Last week saw the publication of Daniel OâConnorâs astonishing debut Nothing â an irreverent and mischievous novel about a man who can imagine things out of existence; about a world where nothing is as it seems. The Social Gathering is delighted to share an exclusive and equally memorable short story from Daniel about a John Lennon stripper. We hope you enjoy.
Itâs only dreaming of the past that John realises the feeling he got â unbuttoning his yellow tunic over the quailing body of somebodyâs eighteen year-old daughter â is what they used to call in Hamburg ungelebtes leben. In the moment itâs an unnameable pang: signalling with pec semaphore his better qualities to this young woman, a woman whoâs being harried by her aunties into applying baby oil to his being, a woman who he could be and definitely is in love with, even though heâs never spoken to her outside of the context of him undressing to a Beatles megamix, even though heâs just about old enough to be her father and despises that sort of thing, even though itâs probably not her that heâs in love with but a projection of himself he hopes to find in her⊠all of this, only as a disarticulated interior yelp. The kind of existential noise a dog makes when someone carrying a tray of champagne glasses trips over it.
Whatever the feeling, he had no say in the matter. Thoughts are only commentary; the body has already made up its mind. Which may or may not be how John has found himself at the age of in-his-thirties being defined once more as âtonightâs entertainmentâ. Aside from buying the costumes, choreographing the routines, advertising his wares and building a solid following on social media, he never planned on becoming
His Mam A John Lennon Stripogram?!
John Yeah⊠Itâs just, some people dress up as John Lennon. I undress up as him.
His Mam Youâll never make it.
But plans are what happen to you while youâre busy making other lives. He planned on renting the place a street over from his mamâs house. He planned on applying for the job behind the (hopefully) bullet proof screen at the Halifax down the town. He planned on microwaving his rice and plain chicken lunches (with the calories written on the lid) in the staff room of the bank. He planned on stripping way back for a daft laugh at Keeleyâs hen do with his mates as the Fab Phwoar. He planned on being John (name + he has that sleepy puffin look); Jonno (George) planned on thinking that it was a daft scheme dreamt up when they were off their tits on booze and drugs and werenât really gonna do it; they planned on not being able to find a Ringo; Macca (Macca) planned on sweating so much in the toilets at the Eston Institute & Workmens Club that the barmaid was one number 9 away from phoning an ambulance, and as a contingency plan that they wouldnât be able to get the sick out of his trousers. And thatâs how John planned on going solo.
Right now, going solo involves feeling as though heâs uniquely awful, investing all his future happiness in someone heâs meeting for the first time while thrust-ripping a psychedelic Edwardian military tunic to reveal a six(ish) pack in perfect timing with the kick drum-crash after the first line of âGood Morning Good Morningâ. Her mates squeal. Somewhere in the excitement a shoe goes missing. He feels as though somebody has cut the brakes on his life, the whole Rolls Royce of it tumbling downwards to the inevitable sea, trying to convince himself that her loveliness is only the thought of being eighteen again â when falling for someone meant discovering a future together, rather than forgiving each otherâs past. So why is he willing her beautiful eyes to look into his?
At his age he really doesnât want to be attracted to an eighteen-year-old woman. Only a kind of paranoid quasi-feminism sees him refer to her as a âwomanâ, not agirl
The Beatles [sharp intake of breath].
She isnât the customer, though; her mates are. Sheâs raw material â itâs his job to extract as much excruciation as he can. Performing hands-behind-head loin rolls, he finds her embarrassment irresistible â itâs not an awkwardness at him (is it?), but at this: her girlfriends laughing and braying, as though heâs a shame to be suffered. From her smile, he thinks she can see past the mostly naked John Lennon to the man that thought it would be a good laugh and that. And the way she carries herself, those freckles, her eyes the delicate blue of Paulâs Sgt Pepper costume⊠he hates himself for the slow intensity of his gyrating during the excerpt from âI Am the Walrusâ, for getting her to rub oil into him while he flexes during âCome Togetherâ, the conclusion to âBirthdayâ where he delivers a card between his bum cheeks.
The thin bones of her hand when she thanks him afterwards make him feel as though heâs just throttled a robin.
There isnât a shower at the club, but he manages to towel off most of the oil and changes into a turtleneck. When he first started heâd thought it would be a guaranteed way to pull, and fair enough, after someone uploaded his Sgt Pecker routine to YouTube (since removed) he was getting so much correspondence that he had to set up a polite
Ringo no more fan mail
auto-reply on his [email protected] account. But it turns out that clients are, to most strippers, what toddlers are to clowns. Usually, heâd be straight off down the gym, but his mate Al (who made the mix for him) is DJing his well-cemented slot in the club once the partyâs booking is up, so he stays for one pint. Heâs tied his long Lennon locks into a ponytail and actually needs the circular glasses to see proper and that; out of context he resembles an off-duty French wrestler. Plonked at the end of the bar beside the fire extinguisher, Al is critical of the birthday party playlist transitions (see Cardi B into The Smiths into BTS), explaining that teenagers
Al donât understand juxtapositions because theyâve grown up gettin everythin they want all at once.
As though they wonât also wait all their lives for nothing to happen. Still, John nods along, watching the Birthday Girl Woman dance with her mates to some song he doesnât recognise while the first verse of âI Saw Her Standing Thereâ paces prison-yard circles in his head. He feels greasy, as though he leaves a residue. It could be the protein shake he downed, but the thought that she might think he wants to sleep with her makes him nauseous.
A few of them are glancing over at him, giggling; he reminds himself itâs the concept thatâs laughable, not him. Male strippers are, to most women, what clowns are to toddlers. Itâs only now theyâre leaving that he notices among the oldies, shadowed behind jackets and presents in a booth at the back of the club: first, that bloke, with the surly look of a disapproving five-year-old whoâs exhausted all of his protests, is probably the dad; and then Rachel â fuck, Rachel!
She seems to be gathering everything together to exit in a way that allows her to look everywhere except at him. She didnât make the booking â that was the girlâs mates. Is there a chance she doesnât know heâs here? That she missed him flexing his bare arse in her daughterâs face to the accompaniment of âEverybodyâs Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkeyâ? She hugs her daughter, whoâs beginning to lose her footing. And now, with armfuls of bags and cake, makes her exit.
Al Thereâs Rachel Smallwood. Rachel! Rachel!
John grips Alâs arm to quiet him. She clearly knows theyâre there and tries to pass them off with a cursory wave, but
Al Now then Rach! Howâs it goin?
Her polite-wave-and-try-to-head-off-down-the-staircase is nothing in the face of Alâs enthusiastic beckoning. John feels nailed down â to the barstool, to the moment, to the life in which he just stripped for the daughter of his ex-girlfriend. Sheâs trying not to look too pissed off, schlepping all the birthday baggage towards them.
Al This your daughter, then?
Rachel confirms as though sheâd prepared herself to be stolid when the officer pulls back the sheet at the morgue. She can feel him measuring everything, working out how young she was when she had Anna, how soon after âthemâ. Alâs laughter sees him slapping the bar. She hasnât put the bags down.
Al [Glancing at John] Nice surprise then?
Rachel It was an impressive routine.
Her voice is a bit posher, thinks John. She seems more diplomatic than the girl that once stamped on him over a Mario Kart race. He knows he ought to apologise, but struggles to think of a way that doesnât bring too much shame into what ought to be a brief Hello-Goodbye. And the way sheâs looking at him â Iâm not scum, you know, he wants to say, to explain that the stripping has brought some control, some order to his life, that heâs not the pisshead she remembers. He can explain himself.
John You know, when you look a bit like Lennon, why not be a John Lennon stripogram?
She gives a Yeah, but smile thatâs either a) you donât really look like John Lennon, or b) being a John Lennon stripogram isnât a legitimate extrapolation from a resemblance to the man. In fairness, once the clothes are off heâs long grown out of any Lennon uncanniness (something other than the Beatleâs physique is anticipated nowadays).
Rachel Stripper, though? I thought stripograms did messages⊠Isnât that the âgramâ bit?
Al Didnât you see the birthday card part then? She had to pull it from his bum.
Rachel raises her eyebrows in a way that suggests sheâd buried that somewhere unspeakable. Itâs all too tacit for John, but he doesnât have a strong enough rope of words to carry his weight from this particular hole. The thought of standing from the bar stool suggests the emotional equivalent of a hernia, but he desperately wants to hug Rachel â bags and all: partly out of relief that his attraction to her daughter is probably a lingering attraction to his memory of her (how didnât he notice the resemblance earlier?!), partly to atone for falling in love with her daughter whilst sporting nothing but a posing pouch with a walrus on the front and a pair of polished lime green boots.
Rachel [Gesturing to the exit] AnywayâŠ
John Nice times.
Nice times?!
John Good to see youâŠ
he corrects himself. She tries to keep a straight face. Heâd prefer it if she was angry with him; instead she seems to find the whole thing a bit embarrassing, mostly pathetic.
Rachel Yeah, you too.
For a touch too long she squints at him â as though she wants to say something else to the boy who left her trying not to cry outside the big McDonaldâs windows because Youâre goin to uni now (he seemed stoned â she remembers him saying it with a surreal finality between sucks on his milkshake, as though it was interchangeable with something like Youâre going to be an elephant now), when really she knew he was only dumping her because he feared sheâd outgrow him; because he resented the idea of her having bigger plans for her life; because he was only pencilled in; because she wanted to give it a go and said so in her most convincing voice, We could work it out; the way he said, I could write to you with an indifferent shrug â before she makes her exit. It still stings her a little; but only a little, that unlived life being so far away and abandoned.
Was that a smile goodbye? John isnât sure. The husband waiting for her by the stairs has a What the fuck you talking to him for? look about him. If John feels smug, itâs hard to sense among the shame.
Al Same again?
He holds a hand over the dregs of his pint, declining the offer. Al points to the decks and the barmaid nods, All yours. A few of the birthday party are still there trying to find the missing shoe, sloshed early in the late summer sunlight.
After a bit of messing about with dials and leads, Al puts on Please Please Me (Cheeky fucker, thinks John), returns to his mate at the bar â whoâs having another pint after all. He feels grateful to have a mate like Al, capable of making him not completely displaced. People are phoning people; the shoe still hasnât been found.
Al I canât believe you never recognised her, me. Mustâve had her young.
John shrugs â blushing as he realises Al was staring straight at Rachelâs daughter as he spoke. Some sapling lad is chatting deep into her ear and it reassures John that her laughter doesnât make him particularly jealous. Itâs not that he wants anything different; he certainly doesnât want to be going out with some kid; Rachelâs kid. I donât even want to be with Rachel, really, he tells himself. But he could do, though; or could have done.
Al looks up from his phone.
Al Ah, sheâs right, you know: like telegram and that, like a letter. Fuck, yeah, you need to do messages, mate.
John nods â War is Over. Give Peace a Chance. I Wanna Hold Your Hand. That sort of thing. He thinks he should write Rachel a letter; nothing soppy or pleading, just finding a way of apologising for what just happened now without mentioning it. Asking her how things have been. Giving her a few little anecdotes. He doesnât have her address (would it be creepy to ask her daughter?), but heâs sure he can find a way around that.
Jacques Lacan The letter always arrives at its destination
since its destination is wherever it arrives. Dear Rachel, he thinks, and then smiles at the thought of her opening this letter that makes her wish sheâd held onto him, makes her dream of the life she could have had with him, this man watching her slosh-drunk daughter being shouldered from the bar, a tub of a rice and chicken sweating in his bag. The dream that keeps him idly sitting there, mulling, while Al sets things up, while the barmaid finds a shoe underneath a table in a booth. Ha! John thinks, knowing at least how heâd end the letter: P.S. I love you. Sheâd get it, wouldnât she? And now it turns out itâs not the right shoe, some old brown thing; except that this is the only now, across a universe of nows, that the shoe should could have been found. As she dumps it on a shelf below the bar, John nods as though he and the barmaid are agreeing about something. Shoes, ey? Or maybe, People, eh? But no thanks, his mindâs made up: that on second thoughts, yeah, heâll have another.
Daniel O’Connor
Nothing by Daniel O’Connor is out now!
