Glitch
Ed Wood
Ed Wood
| This is a story that began one-hundred-and-fifty-million years ago. But for Richard Fisher, standing in his office, talking on his phone, looking out across the urban minarets of New York City, it began yesterday. ‘I’m really sorry, Mum. I’m not going to make it. I’m completely stuck.’ There was silence on the other end of the phone. He could feel the pain and disappointment seep through her. ‘That’s okay,’ she said, eventually. ‘It’s not okay. It’s awful. I feel so…’ She cleared her throat: ‘Look, it can’t be helped. Don’t worry.’ She spoke without any emotion, without any inflection at all. ‘Perhaps you should have come last week.’ ‘You told me not to; you told me everything was okay.’ ‘I lied.’ The phone went dead. Richard continued to hold the mobile to his ear, unable to believe or accept that the conversation had ended in such a way. Highly emotional confrontation often left him on the verge of tears but this time he just felt numb. The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up, dropping the mobile into his shirt pocket. ‘Richard Fisher.’ ‘It’s me. Remember you have a video conference at eleven.’ Jayne’s voice sounded pleasant and efficient, but, most of all, very familiar. ‘Are you okay?’ He thanked her and turned on the laptop, checking his mobile as he waited for start-up. The conference lasted about thirty minutes. Richard couldn’t really concentrate and there were connection problems which created an almost unmanageable drag. But he did gather that the exhibit, the installation that everyone wanted to see, was not going to be in his New York gallery by the weekend as promised; it was stuck in Paris; grounded by an ash cloud from a volcano that no one knew how to pronounce, let alone spell. He Googled it: EYJAFJALLAJOEKULL, according to the BBC on-line news. Island-Mountain-Glacier. The fall out from his missing exhibit would be considerable. Journalists, art critics and VIP guests would all have to be contacted, placated and reassured. But as he sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen, wondering about the exhibit – the cannon that splattered red paint against a wall, he decided that he couldn’t care less. Everything he’d achieved, everything he’d strived for – all the sacrifices he’d made – had all been rendered meaningless by a volcano one-hundred-and-fifty-million years old. Taking the slim, black mobile from his shirt pocket, he placed it on the desk next to his laptop; from his desk drawer, an MP3 player. On the far wall of the office there was a grey metal cabinet. Opening it, he took out a small lump-hammer. Holding the handle with his right hand, he allowed the dead-weight of it to drop into his left, gauging its suitability. Back at the desk, the hammer came down on the mobile phone first; as it disintegrated, the pieces bounced into the air then settled randomly around the point of impact. The phone rang. ‘It’s me. I’ve just heard: they’re allowing some flights in and out of Spain. Next one leaves in two hours.’ ‘Can you –’ ‘I’ve already done it,’ Jayne said. ‘We leave in ten minutes.’ Inspiration can arrive in the most unexpected circumstances. As Richard reached across for the photograph of his father, placing it into his briefcase, a still-life presented itself to him. Richard had qualified with an MA in Fine Art many years earlier and was a painter of extraordinary talent, but after graduating, he’d become fascinated with modern art, particularly the work of the British artists Tracy Emin and Damien Hurst. After many unsuccessful attempts to join this new British movement, he had become a dealer, buying and selling the work of others. But with Hurst suing a seventeen year old art student for minor copyright infringements and Emin threatening a move to France to avoid paying high-rate tax on her multi-million pound fortune, the avant-garde had become the establishment and the mask of credibility had finally slipped to reveal the truth. The smashed pieces of laptop, MP3 and mobile phone that littered Richard’s desk looked exactly what they were. But placed in the pure-white space of his gallery and it was possible that he wouldn’t need the cannon that splattered paint after all. He made a couple of phone calls and organised its installation at the gallery under the title of ‘Glitch – an innovative and thought-provoking exploration into the limitations of information technology in the modern world.’ After a long flight to Spain and an even longer drive in a small hire-car to Paris, Richard and Jayne were finally heading back to London on the Eurostar. The fields passed by impassively and Richard took out the photograph from his briefcase: his father looked towards the camera, happy and giving a thumbs-up with his left hand. He wore a flat-cap and an oversized burgundy scarf tucked inside the front of his coat. ‘I’d have never forgiven myself if I’d missed it,’ Richard said, looking up from the photograph. Jayne replied pensively, ‘We’re not there yet.’ ‘I know, but…’ She let the magazine fall onto the table in front of her. ‘We’ll make it. We haven’t come all this way to miss it now.’ Richard was instantly reassured; his wife had that capability. ‘Did you…’ He hesitated. ‘Did you pack my black tie?’ She nodded. ‘You’d better ring your mum.’ ‘I can’t.’ ‘Why not?’ Richard looked out of the window: in the fields there were lambs lazing around in the sunshine, squinting and flicking their tails to fend off the flies. Cumulus clouds raked across the sky, their shadows playing across the hillsides. ‘Can I borrow your phone,’ he asked finally. © Ed Wood All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net |
| We like this story because: It is a story that catches a ripple from an event that silenced the skies over much of Europe for a time. |
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