alone much of the time was OK. When you got to his age you liked company part of the time, but also enjoyed some time by yourself. Selfishness is thy name. At this particular moment solitude ruled. The previous week had been spent at home over the Chinese New Year holidays surrounded by wall-to-wall friends and the woman who still, against all odds, loved him.

Now here he was, back in Singapore, alone. Now he could wear the clothes that he loved, the silks and the satins, could put on a little (ha-ha, a lot of) make-up and a wig and pretend that he wasn’t a fat old man, but the nineteen-year-old girl inside. No....that wasn’t right....she was the girl.... not the fat old fraud. She didn’t look in a mirror any more than she had to, not liking what looked back.....but she was who she was. She still remembered those golden teenage days when she was the face shown to the world until HIS fear drove her back into hiding.

The lack of internet was spoiling the mood somehow. Talking to others like herself was a large part of the pleasure. It always felt so good to sit in front of the keyboard with her painted nails pressing the keys and exchanging Personal Messages with one of the other girls.....with someone who understood where she was coming from.

Desperately seeking diversion, she went to their CD collection, and, after some thought, pulled out a couple of Dire Straits and Mark Knopfler discs. It wasn’t the music they’d been brought up on but they both loved Mark’s guitar and the gutsy working-class lyrics of many of the songs resonated with their youth. They were actually a Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Stones and Beatles child by age, but they didn’t write the really gritty stuff in those days.

He knew in a way that he was already past his “use-by” date when he went looking for a decent radio/CD/cassette to play his CDs on. All the stores tried to sell him an iPod, not one of those out-of-date contraptions, and he had to traipse all around town to find a Philips set in the back of a tiny, dusty shop in Little India. I mean, who buys Philips these days?

She went to put on Dire Straits but found a forgotten CD of AC/DC doing “Iron Man 2” which was already loaded, not a bad movie either. With a small smile she decided to indulge herself with them first. She had always had a soft spot for the raw energy of Acker Dacker. When the music started the girl began bopping around the room, glass of white wine in hand, remembering the times when she had been the one in control, spinning and cavorting to “Back In Black”. God, those boys could still do the metal.

Shimmy and shake, put the glass down so she could do justice to that wild tune, the sweat coming off her brow as she danced to the beat. She loved the old man. He had never denied her in all those years, but he was such a coward that he had kept her hidden. She knew why, of course. Those were the days when he would have been a freak featured in the sordid pages of The News Of The World if she had been exposed.

Discretion took the place of the valour he didn’t have and he hid her away, married, had kids and lived a pathetic “normal” life.

His wife had vague suspicions, having found one of his stashes one time, but he had talked his way out of that. He had confessed her existence to his latest girlfriend. She sort of accepted it, but being Chinese, managed to ignore it, as the Chinese do with things with which they are uncomfortable.

She kept on dancing, finishing up with a wild rendition on “Highway To Hell”, picking up her glass and draining it when the music finished, panting, heart thumping, but feeling invigorated as she hadn’t for years. Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be so bad.

AC/DC finished and she went and got another glass of wine. Her dress was sticking to her a little and she could feel her heels making the muscles at the back of her calves ache, but she didn’t care. She should have made him let himself go like this more often. It was fun and liberating too. She could almost feel her breasts straining at her bra.

She took over, putting on Dire Straits, and together they sat and listened to “Telegraph Road”, both appreciating the marvellous guitar solo embracing them in the middle and amazed at how a Geordie man could recreate the story of Detroit with such passion.

She had another large swig of the wine and started dancing again to “The Sultans Of Swing”, holding the glass out at arms' length as she sashayed to those wonderful British pub lyrics. You don’t appreciate the talent until you haven’t heard it for a while.

More wine and dance, dance, dance, a lot of tears along the way as the lyrics melted into the brain, and into the soul, some slow swings around the room and some full-blooded rock. She loved “Money For Nothing” for both the beat and the lyrics and gave it all she had. At the end of that number the old man collapsed onto the sofa.

“Go and get another drink,” she said.

But he just lay there looking at her.

“Brothers In Arms” started.

“Come on. This is a slow one.”

He looked at her. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“It’s all yours, love. I can’t.”

She tried to pull him to his feet but their fingers slipped through each other’s.

So she danced away into the night, free at last.

This little piece resulted from a lack of internet connection which forced me to find alternative entertainment. Do not read too much into the ending. While I was feeling a bit melancholy I wasn’t THAT melancholy....or you wouldn’t be reading this.

I have deliberately mixed the gender pronouns to try to convey the dichotomy experienced by myself and those like me, so please don’t make that a hook for any criticism you might have.

There was some debate between me and my friends and editor as to whether I should even post this, but in the end I have ignored their advice, so don’t blame them. Thank you Sheila and Dimelza for your views and comments, and Kristina for editing and your opinion.