Dirt
I wring out the tightness in my hands, push my thumb into the meat of my palm, then pick up my pen. Having spent the evening digging before this interview, I hope my hand will even cooperate.
I’m nervous, naturally, not to mention I’m out-of-practice handwriting. I write with my laptop so often now, that writing by hand is almost a foreign language. But I’ve decided that it would be best to take notes by hand. My interview subject has never seen a laptop before, so I don’t want to upset him or scare him off. Besides, pen and paper are quieter, softer. Less intrusive.
I open up my notebook. Its hard cardboard spine gives a little crunch; the sound a tiny protest against its use. The clean white page with its 38 light blue lines begs for me to commit this author’s wisdom to it with the caress of my pen. My favourite pen. It’s got a big blue cartoon shark on the end of it. I got it at an aquarium a few months back but have been saving it for a special moment.
I brush away the errant specks of dirt that fall from my fingertips, and the zipper of my jacket clicks against my belt buckle. But this interview must be perfect. The notation must be perfect. The paper must be clean.
I crack my neck, roll my wrists, and clear my throat.
“Mr Dahl,” I begin. I don’t want to come off as fanatical, I try to keep my voice level and calm. He’ll pick up on it either way, so I might as well let him know directly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I make no secret of my appreciation of your work. And I find it a great honour to be sitting here with you this evening.”
A cold wind rustles through the trees. Now that I’ve had a chance to cool down, to be still for a while, I find the night air to be rather abrasive. I rezip my jacket back up.
Mr Dahl doesn’t seem much affected by the chill. He sits back casually, propped up against the stonework behind him. He rests his hands together on one bended knee cutting a fine shape in his suit. Looking at him, even after the years of age drawing on his face, I can see why Ian Flemming used him as inspiration for James Bond.
“I know you don’t care for small talk,” I continue. “Nor do I. So, let’s get straight into it, shall we? Are you aware of Netflix’s acquisition of your work?”
He doesn’t respond, just stares blankly. I think he might be confused.
“Netflix,” I explain. “It’s a media streaming—it’s a film and television production company. But instead of broadcasting on television, it is broadcast on the internet.”
No reply.
“On computers?” I add. I should have brought my laptop. He has no idea what I’m talking about. “Doesn’t matter.” I wave my hand dismissively. “The point is this company has purchased all of your work. And they’re going through the process of tidying up some of the more … colourful language. I really wanted to get your opinion on this. Do you consider it censorship, or artistic vandalism? Or would you make similar changes yourself, given that the world’s values have changed significantly since you wrote them.”
He nods. Well … half nods. His head goes down, but it doesn’t come back up. Now he is glaring at me over his glasses. Seems strange they’d leave him his glasses. He starts shaking.
I’ve touched a nerve.
He starts shaking more, and more. Then a rat pops its head from his sleeve. It leaps to the ground and scurries off through the grass. Another one rumbles out of his trouser leg. Then two more. There was a whole family in there.
I scream. I’ve never cared for rats. And I think its altogether rude of Mr Dahl to assault me with them. His body slumps forward now, agitated from rodents’ evacuation, and tumbles back down into the hole. It lands with a loud wooden thud against his coffin.
“Hey! Who’s there?” screams a voice. Must be the caretaker. Didn’t think there’d be one here at this time of night. I see a torchlight whipping across the gravestones, like a lighthouse against a rocky sea. The wind picks up and howls. The light catches my eyes.
“Hey! You!”
I leap to my feet, turn to run. My foot catches the shovel sitting by my backpack and I go falling to the ground. The caretaker’s running for me, I can hear his keys jangling on his hip. I roll over to stand back up, but it’s too late. He’s got me in his sights now, the torch bearing down on me, burning my eyes like the noonday sun.
I hold up the shovel defensively.
“What the utter fuck?” he cries.
He’s spotted the pile of dirt, he’s spotted the open grave, he’s spotted my tools. But it’s my pen he seems to fixate on. He steps forward, leans down to pick it up. One of his ghoulish boots pressed onto the crisp, white page of my notebook. The scrunching paper shrieks under his philistine foot.
The nerve.
There is a loud clang. A stunted cry of pain. Another collapse. The caretaker is lying face down on top of Mr Dahl. Neither of them is moving. My hands vibrate from the rattling shovel.
A short burst of static chatters up from the caretaker’s radio, “Oi Steve, what was that shouting about?”
A second caretaker. You’re kidding me.
“My apologies, Mr Dahl,” I say, quickly shovelling pile after pile of dirt back into the hole. “We’ll need to finish this interview another night.”