All I have
from the summer almost gone is an image of an American town called Long Branch.
A tiny spot on the East Coast one hundred minutes away from New York City. The
image is a cheap Polaroid shot whose colours are faded and washed away not so
much by the twenty-five cent print as the drab quality of the place. In view
are several apartment houses, grey-coloured and with no sense of purpose, an
empty road and a long stretch of yellow grass cutting boardwalk into two lanes.
One is deserted and the other features a lonesome jogger as well as a man in a
white shirt. The man is staring at the ocean, vacantly and with his elbows
pressed tight against the railings. The man could be me. Finally, at the top of
the image there is a green flag stuck to the side of a lamppost. The flag says
'Welcome to Long Branch'.
The image
comes to me at night and sometimes I find it on the kitchen table as well as
anywhere else in my apartment. Which is odd because the image exists in one
copy and one copy only. When it comes into view and stops me in my tracks, I
examine it almost religiously. I'm transfixed by this image. My fascination,
however, is intense but short-lived and very soon I have to ask myself why is
it that I have the snapshot and everything else has faded into nothing. At
which point I turn the image over to find a midsummer date scribbled weakly in
my own handwriting. It says 'July 9' and I can't think of a date more random.
Which is
why I go out. I listen to the rippling sounds of Disco Inferno and watch the
cars running out of petrol as everything else is running out of summer. Disco
Inferno are perfect for the outside world. They soundtrack my dead memories and
every hum and whistle from the street seeps into the music and adds to my
experience. These walks I crave desperately as they keep me away from Long Branch
and its dully gray coastline.
And still
the last days of summer drag on, obscenely. I take the Polaroid print to a shop
called 'Shotmaker' where this blonde girl studies the image briefly and hands
it back to me. She says they have a Polaroid camera like that and the picture
is legitimate and was indeed taken last month and what is it exactly that I
want. Then, almost as an afterthought and before I can reply that I've never even
been to America, she says that Long Branch has not changed one bit. She notes
my surprise and then explains that she worked there for a short time when she
first came to the United States. At which point I put the snapshot into the
back pocket of my jeans, thank her and leave the shop.
Later in
the day, I show the image to an old friend who struggles to feign concern. He
says that's me all right and points at my chest with his little finger slightly
drawn out (the rest of his right hand is wrapped around the fourth whisky
sour). He means I'm wearing the same white shirt as the man in the picture but
I wonder how much trust I can put into someone who has drunk so much, whose
eyes are greasy with alcohol and whose breath is like the end of summer -
either too hot or too foul. I tell him about the blonde girl from 'Shotmaker'
and what an unlikely coincidence that was. To which he grins 'not a
coincidence' and yet again I have to change the subject. I ask him about Disco
Inferno and of course he has never heard of them.
Nobody in
this city knows about Disco Inferno. The albums, the singles but most
importantly - the EP's. So out of time and yet so ahead of it. It's extended
play number three that I listen to as I walk home alone, late at night. August
is dying in quiet agony and the streets are needlessly empty. Until suddenly
there is a revved-up motorcycle bursting through my headphones. As ever, it
adds to the sonic experience filled with crashing waves and crying seabirds.
It's like the motorcycle was supposed to be here all along - until it
disappears. Without trace, the way Disco Inferno once did.
And then,
all of a sudden, it's the last day of August and in fake summer light of my
apartment I keep searching for clues. A holiday book I could not finish, a
telephone message from a travel company or a ticket to Long Branch. I search my
head for any bits and pieces, for the dim shreds of memories both tragic and
joyful - and still there is nothing. Memories blank me and I'm no closer to the
truth. The snapshot is all have, and so yet again I'm reduced to watching the
pale colours of the image as well as a man in a white shirt. Because the man is
me.
When the
last dusk of August comes knocking, it is either against the windows or my
temples. An early song by Disco Inferno is playing in the background and the
image, that most precious thing that I have, is flying out of the window. And
the fall is so swift that I don't even feel anything as I hit the ground. Or
else it could be the autumn leaves. They create the soft thud and remain the
last thing that hits the eye. Which is a shame - because I've always hated the
sight of them.
