Transformation Episodes - Two

It was a searching, undermining, unrelenting transformation.

Soon Michael began to understand that, and with more understanding, began to see that above all, it was ambiguous - a journey into the unknown. And that was best thing about it.

The kernel was to question everything with absolute certainty that 99% of it was wrong.

He cared less and less about the things he'd always cared so much about: work, his career, the pursuit of excellence, the “good things in life”; more about abstract, ill-defined notions. Feelings. Impressions.

He took up smoking. His thinking was thus: just as the idea of “progress” in it's current form was a fallacy, so too was “control over ones life”. To be “healthy”, tobacco free, yet strapped to a desk - pure nonsense, nothing compared to a natural life.

And what was life but a nice pipe full of fresh tobacco burning itself away into ash and nicotine and.... smoke.

*****

One afternoon at around 4pm he took his new pipe down to the gardens to light up. It was becoming almost a daily ritual. He was getting to really enjoy his afternoon smoke.

On this occasion, after a minute or so, a woman sat next to him on the bench. He'd seen her a few times in lifts and corridors - she had short-cropped, thick, almost bark like hair, a wide nose, and sparkling little eyes set above cheeks that burst almost like red apples.

“Is that a pipe you're smoking?” she asked, lighting up a cigarette of her own.

He took a puff and, holding the pipe between his teeth, smiled and nodded.

“So you're a tobacco connoisseur, huh?” she said. “Can't say I meet many of those.”

“I wouldn't say connoisseur at all,” he replied, taking the pipe out of his mouth and tapping it on the bench so that the spent ash sprinkled down to the pavement.

“But yes, I have come to appreciate a good pipe.”

After a moment of silent puffing on both their parts that Michael greatly appreciated, she asked him is she could try the pipe.

“Of course,” he said warmly “but you must tell me what you think about something. Something I've been thinking about a lot recently.”

She shrugged and nodded.

“Go ahead.” she said.

“Ok, it's like this. The law is a kind of pyramid, a pyramid of ideas - at least that's how I see it. So, starting from that premise, can you tell me, as you see things, does it imprison us, or set us free?”

She howled.

“Come on!” she howled.

Her eyes were bulging like a disbelieving cartoon.

“Seriously,” she burst “you go way too far. What the hell am I supposed to say?”

He paused, uncertain, realising how silly his words must sound.

“I just wanted to know what you think...”

She laughed and shook her head and he offered her the pipe which she took in good spirits. He watched as she lit it up, the pleasure she clearly took.

He began again: “I am in two minds you see...”

“Look my friend,” she cut in, “I'm not a lawyer, OK? I have no idea. I'm a choreographer for Christ's sake.”

“But you still understand the difference between a tent, a kite and a balloon. That's my dilemma.”

“You really are a character aren't you. Well that's fine, I like a character. Ok, go on then, I'll just sit here quietly smoking this thing and listening to you turn the world upside down. Just tell me your name first would you? I can't stand to listen to a man if I don't know his name – and it's a much better place to start, don't you agree?”

She smiled - he felt strangely exposed for forgetting.

“Of course,” he said, “it's Michael.”

“I'm Melissa. Nice to meet you Mike.”

She put out her hand and he shook it, not without slight discomfort, as if she was half a man or half a beast or something, although he let his grip linger in the soft enfolding of her fingers. She looked at him at little oddly.

“OK, tell me your riddle Mike.”

“Yes,” he refocused, eyeing the lone cloud that floated up above.

“What I meant is, sometimes I see the law as a kite... or a balloon, they're the same thing to me really. It's something we've constructed to tie string to and display high up in the sky for all to see. Everyone carries one round, especially policemen, so whenever we have a problem with each other we can just look up and point and say “hey, look, there it is, the law, we've all got one, it's big and shiny and high up there above all of us – none of us can touch it. Deal with it.””

He was now pointing up to the cloud, albeit without quite realising. She was looking at it too

“That's nice,” she said. “The law as a balloon. I actually quite like that Mike.”

“So do I.”

He really did.

“But sometimes I see things differently. Sometimes I work on a case where there's just no hope for justice, where the law has been so skewered or convoluted or it's just too difficult to enforce that it actually prevents justice from happening. Sometimes I feel like there's just too much law. It's too heavy, stopping us from living as we should do, as we naturally have a right to. Then I see the law not as a colourful balloon or a kite, but something like a giant tent pegged to the ground by these huge bolts, statutes I guess – anyway, this big pyramid. And it's getting heavier with every passing judgement, every day somebody hammers one of those bolts deeper into the ground, or finds a new bolt and hammers that one in. It's dark under the tent, the sun can't get through too well.”

She passed him his pipe back.

“Interesting.” she said, “but just look around you. Here we sit enjoying the afternoon sun. It's all just in your head.”

He looked at the trees. The sun pushing through the trees.

“Yes and no.” he said. “You're right, here we do chat as free human beings.”

“Yes and it's rather pleasant isn't it?”

“Yes,” he said, “but when I go back inside that building, I am a lawyer.”

*****

They began meeting almost every afternoon on the smoking bench.

Pretty soon, they pushed it onto post-work drinks.

Even sooner, it seemed, they were spiralling onto wild, raucous weekends that from the outside would have looked like something that they completely weren't.

There were many nightclubs (he never usually went to nightclubs). Neither of them could dance with any particular finesse or style, but she let herself go in such a way he could only follow her every move; embarrassing, compelling, ultimately liberating.

She drank a lot. Sometimes too much. She enjoyed herself. He was reluctant use the phrase “too much”.

“Don't spoil the fun” he finally said during one of those nights.

“Pooh, have some yourself.” she said, downing another tequila and vanishing into the din.

When she reappeared from the din, she was carrying two double gin and tonics, one of which she handed to him.

“I work in the dance industry. You know that, right? You doubt me?”

She did a little twirl. Then she did a big one, twisting repeatedly in a circular, swooping motion that took her bashing through crowds of young revellers, through the entire expanse of the dance floor.

Finally she returned to him with a cheeky smile, a raised eyebrow and a hand extended.

He took it and started to move.

“No,” she stopped him, “finish your drink first. Quickly now. Don't you worry, then we'll be all all off again. I wasn't lying you know. I am a choreographer. They call me the Lady Go Go. And I'm a make-up artist. And a fancy dress artist...”

“And a piss artist....”

*****

Somehow later that night she managed to get him dancing naked on her balcony. It overlooked a busy corner of the high street. A couple passing by laughed and cheered up. He cheered back and gave them a big thumbs up.

*****

As the night drew to a close, they sat in her silk dressing gowns, enjoying a smoke and one last drink.

“Melissa, what the hell have you done to me?”

“You took your clothes off all by yourself.”

“Yes.” he laughed uneasily.

“But, well, that's not exactly what I meant, although that's definitely part of it. But I mean...I just feel it here.”

He put her hand upon his chest.

“It?”

“Yeah. Something's happening to me. You've opened me up somehow... like a box.”

“Never heard that one before. You seemed pretty open the first time I met you.”

“Stop joking. You've really helped me somehow. I'm not really sure how, but I've never felt so open. It's like... I'm finally clear. Empty almost. And I need filling.”

“Huh?”

“I know you understand.”

“I suppose.”

They worked on their smokes. Thoughts trickled.

“I am a lesbo though you know.” she said. “You're just a lumpy troll to me.”

“I'm talking about my ideas.”

Michael put a match to his pipe again and blew smoke at the ceiling. She had a patterned ceiling.

“I am curious though...” she began again. “Do you find me attractive at all? Do you dream of “turning me”, or something freaky like that? I'm single you know, always open to new things. I even had a boy once, you know. Way, way back.... I let him do whatever he wanted. He was funny. I enjoyed it too, in an experimental sort of way. A bit like taking mushrooms.”

“We could do mushrooms. I've never done anything like that.”

“Nah, you don't need them. You're way past that. But I was being serious. You could have me if you wanted. We're already half way there.”

She gestured at their gowns.

“It wouldn't hurt.” she teased. “I'm single, you're single. No-one to make jealous.”

“Come on, you said I looked like a lumpy troll. Do you want to know what you look like to me? And don't take this wrong way, but almost like a man. Effeminate yes, but male. You're my friend, Melissa. You're wild, you're crazy, you're different and we really do get on very well somehow. It's fun - you're my great new friend and somehow we've ended up sitting here... like this... but really, believe me, I have no idea what I want right now.”