My Lovesick Zombie Boy Band (& weirder tales)

My Lovesick Zombie Boy Band - Part 2

‘I am not a goth.’

Being goth is like being pregnant; best aborted at the first opportunity. I thought I was a goth for precisely one week after my thirteenth birthday, then I actually met a goth and that, as they say, was that. A goth is just a model B drone, as much a product of the cultural cookie cutter as any peroxide blonde bimbo.  Goths are a shadow of a shadow. I am the shape from which the shadow is cast. Or so says my father.

‘Hey, nice goth outfit.’

I look down at my plain black tee, black skirt, black leggings and black boots. Yes, they are Doc Martins. Then I look up at the boy and manufacture an edged smile.

 ‘Oh.’ Dumb pause. ‘Right.’ Idiotic hesitation. ‘Sorry.’ How do boys get away with being so stupid?

I have accidentally strayed in to the guitar shop. A dozen adolescent males are staring at me as though I am the final representative of an otherwise extinct species. There are important philosophical reasons why my kind do not come in here. Why have I violated them?

‘Hub’ The boy sticks a hand out for me to shake.

Hub is the bearer of the tuffty blue hair that has drawn me unwilling into this hellhole of adolescent posturing. I saw it from outside and just couldn’t resist scouting out the owner. He has the typical loser chic of a young man with a fine future in stock replenishment. And what kind of name is that?

‘What kind of name is that?’

‘Oh right, yeah. Hubert. My parents didn’t like me.’

‘Mine don’t like me either.’

‘What did they call you then?’

‘Amalfrida.’ This is unprecedented. I never tell people my name.

‘Oh right, yeah. What does that mean?’

‘How should I know!’ I snap. He looks suddenly crestfallen and despite myself I feel guilty.

‘Look, mostly people call me Fred.’

‘Oh right, yeah. Fred.’

‘You say that a lot.’

‘What?’

‘Oh right, yeah.’ I parrot in my best dork impression.

‘Oh right, yeah.’ There is a pause and then we both burst out laughing. This carries on long enough that people start to stare.

‘My name.’ I say once things have gone quiet and we are just looking at each other. ‘It’s traditional. Gothic.’

‘I thought you said you weren’t a goth?’

‘Not goth. Gothic. My family. They’re like Ostrogoths? Going way back to the old country.’

‘Old country?’

‘You really do ask a lot of questions.’

‘Oh…wow. Um. So do you play guitar?’

I play clarinet and flute at grade eight, write musical notation as fluently as I read it and composed my first cantata at the age of nine but am forced to admit that no, I do not play six string guitar.

‘I know four chords.’ The moron tells me proudly.

His blue tufts have been waxed into unruly spikes, stiff like the blood crusted mane of a tribal warrior. I can’t help finding it cute.

‘So what brings you in here?’

I am utterly appalled to find my heart beat quickening as I consider my reply. I do not get nervous about boys!