LITTLE FU***RS

My friend was mugged. To safeguard his anonymity and for his own protection, let’s call him Ben. Ben is an Englishman living in Philadelphia. Wikipedia informs me that Philadelphia is colloquially referred to as "the City of Brotherly Love." As far as I know, the brothers who stuck a gun in Ben’s face did not show him much love. Anyway, Ben’s a nice guy, and when he realised he only had $8.00 in his wallet he offered the two gentlemen his mobile phone too, as a kind of tip, I suppose. This IS America, and they HAD gone to a lot of trouble, taking time out of their busy day and…well…no one likes to disappoint a man with a firearm. Like most of the fun things in life, the mugging was over in seconds, but at least everyone got something out of it; the desperados walked away with $8.00 and a phone, and Ben got another day in which to appreciate the bronze statue of Rocky and run up the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s seventy-two steps, striking Rocky-like poses at the summit whilst humming ‘Gonna Fly Now’ and proving that every man can rise to the occasion, occasionally. The muggers said, “Keep walkin’ and don’t look back.” Ben didn’t look back, probably because he was firmly en route towards his next adventure. He’s that kind of guy, you see. Things happen to Ben. “As muggings go, it was quite a good one,” he said.

Ben is a photographer. A while back, in New Orleans the day before he was supposed to shoot Britney Spears (with a camera - sorry), some cops had the cheek to arrest him for Public Drunkenness and Lewd Conduct. (Messy. Pants round ankles, and I mean English pants, not American pants) In accordance with Louisiana State law, he was relieved of his possessions, stripped of his clothes (but they would NEVER TAKE HIS FREEDOM! Well, actually, they took that too) and locked him up for the night. Wearing a bright orange boilersuit he looked like a happy camper from Guantanamo Bay. This incarceration was a little problematic given his diary commitments. Fortunately though, one thing I’ve learned from the movies is not utter bullshit – he was given his phone call. Well, if you’ve only got one call and Britney’s number stuffed in your bum crack, what are you gonna do? He called Miss Spears’s people…who called their people…
He got out, but missed the shoot.

Ben’s most recent ‘event’ occurred last week. Those clever chaps with their cement trucks and tar-stained tools were outside his house, resurfacing the sidewalk at the bottom of his steps. Stepping out to admire the finished job, Ben was understandably perturbed to see the word ‘FUCKER’ scrawled across the barely dry cement. Some neighbourhood kids had dragged their dirty fingers through it the way we used to scavenge the cake mixture from the inside of mum’s mixing bowl. ‘Little bastards,’ thought Ben (presumably). ‘Now anyone who comes to my house will be greeted with ‘FUCKER’ and won’t know whether it applies to them or me.’ Well, not surprisingly, this wouldn’t do. No siree Bob. Ben located the workmen and persuaded them to return and smooth over the offence, which, to their credit they did. Then Ben spent the next four hours patrolling outside his house like an East German border guard with Restless Legs Syndrome (yes, according to my TV, RLS is a proper condition over here in the good old US of A). Though I suspect by then the little bandits were off causing mischief elsewhere.

And so, after all this preamble, to my point: Immortality (honestly). Whether they knew it or not, those little cement rascals were trying to secure their own immortality. They, like all of us, wanted to leave their mark, bequeath a little of themselves to posterity. My Norwegian grandfather was an artist. Whether the medium was paint or wood, the purpose practical or decorative, he would turn his talented hands to creating. As a result, even though he is no longer with us, so many things touched by him, brought into being by him, surround his family still; the boathouse he designed. Beautiful paintings that adorn our walls. Christmas decorations brought out with ritual deference year after year. Through his creations, my grandfather is eternally tangible.

Though his methods might differ, my father will achieve immortality, too. He took his own ambition and talents, mixed them with hard work and created a different world to the one he found; a world that will endure. Britney has her records and her fame. Ben has his photographs. The muggers have their reputations and rap sheets. I have my writing and five or six dodgy records (four of them hits, mind you) from my heady sojourn in ninetees Popland. Whether we realise it or not, we are all designing the things by which we will be remembered, if only through our day to day acts if nothing else. Surely there is no better example of our quest for everlastingness than procreation. Do we not have children because they are a continuation of ourselves?

So, let’s not be too hard on the miniature cement artists. They might be little ‘FUCKERS,’ but they’re just trying to make their mark.