It’s the end of the afternoon. I’m cashing up, and dusting the counter down.
I thought I locked the door, but a customer walks in, jangling the rusty bells above the doorframe. He’s wearing a tattered brown jacket over top of a bright turquoise shirt. His hair is bright turquoise – the most turquoise shade of turquoise you could ever see. His pale white face reveals no discernable emotion other than a mild contempt for his surroundings. His lower lip is stuck out like a sulking toddler.
“Where are the calendars?” he says.
“We don’t have many left in March,” I say, “but there’s a few left on the shelf.”
I point him in the right direction.
The man’s lip juts out further. “My boss says March is the best time to buy calendars. That’s when the prices come right down. You can get by until March. Last year’s calendar has the dates listed for January. You don’t need to worry about February. It’s the shortest month, and nothing much happens.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m not telling you how to live your life.”
The man marches over to the shelf. He takes out a turquoise mobile phone. A couple of seconds later, a deep, raspy voice rips through the little speaker. “Are you there yet?”
“Yes,” says the turquoise man. “I’m here.”
“Well?”
“They’re mainly children’s ones. Bob The Builder, Transformers, Barbie…”
“And?”
“There’s a Van Gogh one.”
“Has it got Sunflowers?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t want it. Hate Sunflowers.”
“You wouldn’t have to look at it. Sunflowers is January.”
“Why would they use Sunflowers for January? They haven’t put any thought into it at all. That calendar deserves to be left on the shelf. What else?”
“There’s er … Screen Hunks.”
“Screen what? Speak up!”
“Screen Hunks,” whispers the turquoise man.
“Good. Run through the pictures for me. Start with March.”
The turquoise man rolls his eyes. “OK. March is Clooney.”
The voice is pleased. “Clooney. The Cloonmeister. The Big Cloon. What’s the picture like? Describe it.”
The turquoise man shuffles his feet awkwardly, checking over his shoulder to see if there’s anyone standing nearby. He says, “It’s a black and white shot. Clooney is standing outside what looks like a barn, but this may be just part of a film set. He is wearing a white shirt with a dark jersey wrapped round his neck, its sleeves hanging down his chest. He is smiling warmly, directly into camera. If you look closely, you may detect a flicker of doubt, as Clooney wonders whether posing for this photograph is an extension of his acting work, or an artless commercial enterprise. He is concerned – mildly concerned, but concerned nonetheless – that this image of himself smiling outside a barn invalidates his position as self-elected spokesperson for the Anti-War Movement.”
“What about April?”
“April is Kutcher.”
“Well, the less said about that muppet the better. Moving on. May?”
“May is Pitt.”
“OK. Getting somewhat predictable now. Don’t tell me. Topless on a beach, right?”
“Spot on,” says the turquoise man. “Would you like me to continue?”
“Yes,” says the voice. “Immediately.”
“June is Damon.”
“Hmmm. Damon. Interesting. Describe.”
“Damon is sitting close up to camera, seen from side on. He is staring moodily into space. No trace of a smile.”
“How moody is he, exactly?”
The turquoise man places the calendar back on the shelf, taking a step back. He strokes a thin white finger over his thin white chin. “There are mixed emotions here. Damon is moody because he has been told to be moody by the photographer. This in itself brings out some genuine emotion in Damon that is more than simple stylised affectation. Although he is unhappy about being directed in this manner, uncharacteristically Damon finds himself unable to summon up any creative input. Perhaps this is because Damon is in two minds about the whole process. While part of him is deeply uncomfortable with his inclusion in this calendar, there is another part of him that wishes he was Pitt – standing topless on the beach, sexy, chilled and carefree.”
“Fine. Fine.”
“July …”
“Don’t worry about the other months. I get the idea. Just tell me – is Cruise in there?”
The turquoise man flicks hurriedly through the glossy sheets. “No,” he says. “No Cruise.”
“I’ll buy it then. How much is it?”
“99p.”
“See if you can haggle,” says the voice. “It’s March after all.”
I smile as the turquoise man approaches the counter. His eyes are lowered, focussing on the calendar he is clutching in his hands.
I say, “Your boss sounds very particular.”
“Believe me,” he says, “this is just the tip of a Titanic iceberg. Is there any chance…?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I say. “Because it’s March, I can let this go for 50p.”
The turquoise man blinks as his white face flushes momentarily. He hands over a hexagonal coin, and walks out before I can offer a receipt.
Now he’s hanging around on the pavement outside. He takes off his brown jacket and ties it round his waist.
I watch through the window.
A second later, my view of the street is obscured by the man’s wings. A giant pair of turquoise wings eject themselves from his back. His wings are the size of cars, with overlapping rows of turquoise feathers.
One flap of his wings and the man is out of sight.
I drop the plastic bag of coins onto the floor and run after him.
Out on the seafront, I see him swooping over the promenade and away.
The sun is setting over the pier – a pink, red, orange sky. The turquoise man flies towards the sun, swooping and gliding, his feet swimming in the air. I watch, until he’s just a turquoise full-stop against the dimming light.