Character Studies

See You, Jimmy..

Jimmy is an alchemist; at least, thats what he tells the people on his online alchemy course. It seemed to Jimmy that Alchemy itself was one of those buzzwords people used from time to time to loosely convey a message that lacked any real meaning but never the less sounded impressive and got peoples attention. Like "reform", or "success", or "good sense of humour".

In truth, being an Alchemist was turning out to be much the same as being a chemist, but without the salary. Jimmy was even beginning to suspect that the only real Alchemists were chemists who, having spent 6 years at university looking at chemical reactions instead of experiencing them, struggled to find a hobby not related to work. In any case, it certainly wasn't as badass as the 15th century woodcuttings had made it seem.

So, eventually Jimmy had given up on the fumes and charred metals, the obnoxious smells and dizzy spells that made up "real" alchemy, and had recently begun calling himself a "spiritual alchemist" instead. This was the very loosest in loosely defined messages, and meant absolutely whatever the user wanted it to mean at any given moment, which meant the user was always right and so, naturally, always the best "spiritual alchemist" going.

Jimmy was presently considering a career in politics for this very reason; spin. Although lacking the discipline, motivation or commitment to manifest any real politic, he could at least make it sound like this was what he was doing. And wasn't that the point after all? Jimmy was realising the sad truth, late into his 21st year, that neither Politicians nor Alchemists were superhuman, they were just doing their jobs, paying the bills, saving for the next family holiday. There was no real point to any of it, you just did what you could to get by. Jimmys dad had said that a lot when he used to come back from the pub, pissed up and self-loathing.

It was 2pm on a lazy tuesday morning, and todays rather pointless excercise happened to be number 8 in a series of mind numbing job interviews. Faced with the prospect of the dull march from his small flat in [.........], past the uniform prefab offices with their uniform, prefab office workers, their days made bearable only by the muffins and lattes they armed themselves with, along the bill strewn streets still soaked in last weekends drunken memories and up severla anonymous flights of bleached white, bleach scented stairs, down the half lit corridors to some suffocatingly drab room housing an unknown quantity of intimidating suits, hung rigidly upon the chronically tense bodies of unknown professionals, Jimmy decided to stay in bed. Again.

At exactly that moment the door bell rang, the phone rand and, downstairs, something exploded. Why was it the world never failed in letting you know exactly who was pulling the strings?? Clearly it was time to get up.

Ignoring the phone and the debris in the living room, from whence the explosion had emanated, Jimmy went to the door. Opening it, he was a little suprised to find four men in black suits and sunglasses observing him without expression but somehow radiating a quiet menace and ominous authority.

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The Sad Story of Adam Hart:
first sketch, first draft

6:15Wakes, lights a fag, fumbles with a spliff and takes a line, he's doing fine, on time - work starts at 8, but first to wash off the cold sweat, disinfect another series of sores - who's blood is that? - he crawls from his mattress place deliberatly on the floor. With the furniture gone he's space to lie, sprawled, and breathe, going over the nightmare visions of last nights dreams. These days these dreams are all that offer any sembalance of continuity to his fragile identity and ramshackle beliefs.

The waters cold as it splutters from the communal shower, but he likes it. How long has this madness been going on, with what precident? How long has this single room been his home, he was no longer sure - the drugs had given him an appetite but little more.

Before the dusty mildewed mirror he rehearses his lines; Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's on time. Doing fine. He brushes his teeth with a little charlie, sighs and eats a mint.

"Get out of the bathroom, twat! My wifes preggers and she needs the sink!"

Time to leave. He shaves in his room and dons a suit. Two boxes for clothes, one clean, the other anybodies guess. Destressed, a little more time to breathe, the standard flapjack and trail mix for breakfast, but at least he's clean. His colleagues know the score, he lives for work but little more, or so they think; between 9-5 he's clena cut and enthusiastic, carefully compassionate, never drinks.

7.15 He's out the door nd down the prefab streets, sharp as a razor he cuts past the tired faces he meets, a slight twang of pity for those that sup lattes for kicks, and he's at the bus stop. Then too quickly he's moving through the bleached white corridors, bleach scented and half lit, into the office and picking up forms, smiles and greetings from colleagues he mimicks but mostly ignores. Its a sales job, keeps the bastard wolf from the door while he tests his strength and wages his very private, very personal war.

The day comes and goes.

5.30 And he stops to reminisce, while his colleagues get pissed and talk office in their local; Sallys got her BMW, Kev hates the Euro, Bens got a new guest house and all are wondering how the MDs enjoying his chartered flight to Morrocco; Buts he's rolling a phatty, alone, sitting atop a grave in Park Hill cemetary, taking stock and thinking about how soon he'll be with Abbey.

The most potent drug of them all was Love, and he didn't trust it at all! The only dream more powerful than Nirvana was the sweet embrace of Abbey and the promise of their future.

In the mad world of Adam, there's no telling what dreams may come.

6.15 And Adam decides its time to stop encouraging this particular demon; his nose itches, his fingers a twitching, the sweat is perfuse, but somewhere behind these symptoms this man is enjoying is a heart within reason - this is why he lives, and why he'll ride it. Another shower and a bee-line to the communal kitchen, his hunger raging, a packet of eggs and a packet of bacon and he's out the door, then too quickly to the office once more.

7.30am for an early start, accosted already by the office flirt; she mistakes for mystery what happens to be a careful guile. He can't tell sometimes whether he's dead in side as all the while these simple rituals of the herd make him rile, and writhe inwardly - its an affront to his sensibilities! He's a bastard, he knows it, but impulse is his enemy; he abstains for powers sake and to live more deliberatly.

The day dies quickly.

7.30pm Takes his running shoes from their in-box hybernation, hits the road. He's already decided he can't stand this job, its time to move. There's enough money in his bank for his next transition; without fail he's made his mundane life an adventure, the good grades and good degree, the good references and the good opportunities all traded like commodities, while in private he lives like a monster. Its Jekyl and Hyde, driven not by foolish pride but by a biting emptyness. He values nothing of the greater good, its all come to easy, easier than it should.