What do these people become as they grow up? As these flighty, temperamental personalities collide with life. An explosion or a quiet slip into the resigned.
Cassie Blackstill doesn't know. Cassie Black is 59.
These are those young things who lives are lived riding on the envy of the less blessed, whilst they feign indifference. They are what we should be, they live a life we should have. Why do we not live this effortless meander through life? It can be no-ones fault but our own.
They run just a few steps in front of life's path. Dancing, skipping and dodging as it snaps at their heels, the mainstream masses striving for their forwardness. But. They may run from this 'conformity'. They may escape the callous mediocrity we must suffer. But. They cannot escape the inevitabilities of the world. No amount of daring or style can trick or fool or undermine or charm the subtle monster we call 'life'. They too will grow old; eventually, they too will die - their death every bit as equal and utterly insignificant as ours. And this is where life can catch up with them:
Joints begin to click. Stitches form. Waistlines bulge. Coughing. Heartburn. Heartbreak. For some it comes later than others. But it comes all the same. And slowly but surely they start to lose that gain on life. They struggle, yes, sometimes even claim back that extra step or two, but eventually they are dragged back into that raving, raging, drooling pack that they have taunted for so many years. They belong here now. This pack runs at a speed they can handle, there is a sense of inclusion in the fierce fight for individuality.
The years pass and some slip further back. Others soldier on, panting, groaning, weeping. They must not collapse. Their sole purpose in life is to lead it; they must again reach the front. But now there is a new them. They are the 'Reborns', just as their predecessors were, they are part of the endless loop. Their now married, working, middle-aged forefathers watch as the new era sprints past. They admire their athleticism, their tautness and energy, the grace and ease with which they brush through the pack. They had that once. Maybe they still have it? Surely? No.
This is the final signal. Their trends and styles that defined their time in front of the pack are scoffed at. Ripped apart. Forgotten. Resurrected. Adored. Ironic. Scoffed at. Then swallowed up by the pack. Adored. Adored. Lost.
Cassie Black remembers the first time she wore a velour track suit. Back then she wasn't called Cassie Black. If she's honest, she can't quite remember what she was called. Maybe the name changed. Everything changed. The name is immaterial. Delilah. That was one, she's sure. Or Dixie. She decides on Delilah. It rolls off the tongue easier. She's always liked names like that.
Wren. There was a Wren at the party she wore the track suit to. Electric blue hair. Anime eyes. 6" 2.
The track suit bottoms were pink, the word 'Nice' was splashed across the back. Dimantes. Nice touch she thought. Very Ninties-esque. She didn't wear the matching top of course. There was a limit to these things, a thin line between ironic and desperate. You had to be in the know. That's how you stayed ahead.
She'd picked the ensemble up in a charity shop in Notting Hill. Not the cool bit - she found it tried too hard - but the bit as the final corners stretch to meet the Westway. Probably more Shepard's Bush if she thinks about it. It lay under a size 22 'best fit' trouser suit and a mottled bikini too skimpy for a nudist's beach. You had to suffer for your cool.
'£2.49'. It's duo of integral pieces held together by a cheap plastic tag.
'Fuck it.' she thought, 'Its absolutely fucking disgusting.'
She took it up to the till.
The top is in a bin somewhere on the Jubilee line. Dimantes and all.
She remembers the conversation she had at the till:
"So, that'll be £2.49 then."
"I'll give you £1.50."
Her voice felt warm and soothing next to a harsh London voice. She knew she was in control.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
She gave 'that' sigh. "Fine then." She slammed the money down - how much exactly she doesn't know, and stormed out.
"Children are dying in Africa you know!" The cry is cut out by the door swinging shut, ending the reproach and the inevitable expletive that came after it.
This is the life of a bargain hunter.
Later she shows it to her friends. They emit shrieks of disbelief and despair as she shakes it from its bag, untangling themselves from whatever position of recline they were in to rush and grab and stroke and admire. It's new; it's different. They're new; they're different.
She wears it later. To a party. She wears it with white platform flats and a little lace crop top. Why does she remember this and not her own name? As she crashes back to her flat sometime the next morning she's wearing a leather coat over it too. Not hers, she's sure. Maybe it's the guy standing by her side, helping her up the stairs, both of them giggling like school children. She doesn't know his name. But she's already worked out names don't matter.
She'll probably never see him again.
She probably will.
It's a small world.
Downstairs she hears the kettle boil. She hates tea. She sits up, out of the bedroom. Into the hallway. Not slowly, but with no enthusiasm. She glances at herself in the mirror as she passes. She knows that if this were the narrative of her life, this is where the description would jump in. Describe what the years have done to her. Describe how the youthful joy is drip-dripping away. She wonders whether this is the case, but the kettle is making its last pitiful puffs, so she decides it can wait.
Now she's thought about it, the mirror is taunting her. She's always liked the idea she could be a character. Not any of that 'one actor on the stage that is the world' bullshit, but a proper character, her life would be the story. Just her.
It's four hours later. The mirror was good to her. She's still got it, whatever it may be. Well, for a woman her age of course. She sees no use being modest, when there are really no grounds on which to be modest upon.
She doesn't like her hair though. It's just a little lank and just a little dull from countless dyes. Blue. Purple. Orange. You name it, she had it. But she doesn't anymore. Despite this, there are no traces of grey, not even hiding in the roots. She's checked.
She takes this as a sign that she's winning - at what, she's not quite sure, but at something, surely.
It's
12:45 and the cup of tea sits stone cold, untouched. She empties it into the sink. It gives such a satisfying 'splat' as it meets the steel of the sink. It's over so quickly. She feels like this is a moment she should feel philosophical about. Maybe the tea represents human life? So promising at first, warm, inviting. Then it cools, becoming hard and cold and solid and all those other things tea shouldn't be. Finally it's emptied, in one swift moment, into the sink. It's gone, forgotten in all of ten seconds.
If its lucky, it might have left a ring on the wooden table.
But then again, it's just a cup of tea.
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