Corporate Clarke's Fiction

[~1,500 words | 5-6 minutes read]

“Why do you have two copies of True Lies?” Nigel asks his son. “Why is one massive?” 

“The big one is the LaserDisk,” says Mark. “The LaserDisk has the original image transfer, before they messed it up on the Blue.”

“Blue?”

“Blue-ray.”

“So why do you have the Blue-ray if it’s worse?”

“I don’t have a LaserDisk player yet.”  

“The Blue-ray is still in the cellophane wrapper.”

“Yeah, I haven’t watched it yet.”

“So how do you know it’s bad?”

“Everyone says it’s bad.”

“Like who?”

“Collectors on the forums and stuff.” 

“I see.”

Nigel moves some small packages to make room to sit on the futon. “What are these?”

“Just more Blues that I ordered that I haven’t sorted yet,” says Mark. 

Nigel tips up an open package, the film Paul falls into his hand. The box is heavy and metallic. 

“What is this?” 

“That’s a Paul SteelBook. It’s a limited edition.”

“How much did it cost?”

“Thirty-three quid that one, I think.” 

“Thirty-three quid for Paul? You can probably get it on streaming for nothing.” 

“It’s a triple-play with rare cover art.”

He carefully puts the SteelBook back into the padded envelope. He looks around the long attic. It’s a bedroom, cinema and film library built into one room. A smart double bed, a little deskspace in the corner, a futon and rug. Everything is tidy. A projector is attached to the ceiling and there is a pull out screen rolled up against the wall. The only alarming aspect is the two long walls, which are pretty much the length of the house, that are covered floor to ceiling in Blue-rays and DVDs and other video formats. There are little piles of packages everywhere, presumably containing more. 

“When did you get into this?”

“When I was about fifteen.” 

“So all this in just seven years?” 

“Yeah. 

“What does your girlfriend think of this?” Mark just snorts in reply. “What did Mum think of it?”

“She thought it was a waste of money.” 

“But she paid for it?”

“At the start.” 

“Must’ve been expensive.” 

“So is divorce.” 

“Touché.” 

They sit there quietly for a while, both looking at the shelves with none of their feelings in common. 

“Do you want to watch one?” Nigel asks his son. 

“Now?”

“Yeah. But can we watch it downstairs, because you know,” he says, nodding to the bed, which is the only place to watch the projector from.

“Yes, I have a player downstairs attached to the TV.”

Nigel picks up the package again, “Let’s watch the Paul SteelBook.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, probably best to keep it light.” 

They go downstairs and Nigel tells Mark to come into the kitchen to check something. Nigel puts the padded envelope containing the Paul SteelBook onto the breakfast island, opens the gas boiler cupboard, stands on the kitchen unit, and reaches on top of the boiler. 

“Mum had the whole kitchen refitted after you left, Dad. Everything that was yours was ripped out.” 

“I know. I paid for that refit,” Nigel says, straining. There is the sound of tearing industrial tape, and then he shows his son a bottle, triumphantly. 

“Andres Brugal rum. Left it here so that the solicitors didn’t include it in the settlement. I was going to tell you about it when you passed a big milestone.” He pauses, then adds quickly, “Not that you haven’t achieved any milestones, I was just waiting for something big, you know.” 

“Like Mum being dead.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” He lowers himself down from the unit. 

“I don’t even drink rum,” says Mark. “I think I’ve had it twice before – mixed with other things. I don’t really know what it tastes like.”

“Well this is two grand a bottle, so we’re starting from a high point.”

“Two-thousand pounds? And you had a go at my Paul SteelBook?”

“You can’t stream this on Netflix, Son.”

Nigel pours out two fingers into two glasses. Mark takes a sip and starts coughing. “Jesus. That’s strong, Dad.” 

“Want some ice?”

“I think I need a mixer. I have some cherry Pepsi Max in the fridge.” His Dad frowns. “Sorry, I have to. It’s too strong. ” 

“Do what you have to do. But I’m not watching you defile that rum. I’ll go and set up the movie.” 

When Mark joins his dad in the living room he is surprised to find he has managed to set up all the technology. The opening of Paul is on the screen, paused. When he sits down his dad presses play. 

“So can you tell the difference between streaming and the Blue-ray?” his dad asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Does the picture look better?” 

“Not just the picture, but the sound as well. It sounds like listening to a CD.” 

“I don’t think you can really tell the difference,” says Nigel. 

They watch in silence for about twenty minutes, neither of them laughs but for different reasons. 

“How is the job hunt going?” asks Nigel. 

“About one-hundred applications to get an interview. Got past the first stage once and then nothing.”

“What type of jobs are you going for?” 

“Graduate roles and stuff.” 

“You should just get any type of job, just get some experience of work. It will look better on your CV to be doing something and looking after yourself.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Dad.”

“It does,” says Nigel. After a few minutes he says, “You’re lucky to have this house – everything paid for. You could really take advantage of it. And now you have the insurance payout. It could help your career.”

Mark snorts, “How?” 

“You can afford to work for free. Get an internship. Do some volunteering. Get your driving license. It gives you so much flexibility.”

“I might go travelling.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

After ten minutes, Mark asks, “Why do you say that?”

“What?”

“That I won’t go travelling.”

“Because that would mean doing something. Getting organised. Committing to something.”

“The way you committed to the family?” 

“I did commit. I tried and I messed up. You don’t even try.” 

“Exactly. What an example you set.” 

“Oh, you’re the first kid in the world with divorced parents. Must be tough, Mark.”

“The studies show it’s not good for…”

“Mark, you don’t know you’re born. My dad used to be so violent the neighbours called the police every week. And that was back when neighbours didn’t call the police – they just minded their own business.” 

“And you haven’t dealt with that,” snaps Mark. “You’ve just passed the trauma on. I’m trying to deal with it.”

“How? By being a bum and collecting overpriced SteelBooks?” 

“Maybe it’s my way of processing it.” 

“This will be good. Go on.”

“It’s like art therapy. I use it to face my trauma.”

“Come on, Mark. I’ve seen the collection. True Lies, all the Jurassic Park films, all the Will Ferrell films. Fucking Paul .” He gestures at the screen. “There is nothing in there about pain. Not exactly Last Tango in Paris or Don’t Look Now is it? It’s all escapism.”

“Last Tango in Paris celebrates sexual assault.” 

“You’re missing the point.” 

After a moment, Mark says, “So what did you do to process your pain, Dad? Leave your family for another woman with her own family? Then never see your real son? You barely tried.”

“I didn’t see you because I wasn’t allowed to. I spent all my money on solicitors, trying to get access to you. I waited outside your school once just to get a glimpse of you but I got arrested and interviewed under caution. That’s why I’m broke and still twenty years away from paying my mortgage off. You inherited a house and have five years of your mum’s earnings in your current account. So don’t piss away the opportunities you have and pretend it’s some sort of therapy.”

“It was your fault, Dad. You shouldn’t have hit her.” 

“One time, Mark. One fucking time. She was acting crazy. I thought she was going to hurt you.” 

“That’s not what she said.” 

“Naturally.” 

“Did you hit your other wife?”

“Never.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“That’s up to you.” 

They watch in silence for another fifteen minutes, neither of them finding the film funny at all. Mark announces he’s going to get another drink, “Do you want anything, Dad?”

“Bring the rum in. And the cherry Pepsi.” 

A couple of minutes later Mark returns, standing in the doorway, holding the Paul SteelBook in his hand. He looks at the TV, “What are we watching it on, Dad?” 

“Oh. I just found it on Prime and pressed play. I didn’t even think. Sorry.” 

Mark stands in the doorway, taking small breaths, red in the face. His father sits on the couch looking down at the carpet, trying his hardest not to laugh, knowing his relationship with his son depends on it. 

END