Oliver loved life. Oliver lived life. Oliver loved and lived according to no plan, bumbling through his days with a happy competence which all around him envied but never begrudged him. He was endlessly open, up for anything, and rapturously affirmative of all that came his way -- good, bad or indifferent.
Oliver was young and had left school early. He had no head for figures, letters, books himself, but was always willing to listen if not learn. He earned his money by playing bass guitar in the popular city centre club ‘The big ‘O’’ with the up-and-coming rock band ‘One over Zero’. The band was enjoying modest success with a sound critics had described as “an eclectic aural orgasm approaching Dionysian proportions”, and “evidence that the wah-wah pedal may be a new form of life”. But Oliver had no time to read the press. After each gig Oliver’s natural good looks and easy manner would propel him effortlessly into the company of many beautiful people. They loved him on every level, as Oliver did each and every one of them -- without exception.
As he climbed off-stage after their trade mark final song ‘If I Said This is Me, Where Would You Draw the Line?’, the body of his admirers crystallised around his presence precipitating, in that moment, the infinitude of finely honed lust which had escalated throughout the performance. And there they were. A thronging mass of worship with every body tightened in frantic attempts to touch the man. As the circle tightened, jewellery clattered onto the floor; hairstyles lovingly prepared in front of bedroom mirrors for hours before the performance were flattened; painted faces were smudged and smeared as new shoes were stamped on. Both man and woman clamoured for a part of Oliver, and he loved it.
The ritual was the same every time. There would be drinks at the bar and a futile attempt at conversation as words shot at Oliver were lost among the sensations offered by less garrulous flunkies. Then, after pleasing each and every one of his admirers by gratefully receiving all that they could give, he beckoned them leave. Out in the city streets the entourage gambolled like lambs through the traffic. If one of the number fell - as was so often the case - Oliver was the first to stop and lend his hand. His unbridled hedonistic drive somehow fortuitously linked to humility, he led the party on.
It happened to be Zoe’s flat that night and the party was already in full swing. Someone had monopolised the stereo with one of the few bootleg copies of ‘One over Zero’s’ embryonic studio tracks. Sound raged and filled the room; faces were ripped apart by smiles.
In a far corner, the lead guitarist was attempting to engage a semi-nude female in conversation. She was daubed from head to foot in green food dye and had arranged sprigs of foliage apparently at random around her scant attire. It struck the guitarist that she closely resembled a classical nymph. This interested him greatly and he was earnestly awaiting an opportunity to inquire whether she had consciously cultivated this image. But there was something about her demeanour which had as yet precluded him from asking. She had barely said a word to him since he had somewhat nervously sauntered over and had singularly failed to look him in the eye. Eventually he dismissed his curiosity and decided to engage her in chat. After all, he thought as another hypnotic bass line swelled through the room, you are at a party.
“Pete wrote some really cool lyrics to this tune... don’t you think?”
Nothing, save a hint of a smile which, he thought for a moment, could have been directed toward the mirror behind him. “Eh?”, he persisted.
The synthetic nymph’s eyes suddenly sparkled into life. Ah, a connection, he thought. She held out her arm, took his hand away from his hip, and placed it upon her breast.
“Do you feel that? That is my reaction.” she breathed.
The guitarist crinkled his brow. He suddenly felt weary and vaguely self conscious. Drawing his hand slowly away he attempted to mimic her non-commital smile. Then, as the still smiling nymph left, he studied the label on his bottle of merlot with something remarkably akin to desperation.
Meanwhile Oliver - and many others - was enjoying himself. He had, as usual, innocently found himself involved in a sexual act with a bewildering number of people. The precise details need not concern us; it suffices to say that from the outside in, it seemed clear that all were were applying themselves to increasing the overall levels of stimulation in the room. At that moment the door to this strangely silent harem was opened by a roller-skating Russian offering sundry pills to the random collection of limbs writhing upon the bed, the floor, from the window. On meeting with silence and the specific kind of indifference that arises when a dozen hedonists are involved in a number of immoral, illegal and impossible acts of mutual self enjoyment, the Russian cut a neat figure eight around two adjacent collections of flesh and left.
The ritual was the same every time. There would be drinks at the bar and a futile attempt at conversation as words shot at Oliver were lost among the sensations offered by less garrulous flunkies. Then, after pleasing each and every one of his admirers by gratefully receiving all that they could give, he beckoned them leave. Out in the city streets the entourage gambolled like lambs through the traffic. If one of the number fell - as was so often the case - Oliver was the first to stop and lend his hand. His unbridled hedonistic drive somehow fortuitously linked to humility, he led the party on.
It happened to be Zoe’s flat that night and the party was already in full swing. Someone had monopolised the stereo with one of the few bootleg copies of ‘One over Zero’s’ embryonic studio tracks. Sound raged and filled the room; faces were ripped apart by smiles.
In a far corner, the lead guitarist was attempting to engage a semi-nude female in conversation. She was daubed from head to foot in green food dye and had arranged sprigs of foliage apparently at random around her scant attire. It struck the guitarist that she closely resembled a classical nymph. This interested him greatly and he was earnestly awaiting an opportunity to inquire whether she had consciously cultivated this image. But there was something about her demeanour which had as yet precluded him from asking. She had barely said a word to him since he had somewhat nervously sauntered over and had singularly failed to look him in the eye. Eventually he dismissed his curiosity and decided to engage her in chat. After all, he thought as another hypnotic bass line swelled through the room, you are at a party.
“Pete wrote some really cool lyrics to this tune... don’t you think?”
Nothing, save a hint of a smile which, he thought for a moment, could have been directed toward the mirror behind him. “Eh?”, he persisted.
The synthetic nymph’s eyes suddenly sparkled into life. Ah, a connection, he thought. She held out her arm, took his hand away from his hip, and placed it upon her breast.
“Do you feel that? That is my reaction.” she breathed.
The guitarist crinkled his brow. He suddenly felt weary and vaguely self conscious. Drawing his hand slowly away he attempted to mimic her non-commital smile. Then, as the still smiling nymph left, he studied the label on his bottle of merlot with something remarkably akin to desperation.
Meanwhile Oliver - and many others - was enjoying himself. He had, as usual, innocently found himself involved in a sexual act with a bewildering number of people. The precise details need not concern us; it suffices to say that from the outside in, it seemed clear that all were were applying themselves to increasing the overall levels of stimulation in the room. At that moment the door to this strangely silent harem was opened by a roller-skating Russian offering sundry pills to the random collection of limbs writhing upon the bed, the floor, from the window. On meeting with silence and the specific kind of indifference that arises when a dozen hedonists are involved in a number of immoral, illegal and impossible acts of mutual self enjoyment, the Russian cut a neat figure eight around two adjacent collections of flesh and left.
The daubed nymph entered. Sliding off what remained of her clothing she searched the mass of flesh for an opening; a way in. At that moment Oliver displayed his reflexive intuition and bobbed to the surface, welcoming the nymph into the throng with a smile. He was like that. She padded slowly over to where he lay, the guitarist’s palm print still adorning her breast. Oliver saw only her smile and knew that all was well. He threw out his hand and drew her near, holding her gently to his unadorned breast. Oliver closed his eyes and all went dark. Oliver threw his head back and breathed deeply. The floor quivered with the syncopated rhythm of many bodies. Looking up at Oliver’s beautiful lips the nymph seemed to say “Who are you?”
Oliver said nothing, for Oliver could never exist.
Oliver said nothing, for Oliver could never exist.
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