Cole Days of Throbbing Gristle

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-4835-2390-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 475 Seiten

Does Heaven know you're miserable now? It's 1987. Sam Henry Hay, a 17-year-old exchange student from Sheffield, hops into Texas, USA, with one burning ambition: Manipulate his gullible host parents into funding his university, and leave his dead-end life in Yorkshire behind. But is Sam manipulating America or America manipulating Sam? The clever lad schmoozes his way into many a bed and purse, yet can't get rid of anyone. He executes careful plans, only to watch them disastrously fall apart. Worst of all, this once proud nihilist watches in horror as he reveals a conscience, in a world growing ever darker around him. Days of Throbbing Gristle is not your typical teenage tale. It's a razor-slashing journey through a time and place that really was as bad as you've heard. For some, high school is the best time in their lives. For others, it's a miracle they make it to the other side.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cole, Kevin

Leseproben

3
Neil and Donna came home at the same time—late. “I am so sorry, Sammy!” Donna was hysterical. “Work at the retirement center was non-stop. I can’t believe the way it just ate away the day. I did manage to get tomorrow off, though, so if you don’t mind missing just one more day of school, I promise we’ll get you set up and ready, okay?” “Whatever you think is best, Mrs Turner.” “Good man! Now I told you, stop calling me ‘Mrs’. Yer makin me feel old.” “And I’m feelin hungry.” Neil put his arm around my shoulders. “What say we get ourselves some big, fat, greasy, totally unhealthy American cheeseburgers, Sammy? You game?” “Of course he is!” Donna screamed. “Those skinny bones need some meat!” A tickle raid ensued. I was most uncomfortable. New sis and I climbed into the back of a red Chrysler, its white seats covered in sticky leather. We left Stony Forest, and Neil pointed as he drove. “This is Bay Boulevard, the main road here. If you ever get lost, just jump in the Bay, they say, and you’ll get where wanna go in Kaiser Lake. Around the corner here, you see your high school, Sammy—there. Not far, is it?” Kaiser High was a long slab of brick with curved sides and black windows, set in a grove with trees but no brush. “One of the top ten high schools in the nation.” Donna told me what I already knew. I certainly didn’t choose Texas for the weather or culture. Nevertheless, both parents awaited my impressed reaction. “It’s bigger than I expected,” I compromised. “How many students, did you say?” “Eight hundred?” Wife looked to husband. “Three thousand,” he corrected, “give or take a dozen. The graduating class averages 800. In fact, I saw in the paper just the other day, the Secretary of Education might be paying you guys a visit this year, which should tell you how just good your school really is.” “Yeah.” Heather spoke—for the first time. “Aren’t we lucky?” Donna wheeled about. “As a matter of fact, young lady, you are lucky. Both of you. I would’ve killed to go to a school like this.” “Well, I, for one, feel lucky.” I relieved the tension—with panache too. “Here I am, going to the best high school in the nation, in the best state in the nation, in the best nation in the world.” Thanks for reminding me, little girl. Donna’s facial lines disappeared. The lioness smiled, patted my knee, and turned back around. Heather rolled her eyes. It was her signature move. The rest of Kaiser Lake remained unimpressive. It was a flat land, populated by strip malls, chain restaurants, and only a touch of forest. NASA was the worst. The world’s premier space agency turned out to be but a few buildings spread out over a cow pasture. Not even the Saturn 1 rocket in booster sequence display could disperse what I felt to be an enforced atmosphere of dull. But I moaned on an empty stomach. I thought we were going to McDonalds. I thought all Americans went to McDonalds. But we went to Fuddruckers, as much a burger joint as Mickey D’s, but one catering to posh suburbans who had more cash to burn. At the front door, was a sign—Proper Attire Requested. I paused awkwardly. Donna laughed, and pushed me inside. Fuddruckers was as big as a barn, cold as a freezer. My cheeseburger was too much. I’ll never finish it, I thought. But one bite and I transformed into a starving dog. Indeed, I made a spectacle of myself. “Atta boy, Sammy—you show that burger who’s boss!” Neil was impressed. “Yeah, eat up.” Donna sucked sauce off her little finger. “You’re gonna need your energy for tomorrow. I can’t wait to take you shopping! It’s the great American pastime, y’know.” “Shopping?” I forced small talk. It was difficult. “Not baseball?” “For boys, maybe. But us girls, it’s shop-till-you-drop.” She slurped from a plastic glass filled with ice cubes and sugary tea. “I knew a guy back in college—believe it or not, he was a Geordie, from Newcastle. That’s what you call them, isn’t it? Geordie?” “Impressive.” “Yeah, well he taught me a lot about Great Britain. This was years ago, though. I don’t know how much has changed since then.” This inspired slightly better conversation, in which we made the usual comparisons: Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan; Parliament and Congress; pounds and dollars; rosie and coffee. But then Donna slipped in the Royal Family and it all went to cock—as if those spongers mattered. I’m no romantic—no New Model Army soldier, but I do indulge in one fantasy—the day when the Royals are toppled and beheaded, I personally wielding the axe on Prince Philip. I’m chuffed his sons turned out wimps and his lone daughter a butch—serves that macho wanker right. As for the Queen, send her to the elderly care home where she belongs. What is this? 1450? Then Neil brought in sport, and what do you call it? Football? Soccer? That was the one sterling aspect to my Sheffield state school. Thanks to the high population, sport wasn’t a priority. I was never pressured—not once—to beetle about a pitch kicking inflated rubber. I don’t want to discuss football. Not one bit. I’ll only say I hate it with all my being and soul and leave it at that. Cricket, I don’t hate. Cricket I have no feelings for, whatsoever. For me, cricket doesn’t exist, unless someone brings it up, at which point I turn off my ears and contemplate emptiness. What about Wimbledon, with its strawberries? Forget it. Polo? You want to talk polo? No money; no interest. Even with money, no interest. Polo. Yawn. Then there’s the War. I learnt to watch myself in America. “We saved your butts twice,” Yanks love to say. Right, you lot didn’t save us. The Kaiser was never going to invade the Island. As for Hitler, even if he crossed the Channel and conquered Britain, he’d have regretted it, seeing the kind of hooh-hah he later got from the Ruskies. But the fact remains Hitler did not invade, and he didn’t because we subdued his air force. Believe it or not, America, for a full year Britain was the only country in the world with the guts to face Hitler. By the time you warriors came in, the dog’s bollocks of the German army were already dead. You fought the bottom of the barrel, cousins, so sorry to have to tell you. Of course, I never let the Turners in on any of this. They affected interest in my country, but were actually more interested in talking about themselves, which suited me just fine. I studied them. I studied them the way they should have been studying me. “I phoned your sister this morning,” Neil thought to announce. “Just to let her know you got here in one piece. She wanted to say hi but you were out like a light, Sammy. I didn’t want to disturb you.” “It was good of you to do that.” “She said, Take good care of my little brother, and I said, Don’t you worry, Miss. This experience is gonna enrich us all, isn’t it, gang?” “Absolutely!” Donna sounded over a muzak version of A Hard Day’s Night, dripping from ceiling speakers. “Is your sister okay?” Neil suddenly looked at me. “How do you mean?” “Nothing. She just sounded tired.” “She works a lot.” At the pub, again I didn’t add. “I heard that. Sometimes I think Tired is my middle name, Sammy. Tired from work,” he added, in case I was incredibly dense. “Your sister mentioned all the troubles she had with the person who arranged your trip here. Said it ended up costing more than expected.” “True. But we got on. No complaints.” “That’s what she said too. Y’know, I really like that attitude. I wish more Americans had it.” Well, what does one say to that? “I wired your sister some money to help make up the difference.” “Mr Turner—” “Neil.” “You shouldn’t have.” Portia was dead. How dare she start manipulate these yahoos before I was even over jet lag. “Of course I should’ve. You’re family now, and families help each other out. I’m just tickled I guessed correctly where your sister has a savings account. Deposit account, I mean. I told her, Lemme guess—a branch of Midland, right? She sure was surprised, lemme tell you, heh heh.” Unfortunately, Neil Turner was no donkey. He often gave that impression, but what he did know, he knew well. Without warning, he ravished me with minutiae concerning British building societies, insurance policies, computer programs. I half-listened, following the example of the females, and finished my meal. “Would you be interested in learning, Sammy?” Caught, I paused. “Pardon?” “Computers. Would you like to learn how to use one? Have you ever even touched one? No offense, but there’s no way you can get ahead in today’s world and not know how to use a PC, at least.” “Mr Turner—Neil, I’d be honoured—naturally, if you taught me everything.” Neil looked as though he might cry. “Can you believe this kid, Donna?” “Wow,” she said. “That’s all I can say—wow! I wish more kids had your attitude, Sammy.” A look in Heather’s direction. The girl kept cool. “May I ask a question?” Again, I deviated attention away from the insignificant person. “And I apologise if this sounds...