SEBASTIAN SINCLAIR - Hotel Room

The curtains in my room are a discerningly neutral shade of cream. Panels of cardboard-enforced potato sack to guard my weary eyes from daylight assaults of golden sheen. They jostle each other into position as I pull on the teeth of their plastic chain. A dresser, wooden effect complete with etchings of old lovers’ names framed by a lopsided heart stands by the window, accompanied by a precarious, lurching wooden chair. My belongings lay scattered haphazardly across the top; passport holder, flight stubs, used biro, twenty Euros. Mementos of an indeterminate existence.  In the corner, by a battered television, stands a coffee table, sans coffee or drinkable tea. Disturbing smudges grace its poorly varnished surface. I have read stories about German coffee tables, although mostly of the glass topped variety. Still, I studiously avoid it. I preside over my rented, ‘single room en suite bathroom’ territory like a bored guard dog, surveying the magnificence of my ten by ten kingdom. I pace its hallowed halls as German adverts puncture the silence with pseudo-cheerful jingles advertising some new brand of cleaning product.

I sit myself down on my drunken throne, smooth down my cuffs and study the man reflected in the grey smears of the mirror. Chestnut tousled hair graces an ageing forehead, marred by a regiment of wrinkles; timeless folds to document the emotional scarring of a meritless existence. The eyes, once a brilliant, piercing emerald green, are now lacklustre through a continued inability to shine in any meaningful way. Lined, thin lips adorn the jaw like a stark trim, mean from a lifetime of pursing as I struggle to contain all the regret, frustration and anger within. The shoulders are pulled tight, the chest: unheroic. Long limbs contort themselves around my frame as I hunch myself over the dresser, desperately trying to block out the noises of the television, my anchor to reality in this bland prison. My one- man show is a farce. I adorn myself in gaudy armour to stun my opponents into a silent defeat, I serve my modish Gods: Gucci, Armani, Prada, with a slavish adulation, my soul for their divine protection. In return, they bestow upon me the power to draw those whose promises mean little and words even less. Their brains run at the speed of a broken clock, their values are worthless; souls null and void. These are my people. I - their leader, their conqueror, their divider and their destroyer.

A knock at the door disturbs the gloomy reverie. I look at the shade in the reflection, see the glint in his emerald eyes harden and rouse myself to respond to humanity’s cry.

<< Mr Sinclair, there is a gentleman from the press conference who wishes to speak with you. He is here with me, sir. Do you have a minute?>>

Through the spy hole, I watch a young man shift uncomfortably as the steward politely inclines his head and walks briskly down the hall way. He scratches his nose nervously as he transfers his weight from one foot to the other, checking his watch and eyeing the door with an inclined head. I stand back and wait intently. Eventually, he picks up the courage to knock hesitantly, two heartbeats on the wooden frame. Ten seconds.

‘Ah yes... good afternoon. I was told to expect you. Please, come in, no use conducting a conversation in such an inhospitable manner!’

I open the door and allow the nervous wretch into my dismal kingdom. Our eyes meet for a second as he passes, then he lowers his in obeisance. His youthful skin still reflects a greasy, sickly yellow in the dim light, dark shadows lining his dark, anxious eyes. In the East, it is believed that the keys to our health and spirit are found in our face. If this were true, the man’s face would herald ill tidings as unparalleled misery clings to his profile like a forlorn barnacle.  For a split-second I see deceit illuminate the shade’s eyes as I glance at the dresser. He recognises one of our flock. I stride over to the minibar, frequented in times of frustration, elation and plain boredom.

‘Can I offer you a tipple Mr....?’

<<Eisenberg...sir. Stephen Eisenberg.>>

‘Ah yes...Mr Eisenberg. A scotch on the rocks perhaps? My tipple of choice...’

<<No thank you...sir. I’m fine...>>

‘Very well. You must excuse me then Mr Eisenberg, I am still reeling from the shock of the death of my client and I find that alcohol does wonders to calm my nerves’

<< Of course...>>

As I pour myself a vial of that sweet, amber elixir over glistening rocks of aqua pura, I study this tremulous husk of a man. Apart from his nervous disposition, he is unremarkable in appearance. His clothes are aged from continuous wearing, creases wearing down the fibres, exposing in places the tissues and tendons of the garment. A cynically green tie hangs limply around a scrawny neck, enveloped by similarly flaccid white collar. Thick glasses adorn a long, gaunt face, shielding dark, sunken holes from the resplendence of natural light. His cheekbones point to a foreign ancestry, high and round like pale, polished doorknobs He reminds me of plant languishing in a teenage boy’s bedroom, the same flaccidity droops from every contour.

‘So Mr Eisenberg, I hear you have tracked me down! You must have something important you wish to discuss! It cannot be that you simply wish to watch me drink!’

<<Yes sir...I wish to discuss...the octopus. But if it is too difficult for you, I understand. I can come back...if you cannot talk now, my room is down the hall...I understand.>>

‘It is a raw topic, certainly... but a necessary one, I fear. Tell me, what is it about Paul you wish to ask me?’ I say as I watch him over the rim of my frosted glass. The last drops of liquor burn my throat and their warmth trickles through my veins like hot honey.

<<I don’t know if you are familiar with my work...sir. I am...I was a marine biologist, I specialised in octopodal molluscs and cephalopods...common octopi. I was undertaking some groundbreaking research on the testing of cognitive ability and behaviour in cephalopods in order to concretely prove the superior intelligence of these creatures over other species, especially marine mammals.  I believe them to have vastly underrated cognitive powers hitherto undermined by scientific research. It is commonly thought that dolphins are the most intelligent of marine life but it is just not true! I cannot understand it. Even a walrus has a higher emotional I.Q. than a dolphin, they are ludicrous creatures! People just...they don’t understand, they are beguiled by their supposed joviality, all that damned squeaking and splashing around. They are mocking us, I tell you! An octopus would never make such a spectacle of itself, they have a gravitas, an aura of respectability. No one can laugh at an octopus. Anyway... I was on the verge of finishing a historic thesis on the clairvoyant ability inherent in the common octopus in relation to other sea creatures when out of the blue, the project was discontinued. The facility claimed that the findings were ‘irrelevant’ to the marine community. They couldn’t be more wrong... my work is vital in understanding the mindset of the invertebrate...possibly developing a course of cognitive behavioural therapy for psychologically unstable molluscs. The possibilities were vast, the implications unthinkable! Now... my P.H.D is wasted...or so I thought until I heard you speak about Paul. Your words... moved me. You would understand the importance of my work! You can help me secure funding so I can continue my research! Please... I must finish my work it is unspeakably important. I am begging you! >>

SEBASTIAN SINCLAIR - Press Conference

SEBASTIAN SINCLAIR

Breathe. In and out. Deep breaths. 

All around me, light. Light burning hotter than a nuclear star, energy emanating from each bulb in a furious atomic buzz that pervades the senses, fraternizes with the inner lobes and chastises the neurons into a state of permanent semi-agitation. Their heat burns my skin like the harsh desert sun, unforgiving, relentless, omnipresent. I can feel the stiffness of my hair gel begin to weaken as a single strand of hair shifts out of position. It is swiftly rectified. My neck is drenched in sweat, I feel the salty, sweet musk soak through my starched collar. Paul Smith, Winter 2009. My cuff links glisten in the light, casting a golden, more forgiving glow onto the whitewashed walls. Twenty four carat, diamond encrusted Diamante. I straighten my tie, tightening the knot to ensure I keep my focus. Selfridges Men’s, 2007, Spring. Eternal seconds go by as I wait. There are times when a man must wait patiently for an opportunity. He makes himself amenable to others, cultivates friendships, becomes the ‘good guy’. He accumulates social worth, he climbs. And he waits, patiently, enduring the whims of the fates until they grant him that fabled lucky break. Then there are times when a man must pounce, storm down the fortress, hold the oracles hostage until they grant him the opportunity to which he has no divine right. He must take ownership of his fate and bend it to his will. He must thrust himself into the light. I am such a man. This is my time.

Breathe.

‘Today at 16.52, Paul the much loved Psychic Octopus, left this mortal earth for more ethereal, oceanic planes. Although he had officially retired from the oracular sporting sphere, who can forget his amazing legacy which has touched the hearts and minds of so many football fans around the globe. Indeed, who could have predicted that a common octopus could rise to such dizzying heights of fame and influence, and be gifted with such astounding abilities. We assume that animals are endowed with a lower level of consciousness. Paul has proved this is not so. He has transcended all expectations and become an icon in his own right. He is a symbol of presence of divinity within natural world. He is hope. He is a beacon of light for those who feel lost in a world consumed by materialism and an obsession with rationality. We demand rationality and logic from our daily lives, we spurn the unexplainable, the irrational, we spurn the very belief which constitutes our humanity. Is love logical? Does it conform to rationality? Yet we would never think to debate its existence or importance within our society.

I beg you, to consider yourself. Consider your life, your hopes, your fears, the minutia which make up your hourly existence. What does it amount to? Do the seconds of tedium drag you through each day to its welcome, inevitable conclusion with a weary gladness that a slumberous oblivion awaits?

Consider the existence of the divinity within nature. Consider Paul. This is all I ask of you. I will now take questions.’

A scrabble of hands all vie for the same patch of heavy, contorted air. A show of digital flashes erupt around the room, an electrical light fantastic which robs the eyes momentarily, lightening thieves of a mundane vision. The room itself is utterly without charm, a neglected conference room in a three star hotel in the germanised twin of Middlesbrough. Their carpet is a sea of red and blue threads intertwined in a moronic pattern of decay and cheerless corporate institutionalisation. Dry white flakes peel off the walls like dead porcelain skin. Generic landscapes of quaint fields adorn the walls as if to hint at the quasi-divine perfection of the gentrified, agrarian ideal after the forty-year struggle to become a competent entity in a faceless, corporate world. I wonder how many other conference room floors are graced by the presence of such wretched, pedestrian tapestry. I can see a dark stain beside a chair leg, vestige of a long forgotten sojourn into the bounds of hell, discussing quarterly figures, new sales incentives and targeted promotional activities whilst politely sipping from the poisoned chalice of boredom. Following up from caffeinated discolouration, I spot a paragon of human intelligence, virtue and wit to focus my attentions on. He slouches on his cheap plastic seat, crumbs scattered across his creased dark suit, an unidentifiable beverage splattered daintily over the off white cotton shirt, dancing a merry waltz with a plethora of cotton bobbles and lint. He will suit.

<<Clive Jones, Sealife News. What sort of relationship did you have with the er....octopus?’ Sniggers rebound around the crowd.

‘Paul and I had an excellent professional working relationship. He was a very intelligent and shrewd mollusc, I feel I learnt a great deal from him. It is my firm belief that through a mutual respect we developed a strong business partnership which lasted right until the end’

 <<Right. Shrewd mollusc. And how are Paul’s nearest and dearest taking the news?>>

‘Obviously, we are all greatly saddened by Paul’s untimely demise. I have pushed for an autopsy so that we may understand what happened during those final hours. However the vet has so far declined, he feels that such procedures are...unnecessary. He is, of course, wrong. The whole staff at the sealife centre are in shock, and as such I am offering what support I can in my unique position as both agent and close confidante of Paul to ease their suffering.’  

<<So, these predictions. Fascinating stuff. Can you now tell us how it was done?>>

‘What do you mean Mr Jones? He was a psychic octopus. I cannot presume to know how he performed such marvellous feats. His methods are a mystery as much to me as they are to you.’

<<Funny. But surely that now the octopus is deceased, you can let the cat out of the bag? We are all very interested to know the scientific rationality behind the stunt.>>

‘Mr Jones... Do you believe that through scientific explanation the existence of divinity inherent in preternatural phenomena can be rationally negated? Do you believe that your readers possess no curiosity as to the mere possibility that a lowly octopus could have been endowed with a higher cognitive ability than most humans could ever attain? Indeed, are you of the persuasion that scientific theory disproves all presence of the divine within the world? What is it, exactly, Mr Jones, that you believe?’

<< ..my editor just wants me to write a piece on the octopus, mate. I don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo malarkey, I reckon that centre fixed it up somehow. Rigged the boxes.’

‘How, precisely, would the centre have ‘rigged them boxes’? Spiked the mussels, perhaps? Do you suppose, Mr Jones, that our beloved Paul was involved in octopodal conspiracy with bookies worldwide in order to raise funds for an underground network of crooked molluscs? Or perhaps, that our good friends at the Sealife centre took it upon themselves to bestow their own precognitive abilities upon a popular children’s attraction...to what end precisely? You seem like a theorist, Mr Jones, please be so kind as to illuminate the room to the rational explanations which you believe will expand our own understanding of this preternatural phenomena exponentially, I am convinced they will fascinate and amaze.’

Nervous laughter travels around the room like a hesitant Mexican wave. The mood is uncertain, doubt lingers in the air like a stale air freshener, palpable yet indefinably unpleasant. An unpleasantness which cannot upset a genteel civility, more subtly rile it through backhanded jibes. A seed is what is necessary; a seed to germinate in the minds of the vulnerable, the impressionable, the needy, the lost. A seed to sprout in the hearts of those who long to believe.

<<All I know, right, is that an octopus can’t tell the future. He don’t know anything about football! He don’t know anything about anything! He’s a fucking octopus, mate! To be perfectly honest with you, I think you’re a bit off your rocker. Just tell us how it was done, that’s why we’re here. Here’s you, going on about divinity and preternatural whatever and its nonsense mate. Its bull. Either you know about the octopus, factual stuff, or you don’t. But we ain’t falling for this bollocks. >>

 

‘If he is simply a ‘fucking octopus’, as you so charmingly describe him, then why precisely are you here Mr Jones? Am I right in assuming that you cover the obituaries section for German sealife centres? I feel it is time to move on from this topic. Next question.’

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