Wednesday, 19 September 2012
Definitely "NOT" the Job I was after
After a lazy time sat with the Ranch Hands and cowboys, Mum and I got into the car and drove back through the Lake side camping area, toward the exit. Mum asked me to stop the car and once again got out and wandered down toward Lake Cachuma. I followed and she seated herself on a large boulder and looked again at the Santa Ynez Mountains in the background.
“When I die, I want my ashes scattered here in the lake” she said, without a hint of irony, given the events of the last month. I looked at her; she smiled at me and said, “As well as a bit in Spain, a bit in Alderney (her birthplace and from where she had been evacuated during the Second World War), a bit in Leicester and a bit in Norwich with your Dad”. “You’re only small mum, are you sure there’s enough to go round?
That’s quite a journey for someone” I said, “I can see a competition for seats on that trip from Mark and Helen, Richard and Julian”. “Well, I am just telling you, that’s what I want” and with that, she stood and walked back to the car, as if a decree had been made that was to be followed without question. Almost medieval in a way, like a task for a Knight, a journey was to take place in the future that would result in the Queens ashes being spread across her lands, foreign and domestic. I wondered who would be footing the bill for that lot, as I walked behind her to the car.
Onwards then to Solvang and we sped through the Wine country towards a small town, dedicated to Denmark and all things Smorgasbord! As well as shops selling everything Danish, there was a Fortune Teller, numerous Cafes and Restaurants invariably called Pedersen’s, Andersen’s or Helga’s, and wide sidewalks with quaint hand painted benches beneath arbors covered in flowers. Mum loved it.
We went into a cafe and looking at the menu filled with numerous delicacies, ordered salt beef sandwiches, pickles and coffee. The menu offered a Smorgasbord, as did most eateries and we walked over to look at the display of cooked cold meats, salami, sausage, cheese, salads, pickles and breads laid out under glass and chilled in a continuing fight against the heat of the Californian Summer, that burst in through the doorway every time someone came in. The air-conditioning whirring away above our heads and sending a chill blast of cold air down into mum’s coffee cup, eliciting a “tut” and a “tsk” every few minutes as her coffee rapidly lost its heat.
The menu was ripe for my 'famous' impersonation of English spoken with a Danish accent, which Mark had laughed at so much, I thought he was going to have an asthma attack and which I am sure inspired a small but definitely audible but odourless 'fart' from mum. With tears rolling down her face, she tried to eat her way through her sandwich but eventually had to tell me to “shut up Jonathan!” in order to be able to finish her meal. Besides, we (me) were drawing strange looks from the customers and staff.
Solvang offers among its delights, rides around town in a horse drawn carriage and we paid the fee and took our seats for a twenty minute tour around the more notable buildings and what most likely would have been a detailed history from the driver. His Danish accent was far better than mine, but given that I kept asking questions in my best” Daneglish”, he soon got irritated (pissed off actually) and asked if I was “trying to annoy him”.
That he asked it in a straight American Accent, without a hint of Danish to be heard, made me lose it, and he sulked (silently) all the way back to the stand. So now I had mum annoyed at me for ruining her ride and a tour guide/carriage driver, threatening to drop me for taking the piss out of him. The fact that his accent was as put on as mine was lost on him. I walked off as mum apologised to him and left a tip. After an ear bashing from mum, and an apology from me, we drove back to Santa Barbara and our Motel.
The following morning was a beautifully hot, Californian summer’s day and so we decided to relax by the Motel pool. This actually required that I go to the supermarket to get fruit, definitely Peaches and Oranges, fruit juice, pastries, potato chips, National Enquirer and other “gossip” papers and magazines for mum and a copy of Rolling Stone for me (I had to keep abreast of the music scene, as all budding rocks stars do!). By late morning we were laid out beside the pool, or rather mum was, as I threw myself endlessly into the pool and posed as much as possible in front of the girls who were starting to come out from their rooms and seek a sun bed beside the pool.
By now my hair, styled as closely as possible as to George Michael had his, was almost bleach blonde on top, swept back and close cropped into the neck. Topped off with my brand new Rayban Aviators and black Speedo trunks, I figured I could almost pass for George, except for the fact that I am pretty sure he’d be staying somewhere other than a Motel on Main Street, and launching himself into the pool in vain attempts to impress women. (Although you never know!)
After lunch beside the pool I was becoming quite tired; the exertions and posing were wearing me out and I said to mum, (who would never waste the chance of a tan) that I was going back to the room for a rest. I picked up my gear, slipped on my Espadrilles and wandered through the gardens around the pool, across the car park, past the laundry room where the Ice machine was and to our room in the middle of the single storey block. All doors faced the car park and I wedged the door open, so I could see across to the pool (an eye always on mum) and lay face down on my bed, facing the door, reading my magazine.
About fifteen minutes later, a shadow passed in front of the open door and I looked up to see a guy aged mid-twenties, tall, slim and dressed in t-shirt and trunks holding an ice bucket. “Can you tell me where the Ice Machine is” he asked, “yea, straight down the walkway to the corner; it’s in the Laundry room” I replied. “Thanks” he said and wandered off. Five minutes later he was back again, holding a full ice bucket and leaning on the door frame. I looked up again and he smiled and said “Got it” brandishing the ice bucket in front of him, “great” I said and focused back on my Rolling Stone.
“Do you want a blow job?” he asked. I looked up at him again and said with the manliest voice I could muster, (which probably came out like a squeak) “Erm, er, no thanks, I think I’m alright as it goes”. Now I figured that that refusal on my part was polite but firm enough and clear enough. I had thanked him for his (kind?) offer, but had declined, given that I had no desire to succumb to being noshed off by a tall, smooth, albeit brave, gay American male.
“Are you sure?” he said, “my boyfriend and I were watching you over by the pool and I told him I wanted to give you a blow job. He said I should be careful, in case I get punched, but you look like a nice guy and I want to give you a blow job, so please, can I give you a blow job?”
“No, thanks” I said, “I really don’t want a blow job at all; I am fine as it is”. So for a second time, I had politely declined his invitation to fellatio, “bye”, I added by way of closing, again smiling nicely so as not to cause offence.
“Do you have a nice cock?” What was it with this guy? I nearly said ‘that’s for me to know and for you to find out mate' but didn’t; instead falling back on that age old but powerful statement that delivers a clear, unequivocal response, leaving those on the receiving end under no doubt as to the state of play. “Fuck off”.
He looked at me; I was no longer smiling; paused for a second and walked away. I lay there wondering if I looked as if I was open to such offers, decided I did not and returned to my Rolling Stone. “It’s just that it took a lot of guts to ask you and I am pretty sure you will enjoy it” he said. I sat up on the bed, facing him once more. He was stood there with the same eager to please look on his face that my previous refusals had failed to wipe off.
I stood up, walked up to the doorway and slowly shut the door in his face. I walked over to the kettle, made myself a coffee and turned on MTV, to watch some videos and take my mind off recent events. Just as I settled down, I heard a muffled knock on the door. Deciding I had had enough of being polite, I pulled open the door and said “look mate, fuck off, I do not want a blow job, so fuck off will ya!”
Mum, with a startled look on her face walked past me into the room, put her bag on her bed and went into the bathroom. I shut the door, turned around and sat on the bed drinking my coffee and watching MTV. Mum said nothing until she came from having her shower,
I told her the first part of the story and she said, “but you’re not gay are you Jonathan? What made him think you were gay?” I looked at myself in the mirror, bleach blonde hair, tight t-shirt, fit, muscles in the right places, Speedo swimmers and Rayban’s. “I have no idea Mum, no idea”.
Never mind the fact that George Michael had not yet ‘come out’!
Written and Posted by Jonathan Weaver