Storyclash

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Opening Chapter of “Hopper” – Debut Novel

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Friday, July 22nd – 6:06am – 17ºC/63ºF

Hopper stood alone in his vest, ironing. In a cheap rented room lit by a thick black wire slung out from the window and loosely connected to the street lighting outside, he smoothed out the creases of each note, a couple of fives, a ten maybe but nothing larger. Straightening out the folds, carefully smoothing out each corner before slipping them back into his wallet, an old fold of leather with the stitch of someone else’s name half plucked from the corner seam. A line of floss still hung from his teeth and if you looked over his shoulder, you could just make out the small shrine he’d built for her; photos, old champagne corks, restaurant receipts and ticket stubs – an old drawing of her while she slept. Friday, July 22nd, a little after 6am on what would be the hottest day of the year.

Hopper reached over to check his eggs frying on the ring, lovingly dripping a little oil over each yoke, blowing on them gently before turning back to the iron, smoothing out the fraying collar of a greying summer shirt. Even ironing the tie he carefully lifted from its hanger; an old nail hammered through a yellow smoke-stained newspaper article and straight into the wall. It had been one year, seven months and sixteen days since it had happened. His hair was longer in the picture and he looked uncomfortable in his suit, twisting from all the flashbulbs as the press swarmed around.

Hopper wandered around the room looking for shoes, eating his eggs straight from the pan, swallowing the yoke as if eating oysters. “Yeah, I’ll give you a rise”, he spat, the scenario re-playing in his head, demanding to become vocal now but with a slow fluid tilt of the head he stopped himself from seething, temporarily withdrawing, focussing on the search for shoes. Stooping every now and again to carefully pick up the silent remains of another dead wasp that had crawled in through the boiler flue. Pinching it by the wings as if by tweezers, carefully dropping it into the sink before running the cold tap, flushing it away.
He hadn’t realised they were gathering in the pipes below.

“Yeah, I’ll give you a rise”, he spat, winding himself up in the moment once more. Head down to remember the day before back in Bowman’s office. Remembering the fan trying hard to breath air into the place. The smell of stale coffee and half-eaten food. The plants that needing watering. The rot in the wood by the window frame. Recreating the whole scene as he watched himself nervously pull on his collar a little. Standing before his employer, before the bear who briefly interrupted his phone-call to pre-empt Hopper’s request. “A rise? Yeah, I’ll give you a rise! Ten percent more praise, each and every month of the year. You’re doing a great job. Couldn’t survive without you. You’re a fucking star. Now go sell the back cover”, before turning back to his phone call, turning back to talk about the holiday he’d had. About the married woman he’d met. About sex in the shallow end after midnight. About champagne corks popping and shorts off. About feeling twenty-one again.
“I sold the back, two spreads and the inside front. Five months running. Five months!” Hopper pointed, “Who else has done that? Ghram hasn’t. Mac hasn’t. Fox hasn’t sold a page for weeks”, he heard himself grass, talking pot shots at his colleagues for the sake of three percent.
“That was two years ago!” Bowman cut, his voice shrill, like the sound of a knife being sharpened, “What’ve you been doing since?”, placing his hand over the receiver as an afterthought to spare the voice on the other end.
Hopper watched himself falter, unable to answer, head down like a wounded bird as he remembered how the silence fell. Remembering the awkward feeling of having nothing left to say. No answer. No retort. His gloves cut, laces unstrapped and back on the hook as he imagined how the fighter must feel, dragging himself up off the canvas, back to the dressing room after another lost bout.
Hopper watched himself stand there, staring into space, the confidence gone like air from a burst balloon. An empty tank.
He knew that Bowman needn’t say anymore. The buzzing of a fly caught up in the strip lights the only sound between them.

“How about a few extra days then? Some time off while I sort things out”, Hopper reached, his shoulders already slumped in defeat like an old beach towel, his body already waving the white flag.
“Look at the figures. You’re an 1/8th page in recruitment and a half-page givaway fuck knows where I’m gonna place. You’re not selling anymore. I’ve still got you on salary and you’re not making sales?”
Hopper watched himself fumble for a last response, his eyes flickering, quickly flipping through page after page as if looking for a last line, a last hook or uppercut to keep him in the fight.
Bowman wiped the breakfast from his lip with the point of his member’s club tie and rocked awkwardly in his chair. He let the voice on the line know he’d call them back.
“Anyone else would’ve fired you months ago”, he stared, the words like a run-up before suddenly pulling up, pulling short, “But clearly I’m getting soft!” His tone becoming more conciliatory as he leant forward, offering Hopper a seat.

Hopper winced as he watched himself get all defensive, clutching at anything to help him grab a foothold back into the negotiations, “No-one’s buying it anymore”, he cut, “There’s nothing to read, just ads. Its all ads”, the words spilling out over Bowman’s desk.
“So I’m paying a salesman who doesn’t believe in selling!?” Bowman fired, slumping back in his chair, arms up in mock surrender, “Oh this is just beautiful! . . I’m paying a man who’s given up?”
And Hopper was done. Cooked. Unable to respond. Nothing left. No strength in the arms to throw another jab. No strength left in the legs to stand up. The knees already buckling. Nothing left in the tank to counter as the bear pulled back with that butter sick feeling of hurting a friend; the two of them looking everywhere else just so their eyes wouldn’t meet. The clock. The window. The signed photograph on the wall. The chipped salesman of the month plaque from two decades before. Everywhere except each other. Anything, anywhere to avoid each other’s line of sight.

Hopper watched himself shuffle away, “I’m good at what I do”, he told himself, stroking the back of his left ear for comfort the way he always did as a child. “Maybe not the best but I’m up there”, he soothed, repeating the mantra as if to convince himself before snapping back to reality at the smell of burning cotton.
Hopper looked down to see the charred triangular grill across the face of his tie and with a slow fluid tilt of the head he clenched the fist of his right hand as tight as he could, tight enough for the knuckles to whiten as he slowly counted to ten.

“Stirring good brandy with a nail”, Hopper told himself, his shoulders rounding as he ironed out the creases of his only other tie.
“They shouldn’t treat you like that”, Hopper heard, feeling warmer as Annie appeared. Beautiful, luminous, tip-toeing over to lovingly stroke the hair from his face, kissing him gently, “They shouldn’t”, she soothed. Her touch, her voice, her whole body a lilly and although a little embarrassed at being only half-dressed, Hopper let her wrap her arms around him. “I know”, he replied, hastily buttoning up his greying summer shirt in a sudden attempt to look sharp for her, to look his best, “I’m good at what I do”, looking to her for sympathy. For a way out.
“You’re a fighter”, she breathed. Her words giving him confidence and he swelled, proud, head back like a bird. Pulling up his shoulders. Puffing up his chest. Gaining a whole three inches in height.
“You’re a heavyweight.”
And as he imagined the sound of the bell, the crowd urging him on, his spirits lifted, his confidence swelled and he started to shadow box, punching out imaginary opponents with ease. The heavyweight champion of the world, round after round and Ding! Ding! until he saw the smile on her face slowly slip to sadness.
“You do know none of this is real”, she whispered, her arms pulling away, her image slowly fading as she spoke. The words snapping Hopper back to the cheap rented room lit by a single black wire slung out through a hole in the window frame and loosely connected to the street lighting outside. To the ironed notes in his wallet. To the last remaining egg shrivelled in the pan.
Hopper leant against the sink, silent for a second or so before running the tap, filling up the bowl with cold water. Throwing his face in. Shouting into the bowl. Shouting into the water to muffle the sound. Water spilling out over the side, slapping the linoleum below.
He stood there for a while.

Drying himself off Hopper grabbed a fork and stabbed the yoke, mashing it around the plate a little longer than it really needed before seasoning it with a little salt, a little pepper to give it bite and, lifting the first bite to his mouth, it slid, dripping down the front of his clean Monday morning shirt.
It’s here that Hopper froze.
It’s here that his whole body tightened like rope around wood. The light in each eye slowly fading as he looked skyward to the yellow smoke stained ceiling and with a slow fluid tilt of the head, he raised his glass to another successful breakfast.