Fruity-Teen-Machine

by Chris Castle

He felt two things; the feel of the water over his ankles and the touch of the pony’s flank. The two most beautiful feelings he had ever known in his life. The water was cool but easy, like someone who really loved you putting their hand on your skin. Even with everything else around him, he closed his eyes to that first sensation and tried to savour it. With his eyes closed he reached up and put his fingers against the animal’s muscle and almost flinched at how pure it felt, how simply powerful it was under his hand. Even though it was just an action, a human hand on an animal’s flesh, it was new to him, as if it was the first animal. It feels like touching god-

                                                                                *

As Fruity walked up the street he almost laughed, looking around to the devastation. They were the only borough where a riot didn’t make the place look any different. Reaching into his pocket and lighting the cigarette, he played spot the difference; right, let’s see…The closed shops had had their windows smashed instead of graffitied. The whole of the bus shelter had been burned down, instead of just the black bin by the timetable. What else? Ah yes, the crunch underfoot told him there was slightly more glass underfoot than normal. As he turned the corner the shutters of the pub opened up, five to eleven, regular as clockwork; crisis, what crisis?

                                                                                  *

When the truth of it kicked in and he realised the knock and runs were going to turn into a proper, full-blown riot, Fruity did the sensible thing and retreated to his 22nd floor apartment and watched it all from his window. The rest of his crew flocked down to the action and a few of them tugged at his elbow, hurled insults at him for running, like he cared. He watched them all running off like it was the best thing to happen to them and a thought hit him straight between the eyes: maybe it was. Maybe this, this chaos, these TV vans and newspaper reporters were the best it was going to get for the people he had known all his life. Each of them ran like kids, legs and arms flailing and with no real sense of direction and he could have spat on every one of them. None of them were his friends, he knew that and he was sure, under all the talk, they knew it too. They were all just people born at the same time, to the same shit-hole, who couldn’t afford to escape each other. All it would take was jail, a lottery win or a woman and the rest of them would evaporate from his memories like a busy Saturday night.

So the entertainment began. Fruity carefully set up his viewing perch, cracking the broken safety window high and wide and getting a full-screen viewing of the streets below. He laid out a few drinks and snacks on the table, rolled a few and to round things off nicely, he dug out the binoculars from the cupboard that had been three times round the whole block for one reason or another. They had started out in World War Den’s place, who lost them in a card game to Peeping Tom-Jon, who got caught and battered by Fruity’s cousin, Smithy, who eventually gave them up to him as a way of paying a debt for a bottle of Irish he had no way or intention of paying for. He had kept hold of them, knowing someone would need them for some half-assed robbery somewhere down the line, but for now they did just fine to watch the match, Coppers vs. Ashtown Fields. His microwave pinged just as the first petrol bomb flew into the air.

It became something of a multi-media event in Fruity’s place that night. As well as having first hand action, he also had the news going round the clock, the radio for back up and the internet running through the whole situation. At times it was dizzying, checking one report against the other and monitoring the truth amongst the rumours and the blatant exaggerations. His favourites were the news reporters dressing up every minor scuffle as if the fate of the land depended on it. He even recognised a few of the lads who they were describing and he burst out laughing to hear them described as some sinister force; these three chumps who got booted out of Argos because they couldn’t figure out the ticket system. For a second a thrill ran through his heart as he imagined himself as a kind of correspondent on the front line and he imagined a snapshot of Vietnam, Bosnia or Iraq. The excitement deadened as the flat above cranked up the drum and bass, drowning out his news network in a volley of ill-judged beats.

Ear-plugs in, he began writing on the social sites as different people; first being a scared, elderly resident, then an angry black shop-keeper and finally as a version of himself, one that was more angry and less smart. He watched as his words bobbed up on the screen and smiled as the responses bounced back; support, disbelief, disgust. Fruity looked over all the messages and the energy people had put into them. Roll up, roll up, all human life is here. All of them were indignant but would any of them be committed enough to bring out a broom tomorrow morning? He wondered. Weren’t so impassioned when it was just the youth clubs and the libraries being shut down, he noted, cracking open another beer. Fruity turned back to the violence and watched it all in silence, each explosion spreading silently across the pavement, each mouth open and screaming without a single word coming out.

                                                                                *

“Here he is! I told them Fruity wouldn’t miss his games even if the world was ending!” Fruity nodded to the manager and pointed to the pump. Luckily, a few of the old timers were already in their seats, so he wouldn’t have to listen to it for long.

“Were you out there, Fruity?” He went on.

“First for the street and then for the police. I got a riot shield at home,” he said, scooping his drink from the bar. Two of the old timers looked at him with disgust.

“All mouth and trousers,” one of them muttered, looking at Fruity and sipping his pint. Fruity looked back hard, staring not at his face but at the tattooed knuckles gripping the pint; L-O-V-E. He moved his eyes down to the other hand, protecting his pouch of tobacco on the bar: H-A-T-E.

“For Queen and country back in your day, eh?” He said, staring until the old man looked away.

“Leave it, young-un,” the barman said, handing him the change in silver.

“Speak only when spoken to, right Len?” He said, gathering up the coins and separating them with his fingers.

“Come one then,” he said quietly as he walked up to the fruit machine. Out of the three, he favoured this one; it had always been good to him. On the way up he had been weary; if the place had been shut down the night before, it may have been emptied. But then he reasoned it had all happened too quickly for the management to deal with it, so he figured they would still be stuffed and pregnant from the night before. He slipped in the first coin as somewhere the TV popped into life, the morning news delaying the day’s sports headlines, much to the disgust of the old men.

Everyone in a poor neighbourhood had a vice; for him it was the machines. For the rest of them, the games were just a distraction for a few minutes, when the footy was at half-time or the girls were in the bathroom, jacking up before town. A few of them played out of boredom, not really knowing how to play them, amateurs who peered up the machine like they were looking up a page three girl’s skirt, looking for clues and wisdom. The truth was like any other addiction: he played the odds and was good at it.

When he’d started seriously playing, the gang were almost relieved; it meant they didn’t have to put up with his long silences or bouts when he couldn’t stop talking about a subject they knew nothing about. He became something of an object, a freak in the street’s eyes; always glued to the machines; never drunk, never high, just playing. All the abuse came his way; first he was queer, then he couldn’t handle his drink, after that he was slow. Some spark put a wedding veil on it on his birthday and suggested he take it home and slip something other than his coins in it. And all the while he played, the soundtrack of the pub; the football, the jokes, the turn of the newspapers and the occasional fight, just background noise to the lights and the gentle mechanics of what was at his fingertips. He dropped another coin as the bar door opened.

                                                                                *

All of the gang together in the summer, trying for girls and drinking all they could. All of them loose, drugged fuelled eyes angry as well as bored. Fruity on the fringes, dreaming of escape; taking as much, but no more than everyone else. He looks at the cars parked in the field and thinks how they look like mechanical monsters in the middle of all those swaying grasses. Somebody mentions the shooting, the police, and the voices get focused and furious. Vicious plans brew and Fruity switches off, trying to imagine how the grasses would feel under his fingertips. He reaches out and brushes them and they feel fine, making him smile. No-one is watching him and that makes him feel good. The sky overhead is blue and there is not a cloud in it. Even the hateful voices, like angry crickets in the pastures, don’t mean a thing to his ears right now. All that matters are the blades of grass on his skin. If this is all there was, he thinks, then I could be happy. Escape, he thinks and looks beyond the cars in the distance. The pony looks back at him, as he settles so close his tail swishes against the bumper of the nearest one.

                                                                                    *

The bar was filling by the time he got his first hit. The change rattled out and clanked against the trough by his knees. One or two stared as he collected up; the loneliest drunk tried to catch his eye and willed him to share his good fortune. It was an okay win and he weighed up the chances of a second strike. He slipped in a few, setting a limit in his head and nodded back to the barman for a second. The pull down screen had been set in place but it was cricket over football, so it was a distraction rather than a focus. That disappointed him; footy matches meant less attention and allowed him to get on with his work.

More people drifted in and the talk started about the night before, the truth becoming fiction barely a minute into their conversation. Fruity felt sweat on his neck and realised he had to get out soon. The old geezer, the one with the tattoos, was watching him. He saw something in me, Fruity thought with a spark of terror and made himself swallow. The second hit came quick; he changed up for a note and downed the pint, leaving without a word to any of them. The old man said something but the door was already swinging back, so all he saw was the sneer in the old man’s lip and not the hateful words.

“Hey Fruity!” he stopped half-way down the street and turned to see Jon-Jo and his brother Pip. Jon-Jo was brought up by aunts and uncles and everyone in the neighbourhood was his cousin, Fruity included.

“Hey Jo, Pip,” he answered looking back at the two of them. Both of them were the scapegoats for everything that went wrong in the town; because he never picked on Jo and always said hello to Pip even though he was slow, they stuck with him whenever they could.

“You see all this, hmmm?” Jo said, looking around with wide eyes, as if he was seeing it for the first time. Fruity saw the scratches on his forearms where he must have leant in the broken windows to steal. At least he hadn’t worn the fresh stuff that day.

“Are you on the trail, the gambling trail?” he went on smiling. Jo was as high as a kite and just standing by him made Fruity feel exhausted. The joke was that no-one was ever sure if Jo was looking after Pip or the other way round. The dark flip of the joke was to figure out who was more retarded.

“Just trying to make some money, boys, you know how it is,” Fruity said and sighed, waiting. Sure enough the request came soon enough.

“You got any you can spare for me? Sunday’s slow, you know how it is…” Jo looked at him with wide eyes and Fruity fished a five out of his pocket. It wasn’t over.

“And how about something for the hat?” he went on, hooking the pork-pie off his head and cupping it in-front of him. It always made Pip smile and that was why Fruity stomached it. All it was was a god-damned felt-lined begging bowl. As he dropped a few coins into the hat, Fruity snapped his hand out and gripped Jo’s wrist tight.

“I want to see food smudged around Pip’s lips by lunchtime,” Fruity whispered, looking Jo over hard. He watched him wince and didn’t care. Behind him, Pip was looking out to the street, all the broken things making him smile in awe. “Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jo replied, deflated and sulking, looking like the junkie he was then and not the joker. Fruity wondered if he was upset because his wrist ached or because he was going to have to spend some of his stash money on food; he decided he didn’t want to know the answer. They shuffled off without so much as a goodbye, their duty done and the pot won.

“Teen,” the barman said as he drifted into the next bar. It was a standing joke; no-one under fifty came into the place, bar a certain twenty-two year old. A single machine stood in the corner, nicely tucked away in the corner, away from the people and the TV. The old-timers played their board games and spread their papers wide on the tables. Some of them fanned out so much they trailed onto the stools as way of extension. He took his drink and walked over to the game, noticing the window above it was smashed in.

It was not that it paid so much as it was the biggest challenge to him. The locals sunk enough into it, sure- the barman claimed they didn’t want to weigh themselves down with coins for the walk home-but it was a tricky thing, a fox that knew its ground. He had to be careful with it, limiting himself before frustration made himself do something reckless. Even so, it fascinated him as much as it flummoxed him. The first nudge rolled on and he peered into the trail of lights and flashes for a sign.

                                                                                *

Fruity walked towards the pony without a word. A snap rode through him and he wondered for a second if he was hallucinating. His heart began to pump and he switched from walking to jogging, jogging to running. By the time he drew up to the cars, the sweat was pouring off him and he was gasping for air. He put his hands onto his knees and drew breath and listened as the pony did the same. It snorted air as if it was hungry for it and the sound was like nothing he’d heard before. It was a coarse noise and should have been ugly but it was better than that, more real; it sounded like survival, like hunger, like the way he sometimes woke up in the night and almost started running, right then, with nothing, into the empty streets and out to someplace better. Finally, he looked up and saw the animal looking at him, its eyes charcoal black and unblinking. Fruity stepped closer, aware this was a creature, something that he was never meant to be close to, to touch or listen to the pattern of its breathing.

 ‘You…are something different,’ he heard himself saying, with a grin on his face. It was the first time he could remember speaking while smiling since he had been a small boy. The pony reared a little and he drew his hands up to placate him. It was only when he heard rustling in the grasses and turned to see the rest of them walking towards them, that he realised what the animal was scared of. 

                                                                                *

                                                                     A Jackpot.

In all the times he had spent in the pub, he had never once closed down a jackpot from the thing. Fruity suppressed the urge to punch the air and instead very carefully collected the winnings. When he was done, he turned round to the bar. The barman was smiling but all the others paid no attention; they were either reading their papers or actually interested in the cricket. Fruity felt a slight grin on his face and fought it down, even though the barman was beaming. He handed over the coins and watched as the man skimmed notes out of the till, a few of them bristling like feathers in his hand.

“Spend it wisely, Teen, if you can,” he said. As he handed it over he winked. Fruity slipped a fiver in the jar on the bar, in amongst the coppers and five pence pieces. The barman had once said he would never be able to go on holiday but at least he could call all the travel agents.

“I won’t be spending it,” Fruity said, surprising himself by speaking. “Not until I’m away from this place,” he went on and nodded once, making an end of it.

“Good man,” the barman replied, looking him over. He thought about saying something else, advice or a warning, but felt better of it. Fruity stepped out; grateful the man respected him and walked out into the street.

Decision time. He had made enough today than he had anticipated making for the whole week. The last pub was the worst; busy, people he knew, unreliable machines. If he quit now, he would still be ahead. Head down, read a book, think about the future and forget the past. But then…but then, what if it was a hot streak? What if this was a day when he could clear them all out. He thought about the money jar, how the empty half taunted him and the part that was full seemed harmless and not enough for a new life, a real life. If he could just nail one more machine…

“Fruity.” The voice made him jump and he spun round to see Pip on the street corner, looking as if he’d just fallen out of the sky. “Fruity,” he repeated, like it was a direction or a codeword.

“God-damn it Pip,” Fruity said, walking over to him. “Has he left you already?” He looked him over. Sometimes Pip would wet himself and the boys would run him through the street with his wet patch like a frightened bull. Fruity took him by the hand and led him away from the corner. A few people looked at them and he stared them down before they could speak. He settled on a greasy spoon on the high street and pushed Pip into a booth while he went to order.

“Guess Jon-Jo has gone for his medical, huh, Pip?” He said as the trays of breakfast arrived. The waitress, an old battle-axe who used to serve them in the old school canteen, nodded and lumped off. Pip was staring at him and Fruity did what he always did; very carefully he put the napkins around his neck, on his lap and carefully picked up the knife, feeling the other boy copy him, measure for measure.

After all, that was all they were, weren’t they? Boys in their twenties who had to teach one another manners, that still spat at bus stops and threw up in the back of taxis. Who flexed muscles in pubs and stole magazines from shops, who took interview slips just to set fire to them and fling them from balconies at late night parties. The boys who watched TV of people on TV watching TV. The boys who waited for the world as it passed them by.

“You know why I play the games, Pip?” he said, looking over. He fumbled at first but got it right after a while. Once or twice, Fruity picked up the salt and pepper and sprinkled it on the tomatoes and the eggs and the smile Pip gave him almost broke his heart. “I play the games so I can make money.”

“Money for the bus,” Pip said, nodding.

“That’s right, Pip, money for the bus to go on a big trip.” His heart soared to have told someone.

“I like buses,” he went on, cutting his toast in half. He dumped the egg on it and smiled, as if it had spoken.

“Maybe I’ll come back one day and get you, Pip,” he said. I could, he thought, a world of chances opening up in his mind. He almost smiled.

“Buses are expensive Fruity,” Pip added, frowning. Fruity looked at him and felt the smile sink back inside. In its place he summoned up the familiar resolve, the steel.

“That’s why I need to get more money, then, Pip,” he said, making his choice. “Go back to Jon-Jo on the Crescent and wait for him, okay, Pip?” He wiped his mouth and saw Pip immediately do the same.

“Okay. Bye, Fruity,” he said, under the napkin. Fruity looked at him for a long second. If I cared about any of them, it would only ever be for him, he thought.

“My name’s Kieran, Pip, okay?” He put down the napkin and pulled himself out of the chair.

“Okay. Bye, Fruity-Kieran,” he said and waved. Fruity waved back and walked down the aisle. Two boys were smirking and he looked over to them until they stared at their plates, shamed.

                                                                                *

The gang took the pony and led it away from the parked cars. Fruity reached out but had somehow ended up on the fringes again, though for once, just once, he wanted, he needed, to be at the centre of things. The gang led the pony away down the path and for a second Fruity watched them. Even as a pony, the creature seemed to tower over them, so they were no more than boys; a pack of twenty two year old boys at the circus, at the fete.  He caught his breath and jogged after the boys, scared of being left alone- no, that wasn’t right-scared of leaving the animal alone with the boys.

The path opened up to the stream and for a second Fruity felt the panic ease off from his heart. There was a phrase, a phrase his old man used to say. You can lead a horse to water…but you couldn’t make it drink. He had said that and Fruity had never understood it. His old man would never tell him and the frustration of not knowing as his father tickled him and grappled with him and the laughter at not knowing, of not needing to know, not really, almost made his heart and mind explode.

 The boys led the creature to the water and for a second it was so beautiful, the sight of it, that Fruity felt his legs wobble, as if he had just stepped off the Big Dipper. The pony seemed to realise it too and for a second it just angled its head down and drank and everything, the whole world, was at peace. Nothing could break the moment; nothing could ruin what they had. That was the moment when he stepped into the water and felt the cool water and that was the moment when he drew his hand up to the animal’s flank and touched god on a late summer’s afternoon.

                                                                                   * 

Fruity stepped into the muddle of people at the bar and hooked a finger up for a drink. As he worked his way through the crowds, a few people nodded to him, a few whistled him, until he reached the corner. It was busy, too busy and there was a hum in the air that reminded him of the night before. There will be more trouble tonight, he thought simply, the same as if there was to be a party or a parade. As he stepped towards the darkened section of the pub, a part of him saw the fire exit and told him to run, just leave it be and come back another day when people weren’t drinking in anger and waiting for the night. He swerved towards the door and reached for it as the call came out.

“Machine!” The chorus went out and he froze. He turned to see the gang all gathered round the table, drinks lined up and shot glasses overturned. In this bar he was ‘Machine.’ It was something different in their lives, a secret code, as if they owned the pub and it was their own dirty palace. Fruity lifted an arm in acknowledgement and pointed to the fruit machine to a few cat-calls and whistles. He shrugged, faking good-natured camaraderie and lunged for the lights, his hands shaking. Now that he was there he knew he should have never have come. The pull down screen was there but there was no sport on it. Instead, people’s silhouettes ran through it, like ghosts. Somewhere the juke-box snapped into life and a cheer exploded like a rocket.

Fruity launched the coins into the slot and gazed at the choices. He could feel all their stares on his back and knew whatever he put in was already lost. Everything in-front of him was flu-ish, heavy and clogged. Somewhere, a barmaid dropped a glass and a fresh roar went up. Everything was bubbling around him and still people came pouring in. The table made a braying noise and for a second, he wondered if he might vomit, even as they all began to cackle and giggle. On his shoulder Maxie, the leader of their half-assed sorry group, brushed up against him, pretending to analyse the machine.

“All this trouble, huh?” he said quietly. He had a voice that could be heard even in the midst of commotion. It was a voice that pierced things. “Neigh,” he whispered and laughed to himself as he headed for the gents. Fruity dropped another coin in the machine and heard it sink to the bottom with a stiff thud. The machine had been emptied; there was nothing left. That was the last coin I’ll drop, he thought dumbly and picked up his glass before making his way into the gents.

                                                                                *

Everything changed in that moment.

The peace shattered with a thrusting shove from Maxie. He gripped the mane of the pony while the others scrabbled to grab hold of some part of it, to push it under the water. Fruity felt everything drain out of him; the drugs, the peace, the touch of the animal, as the others poured forward. In a moment the pony was gone, submerged, even as its hooves kicked upwards and its head sprayed up and down in opposition. Fruity felt himself fall back into the water and for a moment he sat there like a baby. I could stop this, he thought. I can’t stop this, the rest of him screamed. Everywhere water foamed and there were just snippets of things; Maxie’s mouth grinning with too many teeth, another fist, another shaved skull, all bobbing around the crest of the water. The pony was nowhere, totally under now and the only sign of it were the lashings of water, the waves that grew steadily weaker. Fruity tried to stand and fell back down; eight young men’s hatred froze him, timid, in the water. In a short time it was over and the water calmed. Small ripples lapped over Fruity’s forearms. A call came out from the land and Fruity realised he had mis-counted the men-Fruity who had always been so good with numbers and figures, ha-ha-and called out to them.

“It’s all kicking off back home,” he said. “There’s going to be a riot!” he went on, screaming so hard with excitement that the giggling made his voice tremble like a girl’s. Maybe it was a girl; suddenly, Fruity found it hard to think. The gang waded by him silently now, their work finished. None of them offered a hand to scoop him out of the water. It was okay, he thought. I deserve nothing now.

Fruity heard the cars revving up and leaving him behind. A distant part of him calculated how far it would take to walk back to town in his sopping wet clothes. Shall I allow for the weight of the water? He thought and almost laughed. Then, he put his hand to his mouth and found he was laughing, howling nearly and his eyes were wet, though none of the foamy water had gotten close to his face. He drew himself up as the cars peeled away and felt something impossibly heavy stroke his calf. He vomited away from the scene and watched the liquid trail away from the two of them. The weight rested against his leg like a chain. There was a word for it; he knew it, like a… manacle. He forced himself to look down into the water; he had to because he was the one responsible. The charcoal eyes looked back onto him, still and joyless now, like a clay statue. Killed life, killed the animal, killed god…all those thoughts filtered in and out of his head as he stared at it. It will never blink and I will be the first to look away. Fruity stood, looking down to the drowned beast as it looked up to him. He felt the buzz in his palm, the feeling he had when he touched its flank, the warmth and the blood, all drift away in the chill. This is what happens, he thought, when everything ends.

                                                                                *

Fruity stepped into the gents holding the glass. He noticed there was no-one else in there, not that it would have mattered. Maxie was standing in the urinal, one hand up against the wall as he pissed. Even then, in this empty place, he was smiling. For a moment he stared at Fruity and there was no idea in his eyes of what was going to come next. If he had been able to smile then, Fruity would have; to know he had no idea. In the next moment, just as Maxie opened his mouth to joke, he pitched the lager into his face, some of it actually going into his open jaws. He spluttered and Fruity drew the glass down on his head, letting go as it shattered. As Maxie fell, he angled away, letting him fall into the trough, the stink and let him lay there for a second. He followed the movement of his body as it coiled, ready to attack like a snake and Fruity put the boot in. After a few kicks, he crouched down and punched what was left of his face. There may have been words, but he didn’t know what they were. Everything was just sound and confusion, some things breaking, other things bending a little before snapping.

Fruity stepped out of the urinal and returned to the machine. He drew his hands out of his pockets and laid them against the lights. His knuckles illuminated for a moment, the jagged flaps and the blood almost becoming a part of the machine. If he could have found anything beautiful again, that would have been it. No-one on the table knew yet; for now they were still laughing and rough-housing like boys always do. Fruity thought of the jar, how maybe it had been two-thirds full and not half and almost laughed. Blood began to run down to his forearm and one of the gang deliberately bumped him on the way to the gents, making the same, dumb sounds. Fruity gripped the machine harder.

He began to rock it. When it didn’t move he began to pull at the lever and finally, he punched the lights, the screen. There was movement around him and noise came from the toilets but no-one came near him. For a long moment they let him carry out his destruction. He slammed the machine over and over, really leathered it, glass flying off in all directions, springs and coils popping free of its insides and pinging onto the dingy, carpeted floor. He half noticed a nail and a shard of glass embedded in his fist and wondered why it didn’t hurt more. On and on he went, feeling everything gather up in that moment, his future exploding with every cog. The idea of the jar, the very idea of it, of freedom, of escape, became something very far away, like a dream. As hands wrapped around him in bear hug after bear hug, he wondered if they would even believe his real name or if the police sheet would simply read:

Name:     FRUITY_TEEN_MACHINE.  

Chris Castle is an Englishman currently teaching in Greece.