Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his brand-new
short story “Eatin’ Pussy” has been published by Anxiety Press. The tale of two
very different brothers – one a classically trained pianist who never quite
fulfils his potential, the other a never-do-well lay-about who lands a role in
a cult film and becomes a household name – the story examines the meaning of
success, contentment, achievement, the things in life that can make a person
truly happy, and the cruel reality of knowing that even if you work as hard as
you can possibly work, even if you dedicate yourself to something, be it an
artform, a career, even a relationship with someone you truly adore, there’s no
guarantee that you will succeed or get what you deserve in the end.
Perhaps,
therefore, the story is more an examination of failure, how the vast majority
of people conduct their everyday lives with the dark cloud of personal defeat
hanging over them at all times.
To give you a feel for the story, here are the opening
pages:
In the
early 1980s, or hate-ies as I like to call them, my brother Miles landed a
small part in what would become a hugely successful cult movie. His role, that
of an arresting police officer interrogating a suspect, consisted of only nine
words.
“Where’d you get that scar, tough guy?
Eatin’ pussy?”
Inexplicably, that section of dialogue
and what amounted to around fifteen seconds of screen time would provide him
with a comfortable existence for the rest of his life. He never had to find
himself a regular job. He never had to struggle to make ends meet. How remains
a mystery to me to this day. But perhaps the reason why is an even more
perplexing proposition, one I’ve been wrestling with for years.
Twelve years Miles’ senior, I felt an
acute sense of shock when our parents sat me down one day and explained that I
would soon have a little brother or sister to play with. Having been perfectly
content with the family dynamic up to that point in time, I saw no reason why
my mother and father would want to upset our peaceful domestic routine with
another child. More to the point, I was considered somewhat of a prodigy back
then, a gifted piano virtuoso. Much of my time – and by extension, my parents’
time – was spent either travelling to and from music lessons, or playing the
piano itself, at intimate gatherings (i.e. for my mother and father’s exclusive
delectation) or modest performances in the local area. I just couldn’t see how
we could possibly accommodate another hugely demanding human presence into our
busy schedule.
“Don’t worry, Nicholas,” said my mother,
as if sensing my disgruntlement. “Everything will work out just fine. And while
father and I will have to spend a lot of time with the new baby, it doesn’t
mean that we love you any less.”
Worthy sentiments, but actions are so much
more important than words.
Vividly, I remember seeing my little
brother for the first time at the hospital. Grotesquely fat, the wriggling ball
of pinkish flesh in my mother’s arms did little during what constituted the
first twelve to eighteen months of its existence other than gorge itself on the
copious amounts of milk in her swollen breasts. Not only did the new arrival
cause all kinds of unwanted distractions in my life, he transformed my once
pretty and petite mother into a bloated whale of a woman who failed to recover
her slender, attractive figure, no matter what lengths she went to with
different and innovative dieting regimes. Never again would she wear stylish
cocktail dresses to one of my recitals, rather hessian-sack like sartorial
disasters which were a source of great embarrassment to everyone concerned.
But I digress.
I won’t bore you with a classic tale of
sibling rivalry. How the older child was jealous of the attention his parents
bestowed upon the baby of the family. Then and now, I consider myself above
such primitive emotions. I simply accepted our much-changed circumstances and
continued to dedicate myself to the pursuit of artistic excellence. I ignored,
if not completely drowned out the new baby’s crying fits. I banished the smell
of soiled diapers from both my mind and airwaves, through intense piano work
and the lighting of endless incense sticks throughout the home. If I was ever
encouraged to interact with the infant myself, I would dutifully fulfil my
brotherly role and play with the baby or pose for family photographs.
Besides, great changes were on my own
personal horizon. Namely, I was offered a place at the world-famous Sibelius
Academy in Helsinki, Finland. With enduring pride, I remember my high school
principal inviting me to his office to discuss a ‘matter of utmost importance’.
“You’ve been presented with an incredible
opportunity, Nicholas. Not many young people from Hoboken are invited to attend
one of the finest conservatories in the world.”
Hence, I was absent for much, if not all
of Miles’ formative years. Bar standard visits home during the holiday periods:
Christmas (always), Thanksgiving (every other year), Summer (never, due to the
cultural delights of Europe and a punishing musical schedule), I only saw my
brother from around the age of four or five to his early twenties on a dozen or
so occasions. That’s not to say I didn’t get regular updates from my parents.
In heartfelt letters or tearful long-distance phone calls, they spoke of a
lazy, unruly child constantly in trouble at school or with the police in the
local area. They told wild, fantastical, almost unbelievable tales of my
brother’s antics. The kind of teenager into everything before it was
fashionable, he drank alcohol and smoked illicit substances, shoplifted and
handled stolen goods (on more than one occasion, the high school principal
caught him in the act of selling car radios or cartons of cigarettes to his
fellow students), he somehow contrived to lose his virginity at the age of
thirteen and faced paternity tests regarding the fatherhood of two babies (both
of which proved thankfully inconclusive), and spent nine weeks in a juvenile
detention centre for stealing a car and driving some friends to Miami for
spring break.
But what perhaps distressed my parents
more than any of the above was their second child’s innate indolence, his lack of
drive and purpose in life.
“We’re at our wit’s end,” said my mother,
during one of her weekly telephone rants. “We simply don’t know what to do with
Miles anymore. We can’t understand why he’s so different to you. Since the day
you were born, you were such a bright, inquisitive child. Once you discovered
your musical gift, there was no looking back. You dedicated every free moment
to the piano. Even though Miles has been given the same opportunities and
encouragement you had – we’ve paid for music lessons, sports classes, out of
school initiatives – he just can’t seem to stick at anything for more than five
minutes. He’s perfectly content to sit in his bedroom all day, play computer
games, and smoke those funny cigarettes of his.”
I didn’t really know what to say to
reassure my parents, other than reel off standard cliches about the teenage
years being difficult and it just being a phase Miles was going through. To be
perfectly honest, there was far too much going on in my own life at the time for
me to show much interest or genuine sympathy. Consequently, I never really,
truly understood the depth of the problem.
If you like what you’ve read so far, you can read the full
story on the Anxiety Press website.
And if you liked “Eatin’ Pussy”, why not check out my
published works on Amazon.
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