‘The truth is, I am Iron Man’.
This is the line that fell into the ears of a mouse passing just another flat window as he followed the guttering super highway. He was excited; he’d always wanted to meet Iron Man. Given the dark cloudy skies of 1am and the rain often described annoyingly as ‘wet rain’, this was a real mood lightener. Anyway, what bright spark started calling rain ‘wet’ or ‘dry’, seethed the mouse. This was no time for seething though thought the little mouse – he was about to meet Iron Man! In a great feat of tail strength he grasped the guttering’s edge and hung upside down to clap eyes on his hero. As he clasped eyes on the window his optimistic smile dropped so fast it actually pulled him back onto the gutter.
Beyond that transparent pane of melted sand was not Iron Man. The room in fact didn’t even contain an iron. The mouse continued on, seething about life. Inside the window lay Arnold, Arnold the newt. Laying on his scruffy and unmade floral bed sheets Arnold stared blankly at the credits to the first Iron Man film. His stare was laced with so much boredom he’d have given Medusa a headache. Inside his mind he fantasised briefly about how exciting it would be to actually be Iron Man. This however turned out to take more effort than Arnold was prepared to give so instead he abbreviated the whole in experience into single thought. I need to get out more. With that he climbed under his bed sheets and star-fished in his double bed. Feebly as an afterthought one hand left the covers and felt around for the remote, turning off the procession of camera man assistant’s masseuse’s names.
This ladies and gentlemen is Arnold the newt. While he’s asleep it’s probably only fair you learn what you have let yourself in for. Arnold is your average newt. He enjoys a drink and the odd slice of pizza – never the even ones. He lives in what he has now come to realise is a hideously over-sold one room flat in Wickam-under-Siege, just outside Bristol. Things are going ok for Arnold. He has his flat and a job at VMH, with easy access to a Mexican and take-away pizza. It’s worth knowing though, as a nipper Arnold had known tragedy. Back when he was just a tadpole he watched his brothers and sisters get viscously hunted and eaten by marauding fish. Most of those that dodged the fish were kidnapped by armies of small children with jam jars and nets. A few had taken the heron to new ponds and lakes but Arnold had lost their addresses. Their loss though. Eventually Arnold was the last newt standing. A rogue open can of energy drink fell into the pond and before he knew it Arnold was 5”9 and laying naked, his dark back on the ground and his spotted light orange belly proudly facing the morning sky by the pond he used to swim through.
He soon discovered he was in a park in Milton Keynes and quickly borrowed a homeless man’s clothes. He moved to Wickham-under-Siege and found his worries about fitting in were needless. People can be so jaded nowadays; no one really cared he was a 5”9 newt other than to occasionally ask what it was like to have a tail. So, that’s Arnold. Over Wickam-under-Siege the little hand was on the ten and big hand was on the nine, time to wake up.
Arnold’s bleary eyes opened and focussed on his single room flat once more. Once more Arnold asked himself why this had been had been a good idea. It was neither functional nor convenient like the estate agent had said. It was just cramped and awkward. Arnold rolled out the left side of the bed, took one step across the thin dark carpet and arrived at the broom cupboard of a shower room – it was at least technically a second room. He relieved himself and continued his daily routine. Walking around the bed he waved at the Jimi Hendrix poster. He then sat on the front of his bed, looking over his tatty sink, fridge and cooker he took in the ‘view’ of the abandoned and over-grown car park. Next it was another step to the TV unit. Feeling musical he sat down and thumbed his records, roughly stacked on the bottom shelf. Collection was a loose term for what was essentially the Jimi Hendrix back catalogue and a surprisingly hard to find copy of Gangnam Style. Soon a lovingly worn copy of Electric Ladyland was filling the room with sound. The last step was clothing. The far right corner (in reality it wasn’t that far) housed a small rail of clothes made up tired jeans, band tees and a few hipster suits. Once a pair of tatty jeans had been engaged and a Mighty Boosh t-shirt selected it was time to be bored again, this time out and about in town.
Arnold completed what he liked to think of as a strong look with a pair of knackered green converse, now dull and marked from a tough life on the streets. Arnold left through possibly the biggest over-sell he had been victim to in the flat. The doorway. It did not have a conventional door the estate agent had enthused. Instead it had Securicor 5000 Protection Beads. One perk was not needing any pesky keys. Arnold had come to the conclusion that his were broken however as they didn’t keep out anyone. Arnold was also sure he’d seen the beads on sale reduced to clear. But still, it was time to roam the streets. Arnold walked through the beads, enduring the noise and feel of them sliding over his body and made his way down the corridor and stairs to the exit. As he passed the other flats in the building he couldn’t help but marvel at the artistic combination of stains and mould that lined the walls and carpets. Descending the stairs Arnold reached the door, turned the latch and entered the world.
The sun shone brightly over Wickham-under- Siege. Peel Park sat across the road from Arnold’s building, verdant and inviting with it’s expanse of grass and trees. Not inviting enough however. Arnold swung a left and walked past the conflict of nature and tarmac that was the car park. Arnold kept walking, past the car park and another three storey apartment building. Swinging another left he was on the home straight to town as he passed a row of terraced houses, unified in the glow of TV screens pulsing through their windows. Arnold’s TV license envy was over-come by his desire for a coffee, allowing him to resist the gravitational pull of the flickering screens. The best way to describe Wickham-under-Siege high street is tasteful yet drunk friendly. Blocked to traffic the brick surface looked clean and respectful. Running through it’s centre at intervals were oval pedestals sprouting trees, flanked by benches.
Arnold passed two of these islands as he peered in at long shop fronts and the things he couldn’t afford but felt compelled to think he needed. Then he was at his coffee shop, Filter, the place he was fairly sure only he called the caffeination station. Walking through the door Arnold passed the spread of tables as he eyed the room for a vacant one. Making his way to the back wall and the counter Arnold whipped out his reward card and ordered a large caramel latte in defiance of the size terminology Filter tried to force on it’s customers. The bored looking barista didn’t seem to care about his protest however as she prepared the drink. The room was full, but Arnold spotted a seat near the shops glass frontage to stare aimlessly from and people watch.
Arnold drained the remainder of his coffee and left, full of the over-confidence that comes from caffeine and sugar. He’d heard a few conversations and could say with certainty that Susan Foset had left – making two middle aged women surprized and sad, man is the measure of all things and that jungle is still massive, bruv. Arnold walked back past the department store deliberately averting his eyes, passed the bollards keeping cars away like a bar with a bad reputation and into The Other Side. The black shop front boasted two large display windows littered with ornaments, stones and the invitation to kill time. Inside the air was heavy with incense. The shop was so crammed with display units, tables and delicate items that powered by coffee Arnold almost broke several of them. There was a lot to take in but suddenly all Arnold could think of was tea.
Arnold picked up various items; a piece of tigers eye, a statue of a dragon, some incense – completely oblivious to the shop keeper’s optimistic face as he picked each item up followed quickly by the disappointment as he put it down again. He studied the items, assessing their feel and weight but all Arnold could think of was tea. The feeling a good cuppa gave you and the massive let down of drinking cold tea. He left the shop and had his thoughts on tea temporarily disturbed by a glare from the shop keeper. Arnold’s thoughts soon returned to tea however as he wandered to a tree and bench island in front of the shop. Staring across the street Arnold pondered the great tea mysteries. If tea were a person what clothes would it wear? Would Irish tea work as well as Irish coffee? How many cups of tea could a tea drinker drink, if a tea drinker could drink tea? Unsure of where this deep fascination regarding tea had come from Arnold couldn’t help but feel in awe of the toasty beverage. The next step was to drink some.
Getting up, Arnold walked along the street. Past clothes and games shops, alarmingly bright shop fronts, even past Nice Nice Naughty – Wickham-under-Siege’s multi-purpose bar, club and strip club. Arnold stared hungrily as he walked past Kerbaby McKerbab Face and dashed past work lest they call him into work. It was a long way for a lazy newt like Arnold but the tea would be worth it. Hmmmmm tea, the thought bounced around Arnold’s brain like flubber. Then he was there, Ol’ Micks. The independent tea and coffee shop for those that wanted to give back to the community. The small room was populated by sofas and coffee tables. Everyone was drinking coffee but Arnold wasn’t surprized, this place did great coffee. It was time to bring back tea – bravely, boldly and single handily. Behind the counter Chairman Mick, as everyone called him, struggled to hide his surprize as Arnold ordered a pot of tea. Ol’ Mick had never had the knack – just couldn’t grasp it. This time would be perfect though he assured himself. He boiled the water and prepared Arnold’s tray. Glances followed Arnold to a sofa, ghoulishly expectant. Chairman Mick let a bead of sweat run down his drawn face as the room stared on.
That’s right I’m drinking tea; I’m a rebel, a trend setter, thought Arnold. He poured the cup and added a little milk. The room took a breath as Arnold raised the cup to his newty face. Frame by frame the cup reached his mouth, tilted forward and poured liquid onto his tongue. Arnold swallowed. A look of shock etched itself over his face. It was … it was … it was horrendous! Weak like a collapsed economy it harassed his throat as it travelled down to his protesting stomach. Arnold poured it back into the pot and teased the tea bag some more. Same result! It’s like it was embarrassed to be tea. Looking up, Arnold glared at the staring faces and simply mouthed ‘why?’ to Chairman Mick. Arnold walked home in disbelief and ordered an emergency lunch time pizza. People need to know! There should be warnings! Arnold’s thoughts ranted on. Not even the combination of melted cheese and meat made a difference as he stuffed a pizza into his face.
“I have to do something! I have to!!!” shouted Arnold, mainly at the box with the half eaten pizza.
“I’m going to write about this, inform the people!” he reassured the increasingly worried looking poster of Jimi Hendrix on the left hand wall.
“I’m going to become a tea critic, the people will hear. Arnold is here for you!”
Dave James Horn ©
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About Dave James Horn
Based in Folkestone, Dave James Horn writes poetry to raise a smile and provoke a thought. He is part of Poet’s Corner Folkestone and an organiser of the Folkestone Language Exchange. Read his full bio here.