In 1999 I was
studying GNVQ Media, where I was asked to make a short film. I
devised a bizarre story, aged 16, about two very strange but
different men sitting down to have a meal. It was supposed to be a
metaphor for something I was (and still am) very opposed to, although
I'm not as passionate about it these days.
Years later I got
into fiction and turned it into a short story. It went through draft
after draft, and about 20 people reviewed it. Only one person has
figured out what that hidden message is. Can you?
I sent this out to
10 surrealist fiction publications. It was, seemingly, too weird for
all of them. Is it too weird for you?
THE MEAL
“A good meal
must be as harmonious as a symphony and as well-constructed as a
Norman cathedral.”
Fernand Point, Ma Gastronomie (1897-1955)
EXT.
STREET- DAY
When
Benjamin first moved into the neighbourhood, he could tell that the
residents were nervous. People gawked from their windows when the
extra-large removal van arrived on the street. As well as hauling the
furniture, the removal men carted heavy-looking black boxes into the
house. Workmen with hard hats visited, making deafening sounds of
construction. This noise went on until 9pm, when it promptly ceased
and the workmen left, covered in dust.
During
this, Benjamin was nothing but polite to his neighbours, despite
their apprehension. If they don't like my
house, he thought, well,
hey. It's no big deal. I quite like the attention either way.
The
only development his neighbours could notice from their houses was
that all of his windows had been covered in a silvery film-
presumably a one-way material- making his house shine in the sun like
a cuboid, suburban star.
*
INT.
WILLIAM’S HOUSE- DAY
The
next morning, one door down, William ate his breakfast of scrambled
egg whites on whole-wheat toast, and wished the whole world would eat
as healthily as he did.
He
hadn't slept very well- the new guy next door had been hammering away
for hours. The noise had stopped long before William would normally
go to bed, but there was something unnerving about the change to the
street- the neighbours who edged out of their front doors, curious,
suspicious, the way this bizarre adjustment to the one house broke
the uniform pattern of the houses' designs. The strangeness of the
day had inexplicably delayed William from slipping into
self-righteous sleep.
William's
doorbell rang. Startled, he spat out his orange juice with such force
that the whole mouthful landed on the pure, white wallpaper on the
other side of the kitchen.
Do
I leave the juice to stain, he thought, and answer the
door? Or wipe it up now and give somebody the impression that I am an
ignorant recluse? Leave someone on my doorstep wondering who the hell
I am?
The
doorbell rang again, gravitating William towards it. Bemused, he left
the stain to embed itself into the wallpaper.
Suspicious
by nature, William put the catch on and pulled the door ajar. He
peeked 'round the door, one eyebrow raised outrageously high, the tip
of his nose bending on the door's edge.
He
didn't recognise the smart man in the open-neck shirt and sharp grey
suit.
“Hi,” the man
said. “I'm Benjamin.” Slipping into an American accent, he said,
“I’m your neighbour from next door,” as if he was quoting
someone. Then, transitioning back to his own voice, he continued- “I
moved in yesterday.”
William
gulped. This is the man who blacked out all
his windows. Why would he do that? What is he hiding? Does he spend
his evenings beheading goats and dancing around naked in their blood,
smearing giant pentagrams onto his walls? Has he crammed his house
full of illegal immigrants? Is his lounge populated with enough
cannabis plants to resemble the mountainous regions of Thailand?
Who
could say?
No
goats, people nor plants could have survived in those boxes for long.
William
cleared his throat. “I'm William. I'm the neighbourhood watch
coordinator.”
“Ah, a handy
person to know, then?”
“Depending on who
you are, yes.”
What
the hell’s that supposed to mean? thought Benjamin.
He
decided to brush over it. “So you've been here a few years, then?”
“Oh yes,” said
William. “A very, very long time.”
“Great,” said
Benjamin. “Listen. I cook a mean roast dinner. Why don't you come
over at about seven?”
There
was a pause. Benjamin started to wonder whether or not this was a
good idea.
It's
eight-o'clock in the morning. Why won't he take the latch off?
“You can tell me
all about the neighbourhood. Get me up to speed.”
“I don't take
amphetamines.”
“What?”
“Oh, um,”
William shook off his guilty conscience. “Of course. Seven o'clock
should be... interesting.”
When
William closed the door he thought of the stain on the wall, and
imagined it vanishing from existence. Glancing over his shoulder into
the kitchen, he stared at the patch of orange mess as his disgust of
his own dirtiness grew. Gradually, his hatred radiated through the
air and into the stain. The particles of orange flesh, already
developing the filmy texture of glue, slowly began to fade from
sight. Within seconds, the stain had disappeared.
William
was no magician. This was the power of outrageous self-assurance, the
uncompromising belief that one is right and can achieve anything
through will-power alone. Some just called it arrogance.
*
EXT.
BEN’S HOUSE- DUSK
William
arrived at the door of the flashy house, steadying himself. Sucking
in a deep breath, he pressed the doorbell.
Instead
of the high-pitched electronic melody he expected, the button
incurred the opening of an orchestral arrangement, in pin-sharp
stereo. There was something familiar about this fanfare, something
that- for some reason- conjured a Christmas scene. Was
it the opening melody on a 1940s film? Something set in the desert?
Benjamin
opened the door proudly, dressed in immaculate chef whites. “Welcome
to my home,” he said, in a convincing Transylvanian accent. Then,
snapping out, he said, “Follow me.”
INT.
BEN’S HOUSE
William
guided Benjamin down the corridor. At first he didn't notice the
patterned wallpaper- the consistent monochrome markings were too
large to readily see. But when he looked back he noticed that the
black paint separated the wall into large oblong cells, like- like
a reel of film. At the borders of the wall,
tiny spool-like squares lined the edge of the paper.
“You may have
wondered what the noise was about,” mentioned Benjamin.
“Well, I, um,
just heard it faintly,” William said. He couldn't help noticing the
bags under his eyes reflected in the hall mirror, almost as black as
his suit and shirt.
“You're the first
person to see this, William.” Benjamin opened the door to a totally
dark room. He flicked a switch.
INT.
DINING ROOM
Six
16mm projectors, discreetly embedded into the walls of the room,
bloomed into silent life like mechanical stop-motion gardenias.
Simultaneously, a hidden turntable built up momentum, playing a big
band-style number that slurred its way through the opening notes to
optimal speed. The illuminated, large wooden dining table played
canvas to a movie scene that William vaguely recognised. The dark
English oak dimmed the image, but he saw another table, with maybe
ten men sat around it. They all wore black suits- like the one he was
wearing- and drank lots of coffee. He couldn't place it, though, as
the accompanying music would never have been put to those visuals.
Food,
glorious food...
“Well, what do
you think?” Benjamin beamed with pride.
William
turned on the spot, transfixed by the array of footage being
projected around the room from all angles, their beams intersecting.
“I've never seen anything like it. I take it you're a film fan?”
“Absolutely. I
designed my whole house as homage to the greatest art form of the
present day. Take a seat, William.”
William
walked to the far end of the oblong table. Benjamin then realised
that, by laying the chairs at either end, they would have to raise
their voices to be heard. Serving might also take a little longer,
but he reminded himself that presentation- especially in a house like
this- is everything.
I
wasn't thinking about practicality when I bought it,
thought Benjamin. I was thinking about a superhero with a table
like this in his mansion. Well. We live and learn.
The
oven pinged. Benjamin
dissolved into the kitchen like a movie transition, through the wall
showing an accelerated journey through a foggy midnight forest.
William
picked himself a seat at the table. He sat down and shrieked in
surprise pain. One projector beam had caught him right in the eye
and, without even thinking, he thrust his hand into the beam to cover
his vision. There was a pop as the projector shut off, and a pathetic
puff of smoke weaselled out of the top of the appliance. The room
dimmed instantly. William then realised that the only light in this
room was supplied by the remaining projectors.
Benjamin
glided into the room with the steaming chicken. He stopped at the
doorway, noticing the darkness, but brushed it off and set the bird
in the dead-centre of the table.
William
was staring determinedly at the wall, as if his gaze penetrated
through to the kitchen.
“So, what's this
neighbourhood like, then?” Benjamin backed out to the kitchen, not
wanting to turn away from his guest.
William
thought he looked like a movie character on tape being rewound.
“Well,” William
said, nervously. “It has its problems, could be safer; could be
cleaner...”
INT.
KITCHEN
“Just like
anywhere else, really,” Benjamin shouted. He didn't mean for it to
sound as aggressive as it did, but he didn't want the extractor fan
to drown out his voice. He pulled the three-part Pyrex pot from the
oven.
Potatoes
and carrots looking good... where's the butter nut squash?
INT.
DINING ROOM
Under
the table, William sat still with his eyes closed, concentrating. He
felt the vegetables materialise under his shoe and crushed them into
the carpet.
Benjamin
entered and sank the electric carving knife into the chicken, the
quiet buzz of the appliance softening as it entered the warm, white
flesh. He served up the meat on metal plates designed to look like
film canisters. Behind him, on the curtains, a man with a strange
mask and a live chainsaw ran down an empty desert road. On the floor,
a girl levitated above her bed.
Benjamin
stared into the gravy boat. In the remaining dim light, he could see
that the gravy had developed the steam-less sheen of a gelatinous
semi-solid.
I
only took it off the hob a few minutes ago. This isn't right... Oh
well, I'll brush over this blip and serve the rest up.
The
music, seemingly coming from nowhere, started to reverberate and
distort distantly.
A
spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, the medicine go down...
Benjamin
proudly served up the peas and carrots and potatoes, bright and
nutritious. He glanced to the scene projected on the floor, now of a
girl vomiting in glorious green over a priest.
“I’m not sure I
can stomach eating with all of this over the walls,” moaned
William.
Benjamin
stabbed a carrot wheel, trying to control himself. “It’s no
different to having, y’know, an Edward Munch print on the wall, or
Picasso, or something. Only difference is, it moves. I always wanted
to be in the movies. But I can’t act, I can’t write and I’m not
good with modern technology. So this is all…” his voiced trailed,
drowned by the music.
There
was something about the projection that didn't look right to William.
Have
I put the wrong bulbs in or something?
Gradually,
the image becoming paler and fainter until it burned out, and only
the white carpet was illuminated. There was a sharp crack
as the projector bulb blew.
“S---,” said
Benjamin.
Or at
least, that's what he'd tried to say. But when he muttered it, he was
muted. In fact, the moment he tried to swear, even the music
quietened. It was like the world had predicted his every expletive,
and had practical ear muffs at the ready for anyone in earshot- even
himself.
William
was staring at him, stony-faced.
Puzzled,
Benjamin tested his vocal chords again.
Fuck,
he mouthed. “What the...” Fuck- Was his larynx now
independent of his brain and acting out its own agenda? “...Are you
doing to me, you...” Fucking twat?
With
his hands at his throat, as if protecting his voice from an external,
physical attack, he snapped his legs back and he stood up tall.
Nervous, he tried a few words.
Cunt.
Fuck. Shit.
Nothing.
On the
table, the projection over the desecrated meal was now, itself, being
desecrated. The suited men were walking outside in slow motion, and
the once-distinct white of their shirts and coffee mugs were paling
from sight, fading into the oak.
Then
the bulb popped and the noxious odour of the smoke amalgamated with
the room's Sunday-roast smell.
A
sizzling sound came from somewhere in the room. Benjamin couldn't
quite place it until he noticed the potatoes deforming on his plate.
Once crispy-brown and golden, they were now unhealthily pale, and the
edges were coated with mould so rotten it looked tarnished in
fag-ash. Like a stop motion trick, the spuds decomposed rapidly 'til
only residue remained.
Benjamin
gripped the edge of the table, terrified. How
is he doing this? And why? I grafted to make this meal. Never mind
the meal, what’s happening to my house? What did I do to deserve
this?
He
looked down at the plate. The bright-orange radiance of his skilfully
prepared carrot wheels were fading from sight like a matte effect.
The steely canister-design on the crockery, once covered in food, was
becoming more and more evident despite the reduced visibility of the
room.
On the
curtains, behind William, the masked psychopath chainsawed his way
through vegetation in the dark. It was already a dim image- the last
time Benjamin glanced at that side of the room, it was showing a
daytime scene. The projector popped
and shut off. Now it was a deleted scene. And he had no carrots.
The
echo of the record playing had warped further, slowing down,
scratching, oscillating.
Hand
me down... a can... can... can... of... beans...
The
music crawled out of the speakers like the ghost of a tortured man.
Benjamin
looked to his left at the monochrome footage. A man dragged a piano
behind him on frayed rope, with the rotting corpse of a donkey
stuffed under the lid, tongue lolling over the edge, crawling with
flies. The film was a masterpiece that he used to love, but there was
something about it that he'd not noticed before- now he could hear
the flies feasting on the gums of the animal. When he looked back at
his own meal, however, he noticed the noise was from the swarm of
flies congregating on the body of his chicken, vomiting on the skin
and eroding the flesh rapidly. Mangy holes tore open on the bird,
revealing the tender white flesh underneath.
On his
plate, the peas rolled as if the house tipped slightly. Benjamin's
stomach twisted as he glanced at the unlit floor. Like a colony of
ants, the peas climbed the lip of his plate and clustered on the oak
with those that had been exiled from William's plate. They formed a
line and rolled off the table towards the door, into the engulfing
blackness.
The
room was now so dark that Benjamin wasn't sure whether he recognised
where he was. The rectangular shape of the dining room was now alien
to him. Despite the effort he'd put into designing it and overseeing
its construction, it was now like a stranger's house.
William
is a stranger, he thought.
William
stared at the rotting chicken. He shifted his focus to Benjamin, who
was still sat rigid with his chin to one side, as if trying to edge
away from the table without physically moving. Next to him, an obese
man in a tuxedo took a solitary after-dinner mint and began to
expand. Benjamin's chicken hissed as the man ballooned, popping shirt
buttons, until he himself popped, sending his guts across the
restaurant. The deluge was perfectly timed: the chicken exploded,
spattering both the men in hot white meat, giblets, skin, bones and
string. Benjamin shrieked. The blast faded into darkness and the
film's subsequent scene was cut.
I
need to cover my back, thought William. “Well, I don't
think I can take much more of this building,” he blurted. “Aren't
these places supposed to have fire exit signs?”
“This is my
house, William.” Benjamin fumbled with the buttons at the collar of
his soiled chef whites. In American, he blurted, “What are you
doing here? This is my house!” Then, snapping back into his native
accent, “It is not a cinema.” He wiped the decimated chicken from
his face, hands shaking.
“It's a health
and safety minefield,” grumbled William. “I'm leaving.”
Once
William stood, he realised he couldn't even see the table in front of
him. All around: black nothingness.
Benjamin's
voice travelled from the other end of the table. “We can't move on
from here, William,” he said, spirit broken. “I've only just made
this house. I can't even remember where the door is. I don't know how
you're doing this to my meal... to my house... and to me...
and for the life of me I don't know why you're doing it either. But
if we all destroyed what we didn't like arbitrarily, this is what we
would end up with. Nothing at all. Then what would we do?”
And,
hence, William and Benjamin stayed in the in the darkness of the room
and rotted with the remains of the food.
