Geoff began sweating as soon as he was in his seat. The studio lights fried him more than they dazzled him, and they dazzled him a great deal. The blaring music, the suddenly unleashed audience noise, the horrifying realisation that the cameras were actually rolling! It was all he could do to lift his arm, let alone move it about. But this was what he’d chosen, wasn’t it? To be rich! And famous, of course. It was all about choice.
The applause died down, the lights focussed on the presenter, his fellow victims jiggled skittishly on their ducking stools. He kept on waving, flapping his limp wrist stupidly to and fro, for another three whole seconds after everyone else. No one had told him to stop.
The television muttered away to itself in a bored undertone. Something on Alphonso’s left leg itched, and he wondered if it might be a fleabite. He felt no concern at this: fleas were to be expected in such surroundings, as were mice. There was the mouse now, popping his little head out of a crisp packet not two feet from the paper bin. Little, bright eyes. Alphonso picked up the saucepan, still heavy with mouldering stew, and lobbed it. The little bright eyes, one now detached, gazed perplexedly from a red mess of viscera.
A short while later, there was a phone call. Alphonso listened politely, said yes when required, and hung up. Then he thought for a while, and went to find a damp cloth.
Geoff tried to listen to the presenter's jokey introduction, but failed utterly. The thin screen before him lit up, and seemed to him to pulse malevolently, like the possessed television in Poltergeist. He came back only just in time to realise that instructions were being given. Every word that told him, you're on, sunshine, was a punch in his dyspeptic stomach.
Gibbering to himself, he was largely unaware of dragging his forefinger across the screen, moistening it with dabs of grease as he went. The words changed colour. There was a long, long pause.
"Right," said the presenter, clapping his hands together and talking to a camera, "Here's what you should have got, okay?"
And, of course, the moment of intense, eye-bulging shock when he heard his name being called was as genuine as his relief at finally remembering his name. He hoped the camera wouldn't linger on the gleaming sweaty tidemark on his seat as he vacated it. He hoped his glasses wouldn't fall off, as they had a nasty tendency to do. Mostly, he hoped he wouldn't say anything too embarrassing. Or wet himself.
He clambered onto the seat in the middle of the arena. Around him were serried rows of faces. Or there probably were: the lights were if anything even more dazzling here. He stared blindly at the glare of publicity.
“Hello, Geoff,” said the presenter. The style was mock inquisitorial, a nod to the courtroom connotations of the set. A courtroom on a space station.
So this was celebrity. The age we live in, the age of instant fame. And here he was, instantly famous. It was not quite as he’d imagined, but almost as bad as he’d feared. He realised belatedly that he was being asked something.
“Sorry?” he said.
“Married to Siobhan,” said the presenter, after a long intake of breath, “That’s her in the audience, hello! Let’s get on with it.”
Geoff spent the first five questions preoccupied with his bladder.
The motorcade swept smoothly around the bend, rapturous crowds to right and left. The man in the back seat of the open-topped car waved and smiled. The dark-suited men on foot jogged smartly to keep up. The pretty lady next to the waving man appeared to smile. The waving man slumped forwards in his seat, a shocked expression on his face. Then his head exploded. Alphonso nodded, and hit rewind.
Celebrity. The word of the age. Celeb. Not unlike Caleb, who entered the Promised Land because of his faith. And what is in that word, “Celeb”? Air. What is the Promised Land of which we now dream? To be on the front cover, to be on the television, doing and saying nothing of any value, to be photographed shopping at Somerfield in jogging pants and a baseball cap. Promised by television to its followers, immortality for the proverbial fifteen minutes. The great god in the corner.
Alphonso stared, loving and hating, at the god, watching as it devoured a victim it made earlier. Not that TV was JFK’s only medium, but the media helped birth him as Most Powerful Man in the Free World, and then showed to worlds free and unfree and for all time the horribly public nature of his end.
We are jealous of our gods, and resentful. Just as they are jealous, quick to anger, so we are quick to bring them down and raise ourselves in their place.
Alphonso shifted his weight to one side and broke wind against the arm of the sofa. Hardly a display of gratitude to so stalwart and hospitable a host. He got up, sniffed, and thought about going to the kitchen. But first, he had to check on the List. He picked the first magazine from the mighty pile next to the sofa, and leafed through it. Occasionally, he paused and circled a face in red biro. Having finished with Hello, he moved on to Ok, and then Heat. He noted names and faces, cross-referenced reports.
He went to the sideboard, and from there moved to the window, concealed by net curtains and the darkness of the room. Two boys cycled slowly by on the pavement, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder. “Bang!” he said. He propped the rifle against the wall, and went to find the jotter. One day, the rifle would work.
"But I'm not going to give you that!" Geoff heard the presenter say, many years later, to great hilarity, "You've done incredibly well…"
He had. In defiance of all reasonable expectations, especially those of the presenter.
"…and now, here you are, Geoffrey," said the presenter, "Here's the big one. Take a look at this. Take your time."
He saw the question before him.
Slowly, he smiled at the presenter.
"You're taking the Michael, aren't you, Chris?" Geoff suggested.
"No," said the presenter, glaring. He folded his arms. He glared a bit more.
"Oh," said Geoff. Just as he was about to start going on talk shows! The script was supposed to be that he won a huge amount of money, and got interviewed about it ad infinitum. This was the script he wanted, the script of instant celebrity. Not this other script, of near-achievement and obscurity.
"It's a tricky one," said the presenter.
"Yes," said Geoff.
"Take your time," said the presenter.
"Mmm," said Geoff. This was the moment, the moment at which he would become a fully-fledged instant celebrity, eligible for story selling and photo-shoots, and all the other trappings of fame. He must not fail. He scratched his backside. No help there.
"I think I'm going to have to phone a friend, Chris," he said.
"I thought you might say that!" said the presenter, unfolding his arms and adjusting his cuffs, "Who are you going to phone?"
"I'd like to phone Denise, please," said Geoff.
"Denise," said the presenter, "She a good friend of yours?"
If by friendship is meant someone who knew you before fame and money. What might she be afterwards?
"Sure?" said the presenter, blank faced.
"Look, can we just get on with it, please?" said Geoff. The audience gasped, like a rickety door. He had crossed the line. Transgressed the code. Been wound up. Now not one of them wanted him to win. He glanced at Siobhan to check. She was frowning.
"Okay," said the presenter, frostily, "Let's try Denise."
Geoff became aware of a change of pitch in the studio acoustics.
"It's ringing," the presenter confirmed. The skin on Geoff's face tightened. The ringing continued.
“If a body meets a body…,” said Alphonso, jotting, and nodding to the John Lennon poster above the television. There was someone who was someone. Like the man on the television with the exploding head. They were celebrities in their day, and had that status for a reason. Not like the throwaway phoneys of nowadays. Famous for fifteen nanoseconds, just for being on the telly. But, of course, there are other ways of becoming instantly famous. He nodded to the photograph by the window, of the man from the book depository, forever as famous as JFK because of that one day, that moment of finger pressure.
“If a body meets a body…,” said Alphonso again. With his whole body, he wanted to be famous. But unlike some, he wanted to earn it.
"Taking her time," said the presenter, smirking.
"Yes," said the drum-tight Geoff.
"Hello?" said someone.
"Oh, hello, there!" said the presenter, "Is that Denise?"
"Do I sound like Denise?" said the very male voice.
"Well, now you come to mention it!" said the presenter, grinning at the audience. Big laughs. "Well, this is a bit awkward. Can I speak to Denise, please?"
"I don't know any Denise," said the male someone. Geoff relaxed. The world was showing him how much it hated him. He could handle this. It served him right for wanting to win, he reflected.
"I think you've got the wrong number," the someone continued.
"I don't think this has ever happened before!" said the presenter, openly laughing in Geoff's face. The audience shared the delight, deafeningly.
"Hang on, is this Chris from the telly?" said the voice. The presenter mugged, preened and threw up his hands. Off camera, a young, attractive but somewhat inattentive researcher was compelled to consider alternative employment.
Suddenly, Geoff had an idea.
"Why don't we just keep this guy on?" he said.
“But he could be anybody!” said the presenter.
"Why not?" said Geoff. "None of my other friends will have a clue about it."
"Righto," said the presenter, wondering which tabloid would be most interested in this.
Geoff retook his seat. His wife was dragged back to hers by a security man. The presenter straightened his tie. The cameras continued to roll.
"So," said the presenter, "Our contestant is stuck on the million pound question. He gave us the wrong number for his friend Denise, so Geoff has now decided that the best course of action is to entrust his family's one shot at financial security to a total stranger. That about right, Geoff?"
"Yep," said Geoff, solemnly.
"Okay, then," said the presenter, "Sir, the next voice you hear will be Geoffrey's. I need to tell you that, because you've never heard it before. Geoffrey, here's someone you've never met."
"Hi," said Geoff.
"Pleased to meet you," said the voice.
"Yeah," said Geoff, blinking the screen into focus. He read the question.
"Can you read it again?" said the voice.
"Which…" said Geoff.
"Only joking," said the voice, "It's The Godfather. Easy."
"Are you sure?" said Geoff, completely incredulous.
"Yessir," said the voice, "Totally."
"How do you know?" said Geoff, but the clock made a very rude beep, and the voice was cut off.
“What do you think?” said the presenter. “Difficult to tell with a total stranger.”
“I’m going to go for it, Chris,” said Geoff. Fame would be his at last.
Alphonso stared at the grimy phone in his hand. It was the right answer. He had been of service. Now a debt, an obligation existed. He looked up at a photo of Chapman above the fireplace. The phoneys had cut him off. They had disrespected him. So it was time to take care of business. Collect the debt. Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes, be it as a politician, a game show host or a contestant. Or as something else. There are many ways of being famous. You just have to choose.
© Chris Fyles, 2008
Telephony by Chris Fyles was read by Martin Lamb at the Liars' League Fame & Fortune event in 10 June 2008
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