This is a piece I wrote for the Edinburgh event Cachín Cachán Cachunga.



Wishbox

“It’s not fair, is it?” the woman said rhetorically. “The bankers get billions of pounds of our tax-money to bail them out, then they go and pay themselves billions in bonuses. It’s ridiculous,” she declared — that ultimate expression of Scottish disapproval.
        Roy sneaked a look at his watch. By ‘bankers’, he thought, you mean me. Even though I’m just their lackey and get paid eight quid an hour. Instead, he said, “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
        “Oh,” she said, coming back from her monologue, “no, I just want to deposit that cheque.”
        “Okay, I’ll just go do that. Have a good day,” he said, turning politely away from her — as if he needed to go drop her cheque into the deep money canyon, when in fact he’d already entered it into the system and simply needed to put it into the drawer in front of him.
        She left, and he was free to finish up for the day.
        I hate my life, thought Roy.

He knew better than to cross the Royal Mile in August: it would be heaving with tourists and entertainers, impossible to traverse without getting jostled, but at least it would be lively. He figured he could use some livening up.
        The awfully young actors weren’t doing it for him, with their histrionic songs and pantomime or offers of Very Serious Theatre. Here was a man painted gold holding out a flower, there a silver woman in a clownish suit with rouged cheeks tick-tocking on a wooden-crate-turned-music-box. Then he encountered a busker already partway through the pitch for his act, no doubt pimping like this for up to twenty minutes to get as large a crowd as he could before starting his five-minute show.
        No, this wasn’t doing it for Roy, so he decided to head to the Meadows, shoving his way past a dozen people who all wanted him to take a handbill for their show. He wasn’t sure who he hated more, these actors or the charity muggers lurking on the high street in the off-season. They were all younger than him, come to the city to make their way, no doubt, as he was once drawn here. His banjo-playing — not just a love but a niche skill, he figured — didn’t prove to be his deliverance, so to speak. And so he wound up at a bank because banks make money. Literally. But no one knows what art is for. Likewise for him as an artist. So he went for the money and spent many spare thoughts on hating himself for it.
        The Meadows, a twin-set of grassy fields by the university, were populated all summer by equally vibrant students and travellers. In August it was also home to a carnival and tents full of entertainment.
        The big draw was The Ladyboys of Bangkok. Roy could never figure out who that show was for. Not him, as he liked his boys to be men. The freakshow tent approach put it well below any notions as sophisticated as trans, trannies, or intersex. So, Roy figured as he passed the long temporary building and the lineup outside, that left men who liked women. But surely they wouldn’t be comfortable with that. Yet that seemed to be who was going, wives in tow. Just gawking, he figured.
        Roy had no intention of going on any the rides that pumped out overloud, over-excited rock music. They were painted in metallic colours with bad airbrush attempts at copying heavily copyrighted cartoon characters or the likenesses of celebrities, which ended up looking at best generic, at worst like an interspecies accident. Still, the lights and the noise, even the temporary wooden walkway on the grass all gave the place a buzzing energy. The Fringe and the fringes of the Fringe always felt like the place to be in summer.
        He treated himself to some cotton candy, the sweet cousin of fiberglass insulation. Tearing off bits and eating them, he walked past the greasy air of the various chip and meat wagons, looking for some excuse to stay longer, something to do. Going home would mean facing the sinkhole that was his life.
        Then he saw an old telephone booth, its windows and metal frame all painted matte black, gold and red letters inscribed above the door. A man stood next to the booth, calling out something to the crowd. As Roy drew closer, he heard the man shouting out vague promises — health, wealth, love, fame — and now he could read what was written on the booth: Wishbox.
        “Why hello! My name’s Wilf,” the barker said, offering a handshake. Roy accepted, though his experience of the city had taught him to keep moving, that anyone who addressed him wanted something. Instead, he was offering: “Want a try?”
        “Try what?” asked Roy.
        “In here,” replied Wilf, “you will experience your fondest desires.”
        “You’re joking.”
        “I wouldn’t joke about anything so important,” said Wilf.
        “What will I see?”
        “I can’t say,” said Wilf. “It’s up to you. Whatever you bring in with you.”
        Roy didn’t want to get fleeced, but the box was the most interesting prospect in his evening, so he reached into his pocket. “What does it cost?”
        “Whatever’s in your wallet.”
        Roy paused, wide-eyed. He finished drawing out his wallet and opened it: ten pounds. “I’ve just got a tenner.”
        “Then a tenner it is. You were lucky!”
        Unsure, Roy handed over the bill. The man put it into his jacket pocket and opened the booth. Roy stepped inside, bumping into a small, padded stool. As he sat, Wilf closed the door and left him in darkness.
        He sat for a few foolish moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust. They didn’t. The box proved to be utterly empty, devoid even of light. Then he spotted something from the corner of his eye, a brief flash. He followed it, then saw another on the opposite side. The flashes quickly multiplied, flaring and growing until he was momentarily blinded. This time, though, his eyes did adjust. He found himself sitting in a white room. Even his clothes — his jeans and checked shirt — were white versions of themselves. Around the edges of the room, doors began to appear, written on with the same gold and red carnival writing as the booth was, bearing the words the barker had been calling out and more: fame, wealth, exploration, knowledge, health, romance, sex… The more doors he looked for, the more he saw, each one bearing an enticement in letters.
        Looking over his shoulder and finding himself alone, he stood up and headed for the Sex door.
        He opened it and his heart sank. The illusion was over: he was looking out at The Meadows. Wait a second, he thought. It was bright out there, and it had been dusk when he entered the booth. He stepped out and scanned his surroundings. This was The Meadows, but it was afternoon and warm. The students and travellers were here, lounging on the grass, but… they were all men. And they were naked. Two of them approached, evidently happy to see him.
        “Hi,” the light-haired one said, fingering his shirt.
        Then his dark-haired friend spoke: “What do you want us to do? We’ll do whatever you want.”
        “All of you?” asked Roy.
        “If you like,” they all said, and converged on him. They touched him up and down, stroking him, grinding against him. Ecstasy flooded over him.

Roy shook his head. It was sore, but not as sore as his balls. He was sitting in darkness again. After feeling to make sure there wouldn’t be any visible stains, he reached for the door of the booth and pushed it open. Cold air breathed over him as he stepped out into the night.
        Wilf was there waiting, leaning on the box, but everyone else had gone home; the carnival was closed for the night.
        “What time is it?” asked Roy.
        “About 3AM,” said Wilf. “Did you have fun?”
        Roy’s smile gave him away, so he decided to tell the truth: “It was amazing!”
        “Come back tomorrow?” asked Wilf.
        He would gladly go again, but wasn’t sure his body could take it, aching the way it was, so he just nodded.

~

The next night Roy decided to go more highbrow and chose the Knowledge door. When he stumbled out again at 3AM, he’d flown over every word ever printed, visited Schopenhauer for an afternoon’s discussion, then they went to Greece to talk with Plato before having dinner with Marx in Bonn and finishing up with drinks at Larry Lessig’s. Then Freud, Foucault, and a fourteen year old boy arrived and everyone started fighting, so Roy left. He understood everything they knew and everything anyone else knew, and he was emotionally drained from convincing the others he was right.
        He left the booth, paying Wilf twenty pounds on the way out — he figured it was worth it — and promised to come back the next night. As he dragged himself home, he cast his mind back over all he’d learned, but couldn’t quite remember any of it.

~

He came back the following three nights, having barely made his way through work in the intervening hours.
        Exploration took Roy to the killing cold of the Antarctic wastes and the steamy heat of Costa Rica’s rainforests. It showed him stars from the desert, then took him out to the furthest reaches of space to look back at Earth.
        Horrors showed him sights that, unlike the other nights’ offerings, he could not forget, no matter how he tried — cruel mutilations, unspeakable collections, and scenes to prove that humans are fathomless in their dark imaginings of what to do to one another.

But the next night Roy returned to The Meadows and found nothing but the pulpy grass crop-circle where the carnival had been. Just as he started to panic, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun about and, seeing Wilf, sighed from the depths of his soul.
        “You don’t want it to end, do you?” asked Wilf.
        “No, God no!” replied Roy.
        “How much do you have?”
        “In my wallet?”
        “No.”
        “In the bank? But—”
        Wilf slowly turned as if to leave.
        “No, wait! Come to the bank machine with me.”
        After a quick transaction, Roy had in his possession an old wooden box with a hinge on one side and a neck-sized hole on the other. Wilf waved to him, climbed into his lorry with the booth on a trailer behind it, and drove away.
        Roy took the box home, afraid again that he’d been duped. He certainly felt stupid enough opening the box and shutting it over his head, latching the side. Soon enough, though, the white room reappeared, and he spent the next several days inside it, taking breaks only to call and make excuses to work and friends.
        He discovered that by holding things when he put on the box he could take them into this place — which he’d taken to calling “the neitherworld” — with him, and even sell them there, finding the money in his wallet when he returned. But he was running out of things to sell.
        He took his banjo in and played to hills filled with people who loved his music, his playing… him. His tribe was here in the neitherworld. And they felt real, but then he’d come back and find himself in his basement flat, drained of emotion, energy, and sometimes spunk. One partner in particular, Kenneth, had become his favourite, the one he visited in these deliberate dreams.
        What are you doing? he wondered. You’re a loser.
        Yeah, but in there…
        You’re a guy with his head in a box.
        But…
        Roy’s doorbell rang, ending the argument. He must have ordered take-away and forgotten about it. He’d been doing that.
        He opened the door then fished for his wallet with his free hand, holding the box with the other.
        He looked up and saw Kenneth.
        He put down the box and pushed it away with his foot.
        “Hi.”
        “Hi.”