Short Story: Dizzy Heights

The silhouette of a fledgling businessman clutching some paperwork apprehensively entered through the light of the doorway, and eased the door shut behind him. Sealed in darkness now, he couldn’t be absolutely certain, but he whimpered nonetheless. “I know you’re in here, Dizzy….”

He received no reply; the only sound was the gentle hum from outside. The young man sighed, fumbled his hand along the wall to find the light switch, eager to rid the space around him of this gloomy ambience.

He detected the slight sound of a stomach beginning to rumble, deeper it grew, hastily. Then, the shuffling of an uncomfortable posture. “D…izz…y?” the man questioned slothfully.

Still no answer, save this emerging rumble. Abruptly, and unwillingly it detonated a deafening belch, deep and booming. What followed was an ingenuous snigger. And what followed that was the repercussion, a comforted sigh of relief.

It was this convenient conjunction in which the fellow located the switch, and hastily flooded the room with light. It showed a smoky haze, and through it the man detected the outline of Dizzy. “Like, hey man,” protested Dizzy mellowly, “like, kill the lights man!”

The young chap did not obey, rather thrust his hands on his hips and ogled the obscured figure as it sloughed in a corner, reluctantly tugging one side of some headphones away from an ear. “What are you doing in the dark?” grimaced the fellow.

“Like, meditating,” clarified Dizzy, as if it were obvious. “To some, y’ know, some Pink Floyd, and that, man.”

“I thought you had gone,” groaned the young man.

“Dude,” Dizzy gurgled, extending his elongated arms, then tucking them back in to shrug. “Like, where is I supposed to have gone to, man? You answer me dat!”

“You could have left.”

“We are on a, like, plane, dude,” informed Dizzy, in confused amusement. Smoothly and professionally his voice harmonised a growly melody, “like, flying high, up in the sky, you and I!”

“You could still have left,” insisted the youthful entrepreneur, maintaining his frustrated posture.

“Gary, Gary, Gary,” Dizzy exhaled.

“Yes?” inquired the man.

“Gary, man, Gary, that’s, like, my point, Gary, that’s like the, the, well, this whole shit-stem, I ain’t going out like that, like Puff, man.”

“Puff?”

“He was like, my bredrin, man, from Honahlee, I, like, thinks, but that’s beside the, erm, the point! The point is,” Dizzy now pointed an authoritarian yet unkept finger at Gary. “In a, like, a, erm, a nut…shell, Gary. You still, after being my manager for, how, erm, long is it, like, been now, man?”

Now the man lamented, as he recounted his years of service. “Five years, Dizzy,” he extenuated the number with an interminable sigh, “five. Long. Years.”

The pointed finger became more proficient at pointing. “Five, man,” Dizzy nodded, “five, as you say, you say, that’s what you said, like man,” he giggled to himself, “five years, and in all those years, in all that time, Gary-Gary, you, Gary, never understood me, did you?”

Gary rubbed his chin, “I’m sorry,” he nervously whimpered, “I, erm, I….”

Voice raised in slight anger, but retaining depth, Dizzy interrupted. “You don’t, man,” he paused, “you, like, don’t understand, do you? I like, man, I know, I know, and I have to say, it’s alright, man, really it is. You never took the time to understand where I’m coming from, and that, young fellow-me-gig, that, right there, is the like, the erm, the, yeah, that right there is the definitive and, like, abso-fucking-lute issue, that is.”

Gary was lost for words, observing the bottles of tequila surrounding his client, as the beast bit the end from a Cuban cigar.

“Picture this,” Dizzy continued, spanning his hands mysteriously through the air. “If you, like will; you, right, are, on a boat on a river, a river, man, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. Then, right, somebody calls you, and you, right, you answer quite slowly….”

Gary huffed. “Is it a girl?”

Dizzy snapped his finger, “yeah, man, you see it too! But, dig this, yeah….”

“She has kaleidoscope eyes?”

Dizzy let out a bellowing laugh which reverberated around the room. “That’s it, man, finally! Finally, you see it, finally you appreciate it too, man, like definitively and, like, abso-fucking-lutly, man! You do, you understand! Here,” he threw a baggie at Gary, “roll up a fat one, knock yourself out, man, gee-whizz, you understand me now!”

“I understand how much this is all costing us,” replied Gary. He shimmered over to the round windows, observed the cloud formations below them, to confirm he was on a plane, with this blathering idiot.

“Cellophane flowers of yellow n green,” Dizzy pointed at Gary, gesturing him to sit. He wobbled the baggie in the air, “towering over your heaadddd. Look, right there, for the girl with the sun in her eyes…….”

“I said,” started Gary.

“And she’s, like, gone,” Dizzy expressed and stopped in astonishment, as if a manifestation of a girl really did just disappear. He observed his manager’s frown. “Sheez Gary, you worry too much, I need me this plane,” Dizzy stressed.

“You do not need a plane!” Gary firmly stated.

“Wha’ you mean I dun’t need me no plane, dude?” replied Dizzy, rather bitterly but still maintaining his generally cool tone. He dipped his dark sunglasses to get a better look at his manager. “I’m tellin’ ya, I need dis here plane. Everybody that is somebody need a plane these days.”

“Why do you need a plane?” Gary snorted.

“I am who I am,” Dizzy wafted, “da social elite, man, the god-damn star of the god-damn show, and the star of the god-damn show needs a plane,” Dizzy maintained.

“You had three downloads of your last album, Dizzy,” Gary reminded, “and one of them was by your mum!”

“She know good mu-sic,” Dizzy pondered silently, and took a sip from a fresh bottle of tequila. “Damn it, man, I’m done with tequila! Get me some Champagne!”

“Really?” Gary threw the paperwork at Dizzy. “Final demands, Dizzy, final.”

“Take a chill pill,” he ordered. “Sheez, man you, like, you know better than me; there ain’t no readies in recording these days man, the bread and butter is in performing, you gotta do da festivals man, that’s what it’s all about. And for that, man, I needs me a plane.”

Gary swung his head with ease to take his gaze from the window and aim it towards Dizzy as he slouched in the chair, swigging from an expensive bottle. He gestured to Dizzy that he did not agree. “You need a hundred nights, to pay your last bar bill!”

“Don’t you dare, dude,” Dizzy spat, “like, talk to me about knights, with their, like, chivalry and their fuckin’ shiny armour! Give me one good reason, Gary-Gary, one god-damn good reason why I don’t need me no plane?” Dizzy pointed an accusing finger at Gary.

Gary confirmed by moving just a step closer, “Just one?”

“Yep, just the one will be, like, acceptable,” calmly said Dizzy, confident with his side of the argument.

“I’ll tell you one, shall I?” the manager took another step towards him.

“Yep man, that is, like, all I’m asking, big-shot rock star manager,” giggled Dizzy, replacing his shades completely over his eyes.

Gary was now so close to Dizzy he could smell his breath, and it wasn’t nice. It had the stench of an expensive tequila, true, but overpowering this was a smoky charcoal funk. “Because Dizzy,” the uncompromising flow snowballing, “because…. you…. you are a, you a dragon, Dizzy. You are a bloody dragon, and dragons can fly!”

“Technical details,” replied Dizzy. “Technical details,” he repeated to make it sound even more prominent. Then the dragon waved his hand at Gary to pass off his comment, and blew fire from his nostrils in order to light his cigar.

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