Post by Constance on Nov 22, 2015 10:18:35 GMT -6
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
I’m starting to understand the appeal of not having any children. I don’t really believe it when mothers tell other mothers-to-be that having children is the greatest thing in their lives. How utterly boring must their lives be if the best thing that happened in it was shoving out a machine that eats, sleeps, and messes everywhere until it grows up to be a little annoying pissant? Of course, the common defence is a simple ‘Well you’re not a mother, you wouldn’t know’ to which I nod, happily, and agree. The fact that I’m not a mother doesn’t suddenly make me want to BE a mother just because Sally and Jessica from down the way stopped being irresponsible drunken slags once they realized they could go to jail for negligence.”
“We have tests that any idiot can pass and be able to drive a machine capable of killing someone – kids get these tests on the regular. Yet there’s no test before someone can get pregnant; doesn’t matter if you have no stable income or a home or are able to make rational, adult decisions. Congrats, here’s a life. Don’t fuck it up – as if you have a choice in the matter.”
“Yes, children are the future and all those buzzword babbles, but considering the state of many adults in the prime parent range, meaning their mid-to-late-twenties, the future is going to be fucked anyway. Considering that emojis are being considered for dictionary additions (this already coming off of words like ‘Gleek’ being words and the definition of ‘literally’ being changed to mean ‘figuratively’) the only thing that’s left is for the smart people of the world to branch off and make their own sovereign nation while the droolies and the parents continue to nurture a future that can only lead to the downfall of intelligent, modern civilization.”
“Most of that is, of course, hyperbole.”
“What ISN’T hyperbolic are my feelings towards children. Regardless on my potential abilities as a potential mother, the fact of the matter is I have a strong dislike of children. She says this knowing full well that the one child she actually knows is quite fond of her – and she of him.”
“The topic of children has been on my mind lately not because of biological clocks or anything, but because it’s come to my attention that my closest confidants – those being the two I’m forced to pal around with throughout Europe – are children that inhabit adult bodies. I’ve always suspected Emily of being a child, what with her stopping short of dropping to the floor in a tantrum when she wants something from me; it’s Caitlyn that surprised me. Only a child would refuse to listen to the voice of reason even when said voice was loud, angry, and with a good cause. It’s bad enough my privacy is invaded on a regular basis by the hipster child who can’t keep her hands or eyes from wandering where they shouldn’t, but now I’ve got a precocious child thinking that all the world’s a stage and I’m the main player.”
“Another excuse that new mothers like to give is ‘it’ll change your life’. Who wants that? I changed my life and all I got was…well…a hipster child and a precocious child and more grey hairs coming in prematurely. It’s like a cult, this motherhood thing, with members trying to swindle people into joining by feeding them so many bullshit lines.”
“It’s not just my…loathe I am to call them this…associates that has my mind on the supposed miracle of life. No, it’s largely because I’m thinking of the place I should’ve been in instead of Sheffield. The topic is naturally going to come up, it always does, and I’m running out of excuses. But if all the world’s a stage, I’ve got my players already. I may not like the idea of being filmed like a science experiment, but if it means getting to get certain sorts off of my back then I’d be a fool to look such a gift horse in the mouth.”
“In any case, knowing my luck any biological child I did have would wind up becoming just like me and that’s not something I’d wish upon the world. One of me is more than enough.”
“What I do need to look into, though, is how to childproof a diary. Short of hiding it (they’d find it anyway. They always do), the only thing I can think of is by not having one. And I’d never do that.”
“How else will I know just what pointless thing to hate?”
~
“You’re still doing this?”
The ‘this’ in question was, unsurprisingly, asked to the youngest of the trio who, as was suddenly typical, was looking towards Constance through the lens of a camera. Constance had assumed, and incorrectly as it turned out, that it was all some elaborate prank pulled by Caitlyn and Emily; after all, despite the two of them coming to verbal blows if there’s one thing they did enjoy doing it was tormenting their mutual acquaintance.
By the sixth day of being woken up with a camera in her face Constance understood that Caitlyn was absolutely serious and to make it worse, there was nothing the surly Brit could do about it. Such was the arrogance of youth that they never listened to their betters no matter how much said betters begged and yelled.
“I’m not finished with my masterpiece.” Caitlyn’s response was as close to a ‘duh’ as she would ever get; desperately she tried to sound above other girls her age despite the only difference being access to money and pretension masquerading as precociousness.
“And I still never agreed to this, so I’m fairly certain I could pursue legal action.”
“Sure, because all the kids on YouTube who film people secretly wind up getting sent to prison.” Emily, while fortunate enough to be on the outside of the shot, was still standing by to poke the hornets’ nest whenever opportunity presented itself. It was an endless source of amusement.
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I gave you the perfect opportunity to get away from the camera, honey.”
Said ‘opportunity’ involved Emily propositioning Constance to join something she called the ‘mile try club’ – ”For people who aren’t in a plane but aren’t held back by such restrictions; giving it a ‘try’” – had been the explanation given. The depressing part to Constance was that rather than flatly denying such a ludicrous request – they were in PUBLIC and it wasn’t as if toilets were large on public transit as is – she gave it a moment’s consideration. She wasn’t interested in such a thing, but the appeal of escaping from the watchful eyes of the Blonde Nightmare was making a strong case.
“It wasn’t really perfect. Plenty of movies have gratuitous sex scenes. It used to be a selling point before capes took over and ruined everything.” That neither Emily nor Constance could tell if Caitlyn’s flat voice and rapid delivery was said in jest put a full stopper on that particular topic of discussion.
“Regardless, neither of you were invited to this anyway. You, I understand,” she inclines her head to her right, towards Emily, ”You have a habit of intruding where you shouldn’t..”
“At least I’ve never vandalized the place I intrude.” As if that makes the act acceptable – in Emily’s mind it no doubt did.
“But they don’t even know about you, and I’m not looking to get into explaining why I’m associating with an American teenager.”
“I can do accents. I do a convincing Canadian.”
“You focused on the wrong part.”
The ‘they’ in question were the reason why Constance decided to take the near two hour ride on a train from Sheffield to Manchester. She had returned to her hometown a few weeks ago for a one night moment of joy in her otherwise joyless life, but now it was a pure business trip. A supposed personal business trip but, as things always ended up, personal was made public. It was Constance’s fault, really. How was she supposed to know that Emily would accidentally flip on Constance’s phone, discover that Constance had searched for trains to Manchester, and then deduce that a day trip was being planned?
And how was Constance supposed to know that Emily would tell Caitlyn about exceptional material for her documentary awaited her in Manchester. After all, the only thing Constance had in Manchester, when she wasn’t going to a concert, was her parents; and what aspiring documentarian didn’t want to get inside information from the people that birthed the subject in question?
So it was that the one train passenger became three and the dreading visit to the birthplace was made all the more dreadful.
“Just…just try and act a little more…”
“Like you?”
“…a little less…”
“…like you?”
“Forget it. It’s not like you two will make things any worse.”
That they very much COULD make things worse was what initially drove Constance to take the trip by herself. But when living under the constant gaze of Big Sister and the Moody Police, solitude and alone time was a foreign concept.
The train rattled down the tracks, with Constance staring out of the window, looking up at the overcast sky that marked the soon-to-be arrival in the place she once called home – and the place she never dreamed of returning to.
~
REC
An older woman sits on a couch with a glass of some amber liquid swirling against slowly melting cubes of ice. Her hair, the greying taking away from the raven black it had been in its prime, stuck to her face as if held to the skin via glue. Her face showed the signs of her aging, magnified by ten years due to stress; a woman in her late forties that seemed to be approaching her sixties. She took a sip of her alcohol before breaking the silence.
“I met her backstage. She was new, I wasn’t, and I noticed she had a hard time making friends and connecting with people – and not just the other roster members,” her voice was full of nostalgia but behind it was the faint hint of regret, of anger – at herself or at the person of the hour was not clear. “She didn’t say much, she showed up and went out there, put in her ten, fifteen minutes, and was gone before the main event. I was lucky enough to catch her while she was changing into her civilian clothes.”
While the woman took another sip of her beverage, the voice over narrative of the director piped in while the footage shifted to a younger looking Constance standing in the corner of a ring sitting in the center of a civic center gymnasium to a crowd of less than one fifty.
“Constance Chapin came to the United States without much of a plan – as I learned from outside sources – and most of her early time was spent living in a small apartment in Chicago with roommates who frequently smelled of liquor and sex. These experiences did little to make Constance feel as if she had made the proper decision; and it didn’t help the noted misanthrope change her thoughts on people and Americans in general.”
“Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t speak to her. If I hadn’t invited her to my home. To my life.”
After archival footage of Constance’s early years, it switches back to the interview with the greying woman.
”Morgan Winters, then using the name Morgan Wynter, was a top player in the Midwestern Indie scene, making frequent appearances throughout Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Kentucky. She was known for her frequent and brutal appearances in the hardcore style of match – when Morgan was on the card there was a large chance of people leaving with more blood on them than in them. Despite her brutality and apparent sadomasochistic streak, Morgan is a quiet, lonesome woman whose sole joy in life is her young son, Jacob.”
“I was an awful mother. Jacob loved his father because I didn’t. I pretended to, but I believe a child can sense things that adults don’t. I kissed my husband…my ex-husband, slept with him, was the perfect wife because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. But Jacob…Jacob never saw me as his mother, I think. When I invited Constance to my home for a drink, I couldn’t believe how easily she handled Jacob. He listened to her. He looked up to her. It wasn’t long at all before I had her babysitting him while I travelled out of state for the day.” Morgan bitterly chuckles as she takes a longer swig from her half-empty glass. “Jacob called Constance ‘mom’ before he called me that. If I didn’t feel bitter then, I did when she got…personal.”
The camera panned to the left, catching a view of the Winters’ driveway. There, Constance was tossing a baseball to a child no older than six or seven. Both Constance and Jacob were smiling and having an enjoyable time while inside the mood was far more introspective and somber.
“I hated her for the longest time. I blamed her for ruining my marriage – which wasn’t exactly solid even before she awkwardly kissed me after mistaking my kindness for romantic affection. But I didn’t hate her for that, for calling my husband out on his multiple affairs…I was glad to be rid of the prick…but I hated her for running away without warning. I hated her for leaving Jacob behind. I hated her because I had to lie to a child for years.” Morgan finishes what was left in her glass but takes several moments to finish her current train of thought. “But I love her, purely platonically, and I can’t imagine a better friend. And I’m glad she didn’t push me away when I forced myself into her life.”
The camera again pans to the left, zooming in on the rarely happy and smiling face of Constance as she spent time with someone else’s child.
“The enigma that is Ms. Chapin continues to confuse, but if there’s any constant it’s that despite her claims to the contrary, Constance seems to have a soft spot for people…or rather that she manages to leave an impression on others. And despite her efforts…they always seem to be positive in the end.”
~
Upstairs they spoke in whispers while being mindful of their footsteps; the house, after all, was old and wooden floors have a tendency to creak – good for detecting robbers, absolute rubbish for any type of sneaking about. Going upstairs was not part of the original plan, but then the original plan didn’t have two hanger ons looking to stir a pot already bubbling over and thus a second plan was needed.
This plan was more an excuse to get away from the fussing and embarrassment that naturally comes with homecomings – especially when said homecoming is well over a decade in the making. Constance never had much incentive to visit her birth home, not just because her memories of Manchester weren’t exactly sunshine and rainbows (but really, what part of England was) but also because Constance believed that the idea of ‘spreading one’s wings’ meant that you only came back when you needed money or a roof over your head. Problem with that is what is intended to be a month or two layover becomes two or three years at minimum.
So it was something of a surprise to Martin and P.J. Chapin when their daughter showed up unannounced on their doorstep with two guests; the first assumption was that Constance and the vagabond looking lass were pulling some kind of prank, hence the blonde director, but no one was in any hurry to explain the presence of the companions while standing on the front steps. It was doubtful to Constance that the parents would even believe the truth with how crazy and idiotic it all seemed.
Martin, he of the pudgy and balding with a face of a man who would work into his grave – with hands to match – was keen on returning to watching the football match and Constance was absolutely willing to let him; if anything it would expedite the visit. Even on her own she only intended to stay for maybe an hour, two tops; with a match on she might even have swung a half hour, a hello, how’s things, right then, and back on the train to Sheffield – the only time that someone would be looking forward to go there.
PJ, however, was eager to put on a cuppa and to dote on her daughter as it would allow her to interrogate the ‘friends’. PJ, because ‘Piper Jane’ wasn’t quite hip enough for a woman approaching her later years, was in rare form in that she was acting like a doting housewife rather than the ferocious drinker that could hand with the lads at the pub. Perhaps it was the age catching up to her, Constance did notice how her mother’s normally puffy cheeks were sagging and drooping and her dirty blonde hair was becoming more dirty and less blonde by the day.
Martin was annoyed when four others joined him ‘round the telly, “Rooney’s gonna do one’o them bike kicks, right?” was his excuse though Constance never knew him to root for Manchester United, what with him being a City supporter as far as she knew. The annoyance spread to Constance when she realized that PJ had expected her daughter to speak at length about life since running away to the States. “You’re one of them now, ain’t you?” PJ would ask, not-so-subtly poking fun at her Yankee of a daughter. “That’s how it is, right? They make you a citizen after a time?”
“Only the ones what come over the pond or down from up north,” Martin’s off-hand remark was met with a sharp jab from the missus. “What? It’s true, they’s buildin’ a wall down south.”
“That’s more of a worst case scenario if anything. Any wall like that would get torn down faster than Berlin.”
Constance couldn’t shoot daggers from eyes to Emily fast enough.
“Connie, you haven’t introduced your guests. We didn’t think you’d bring any. ‘Course we didn’t think you’d come visit. We were hopin’ for at least a Christmas call this year.”
“You don’t call your family on Christmas? How APPALING, honey.” Judging by the smile, the tone, and how she laughed, it was clear that Emily was enjoying watching Constance squirm and grow increasingly darker shades of red.
The conversation continued for what felt like agonizing ages, with PJ piping in about things Constance doesn’t do (birthdays, holidays, surprise calls, much of anything at all) while Emily continued to add fuel to the fire, egging on both sides of the Chapin clan. It was after a good twenty minutes of her mother and Emily dumping on her that Constance finally spoke up.
“Emily,” Constance turned, a glare in her eyes and a scowl on her lips, “I need to talk to you in private. Upstairs.”
Despite protests from the parents (and even louder ones from Emily), Constance managed to drag the Mailbu resident up the creaky stairs.
“Do you mind if I interview you two?” Caitlyn broke her silence, now filming PJ and Martin, “I’m doing a film on your daughter and how she turned out to be so miserable. I think you both would shed some light. By the way, I’m Caitlyn, your daughter’s child slave.”
Leaving her parents with Caitlyn seemed as good a plan as any to Constance. It meant getting them out of her hair for a moment.
Upstairs the two went and upstairs the spoke in whispers as Constance led them not to her childhood bedroom but the master bedroom at the back of the hall.
“Are you sure your parents are your parents?” Emily was hovering between giggling and genuine interest in the conversation at hand, “Your mom’s got blonde hair and your dad…how’d he manage your mom?”
“Yes, because he always looked like that. You try looking good after working in a Chip Shop all your life.”
“A chip shop? He makes Ruffles or Doritos or something?”
“Oh, yeah, you hadn’t heard? He was employee of the year when he came up with the fucking Frito.” Constance remained ever unamused. As the two of them tip toed into the bedroom belonging to Martin and PJ, Constance closed the door behind them while Emily took an interest in the tacky art hung up above the bed. “I think it’s to add sophistication; they got it cheap when a fast food place shut down.”
Constance began rifling through the records lining a shelf while Emily continued to wonder about just why they had come into this room.
“I didn’t want them to start asking questions. Since you’re so friendly with them it wouldn’t be long before they started bringing up children or a husband or something, and they’re not…we’re not ready to drop that particular bomb into their lap. So I had a better idea to make this visit tolerable….found it.” Constance slid a record from the slip and set about placing it on a record player atop a nightstand.
“I don’t want to listen to music, Connie,” – that one thrown in just to rub salt in the eyes, “I’d much rather get back to talking with your mom. She seems so wonderfully unprepared.”
“My plan is much more enticing, I’m sure.” After placing the pin in the groove and hearing the tones of Glenn Tilbrook sound out (I never thought it would happen with me and the girl from Clapham…), Constance turned to face Emily. “They usually only get to ‘Goodbye Girl’ but I think we can make it to ‘Cool For Cats’.” After offering little in the way of explanation, Constance kneeled down onto the bed, inviting Emily to join her. “Hearing this record at night meant one thing was going on in here.”
The one thing in question was answered when Constance brought the sheets over the two of them while the sounds of songs about lost love serenaded their actions.
Upstairs the two were silent, having a giggle and a far more enjoyable time on the homecoming trip.
~
“If there are two things that cause me to roll my eyes and sigh in utter disbelief it’s Sheffield and nihilism. Sheffield should be obvious, the people from Sheffield would rather be anywhere else and I can’t exactly fault them when one of their prime attractions is a safety museum for children. Nihilism, on the other hand, is just an idiotic belief. I’m fine with people buying into religion, if it brings them comfort to believe in their god or gods then fine, everyone needs something to believe in. But nihilism at its core is a flawed idea that often attracts teenagers who wear all black and think that loud, terrible music with droning guitars and singers who mumble before shouting is the height of musical ability.”
“So naturally I find myself stuck in Sheffield and up against someone who, while perhaps not truly a nihilist, would be more inclined than most to follow down that dark, pointless path.”
“I don’t believe we’ve ever met, Joanna, despite coming from the same place – because I suppose when two of the expats from GPW aren’t doing well in their new land of opportunity the best thing to do is smash them together and hope for the best – but I did know your…let’s call it mentor. I knew her quite well; being one of the very few people who earned my genuine ire before settling up at the end of it all. But fortunately, she’s not here, probably because chaos demanded something or another – whatever her excuse was for leaving someone to the wolves without so much as a means of surviving.”
“And what an ordeal it has been for you; though I suppose I can’t say I’m doing markedly better than you, but statistically…and you know how numbers are.”
“It’s almost admirable, the struggle you seem to find yourself in. Undoubtedly it’s been hard for you to adjust to not being an unhinged person using the words of a hypocrite to justify your actions; and I suppose there’s some merit to at least trying to better oneself – though I can’t imagine why someone from a loony bin would want to continue along in a path where ninety percent of the population is certifiable, but I guess that’s your prerogative.”
“I always wondered, though, since you’re from an asylum, how do you feel about the frighteningly large number of people who idolize and wish to emulate the crazy people from computer games and children’s comics? Is that not insulting? Of course, it’s largely irrelevant, I just worry that far too many people are letting fictional characters be their role models; just because I like Catherine Morland doesn’t mean I’m running around finding good in people. Never mind, Joanna, the question is rhetorical anyway.”
“I should probably be ‘afraid’ of you, since the common assessment is that mentally unbalanced and unhinged people are dangerous; but that’s assuming said people have no moral compass. You, however, very clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be attempting to make yourself not so…deranged. And trying is the first step in a long process called ‘doing’. When it comes to opponents whose method of strategy is ‘fight like I’m on the street and also through the pain’ I generally find the best thing to do is to remain on the defensive because when someone fights like a feral animal there’s no point in coming up with a plan of attack. I learned that the hard way when I attempted to use strategy against Madam Nihilist.”
“But the reason I’m not afraid of you isn’t because of your style of fighting, nothing so strategic. I’m not afraid of you because I’ve already beaten the alpha wolf; you always struck me as a lackey back in GPW, catering to the whims of ‘chaos’ and that might’ve worked for you there but here? In this place that ends their European tour in fucking Sheffield after going to Edinburgh? You’re in the deep end of the pool and clinging to floatation devices, afraid to swim on your own. And until you learn to swim all you’ll be doing is struggling to tread water.”
“Despite your background and troubled past…I don’t get much of a threat from you and it’s not just because you’re on the lookout for an opportunity to get that valued notch in the left column. It’s because supposed crazy people are, ironically, the most predictable competitors around. And trust me, I’ve danced with my share of crazy.”
“I think it’s noble that you’re trying to become a productive member of society, Joanna, I honestly do. I just think you’re in the wrong place to do that; no one stays good in this place for long because after a while you surround yourself with liars, fakes, cheats, and crazies and it takes all you can to cling to your own normalcy; someone with your history has an uphill battle ahead and being on the winning end of a losing streak is bound to be bad for business. Mental business. But it’s interesting that you, of all people, are the least ‘fake’ and ‘phony’ of the myriad fakes that walk around the ring like they’re hot. So, as far as I’m concerned, that already makes you a winner in some respect.”
“Sure, it’s too early to really call it a streak of any kind, but if you’re at all like, say, me, you’re tired of having to get pep talks from outside sources. Or maybe you’re like your buddy Emma and you don’t care one way or another which, hey, works out for me because I have every intention of walking out of Sheffield with at least one good thing happening to me.”
“You’ll get your first win in VoW soon enough. But you’re crazy if you think I’m letting nihilism’s disciple get the better of me.”
“Oh. Wait. Sorry, that’s probably offensive.”
“You’re sane if you think I’m letting nihilism’s disciple get the better of me.”
“I’m not about to let another GPW alum walk all over me.”
[/center]I’m starting to understand the appeal of not having any children. I don’t really believe it when mothers tell other mothers-to-be that having children is the greatest thing in their lives. How utterly boring must their lives be if the best thing that happened in it was shoving out a machine that eats, sleeps, and messes everywhere until it grows up to be a little annoying pissant? Of course, the common defence is a simple ‘Well you’re not a mother, you wouldn’t know’ to which I nod, happily, and agree. The fact that I’m not a mother doesn’t suddenly make me want to BE a mother just because Sally and Jessica from down the way stopped being irresponsible drunken slags once they realized they could go to jail for negligence.”
“We have tests that any idiot can pass and be able to drive a machine capable of killing someone – kids get these tests on the regular. Yet there’s no test before someone can get pregnant; doesn’t matter if you have no stable income or a home or are able to make rational, adult decisions. Congrats, here’s a life. Don’t fuck it up – as if you have a choice in the matter.”
“Yes, children are the future and all those buzzword babbles, but considering the state of many adults in the prime parent range, meaning their mid-to-late-twenties, the future is going to be fucked anyway. Considering that emojis are being considered for dictionary additions (this already coming off of words like ‘Gleek’ being words and the definition of ‘literally’ being changed to mean ‘figuratively’) the only thing that’s left is for the smart people of the world to branch off and make their own sovereign nation while the droolies and the parents continue to nurture a future that can only lead to the downfall of intelligent, modern civilization.”
“Most of that is, of course, hyperbole.”
“What ISN’T hyperbolic are my feelings towards children. Regardless on my potential abilities as a potential mother, the fact of the matter is I have a strong dislike of children. She says this knowing full well that the one child she actually knows is quite fond of her – and she of him.”
“The topic of children has been on my mind lately not because of biological clocks or anything, but because it’s come to my attention that my closest confidants – those being the two I’m forced to pal around with throughout Europe – are children that inhabit adult bodies. I’ve always suspected Emily of being a child, what with her stopping short of dropping to the floor in a tantrum when she wants something from me; it’s Caitlyn that surprised me. Only a child would refuse to listen to the voice of reason even when said voice was loud, angry, and with a good cause. It’s bad enough my privacy is invaded on a regular basis by the hipster child who can’t keep her hands or eyes from wandering where they shouldn’t, but now I’ve got a precocious child thinking that all the world’s a stage and I’m the main player.”
“Another excuse that new mothers like to give is ‘it’ll change your life’. Who wants that? I changed my life and all I got was…well…a hipster child and a precocious child and more grey hairs coming in prematurely. It’s like a cult, this motherhood thing, with members trying to swindle people into joining by feeding them so many bullshit lines.”
“It’s not just my…loathe I am to call them this…associates that has my mind on the supposed miracle of life. No, it’s largely because I’m thinking of the place I should’ve been in instead of Sheffield. The topic is naturally going to come up, it always does, and I’m running out of excuses. But if all the world’s a stage, I’ve got my players already. I may not like the idea of being filmed like a science experiment, but if it means getting to get certain sorts off of my back then I’d be a fool to look such a gift horse in the mouth.”
“In any case, knowing my luck any biological child I did have would wind up becoming just like me and that’s not something I’d wish upon the world. One of me is more than enough.”
“What I do need to look into, though, is how to childproof a diary. Short of hiding it (they’d find it anyway. They always do), the only thing I can think of is by not having one. And I’d never do that.”
“How else will I know just what pointless thing to hate?”
~
“You’re still doing this?”
The ‘this’ in question was, unsurprisingly, asked to the youngest of the trio who, as was suddenly typical, was looking towards Constance through the lens of a camera. Constance had assumed, and incorrectly as it turned out, that it was all some elaborate prank pulled by Caitlyn and Emily; after all, despite the two of them coming to verbal blows if there’s one thing they did enjoy doing it was tormenting their mutual acquaintance.
By the sixth day of being woken up with a camera in her face Constance understood that Caitlyn was absolutely serious and to make it worse, there was nothing the surly Brit could do about it. Such was the arrogance of youth that they never listened to their betters no matter how much said betters begged and yelled.
“I’m not finished with my masterpiece.” Caitlyn’s response was as close to a ‘duh’ as she would ever get; desperately she tried to sound above other girls her age despite the only difference being access to money and pretension masquerading as precociousness.
“And I still never agreed to this, so I’m fairly certain I could pursue legal action.”
“Sure, because all the kids on YouTube who film people secretly wind up getting sent to prison.” Emily, while fortunate enough to be on the outside of the shot, was still standing by to poke the hornets’ nest whenever opportunity presented itself. It was an endless source of amusement.
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I gave you the perfect opportunity to get away from the camera, honey.”
Said ‘opportunity’ involved Emily propositioning Constance to join something she called the ‘mile try club’ – ”For people who aren’t in a plane but aren’t held back by such restrictions; giving it a ‘try’” – had been the explanation given. The depressing part to Constance was that rather than flatly denying such a ludicrous request – they were in PUBLIC and it wasn’t as if toilets were large on public transit as is – she gave it a moment’s consideration. She wasn’t interested in such a thing, but the appeal of escaping from the watchful eyes of the Blonde Nightmare was making a strong case.
“It wasn’t really perfect. Plenty of movies have gratuitous sex scenes. It used to be a selling point before capes took over and ruined everything.” That neither Emily nor Constance could tell if Caitlyn’s flat voice and rapid delivery was said in jest put a full stopper on that particular topic of discussion.
“Regardless, neither of you were invited to this anyway. You, I understand,” she inclines her head to her right, towards Emily, ”You have a habit of intruding where you shouldn’t..”
“At least I’ve never vandalized the place I intrude.” As if that makes the act acceptable – in Emily’s mind it no doubt did.
“But they don’t even know about you, and I’m not looking to get into explaining why I’m associating with an American teenager.”
“I can do accents. I do a convincing Canadian.”
“You focused on the wrong part.”
The ‘they’ in question were the reason why Constance decided to take the near two hour ride on a train from Sheffield to Manchester. She had returned to her hometown a few weeks ago for a one night moment of joy in her otherwise joyless life, but now it was a pure business trip. A supposed personal business trip but, as things always ended up, personal was made public. It was Constance’s fault, really. How was she supposed to know that Emily would accidentally flip on Constance’s phone, discover that Constance had searched for trains to Manchester, and then deduce that a day trip was being planned?
And how was Constance supposed to know that Emily would tell Caitlyn about exceptional material for her documentary awaited her in Manchester. After all, the only thing Constance had in Manchester, when she wasn’t going to a concert, was her parents; and what aspiring documentarian didn’t want to get inside information from the people that birthed the subject in question?
So it was that the one train passenger became three and the dreading visit to the birthplace was made all the more dreadful.
“Just…just try and act a little more…”
“Like you?”
“…a little less…”
“…like you?”
“Forget it. It’s not like you two will make things any worse.”
That they very much COULD make things worse was what initially drove Constance to take the trip by herself. But when living under the constant gaze of Big Sister and the Moody Police, solitude and alone time was a foreign concept.
The train rattled down the tracks, with Constance staring out of the window, looking up at the overcast sky that marked the soon-to-be arrival in the place she once called home – and the place she never dreamed of returning to.
~
REC
An older woman sits on a couch with a glass of some amber liquid swirling against slowly melting cubes of ice. Her hair, the greying taking away from the raven black it had been in its prime, stuck to her face as if held to the skin via glue. Her face showed the signs of her aging, magnified by ten years due to stress; a woman in her late forties that seemed to be approaching her sixties. She took a sip of her alcohol before breaking the silence.
“I met her backstage. She was new, I wasn’t, and I noticed she had a hard time making friends and connecting with people – and not just the other roster members,” her voice was full of nostalgia but behind it was the faint hint of regret, of anger – at herself or at the person of the hour was not clear. “She didn’t say much, she showed up and went out there, put in her ten, fifteen minutes, and was gone before the main event. I was lucky enough to catch her while she was changing into her civilian clothes.”
While the woman took another sip of her beverage, the voice over narrative of the director piped in while the footage shifted to a younger looking Constance standing in the corner of a ring sitting in the center of a civic center gymnasium to a crowd of less than one fifty.
“Constance Chapin came to the United States without much of a plan – as I learned from outside sources – and most of her early time was spent living in a small apartment in Chicago with roommates who frequently smelled of liquor and sex. These experiences did little to make Constance feel as if she had made the proper decision; and it didn’t help the noted misanthrope change her thoughts on people and Americans in general.”
“Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t speak to her. If I hadn’t invited her to my home. To my life.”
After archival footage of Constance’s early years, it switches back to the interview with the greying woman.
”Morgan Winters, then using the name Morgan Wynter, was a top player in the Midwestern Indie scene, making frequent appearances throughout Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Kentucky. She was known for her frequent and brutal appearances in the hardcore style of match – when Morgan was on the card there was a large chance of people leaving with more blood on them than in them. Despite her brutality and apparent sadomasochistic streak, Morgan is a quiet, lonesome woman whose sole joy in life is her young son, Jacob.”
“I was an awful mother. Jacob loved his father because I didn’t. I pretended to, but I believe a child can sense things that adults don’t. I kissed my husband…my ex-husband, slept with him, was the perfect wife because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. But Jacob…Jacob never saw me as his mother, I think. When I invited Constance to my home for a drink, I couldn’t believe how easily she handled Jacob. He listened to her. He looked up to her. It wasn’t long at all before I had her babysitting him while I travelled out of state for the day.” Morgan bitterly chuckles as she takes a longer swig from her half-empty glass. “Jacob called Constance ‘mom’ before he called me that. If I didn’t feel bitter then, I did when she got…personal.”
The camera panned to the left, catching a view of the Winters’ driveway. There, Constance was tossing a baseball to a child no older than six or seven. Both Constance and Jacob were smiling and having an enjoyable time while inside the mood was far more introspective and somber.
“I hated her for the longest time. I blamed her for ruining my marriage – which wasn’t exactly solid even before she awkwardly kissed me after mistaking my kindness for romantic affection. But I didn’t hate her for that, for calling my husband out on his multiple affairs…I was glad to be rid of the prick…but I hated her for running away without warning. I hated her for leaving Jacob behind. I hated her because I had to lie to a child for years.” Morgan finishes what was left in her glass but takes several moments to finish her current train of thought. “But I love her, purely platonically, and I can’t imagine a better friend. And I’m glad she didn’t push me away when I forced myself into her life.”
The camera again pans to the left, zooming in on the rarely happy and smiling face of Constance as she spent time with someone else’s child.
“The enigma that is Ms. Chapin continues to confuse, but if there’s any constant it’s that despite her claims to the contrary, Constance seems to have a soft spot for people…or rather that she manages to leave an impression on others. And despite her efforts…they always seem to be positive in the end.”
~
Upstairs they spoke in whispers while being mindful of their footsteps; the house, after all, was old and wooden floors have a tendency to creak – good for detecting robbers, absolute rubbish for any type of sneaking about. Going upstairs was not part of the original plan, but then the original plan didn’t have two hanger ons looking to stir a pot already bubbling over and thus a second plan was needed.
This plan was more an excuse to get away from the fussing and embarrassment that naturally comes with homecomings – especially when said homecoming is well over a decade in the making. Constance never had much incentive to visit her birth home, not just because her memories of Manchester weren’t exactly sunshine and rainbows (but really, what part of England was) but also because Constance believed that the idea of ‘spreading one’s wings’ meant that you only came back when you needed money or a roof over your head. Problem with that is what is intended to be a month or two layover becomes two or three years at minimum.
So it was something of a surprise to Martin and P.J. Chapin when their daughter showed up unannounced on their doorstep with two guests; the first assumption was that Constance and the vagabond looking lass were pulling some kind of prank, hence the blonde director, but no one was in any hurry to explain the presence of the companions while standing on the front steps. It was doubtful to Constance that the parents would even believe the truth with how crazy and idiotic it all seemed.
Martin, he of the pudgy and balding with a face of a man who would work into his grave – with hands to match – was keen on returning to watching the football match and Constance was absolutely willing to let him; if anything it would expedite the visit. Even on her own she only intended to stay for maybe an hour, two tops; with a match on she might even have swung a half hour, a hello, how’s things, right then, and back on the train to Sheffield – the only time that someone would be looking forward to go there.
PJ, however, was eager to put on a cuppa and to dote on her daughter as it would allow her to interrogate the ‘friends’. PJ, because ‘Piper Jane’ wasn’t quite hip enough for a woman approaching her later years, was in rare form in that she was acting like a doting housewife rather than the ferocious drinker that could hand with the lads at the pub. Perhaps it was the age catching up to her, Constance did notice how her mother’s normally puffy cheeks were sagging and drooping and her dirty blonde hair was becoming more dirty and less blonde by the day.
Martin was annoyed when four others joined him ‘round the telly, “Rooney’s gonna do one’o them bike kicks, right?” was his excuse though Constance never knew him to root for Manchester United, what with him being a City supporter as far as she knew. The annoyance spread to Constance when she realized that PJ had expected her daughter to speak at length about life since running away to the States. “You’re one of them now, ain’t you?” PJ would ask, not-so-subtly poking fun at her Yankee of a daughter. “That’s how it is, right? They make you a citizen after a time?”
“Only the ones what come over the pond or down from up north,” Martin’s off-hand remark was met with a sharp jab from the missus. “What? It’s true, they’s buildin’ a wall down south.”
“That’s more of a worst case scenario if anything. Any wall like that would get torn down faster than Berlin.”
Constance couldn’t shoot daggers from eyes to Emily fast enough.
“Connie, you haven’t introduced your guests. We didn’t think you’d bring any. ‘Course we didn’t think you’d come visit. We were hopin’ for at least a Christmas call this year.”
“You don’t call your family on Christmas? How APPALING, honey.” Judging by the smile, the tone, and how she laughed, it was clear that Emily was enjoying watching Constance squirm and grow increasingly darker shades of red.
The conversation continued for what felt like agonizing ages, with PJ piping in about things Constance doesn’t do (birthdays, holidays, surprise calls, much of anything at all) while Emily continued to add fuel to the fire, egging on both sides of the Chapin clan. It was after a good twenty minutes of her mother and Emily dumping on her that Constance finally spoke up.
“Emily,” Constance turned, a glare in her eyes and a scowl on her lips, “I need to talk to you in private. Upstairs.”
Despite protests from the parents (and even louder ones from Emily), Constance managed to drag the Mailbu resident up the creaky stairs.
“Do you mind if I interview you two?” Caitlyn broke her silence, now filming PJ and Martin, “I’m doing a film on your daughter and how she turned out to be so miserable. I think you both would shed some light. By the way, I’m Caitlyn, your daughter’s child slave.”
Leaving her parents with Caitlyn seemed as good a plan as any to Constance. It meant getting them out of her hair for a moment.
Upstairs the two went and upstairs the spoke in whispers as Constance led them not to her childhood bedroom but the master bedroom at the back of the hall.
“Are you sure your parents are your parents?” Emily was hovering between giggling and genuine interest in the conversation at hand, “Your mom’s got blonde hair and your dad…how’d he manage your mom?”
“Yes, because he always looked like that. You try looking good after working in a Chip Shop all your life.”
“A chip shop? He makes Ruffles or Doritos or something?”
“Oh, yeah, you hadn’t heard? He was employee of the year when he came up with the fucking Frito.” Constance remained ever unamused. As the two of them tip toed into the bedroom belonging to Martin and PJ, Constance closed the door behind them while Emily took an interest in the tacky art hung up above the bed. “I think it’s to add sophistication; they got it cheap when a fast food place shut down.”
Constance began rifling through the records lining a shelf while Emily continued to wonder about just why they had come into this room.
“I didn’t want them to start asking questions. Since you’re so friendly with them it wouldn’t be long before they started bringing up children or a husband or something, and they’re not…we’re not ready to drop that particular bomb into their lap. So I had a better idea to make this visit tolerable….found it.” Constance slid a record from the slip and set about placing it on a record player atop a nightstand.
“I don’t want to listen to music, Connie,” – that one thrown in just to rub salt in the eyes, “I’d much rather get back to talking with your mom. She seems so wonderfully unprepared.”
“My plan is much more enticing, I’m sure.” After placing the pin in the groove and hearing the tones of Glenn Tilbrook sound out (I never thought it would happen with me and the girl from Clapham…), Constance turned to face Emily. “They usually only get to ‘Goodbye Girl’ but I think we can make it to ‘Cool For Cats’.” After offering little in the way of explanation, Constance kneeled down onto the bed, inviting Emily to join her. “Hearing this record at night meant one thing was going on in here.”
The one thing in question was answered when Constance brought the sheets over the two of them while the sounds of songs about lost love serenaded their actions.
Upstairs the two were silent, having a giggle and a far more enjoyable time on the homecoming trip.
~
“If there are two things that cause me to roll my eyes and sigh in utter disbelief it’s Sheffield and nihilism. Sheffield should be obvious, the people from Sheffield would rather be anywhere else and I can’t exactly fault them when one of their prime attractions is a safety museum for children. Nihilism, on the other hand, is just an idiotic belief. I’m fine with people buying into religion, if it brings them comfort to believe in their god or gods then fine, everyone needs something to believe in. But nihilism at its core is a flawed idea that often attracts teenagers who wear all black and think that loud, terrible music with droning guitars and singers who mumble before shouting is the height of musical ability.”
“So naturally I find myself stuck in Sheffield and up against someone who, while perhaps not truly a nihilist, would be more inclined than most to follow down that dark, pointless path.”
“I don’t believe we’ve ever met, Joanna, despite coming from the same place – because I suppose when two of the expats from GPW aren’t doing well in their new land of opportunity the best thing to do is smash them together and hope for the best – but I did know your…let’s call it mentor. I knew her quite well; being one of the very few people who earned my genuine ire before settling up at the end of it all. But fortunately, she’s not here, probably because chaos demanded something or another – whatever her excuse was for leaving someone to the wolves without so much as a means of surviving.”
“And what an ordeal it has been for you; though I suppose I can’t say I’m doing markedly better than you, but statistically…and you know how numbers are.”
“It’s almost admirable, the struggle you seem to find yourself in. Undoubtedly it’s been hard for you to adjust to not being an unhinged person using the words of a hypocrite to justify your actions; and I suppose there’s some merit to at least trying to better oneself – though I can’t imagine why someone from a loony bin would want to continue along in a path where ninety percent of the population is certifiable, but I guess that’s your prerogative.”
“I always wondered, though, since you’re from an asylum, how do you feel about the frighteningly large number of people who idolize and wish to emulate the crazy people from computer games and children’s comics? Is that not insulting? Of course, it’s largely irrelevant, I just worry that far too many people are letting fictional characters be their role models; just because I like Catherine Morland doesn’t mean I’m running around finding good in people. Never mind, Joanna, the question is rhetorical anyway.”
“I should probably be ‘afraid’ of you, since the common assessment is that mentally unbalanced and unhinged people are dangerous; but that’s assuming said people have no moral compass. You, however, very clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be attempting to make yourself not so…deranged. And trying is the first step in a long process called ‘doing’. When it comes to opponents whose method of strategy is ‘fight like I’m on the street and also through the pain’ I generally find the best thing to do is to remain on the defensive because when someone fights like a feral animal there’s no point in coming up with a plan of attack. I learned that the hard way when I attempted to use strategy against Madam Nihilist.”
“But the reason I’m not afraid of you isn’t because of your style of fighting, nothing so strategic. I’m not afraid of you because I’ve already beaten the alpha wolf; you always struck me as a lackey back in GPW, catering to the whims of ‘chaos’ and that might’ve worked for you there but here? In this place that ends their European tour in fucking Sheffield after going to Edinburgh? You’re in the deep end of the pool and clinging to floatation devices, afraid to swim on your own. And until you learn to swim all you’ll be doing is struggling to tread water.”
“Despite your background and troubled past…I don’t get much of a threat from you and it’s not just because you’re on the lookout for an opportunity to get that valued notch in the left column. It’s because supposed crazy people are, ironically, the most predictable competitors around. And trust me, I’ve danced with my share of crazy.”
“I think it’s noble that you’re trying to become a productive member of society, Joanna, I honestly do. I just think you’re in the wrong place to do that; no one stays good in this place for long because after a while you surround yourself with liars, fakes, cheats, and crazies and it takes all you can to cling to your own normalcy; someone with your history has an uphill battle ahead and being on the winning end of a losing streak is bound to be bad for business. Mental business. But it’s interesting that you, of all people, are the least ‘fake’ and ‘phony’ of the myriad fakes that walk around the ring like they’re hot. So, as far as I’m concerned, that already makes you a winner in some respect.”
“Sure, it’s too early to really call it a streak of any kind, but if you’re at all like, say, me, you’re tired of having to get pep talks from outside sources. Or maybe you’re like your buddy Emma and you don’t care one way or another which, hey, works out for me because I have every intention of walking out of Sheffield with at least one good thing happening to me.”
“You’ll get your first win in VoW soon enough. But you’re crazy if you think I’m letting nihilism’s disciple get the better of me.”
“Oh. Wait. Sorry, that’s probably offensive.”
“You’re sane if you think I’m letting nihilism’s disciple get the better of me.”
“I’m not about to let another GPW alum walk all over me.”
