‘Play us a tune’ #3
September 6th, 2002 by freddie96
III
In the early morning, the tent takes on a blue hue. Smoke, steam and particles of dust sparkle in the sun-beams that stream through small openings above the heads of the crowd. Make-up has run, clothes are covered with reddish mud and splatters of day glo paint. Arena rounds up her set with her standard anthem. With the last chords dying away, the people still left on the dance floor applaud. Madame Froo and Arena are pleased with their team work. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, they grin; done it again. What a monster of a night. They’re too tired to speak much. Arena packs her stuff and invites her friend for a cuppa at her home. It will take Froo a while, by the look of it, before everything has been cleared.
‘I’ll see,’ she says as usual.
Arena doesn’t live far away. Ah, a shower, smoke and chill; Arena is looking forward to a good feets-up at home. Marlene and Turbo have already got there:
‘Hi Arena! How was it?’
‘Great!’ replies Arena. And yourselves?’
‘Carl asked me to play faster records,’ starts Turbo.
‘Carl asked me to play more sexy diva vocal tracks,’ says Marlene.
‘But…’ they both say in chorus.
Carl has some funny ideas about ‘proper’ male and female DJs. Xandra would fit his backroom plans, considers Arena; besides, he fancies her. But Marlene, she likes the odd bit of techy hard house, especially when aggravated.
‘We played more or less the same records, because Carl was so obnoxious.’ explains Marlene. ‘Everything got a bit out of hand, I think. I just couldn’t help myself.’ ‘Naw,’ confirms Turbo, ‘he really got on my tits. First, I played harder and faster, but then the crowd got all funny and aggressive, like a scary downward spiral. The beer crew really got into gear and pogo-ed their nuts off. But then there was a fight and someone went down, carried off, losing blood. I think I saw some police, later.’
‘Hmm,’ Arena purrs, ‘glad I was down the Frilly Frock. Awesome – the atmosphere… and Froo’s performers… you should have seen them!’ As the three lose themselves in recounting the night, the doorbell rings. Arena unlocks the door. Carl jumps into the corridor and pushes her out of his way. Red rimmed eyes, pasty skin, hollow cheeks bruised on one side, some glittering powdery stuff at the tip of his nose, he looks a mess.
‘Where’s that pair of renegades?’ he yells as he stumbles through the corridor. Arena sees a glimpse of a baseball bat peeking from under his jacket as he disappears into the living room. Within seconds, piercing shrieks of horror circle the house.
Carl has only one thing on his mind: revenge. That bunch of idiot DJs ruined his club, first people complaining about jumping records and now his licence suspended by the police because of a kid stabbed on the dance floor. They’d just phoned him, on his mobile; could he come into the station to help them with their inquiries, they’d asked. In his fury, Carl trips over his own feet. His bat drops as he tries to break his fall. Marlene grabs it straight away and, without thinking, throws it out of the open window. Turbo and Arena finish the job by jumping the twitching man. Carl regresses deeper into revenge mode. With his long limbs flying about in all directions powered by the singular energy of hatred, Carl becomes quite uncontrollable. The three DJs have their hands full. They should be able to handle this easily, but with them being worn out after a hard night’s work and Carl being possessed by a bad spirit, it seems like a losing battle.
‘Ding dong,’ says a voice, ‘I came for a cuppa, but I seem to have walked into an orgy.’ Madame Froo is taking up the entire space of the door way, holding the handle of the baseball bat between her long nailed finger tips and pushing her other hand in her side the way only a madam can. More than ever, she looks like Divine’s sister. Outside, she’d clocked Carl’s car with Xandra asleep in the passenger seat. Picking up the bat up from the pavement, she’d walked into the open door, feeling like a detective, heart in her throat. And here is Carl, struggling like a maniac against his hosts, who in turn seem to provide him with kind intimate attention. Eeeh… she feels an old gay anthem welling up in her head about ‘you think you’re a man but you’re only a boy’. Something along those lines. Ah, but now he starts to bite Arena and he’s scratching Marlene and he’s kicking Turbo in the stomach. Not very graceful, really.
Having finished observing the scene displayed before her, Madame Froo comes into action. She walks towards Carl, picks up the tips of her robe to smooth the cloth over her expansive derriere and sits down on top of his torso. Out of breath and suffering the sensation of a crushed rib, Carl feels incapable to resist; he passes out.
Madame Froo scratches the back of her neck, checks her nails and makes herself as comfortable as possible on Carl’s meagre chest. While Marlene and Arena applaud, Turbo vanishes to the kitchen to make some the tea.
‘Wow, Madam Froo! You are wonderful!’ Exclaims Marlene. ‘Call me Marie,’ says Madam Froo with a bit of a blush. ‘By the way, has anyone ever told you that you are the sexiest chubby angel on earth?’ Marie flickers her eyelashes and the two embrace on top of a splattered-looking Carl.
The morning is getting on a bit. Turbo and Arena are hungry for a greasy spoon breakfast and want to spend their earnings on new records. Although they’re truly bushed, Saturday is import day; it’s best to get to the shops early and get some kip later. Often Marlene comes with them on their shopping spree, but it seems she has other things on her mind right now. Supported by Turbo, Carl struggles to his car. He’s rubbing his chest with a pained look on his face and opens his mouth but decides to close it again; he counts his losses and reckons he’ll be better off never to see any of them again. Xandra, woken up by Carl bumping against the vehicle, stretches herself and blinks against the new day.
‘What’s up?’ She asks with a sleepy voice. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Come with us – ‘ invites Arena, ‘time to shop.’
Hillegonda Rietveld, July 2002
Photo: Lisa Croasdale
