(4) Jordan’s Input
After tidying up the dishes and what not he fired up the laptop and checked his email. There was one from Jordan, asking after his health and his knowledge of the sixties folk icon Tim Buckley. Andrew chuckled at this typical Jordan obscurantism. But he had to admit, the Buckley stuff he’d lent him had been marvellous. A complete original, an angelic songbird. But Jordan always wanted you to be the completist fanatic he was. No denying he had fun with it, showing up to seminars with pictures of a wasted Jim Morrison in a motel closet holding a black and white tv with some glam girl starlet inthe frame, but Andrew didn’t quite have his dedication, although to be honest he now had the funds to be a globe-trotting fanatic and collect signatures of the reclusive geniuses that peppered the music world. Even the dead ones, as Jordan had suggested.
Jordan also mentioned he had some fascinating info, so fascinating that he was taking the Go train out to visit to tell him in person. Would he be there at lunch time tomorrow, and could he pick him up at the station? Andrew replied assuring him of a timely ride. There was another email from Planet Plight, the organisation that handled the education funding of third world orphans. Various of their programs were being amended and extended and they wished to make him aware of the changes. He read through the details and decided that maybe this time guilt would not be a factor.
He recalled the time he stood outside the food bank building with a wad of fifties. Now that was fun. Way more of a challenge that he’d supposed. Nobody even looked remotely like they needed anything. Cars pulled up and people got out. All kinds and ages. Well fed, well dressed. Well maybe not fashion slaves but, you know, acceptable.
Still he’d picked up plenty of clothing at Value Village in his day. It was quite easy to appear civilised if you took a few minutes to accessorise, a task he’d never found as much of a chore as some of his male friends and workmates, some of whom should never have left their mothers’ care. Mostly they’d gotten inexplicably stuck between mom and girlfriend. Or maybe it wasn’t so inexplicable.
So what would Jordan’s fascinating info turn out to be? Despite his obsessions with the esoteric and occult, he did have his political interests, usually of the more conspiratorial variety. He did a good line on 9/11, so good Andrew had grown accustomed to not mentioning it. He could talk at length about black ops and false flag operations. And JFK, oh my god no, please. Oliver Stone is just the beginning, he would say, ominously, to Andrew’s pout.
He was suddenly fascinated with the idea of tidying up. The maid service wasn’t due till tomorrow and Jordan would be by in a few hours so why not be houseproud? His mother would love it. So he called her to tell her about it. She was just back from lunch herself. A smoked salmon omelette and salad with Moira McKibben. No, the weather was nothing special, a gusty wind from the north and spatters of rain. He was brought up to date on village news. He not only promised to visit but found himself enjoying the idea. Maybe he could do London and Scotland in one visit. He tried to dodge girlfriend queries without actually lying but it was hopeless, she saw right through him and told him not to worry, she’d be back when she got herself sorted out. It’s that money, Andrew, she needs to know if she wants you or your money. It’s not the gift you thought it was, it never is. Did you tell her about your charity work?
Later, the next day in fact, waiting for the train to pull in, he thought over this conversation. He’d squeaked out of mentioning the Lara connection, though it had been close. Did he need to confess? There was no real reason to be guilty, but he’d never needed much of one before, why would riches put a stop to that? Ah guilt, the engine in which every Christian thrives. He’d long ago given up trying to escape its clutches. You might as well wallow in it, he’d theorised, as try to run and hide.
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