He'd thought about it for many months, discussed it
with wife and friends, solicited opinion, elicited comment. Mind churn
had been unrelenting.
The idea had now almost crystalized - almost;
certainly sufficiently for him to put pen to paper or, more accurately, keyboard
to screen. This long process of idea development and realization was not
unfamiliar to him, he being a successful, experienced dramatist. Its gestation
was at last a nascence. Now the work could take shape. He hoped.
He flexed his fingers and typed the ice-breaking words
on to the screen in Word.doc:
GOLF
The Musical.
He set the font and size: Garamond 14pt. Appropriate.
Dignified.
He sat back and smiled. There it was. Now for a cup of
coffee.
He processed the beans in the grinder, plugged in the
electric kettle, tipped the grounds into the cafetière and waited,
contemplating the opening scene of the musical - it wasn't quite there yet.
Having plunged the piston into the coffee solution and poured a mugful of the
Kenyan brew, he was keen to return to the computer.
His immediate impression of what he had left on the
screen was that it appeared too bland.
He wiped over 'Golf', changed its typeface to Ariel
Black, increased its size to 18 pt. and studied the result:
GOLF
The Musical.
All right, but it needed colour, and that full stop
was unnecessary:
GOLF
The Musical
Much better.
Then immediately, another thought. His name:
GOLF
The Musical
by
Huntly Rodgers
The telephone rang. It was Jerome Lee to remind him
that they had a lunch date in an hour. 'Bugger'. He put the iMac to sleep and
went to change into something a little more formal.
Lee was florid, corpulent and gave off an odour of
stale after-shave. He tended to grunt. His table manners were porcine. He was
gluttonous and his manner waspish. But to his confreres - all literati to a
greater or lesser degree - none of his shortcomings outweighed his capacity to
entertain.
'You still fiddling with that sod's opera?' He asked.
'"Golf"? Yes. Getting somewhere, I think.'
'Bloody silly subject for a musical. Who's going to go
to a performance?'
'You might have said the same thing about
"Chess". It was a triumph.'
'Hmmm.' Lee poked at a tooth gap with his little
finger. 'Sex in it?'
'Don't know yet. I've toyed with the idea of two
screwing in a bunker but the thought of sand under a foreskin is a bit
off-putting. It would certainly put you off your putting!'
'Make him a Jew.'
'There's a thought.'
The rest of lunch disposed of too much food and surely
too much wine. They consumed two bottles of a chewy Pinot Noir, Lee gulping at
least two thirds as a dying man at an oasis. Unaccustomed to heavy eating in
the middle of the day Rodgers felt uncomfortably replete and slightly fuzzy and
after having seen Lee into a taxi following his seemingly never-ending series
of dismissive snorts and bright ideas all to do with golf, Rodgers was pleased
to see the back of him as he walked slowly along the street towards his
apartment building.
The first thing he noticed was the flashing red light
on the telephone. He pressed the messages button. It was Nancy, his wife, who
was staying with her mother by the sea. 'Hi it's me.' It said tinnily, 'Nothing
of import. Just wanted to know how the work's going. No need to reply. I know
you of old. Love you. Bye.' beep, beep beep.
Good old Nan. Always knew when to stay away. Once the
musical started to write itself he'd get her home again. He fired up the iMac.
The screen came up as he'd left it:
GOLF
The Musical
by
Huntly Rodgers
Lunch had made him sleepy. He went to the bedroom and
laid down.
Waking at six thirty in the evening his mouth felt dry and metallic. He
pressed the mouse on the way to fixing a gin and tonic. The title was still
there. Something not quite right. He'd think about it. He sipped the refreshing
drink and thought about it. The title page felt like a roadblock. Until he'd
got it just so he didn't think he'd be able to proceed to scene one which, in
any case, was inchoate to say the least. The trouble with Macintoshes and
Word.com was that they turned you into a typographical obsessive. Perhaps he'd
have made a better designer than playwright; he just loved all of those font
options!
His tummy rumbled, so being naturally lazy he went to the MacDonalds
about ten minutes walk away, had a quarter pounder with cheese and a paper
cup-thingy of chips before walking back home swearing that he'd never go to a
take-away again.
He was plagued all night with salt and saturated fat indigestion coupled
with vivid scenes of golf played both on stage and on the links. He did nothing
about either discomfort, being between sleeping and waking, until he finally
dropped off completely. Too soon a pesky shaft of sunlight stabbed at his eyes
through a crack in the curtain. It was nine-thirty in the morning.
Something had happened in his sub-conscious. He booted
up the computer and stared at the isolated title on the screen. He ran down the
list of available fonts and selected Braggadocio:
GOLF
The Musical
by
Huntly Rodgers
Then he enlarged the sub-title and opened up some
interlinear space:
GOLF
The Musical
by
Huntly Rodgers
And finally put his name in capital letters in the
sans serif Gill typeface that he'd always admired:
GOLF
The Musical
by
Huntly Rodgers
Then, with an insightful flourish, he searched the
Internet for a neat little illustration that would give it life:
GOLF
The Musical
by
Huntly Rodgers
That was it! He sat back and studied the title page
thoroughly. Then he went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee which he
brought back to the study. He poured a cup of the thick, hot, black brew,
spooned in four sugars, sipped contentedly, pressed the command 'insert page
break', and started to type:
Scene: A crowded
club house. Twelve women in tweed skirts, twin sets and pearls and brogue
shoes. Ten men in blue double-breasted blazers, white flannels and black
loafers. They stand expectantly, silently, either side of a door up-stage.
Through the door come two more men dressed as the other males in the chorus.
Sitting on their shoulders is the hero, Dick Killinger, who raises both arms
and cries out 'I did it! A hole-in-one on the fourth. Shout the clubhouse.' There
is a cheer as the chorus crowd round him. The orchestra strikes up...'
The telephone rang. Rodgers ignored it. The text
signal played 'Greensleeves' on his iPhone. He ignored it. The apartment
doorbell buzzed. 'Bugger!' he yelled, then louder and louder 'Bugger, bugger,
bugger!'
He reached over and unplugged the iMac.
[ENDS]
