{"id":8706,"date":"2009-05-14T10:04:09","date_gmt":"2009-05-14T10:04:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/?p=8706"},"modified":"2009-05-14T11:42:44","modified_gmt":"2009-05-14T11:42:44","slug":"dying-a-death","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/dying-a-death\/","title":{"rendered":"Dying A Death"},"content":{"rendered":"

By Melissa Mann.<\/p>\n

The girl scout, the pigtails, the scuffed Start-rite shoes. \u00a0 Back of Keighley Working Men’s Club. \u00a0 Backlit by the light from the fire escape. \u00a0 The Ford Fiesta on bricks, the beads of old rain on a dead rat, the little girl. \u00a0 Pissing behind the bins. \u00a0 Pissing on the Start-rite shoes. \u00a0 Swearing. \u00a0 Swearing at the piss on the Start-rite shoes.<\/p>\n

Forty-three years I’ve been a little lass. \u00a0 Practically me whole life. \u00a0 Body stopped growing when I was eight and that was fate telling me how life’d be from then on. \u00a0 S’when I realised, you don’t choose how to live, s’your life what chooses you. \u00a0 So you get on with your life. \u00a0 Make it work for you. \u00a0 And I did, for forty-three years. \u00a0 Made it me work. \u00a0 But I can’t bloody do it anymore. \u00a0 I told Joyce that. \u00a0 Forty-three years with your dick strapped between your legs six nights a week, fifty-two week o’the year; s’too much. \u00a0 Not too much for the wife though. \u00a0 Can’t get enough of it. \u00a0 Born for the stage, Joyce was. \u00a0 Stage, yes: headlining Blackpool Tower Ballroom; supporting Cannon & Ball at Leeds Grand. \u00a0 Not this, though. \u00a0 Not working shit-holes like this for pin money.<\/p>\n

The moon like a sudden eye, the Y-reg camper van, the figure framed in a square of light. \u00a0 Side street next to Keighley Working Men’s Club. \u00a0 Side-on getting undressed. \u00a0 The scout leader’s uniform, the fake moustache, the wife. \u00a0 Facing him now. \u00a0 Facing him, hands on hips. \u00a0 Waving. \u00a0 Waving at him to get in the van.<\/p>\n

She’s too old for this. \u00a0 Middle-aged spread, saggy breasts \u2013 takes her bloody hours to strap it all in. \u00a0 Won’t get undressed in front o’me now. \u00a0 Has me change in the bog. \u00a0 I was sat in there the other day, staring at me costume without me in it, hung on the back o’the door, and it was like I’d found something I didn’t know I’d lost. \u00a0 Looking in the mirror, wrinkles round me eyes, greasepaint hanging in jowls off me skull, it was like seeing a portrait o’meself. \u00a0 A portrait where the artist’s painted on me instead o’me on the canvas. \u00a0 All wrong. \u00a0 I’ve been all wrong for years and years.<\/p>\n

The act died a death in \u201896. \u00a0 Princes Theatre, Clacton-on-Sea. \u00a0 The Goody-Goods an afterthought on the bill. \u00a0 Us usual twenty-minute routine like twenty days of night. \u00a0 Shoulda called it a draw then, but Joyce wan’t having any of it. \u00a0 Said the act still had legs. \u00a0 Said all it took was a call from Ricky Gervais and we’d be back in the Big Time. \u00a0 Well sod the Big Time. \u00a0 I’ve had enough cheesy routines and tired catchphrases to last a bloody lifetime. \u00a0 I want that bungalow we said we’d retire to. \u00a0 I want to shag me wife and not some faggot scout leader. \u00a0 I want to shag her, me on top, not face-down with me dick shoved back between me legs. \u00a0 I’m meant to be a man, that’s how it works. \u00a0 I want to grow old like a man.<\/p>\n

The girl scout, the fag at the corner of her mouth, the shadows humming in the alleyway. \u00a0 Ale sloshing out the man’s glass as he walks. \u00a0 All sixteen stone of him pushing through his shirt-front. \u00a0 The paint-splattered trainers, the BCFC tattoo on his forearm, the breath like rotting meat. \u00a0 Laughing at the little girl. \u00a0 Laughing till he’s red in the face. \u00a0 Pointing. \u00a0 Pointing at the little girl stubbing out her fag.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018ell fire, it’s little Miss Goody-Good \u2018avin’ a ciggie!” \u00a0 The man’s bent double, bringing up a laugh. \u00a0 I imagine him hurting me, how good it would feel.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuckin’ classic, tharr’is!” he says, pulling at the waist of his trousers. \u00a0 The smell of alcohol’s in his eyes. \u00a0 \u201cGo on, give us yer catchphrase then, yer little jig,” he says, hopping from foot to foot.<\/p>\n

Standing there at his feet, I’m made of sand. \u00a0 Made of sand and I’m running out. \u00a0 I point a finger at him, wanting to make something happen.<\/p>\n

\u201cI said, give us yer fuckin’ line!” \u00a0 He’s rummaging in his pockets. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cFive quid I paid to see The Goody-Goods \u2018ere tonight.” He waves a ripped ticket. \u00a0 \u201cFive quid an’ you was bloody rubbish. \u00a0 Din’t laugh once. \u00a0 So give us yer catchphrase, y’owe us that much.”<\/p>\n

The little girl, the bloodied crowbar, the man being turned inside out. \u00a0 Four foot two above him on the seeping stones. \u00a0 Forty feet up now, looking down on the scene. \u00a0 The gutter stars, the cobbles like layers of old footsteps, the moustachioed woman stumbling over them. \u00a0 Looking down on this endless now. \u00a0 Looking down at the distraught wife. \u00a0 Shouting. \u00a0 Shouting words big enough to climb walls.<\/p>\n

I feel the last swing o’the crowbar collecting in me hands, then a crack like an egg on the side of a bowl. \u00a0 Me breath’s coming out in clumps like a flogged dog.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou’ve killed him!” cries Joyce.<\/p>\n

A cold space hangs between us. \u00a0 A space where I could say something. \u00a0 I look down. \u00a0 Blood on me hands. \u00a0 For a minute, I can’t work out why.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou’ve killed him,” Joyce tells the ground.<\/p>\n

His wrecked body is leaking life. \u00a0 As I watch it fold round me shoes, something opens inside, like a coffin lid when you’ve been buried alive.<\/p>\n

\u201cOoohh goody-good,” I say, hopping from foot to foot. \u00a0 \u201cOoohh goody goody good!”<\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"mgm3neon-copy1\"<\/p>\n

Melissa Mann<\/strong><\/a> is a flickering neon sign outside a derelict transvestite shop on Manningham Lane in Bradford. \u00a0 She acts as a beacon of false-y hope for all those who must now rely on Evans Outsize in the Arndale Centre for their extra large fishnets and foundation garments. Melissa performed this story live at The Recession Session<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Forty-three years I’ve been a little lass. Practically me whole life. Body stopped growing when I was eight and that was fate telling me how life’d be from then on. S’when I realised, you don’t choose how to live, s’your life what chooses you. So you get on with your life. Make it work for you. And I did, for forty-three years. Made it me work. But I can’t bloody do it anymore. I told Joyce that. Forty-three years with your dick strapped between your legs six nights a week, fifty-two week o’the year; s’too much. Not too much for the wife though. <\/p>\n

By Melissa Mann.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8706","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8706","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8706"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8706\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8706"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8706"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8706"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}