Kick Against the Pricks
"Oh, Danny," Mars barked as she walked by. "You'll be interviewing that twit Jay-Me in two weeks. Start reading up."
Dan looked around, hoping to see someone else that might go by the name of Danny. No one but Mars had ever called him Danny. He'd been a bratty child; he'd spent his childhood being called Daniel Matthew Ashcroft.
"Who the fuck is Jamie?"
"Jay-Me. She's a huge star. You'll hate her. She wants to show she's all grown up now. People in other countries will be reading this article, so don't fuck it up."
xxx
Jay-Me was born to be a superstar. She wanted to be Andy Warhol, but not so boring and talky.
It only took a quick Google search to figure out who Jay-Me needed to sit down with in England. She typed in, "Cool ass English writers," and up popped Dan Ashcroft's name. There was a website called Trashbat that had quite a bit to say about Ashcroft's guru-like cool. He was a subversive intellect, tearing through the bullshit of trends. Jay-Me knew that only he would be able to really understand her. Jay-Me wasn't just another plastic pop princess; she was an artist. Just because her songs were catchy and danceable didn't make them insubstantial or meaningless.
After reading a few articles by Dan Ashcroft, and seeing a few pictures, she was set on being interviewed him and only him. Obviously, she'd do interviews with other magazines in England, but they'd just be the usual B.S. Dan would get to know the real Jay-Me.
He was sexy in a 'boozy geography teacher who might actually take you up on your flirtation' kind of way. The fact that he was gay only made him hotter, especially since his boyfriend was a sexy beast.
DJ Jones was all over YouTube. Jay-Me could imagine working with him. She couldn't imagine the actual music, but she could see them looking trendy and a bit wild in a studio. It would be so Warhol. But with better music.
As she explored Trashbat.co.ck, Jay-Me was disappointed that the tone of the webpage had changed. The grammar and spelling were better, but the energy was gone. According to the message boards, the website now "sucked balls" because Nathan Barley had "pussied out" and was doing "artsy shit."
Jay-Me needed Nathan Barley to cover her being interviewed by Dan Ashcroft. It would be a perfect storm of wit, personality, and passion. It was just what she needed to make a transition into her more serious work.
It was time for the world to meet Jay-Me for the first time for the second time.
xxx
The old Dan Ashcroft would have bitterly resented having to interview someone with the nerve to spell her name Jay-Me, but the new Dan was mellower. He understood what was important. Jay-Me was answering his questions by e-mail and nearly writing his article for him. He'd sent a list of rumors he found on the internet and asked her to confirm or deny. She had sorted them into "Sort of True," "Total Bullshit," and "WTF?" He was cutting and pasting her answers into an article that would only need a little B.S. filler about what she was wearing and if she showed up on time to their 'interview.'
It was an easy fucking interview, and Dan was going to need to put in about four hours of work to earn his month's pay. It was selling his soul, but Mars didn't seem to realize how cheaply his soul could be bought. He'd jerked off a builder for far less. He'd drunkenly signed over permission for 15Peter20 to mass produce a photo of Dan with his cock out for less.
He hadn't asked for a penny from Nathan Barley; he'd just asked the little shit to suck his dick because he was depressed and feeling so very old. That was two years ago, when he'd had a little room between himself and forty.
He'd suck Nathan Barley's dick to smoke a real cigarette. The electric cigarette gave him the sweet nicotine, but it didn't deliver those singed carcinogens that gripped his lungs and made it just hard enough to breathe for him to wonder, "Is this what death feels like? Because it feels pretty fucking good."
"You can have a proper smoke when we're done," Jones said without looking away from the door. "You'll survive, Ashcroft."
Dan smiled at Jones and wondered how his lover knew he was thinking about cigarettes. He wanted to believe Jones had seen some subtle sign, but Dan had probably been licking his electric cigarette and panting. It was so hard for Dan to express his feelings, and yet they seemed to come out in fairly obvious ways when he was distracted. Dan had to be constantly on guard against acting like a fool. If he let his mind wander, he became the guy at the party who could always be hypnotized. He'd be dancing and clucking up a storm, while Nathan Barley recorded it on his phone.
Jay-Me had expressed interest in Jones's music, and that was more than enough of an excuse for Dan to bring him along to the interview. If Jones could get a major gig out of Dan's subjugation, it would feel like a karmic resolution.
Jones had taught Dan how to listen to Jay-Me's music.
"You have to ignore the lyrics and the music, they're rubbish," Jones had explained while blasting an insipid song about being an outcast. Jones adjusted a few speakers until only a thumping bass line remained.
"Listen to the beats," Jones yelled over the pounding, beginning to dance. "Her producer is a fucking genius. You could put this over a funeral dirge and the pallbearers would drop it like it's hot."
Jones demonstrated how the pallbearers would grind their tight, leather-clad bottoms. At that point, Dan had lost all interest in Jay-Me and anything else that wasn't Jones.
"There she is," Jones said, nodding towards the door. "She's early."
Dan held his tape recorder under Jones's mouth.
"Jay-Me arrives at the hotel bar five minutes early and sporting a pair of jeans... Roberto Cavalli jeans and a peasant blouse from Top Shop..."
Jones described Jay-Me's outfit using words that were unfamiliar to Dan. Jones's time in the thrift shops of London had made him a connoisseur, and with his slim build, Jones had never felt a need to restrict himself to the men's section.
What Dan saw when he looked at Jay-Me was a woman Lenore's age wearing a clown shirt, with gems glued to her trousers. It was the idiotic tramp-chic that was so popular amongst idiots. Dan had been accused of looking tramp-like on more than one occasion, and sometimes people threw money in his coffee, thinking he was begging rather than, well, drinking coffee, but it was because his clothes were old and well-worn (if not by him, then by someone). Buying new clothes that looked old or like they had been individualized by hand rather than mass-produced was the height of sartorial idiocy. All over Shoreditch, there were people wearing their factory-embellished clothing rather than taking the time to glue some junk onto their clothes themselves. There wasn't an item in Jones's closet that he hadn't tailored in one way or another, and it annoyed Dan when someone would ask Jones where he bought his clothes. It was like the twits who wrote to Dan asking for advice on getting published without bothering to run a spell check or even use real words. They were saving their words for their masterpiece (which would promptly be optioned for a movie). Everyone was looking for the easy way, and writing was not meant to be easy. A person did not decide to become a writer; a person was forced to write because it was the only way to keep all the words in his head from crushing him.
At least, that was Dan's experience.
xxx
Jones enjoyed watching Dan work, even when it was painful. Jay-Me was clearly thrown off by her interviewer's indifference and was working so hard to try and inspire a reaction that Jones found himself laughing too hard at her jokes and trying to smooth the situation over.
Dan was endlessly tortured by his writing by nature, and tortured by his employers by design. Jones was on the fence about whether it was a good or bad thing that Dan was so willing to interview Jay-Me, however laconically. It was good to see Dan roll with the punches and not get so worked up over the small things, but he never wanted to see Dan give up the good fight. The world needed Dan Ashcroft to kick back against the pricks.
Jones could feel Dan suddenly tense and didn't need to look up to know who was approaching their table. He grabbed Dan's hand under the table and squeezed.
"Preach!" Nathan Barley yelled, holding out his arms like he expected a hug. "How's my favorite cock muncher?"
Jones saw Jay-Me frown, and he saw Nathan pick up on that frown. Sir Dick Cheese quickly turned on what he tried to pass for charm, keeping up the pretense that he just happened to be wandering through a hotel bar on a Wednesday.
"Now, what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? And with these knobs?" Nathan reached out to touch Jones's shoulder but wisely stopped short. "Name's Nathan Barley. These guys and I go way back."
Jay-Me's face lit up.
"You're the Nathan Barley?"
xxx
Dan Ashcroft was a happy man. He had his article, he'd unloaded Jay-Me and Nathan Barley on one another, and he was heading home with Jones.
He knew Nathan and Claire were sleeping together. If Jay-Me were to come between them...
"Why are you grinning?" Jones asked. "What have you done?"
Dan looked at his partner appreciatively. Watching someone else be mesmerized by Jones helped him to take a step back and appreciate the self-created work of art that was Daniel Jones.
"Are you and Jay-Me going to go shopping? Get an ice cream?" Dan teased. Dan had taken Nathan Barley's arrival as his chance to escape. Jay-Me had clearly been thrown off, and the terminally kind Jones had exchanged phone numbers with her when Dan pretended to have forgotten his mobile. He was fairly certain he would never, ever have another reason to talk to Jay-Me.
Besides, she and Nathan Barley had a lot in common. They both thought Madonna was a genius. What else was there to say? Two people who attached the word genius to Madonna belonged together. He'd really had no choice but to leave. It could only be a matter of time before Nathan brought up the fact that Dan and his Dan Jr. were on display in Madonna's home. That wasn't a conversation Dan was willing to have.
"Have a heart, Dan! The poor thing was trying so hard to impress you. She read all your articles..."
"And loved all of them," Dan added. "Even the one Jonatton Yeah? wrote. She's an idiot."
"She's pretty. And sexy."
Dan shuddered. "She's the same age as Lenore."
When Jones didn't share his disgust, Dan's heart stopped. The hours he'd spent wondering if he'd finally lost Jones had destroyed even the vaguest interest he'd had in other sexual partners. The thought of having an affair made him want to vomit with anxiety. Dan had gotten a taste of happiness; he wasn't ready to lose it all.
"Jones..." He couldn't think of anything else to say. He was feeling dizzy, and he was pretty sure it was only vaguely connected to the three whiskey and sodas he'd had at the hotel, and the four cigarettes he'd smoked in the past fifteen minutes.
"I don't mean to keep shovin' it in your face," Jones said quietly. "It's just... it's still doin' my head in. I'll get over it."
Dan felt guilty and ashamed and impotent in every way possible. With about seven hours, a bottle, three packs of fags, and his laptop, Dan might have been able to put his feelings into words.
If he'd been capable of crying, it would have been a relief. As it was, he would just have a headache that would hang on. It was like there were too many thoughts in his head, and they were bruising his skull. When Jones hugged him, Dan felt like a piece of shit, but he felt like a lucky piece of shit.
"I love you, Dan," Jones whispered into Dan's ear. Dan's eyes were painfully dry, as though all the moisture in his body had fled his head, lest he shed a tear.
"Love you." Dan managed to squeak the words around the lump in his throat.
Dan looked around, hoping to see someone else that might go by the name of Danny. No one but Mars had ever called him Danny. He'd been a bratty child; he'd spent his childhood being called Daniel Matthew Ashcroft.
"Who the fuck is Jamie?"
"Jay-Me. She's a huge star. You'll hate her. She wants to show she's all grown up now. People in other countries will be reading this article, so don't fuck it up."
xxx
Jay-Me was born to be a superstar. She wanted to be Andy Warhol, but not so boring and talky.
It only took a quick Google search to figure out who Jay-Me needed to sit down with in England. She typed in, "Cool ass English writers," and up popped Dan Ashcroft's name. There was a website called Trashbat that had quite a bit to say about Ashcroft's guru-like cool. He was a subversive intellect, tearing through the bullshit of trends. Jay-Me knew that only he would be able to really understand her. Jay-Me wasn't just another plastic pop princess; she was an artist. Just because her songs were catchy and danceable didn't make them insubstantial or meaningless.
After reading a few articles by Dan Ashcroft, and seeing a few pictures, she was set on being interviewed him and only him. Obviously, she'd do interviews with other magazines in England, but they'd just be the usual B.S. Dan would get to know the real Jay-Me.
He was sexy in a 'boozy geography teacher who might actually take you up on your flirtation' kind of way. The fact that he was gay only made him hotter, especially since his boyfriend was a sexy beast.
DJ Jones was all over YouTube. Jay-Me could imagine working with him. She couldn't imagine the actual music, but she could see them looking trendy and a bit wild in a studio. It would be so Warhol. But with better music.
As she explored Trashbat.co.ck, Jay-Me was disappointed that the tone of the webpage had changed. The grammar and spelling were better, but the energy was gone. According to the message boards, the website now "sucked balls" because Nathan Barley had "pussied out" and was doing "artsy shit."
Jay-Me needed Nathan Barley to cover her being interviewed by Dan Ashcroft. It would be a perfect storm of wit, personality, and passion. It was just what she needed to make a transition into her more serious work.
It was time for the world to meet Jay-Me for the first time for the second time.
xxx
The old Dan Ashcroft would have bitterly resented having to interview someone with the nerve to spell her name Jay-Me, but the new Dan was mellower. He understood what was important. Jay-Me was answering his questions by e-mail and nearly writing his article for him. He'd sent a list of rumors he found on the internet and asked her to confirm or deny. She had sorted them into "Sort of True," "Total Bullshit," and "WTF?" He was cutting and pasting her answers into an article that would only need a little B.S. filler about what she was wearing and if she showed up on time to their 'interview.'
It was an easy fucking interview, and Dan was going to need to put in about four hours of work to earn his month's pay. It was selling his soul, but Mars didn't seem to realize how cheaply his soul could be bought. He'd jerked off a builder for far less. He'd drunkenly signed over permission for 15Peter20 to mass produce a photo of Dan with his cock out for less.
He hadn't asked for a penny from Nathan Barley; he'd just asked the little shit to suck his dick because he was depressed and feeling so very old. That was two years ago, when he'd had a little room between himself and forty.
He'd suck Nathan Barley's dick to smoke a real cigarette. The electric cigarette gave him the sweet nicotine, but it didn't deliver those singed carcinogens that gripped his lungs and made it just hard enough to breathe for him to wonder, "Is this what death feels like? Because it feels pretty fucking good."
"You can have a proper smoke when we're done," Jones said without looking away from the door. "You'll survive, Ashcroft."
Dan smiled at Jones and wondered how his lover knew he was thinking about cigarettes. He wanted to believe Jones had seen some subtle sign, but Dan had probably been licking his electric cigarette and panting. It was so hard for Dan to express his feelings, and yet they seemed to come out in fairly obvious ways when he was distracted. Dan had to be constantly on guard against acting like a fool. If he let his mind wander, he became the guy at the party who could always be hypnotized. He'd be dancing and clucking up a storm, while Nathan Barley recorded it on his phone.
Jay-Me had expressed interest in Jones's music, and that was more than enough of an excuse for Dan to bring him along to the interview. If Jones could get a major gig out of Dan's subjugation, it would feel like a karmic resolution.
Jones had taught Dan how to listen to Jay-Me's music.
"You have to ignore the lyrics and the music, they're rubbish," Jones had explained while blasting an insipid song about being an outcast. Jones adjusted a few speakers until only a thumping bass line remained.
"Listen to the beats," Jones yelled over the pounding, beginning to dance. "Her producer is a fucking genius. You could put this over a funeral dirge and the pallbearers would drop it like it's hot."
Jones demonstrated how the pallbearers would grind their tight, leather-clad bottoms. At that point, Dan had lost all interest in Jay-Me and anything else that wasn't Jones.
"There she is," Jones said, nodding towards the door. "She's early."
Dan held his tape recorder under Jones's mouth.
"Jay-Me arrives at the hotel bar five minutes early and sporting a pair of jeans... Roberto Cavalli jeans and a peasant blouse from Top Shop..."
Jones described Jay-Me's outfit using words that were unfamiliar to Dan. Jones's time in the thrift shops of London had made him a connoisseur, and with his slim build, Jones had never felt a need to restrict himself to the men's section.
What Dan saw when he looked at Jay-Me was a woman Lenore's age wearing a clown shirt, with gems glued to her trousers. It was the idiotic tramp-chic that was so popular amongst idiots. Dan had been accused of looking tramp-like on more than one occasion, and sometimes people threw money in his coffee, thinking he was begging rather than, well, drinking coffee, but it was because his clothes were old and well-worn (if not by him, then by someone). Buying new clothes that looked old or like they had been individualized by hand rather than mass-produced was the height of sartorial idiocy. All over Shoreditch, there were people wearing their factory-embellished clothing rather than taking the time to glue some junk onto their clothes themselves. There wasn't an item in Jones's closet that he hadn't tailored in one way or another, and it annoyed Dan when someone would ask Jones where he bought his clothes. It was like the twits who wrote to Dan asking for advice on getting published without bothering to run a spell check or even use real words. They were saving their words for their masterpiece (which would promptly be optioned for a movie). Everyone was looking for the easy way, and writing was not meant to be easy. A person did not decide to become a writer; a person was forced to write because it was the only way to keep all the words in his head from crushing him.
At least, that was Dan's experience.
xxx
Jones enjoyed watching Dan work, even when it was painful. Jay-Me was clearly thrown off by her interviewer's indifference and was working so hard to try and inspire a reaction that Jones found himself laughing too hard at her jokes and trying to smooth the situation over.
Dan was endlessly tortured by his writing by nature, and tortured by his employers by design. Jones was on the fence about whether it was a good or bad thing that Dan was so willing to interview Jay-Me, however laconically. It was good to see Dan roll with the punches and not get so worked up over the small things, but he never wanted to see Dan give up the good fight. The world needed Dan Ashcroft to kick back against the pricks.
Jones could feel Dan suddenly tense and didn't need to look up to know who was approaching their table. He grabbed Dan's hand under the table and squeezed.
"Preach!" Nathan Barley yelled, holding out his arms like he expected a hug. "How's my favorite cock muncher?"
Jones saw Jay-Me frown, and he saw Nathan pick up on that frown. Sir Dick Cheese quickly turned on what he tried to pass for charm, keeping up the pretense that he just happened to be wandering through a hotel bar on a Wednesday.
"Now, what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? And with these knobs?" Nathan reached out to touch Jones's shoulder but wisely stopped short. "Name's Nathan Barley. These guys and I go way back."
Jay-Me's face lit up.
"You're the Nathan Barley?"
xxx
Dan Ashcroft was a happy man. He had his article, he'd unloaded Jay-Me and Nathan Barley on one another, and he was heading home with Jones.
He knew Nathan and Claire were sleeping together. If Jay-Me were to come between them...
"Why are you grinning?" Jones asked. "What have you done?"
Dan looked at his partner appreciatively. Watching someone else be mesmerized by Jones helped him to take a step back and appreciate the self-created work of art that was Daniel Jones.
"Are you and Jay-Me going to go shopping? Get an ice cream?" Dan teased. Dan had taken Nathan Barley's arrival as his chance to escape. Jay-Me had clearly been thrown off, and the terminally kind Jones had exchanged phone numbers with her when Dan pretended to have forgotten his mobile. He was fairly certain he would never, ever have another reason to talk to Jay-Me.
Besides, she and Nathan Barley had a lot in common. They both thought Madonna was a genius. What else was there to say? Two people who attached the word genius to Madonna belonged together. He'd really had no choice but to leave. It could only be a matter of time before Nathan brought up the fact that Dan and his Dan Jr. were on display in Madonna's home. That wasn't a conversation Dan was willing to have.
"Have a heart, Dan! The poor thing was trying so hard to impress you. She read all your articles..."
"And loved all of them," Dan added. "Even the one Jonatton Yeah? wrote. She's an idiot."
"She's pretty. And sexy."
Dan shuddered. "She's the same age as Lenore."
When Jones didn't share his disgust, Dan's heart stopped. The hours he'd spent wondering if he'd finally lost Jones had destroyed even the vaguest interest he'd had in other sexual partners. The thought of having an affair made him want to vomit with anxiety. Dan had gotten a taste of happiness; he wasn't ready to lose it all.
"Jones..." He couldn't think of anything else to say. He was feeling dizzy, and he was pretty sure it was only vaguely connected to the three whiskey and sodas he'd had at the hotel, and the four cigarettes he'd smoked in the past fifteen minutes.
"I don't mean to keep shovin' it in your face," Jones said quietly. "It's just... it's still doin' my head in. I'll get over it."
Dan felt guilty and ashamed and impotent in every way possible. With about seven hours, a bottle, three packs of fags, and his laptop, Dan might have been able to put his feelings into words.
If he'd been capable of crying, it would have been a relief. As it was, he would just have a headache that would hang on. It was like there were too many thoughts in his head, and they were bruising his skull. When Jones hugged him, Dan felt like a piece of shit, but he felt like a lucky piece of shit.
"I love you, Dan," Jones whispered into Dan's ear. Dan's eyes were painfully dry, as though all the moisture in his body had fled his head, lest he shed a tear.
"Love you." Dan managed to squeak the words around the lump in his throat.