An English Boy in New York (13 page)

‘Boy. Versus. Machine,' she said, theatrically holding up the cover of the
Times
again to illustrate.

I stared at her, shaking my head, hoping this was a dream.

‘Do you get it?' she said. ‘
You
. Knitting against  … '

‘ …  a
machine
, yes, I get it,' I said. ‘I'm not doing it though.'

‘Really?' she said. ‘I
thought
you'd love the idea.' She put on her sad face, which I'm slightly ashamed to admit, really does work on me.

‘Strangely, I don't love the idea,' I said.

‘There'll be prize money if you win,' she said. ‘I think a thousand dollars.'

‘I won't win, though,' I said. ‘So that's not going to help. Did you
really
think I'd love the idea?'

‘Why not,?' she said. ‘Ben, you're amazing.'

‘I'm not amazing,' I said. ‘I'm just an English boy  … '

‘ …  in New York,' she finished for me. ‘You're an English Boy in New York! And what did Sinatra say about the Big Apple? If you can
boom
make it here, you'll make it
boom
anywhere.'

‘I'm not sure he had knitting in mind,' I said.

‘Listen, kid,' she said. ‘You're from
Great
Britain. There's got to be a reason there's a
Great
in there.'

Bless her, she was trying so hard. ‘That's true,' I said, rubbing my chin.

‘And,' she said. ‘Imagine if you beat the
machine
?'

‘Brandi, I'm not going to beat the machine,' I said. ‘I'm not Gary Kasparov.'

‘Who?'

‘Er, a chess player. Like Bobby Fisher?'

‘Bobby Fisher? Did he sing “Don't Worry be Happy”?'

‘Yeah, that's the guy,' I sighed. ‘Anyway, I'm not him.'

‘Look, you've got to do something,' she said. ‘The sponsorship from Priapia didn't come  …  hasn't come through yet. We need the publicity and you need to do something at the fair.'

I said nothing. She crossed her arms. We glared at each other for a while.

‘So, if you don't do this, then what exactly
are
you gonna do at the fair?' she asked.

‘Have you seen me zumba?' I suggested.

* * *

‘So here in the US we are a democracy,' Brandi said after my food had arrived. She was drinking her bottle of mineral water and eyeing my fries hungrily. We'd decided to change the subject.

‘Oh yes?'

‘We have two political parties, the Democrats and the Republicans.'

‘I've heard of them,' I said.

‘Have you?' she asked, surprised.

‘Oh yes. Obama is a Democrat. He's the President, but the Republicans have a narrow majority in the Senate.'

‘Wow!' she said, her eyes bright. ‘You know about US politics!'

‘A bit,' I said modestly.

Brandi looked impressed. ‘So what do you want to do this afternoon?' she said.

‘Don't we have interviews to do?' I asked.

‘Not at the moment,' she said. ‘I'm waiting on a couple of calls. I have to go into the office this evening but we have a few hours.'

‘Oh great,' I said. ‘What do you suggest?'

‘Have you ever heard of a game called baseball?' she asked.

I had Brandi check the street before we left Dino's, to make sure the homeless guy wasn't going to accost me.

‘How will I recognise him?' she asked.

‘He wears a grey trench coat and a red polyester jumper,' I said. ‘And he smells worse than the toilets at an asparagus factory.'

‘OK,' she said. ‘Got it.'

‘Also, he has a bird skeleton in his beard if you think you need a further visual clue.'

She popped out and back in again quickly.

‘He's not there,' she said.

‘Great,' I replied, walking out into the watery sunshine. Brandi started waving for a cab.

I sighed with happiness as I took in the street scene. Crawling traffic honking merrily. A plump cop giving directions to a lady with a pushchair. A gaggle of tourists waiting at a bus stop. And up the street, rapidly approaching  … 

Oh crap. My homeless guy. Thanks a lot, Brandi. I ducked behind a planter but it was too late, he'd spotted me. Brandi was still waving fruitlessly for a cab.

‘I got some advice for you,' he cried. I could smell him already. I grabbed Brandi and pulled her away down the street.

‘Let's take the subway,' I said.

‘The subway?' she protested. ‘But we can put the cab on expenses.'

‘I just want to experience all that New York has to offer,' I said, glancing back over my shoulder as I hurried her down the sidewalk. The homeless guy was still coming, but he seemed burdened by the plant pot and Macy's bag and couldn't keep up.

We made it safely down onto the platform and hopped on a 7 Train heading to Queens. Brandi found us two seats and I sat, looking around excitedly as we headed off. It was a long way and the train stopped at a lot of stations. As we rattled along, I noticed the man opposite me was falling asleep. He'd slump slowly to the side, then suddenly jerk awake and straighten up. Then a few seconds later he'd lean to the left, his head drooping dangerously close to the shoulder of the man next to him, who I could see was aware of the situation but was pretending to be reading a book. I nudged Brandi and we giggled together at the sight.

There was a bit of a walk from the station which I was pleased about. I felt I hadn't done enough walking so far on this trip. In fact, I was puffing a little from the steps up to the street. Maybe I should cut down on the Philly cheesesteaks.

The BlackBerry buzzed as we walked in the weak sunshine. A text.

‘Look at this,' I said, showing Brandi the screen.

She quickly scanned the text.

‘That bitch!' she hissed. She looked up at me. ‘Seriously, Ben,' she said. ‘You do not
want
anything to do with the American Knitting Guild.'

‘I thought you worked for the American Knitting Guild?'

Brandi glared at me. ‘I work for the Knitting Guild Association of America,' she said.

‘They're different?'

‘Yes they're different,' Brandi said grimly. ‘They used to be the same organisation. But there was a  …  a big fight, kind of. Like when the Catholics and the Protestants had that disagreement.'

‘You mean a schism?' I said. ‘It was slightly more than a disagreement.'

‘Well, so is this,' she said. ‘They wanted to change the
fundamental style
of knitting in this country.'

‘To what?'

‘To the European style. Like they use in Canada.'

‘And Europe,' I pointed out.

‘Do they?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I knit in the European style.'

She hesitated, perhaps wondering if she'd offended me. ‘I'm not saying it's not a
legitimate
style, in other countries. But it's not the American way.'

‘Is it banned here?' I asked, slightly worried I now had to keep an eye out for the agents from the Department for Homeland Knitting.

‘No, of course not,' she said. ‘It's available as an alternative method, of course. But it shouldn't be the primary method, that's what we're saying. They, the so-called American Knitting Guild, wanted to change what was taught to young American knitters. The Standards, do you see?'

I had no idea knitting could be so political. But America's that kind of place. People feel strongly about things. And knitting is important.

3.15pm

I love New York. I love hot dogs. I love baseball. I love the fat guy behind us who yelled at Brandi in a good-natured way because her big hair was obstructing his view. Brandi didn't seem particularly interested in the game. Very few people were as far as I could make out, apart from the fat guy behind us who kept groaning every time the announcer gave any team news.

‘For the NEW YORK METS, pitcher Jimmy Consuela!'

‘Oh my God,' the fat guy cried. ‘Not Consuela. My mother could knock him outta the park.'

‘That man is the pitcher,' Brandi explained unnecessarily. ‘He throws the ball at the other man, who tries to hit it with the stick.'

I looked around at the crowd. Brandi had explained this was a family-fun day, hence the early start. There were a lot of children here and a lot of people dressed up in animal costumes for some reason. Despite the fat guy's concerns, Consuela seemed to do the job for the Mets as three Oakland batters duly struck out and there was a change of innings.

‘At bat for the Mets,' the announcer crackled. ‘Bobby Johnson.'

The man behind howled in frustration. ‘Johnson? You gottta be kidding me.'

Johnson hit a foul.

‘I want my money back!' he cried. People really cared here. In the stands at Hampton FC everyone moaned constantly, but with no real belief that the team might actually improve. The guy behind me clearly thought his team could, and should, do better.

The next ball Johnson duly cracked clear into the stands, which quietened his critic for a while.

‘That's called a home run,' Brandi told me.

Mets 3, Pittsburgh 1.

I'm never, ever going back to Hampton FC.

After the game I remembered to buy a Mets cap for Marcus. I'm running a little low on money. I'd had to buy the wool to replace the wool in the lost suitcase. And I've bought a toothbrush and a couple of pairs of boxers because I can't keep wearing Gex's. He'll find out if I'm not careful and that's really not going to look good. There was nothing for it but to go and see my parents tonight and ask them for some money. If I could find them, that was.

As we left the stadium amid streams of happy New Yorkers, the BlackBerry buzzed again. I'm a lot more popular here in the States than back home.

‘Brandi,' I said. ‘I forgot to mention this before, but I've had a couple of messages along these lines.' I showed her the phone.

Brandi looked furious, and snatched the phone off me.

‘That bastard,' she said.

‘You know who it is?'

‘Oh yeah. I thought I'd blocked all his numbers.'

I put my hand on her shoulder lightly. And suddenly, before I knew what was happening, she'd turned and squashed her face into my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. I had no choice but to put my arms around her and pat her back comfortingly. This all happened in the middle of the flow of fancy-dress wearing pedestrians trying to get to the subway. I'm afraid we caused a bit of a blockage.

‘There, there,' I said. I hadn't felt this uncomfortable since that time I found Freddie off his face in the garden at Isobel Knowles's end-of-term party and I had to help him get his clothes back on. Got to say though that I preferred this situation. Even if Brandi's enormous hair was all in my face and making me want to sneeze.

‘I'm sorry, Ben,' she said. ‘He's an ASSHOLE!'

‘There, there,' I repeated, smiling apologetically at a giant turkey who was trying to get by.

‘Why are all men assholes?' she asked, pulling back and wiping her eyes. I fumbled for a tissue in my Bloomingdale's bag.

‘I guess it's just how God made us,' I said, somehow thinking this was comforting.

‘You're not an asshole, Ben,' she said. ‘And thank you for the tissue.'

‘Do you want to talk about it?' I asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, not here, not now. I gotta be professional.'

All things considered it would be better if I didn't tell Brandi the next time G leaves a message on my phone.

* * *

Brandi and I parted at 38
^th
Street and she told me she'd be in contact once she had more news about the other media engagement she was trying to arrange.

When I got back to the hotel I found Keith and Gex in our room lounging around in the armchairs. I could tell something was up as soon as I entered because they first went very quiet and then started giggling.

‘Hello,' I said cautiously. ‘What have you two been up to?'

‘Nothing,' Gex said.

‘Playing cards,' Keith said.

I walked over to the coffee table, which was strewn with Coke cans.

‘This place is a tip,' I said. ‘Why is it always me who has to do the tidying around here?' Then, as I picked up one of the cans I sniffed it.

‘Vodka!' I said. ‘I knew it! I can't leave you two alone for five minutes. Where did you get the boo  … ' I trailed off, looking towards the minibar.‘Oh, please tell me you haven't?'

‘Haven't what?' Gex asked innocently.

I rushed to the minibar and opened the door. The miniatures were all there. But hold on. I grabbed a bottle of vodka and examined it.

‘The seal's broken!' I cried. ‘This has been opened.'

‘Probably the cleaner,' Gex said sheepishly.

‘I can't believe you guys have done this,' I said, checking all the bottles. ‘I have to pay for these.'

‘Brandi's paying, innit?' Gex said.

‘WE DON'T KNOW THAT!'

‘Chill, Ben,' Gex said, belching. ‘We filled up the vodka bottles. And the Scotch.'

‘You had Scotch too?' I cried, pulling out a tiny bottle of Bell's and examining it in the fridge light. ‘What have you filled it up with?'