Much of Ex-Mans music was not new. Much of it was really a remix of old tunes but done in ways that nobody had ever thought possible. Now, Moses Samuel thought, here was one musician worth putting money on to go places. Ex-Mans first single - Dynomite, had just about a month ago, hit the chart and quickly climbed up as fast as a monkey with its tail on fire. But still, nobody knew who Ex-Man was and so deliciously, neither was he going about advertising his identity.
Dynomite had been quietly released by Def Adam - a new and unknown private label - no parties, no press. Def Adam as he found out was owned by an Isle of Man company of the same name but with nominee directors, and the distribution of the four records of the label so far was being done by Michael Jah, a Jamaican agent from a shop hemmed in between two vegetable shops right inside Brixton Market. There the trail had gone dead.
I just sell records man, I dont sell comics. Yeah man, the seemingly perplexed records broker had reasoned with him.
Moses Samuel had subsequently been even more intrigued by and full of respect for this unknown artist. Certainly not like any of the no-talent wannabes parading selves as musicians on the strength of being able to ingest a lot of mind-bending chemicals and scream at the top of their voices as a consequence; the papers were always plastered with their stupid faces.
Who was Ex-man? Ironically, that mystery really had contributed in a major way to the success of the new record. Moses Samuel loved that bit of irony. As a matter of fact, it was the same sort of device which had moved his life and business forward.
He walked over to another table on which sat the one-foot high scale model of what was a shopping mall, though anyone else could have called it an art gallery. It was two-stories high, looked about a hundred yards wide, and was painted up like Andy Warhol had been at work on it. Who is Moses Samuel? Yes, they did have a lot in common, him and Ex-Man; they were both definitely destined to go places. Possibly together.
CHAPTER 2
Dynoooomite!!
The wide-mouthed black youth looked like J.J. Walker from the old-time TV series Good Times. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and doing a mime to Ex-Mans remix of Tony Camillos Dynomite on MTV. Frank ODwyer woke up to find the time was ten oclock. He was horrified. When you had a boss who didnt like you very much, and you woke up at ten o clock on Monday morning, you knew dead cert that your ass was already grass.
Frank had fallen asleep on the couch, as he realized. An open can of Guinness was spilled on the carpet. He had no recollection of when he had popped the can or switched on the TV; he also couldnt tell for certain how he had got home last night. It had been really a hell of a gig and a demon or two were still trapped in his head, hacking away with sharp axes and picks. Frank picked up his mobile phone and called his office at East End Mirror.
Ellen, I am going to be a bit late this morning, I am not feeling so well, he told Ellen Wescott, the secretary.
Frank, you had a meeting scheduled for nine-thirty with Spencer, and Hes hopping mad. Better come in as soon as you can, but I think youre dead meat already, Ellen told him.
Franks heart sank. It was the day of the monthly departmental meeting with his boss Spencer Cowley akaThe Beast; who also owned the East End Mirror newspaper. As the journalist who handled the crime beat, Franks absence wouldnt go unnoticed, at least not by Spencer who seemed quite lately to have a special place in his heart for him - a place where poisons were kept.
David Fernandez would be there of course. David was the bespectacled young Indian rookie journalist who presently covered the trivia departments and the cocktail circuit. David was okay really - quite friendly and efficient. He was also very unnaturally gifted with computers, and so prodigiously prolific that Frank suspected the little guy had programmed his computer to crank out fake stories.
David did remind him of a long time foe Phil Jenner, who used to work with The Independent but had somehow just disappeared; like fallen off the face of the earth. Phil Jenner had been quite a terror to Franks life because Spencer Cowley always compared Franks puny effort to the prodigious Phil Jenner. And so prolific had Phil Jenner been that it appeared he manufactured his own stories like when he wanted to report a murder, he just went off and killed somebody. But somehow he disappeared, and life had since then become more bearable for Frank until David Fernandez showed up. Later though, Frank had learned to his shame that David Fernandez just made more creative use of Google and Yahoo! Frank had afterward learned to live amicably with David since their tasks rarely encroached.
Somewhere along the line though, Spencer had determined that newspapers thrived more on gossip and trivia than on real news and thus had David become to be much more seriously reckoned with at the East End Mirror. And as David grew in importance so had Frank begun to feel his own relevance diminished. In his nightmares, the little Indian guy now played a significantly menacing role, and as a matter of fact, Frank suspected that David was being prepared to take over from him in the event of his demise, which now seemed quite near.
Never one to distress nevertheless, Frank took off his seven-inch wide plaque which said MC Wire, had a quick shower, coffee, a burnt buttered toast, and eventually set out for work. Trevor The Mad Scientist Cook, his tandem deejay act, did bring him home last night, he knew. Trevor had just bought a new BMW, and theyd together taken it for a spin to Brighton for a gig along with two mad West Indian chicks and two cases of wine. Pity he couldnt now remember the girls names.
The sun seemed unusually bright and hot this morning; shining with such intense malice. The entire world seemed to jog along sluggishly around him like gargantuan mobile Dali sculptures. Franks flat was mere minutes from Hackney Central, which was not too crowded at this time. From there he caught a bus to the office of the East End Mirror, located in Shoreditch, ten minutes away.
It was an open-plan office containing ten cubicles on either side of a central aisle. A conference room, as well as the office of the proprietor Spencer Cowley, was at the far end. Frank slipped in quietly, said a quick hello to Fernandez with whom he shared a cubicle. Frank had barely sat down at his desk when Spencer Cowley breezed by. He is a burly man with fat jowls and a booming voice
Could you come with me for a little chat Frank, he said, without a pause in his steps and without looking in his direction. Frank noted that nobody was looking in his direction either. The greetings this morning had been quite lukewarm all around - something heavy definitely seemed expected.
Frank found Spencer in the small conference room at the end of the corridor which ran the entire length of the office. Everyone remembered the room as the place where major negotiations were made: such as hiring, promotion, ass-kicking, and firing. Spencer was smoking a cigar when Frank came in, and Frank felt an irresponsible urge to point to the No Smoking sign on the wall. An irresponsible urge because here at the East End Mirror, Spencer Cowley, owner, Chief Executive, and Chief Editor was the law.
Good morning Spencer. Sorry I was late. I wasnt feeling well this morning when I woke up, Frank apologized.
Oh, of course, yes, and I guess I am the cause of it, isnt that right? Especially as this happens so frequently. Frank, what do you think this place is about? Spencer didnt sound amused.
Frank grimaced. He had a very bad headache which was presently being exacerbated by Spencers loud voice. He looked away into the clear glass tabletop and doodled nervously on it with a finger.
Frank, do you honestly think this newspaper is a joke? Spencer asked, puffing violently on his cigar like a mad marijuana fiend. Frank thought this a trick question and safely kept quiet. Besides, his head hurt like hell.
Let me put it another way, Frank, do you honestly enjoy working here?
Against common sense, Frank this time around had an irresponsible impression that Spencer genuinely had his best interest at heart; like your anxious mother hassling you for spending the whole night out at a party. Frank looked away into the clear glass table and doodled nervously on the top with a finger.
No I dont enjoy working here, Spencer, he truthfully replied; and this did somehow make him feel good.
So why dont you be man enough about it then and quit? Spencer said to him, and this made Frank feel bad.
Im sorry I didnt mean to say that Frank apologized. Too late though; he found Spencer looking into his eyes with contrived pity, slowly and very sadly shaking his head.
Im sorry Ive got to let you go Frank, Spencer said to him; and this made Frank feel a lot worse. He tried to feel man enough about it nevertheless.
Dont I get any kind of notice?
Your contract entitles you to one month's notice Frank, but never mind. I have signed you a check for the next month, and you can leave today, Spencer told him, offering a sweaty handshake.
If you need references, I will be pleased to give you some. Ive already given Ellen a check for you, and you may collect it immediately. Good luck Frank.
Frank returned to his desk and silently began to empty the drawers. The entire office seemed unusually quiet and busy around him. He felt angry with them all, with Spencer Cowley and most of all with himself for handing Spencer the perfect excuse to throw him out, right on a golden platter. It hadnt been a great job, but it paid the bills. Ellen came around a few minutes later with his check.
Hes in a hellish mood today, innit? She commiserated.
Yeah, well its got to happen one day; and I guess the sooner, the better, Frank puts up his brave front.
Fernandez came over, cautiously.
Wat happened over there Frank? he worriedly asked.
Just lost my job. I guess you will be doing the crime watch circuit all by yourself for a while unless Spencer has found a replacement for me yet. Frank wheezed.
Thats awful. What are you going to do now Frank? Fernandez sounded genuinely concerned.
I dont know yet. You never plan to lose your job, I believe, or do you? Ill get by somehow, I am sure. Frank shrugged his shoulders.
Im happy you can think like that. Its all really no more than just a job, see? Just hang on to that truth and you wont feel so bad anymore Ellen advised.
Thanks, Ellen, Frank said to her and signed the voucher for his check.
Good luck Frank, were going to miss you Ellen shook his hand
Going to really miss you, Bro. I know we didnt get along so well on some issues, but I really think you are a great guy. Namaste. Fernandez also emotionally took his hand.
Frank emptied much of the contents of his desk into the bin. They were mostly half-written stories that were long dead. This completed, he left the office of East End Mirror, giving one last tired salute at the door, and his few prized possessions in a little box under his arm. Spencer Cowley standing menacingly in the middle of the news office returned the salute.
Frank caught a bus home from Shoreditch to Hackney Central, looking pensively out of the window all through the journey. At Hackney Central, he bought some fruits from a stall and walked to his flat which was about two hundred yards away.
It was still just around midday. He found it strange and a really confusing experience to be home at this time of the day.
Frank put the fruits in the fridge, took out a can of Guinness, and lay on the sofa to watch MTV. The Ex-Mans newly released video was still getting prime-time play treatment. Every time he heard the song, he always got this feeling that he knew the voice even though it had been passed through a synthesizer. But then a lot of rap often sounded quite like the same, unless you were doing it in some patent way like Snoop Dogg or even like Grandmaster Flash, who he very much thought was the boss. Frank soon drifted off to sleep.
There were three missed calls on his phone when he woke up. He dialed his voice mail. There was one message from Trevor:
How are you doing, Frankie? You did have quite a skinful last night, didnt you? Talk later [click]. The second message brought him fully awake.
Hi Frankie, its me Nancy. Youll call me back, will you? [Click]. No, he wouldnt. Nancy Hughes was an old flame, who had house stepped on her foot three weeks ago at a rave party. Life had a way of working funny new habits into lonely peoples lives because as much as Frank had ever known, Nancy was chronically agoraphobic and would rather watch a golf game on television than from the middle of a mile wide green. That was how shocked he had been to find Nancy at a rave, where six dozen lunatics were getting smashed on cheap booze and screaming above the deafening music.
The third was from his mum in Manchester, wanting to make sure that he was still wearing clothes and not walking around naked in the night like all those hooligans. Now, Frank knew this was an important message, and if he didnt reply to his mums call, she would probably come knocking on his door the next morning. So Frank called mum and assured her yes, he still was wearing clothes; no he wasnt wearing manacles around his neck; no he wasnt smoking pot yet, and yes Hes still got a job - the last one being now a lie.
He returned to watching television. Again the video of an EX-MAN rap rendition of Herbie Hancocks Chameleon was playing on MTV. He liked it.
CHAPTER 3
When Frank woke up the next morning, he found three more missed calls on his phone. They were all from the same number and certainly didnt belong to anyone in his phone directory. Frank had a policy of not returning missed calls from unknown callers primarily because it costs money and again you never know whom they are from. From experience, unknown callers usually spelled trouble debt collectors, tax office, and bank calling about your un-approved overdraft.
It was a nice Tuesday morning, and Frank was just getting into the routine of preparing for work until it suddenly occurred to him that hey you got no job, man. Nevertheless, he dressed up. The unemployed always have a place to go - the Jobcentre never turned anyone away. And in any case, the Jobcentre was the logical place to start looking for another job theoretically.
He took Spencer Cowleys check with him, tucking it into his shirts pocket; and thinking to visit the bank, later in the day. The check was not for a lot, and he didnt imagine it would take him quite far. So he definitely needed to get a job really fast, primarily because the rent needed to get paid by the first day of each month, which was just about a week away. The last thing he needed at this time was to have himself thrown in the street. Frank thought the check was mischief really because he usually got paid by bank transfer. It occurred to him that Spencer intended to make a statement with the check - like he didnt want to have anything more to do with Frank.