The Blank Page Experiment - Episode 1: Part 1

21st August, 2024

Aug 22, 2024

Foreword

I wrote this piece on a typewriter with no planning or preparation. It took me around an hour. I then dictated it into a doc and corrected any typos. I also carried out some minimal editing, mainly to incorporate ideas that I’d had whilst writing but couldn’t easily insert at the time.

It was inspired by a photo I took in Teignmouth and which I shared in this note:

I hope you enjoy it.

The Blank Page Experiment - Part One

21st August, 2024

The sign announced the road’s name as The Street With No Name.

Somebody call Bono, I thought. The search is over.

But this was Teignmouth, a seaside town in Devon, not the strife-torn roads of wherever it was that Bono had been wailing about. And I was here for nothing more than to look for a job.

Hands in my pockets, I mooched along the humorously named street, scanning the numbers on the unpromising gates as I went. And here it was: 11A.

The old wooden door was set in a high blank wall of unpainted cement render, with not so much as a window to break up the grim facade. My heart sank. This couldn't be right.

The door didn't just look unused, it seemed to have been abandoned. And not recently. Its layers of black paint were blistered and peeling, coming away in flaky ribbons to reveal bare patches of warped wood. There was no bell or knocker.

Hell, there wasn't even a handle.

I checked the address on my phone: 11A, The Street With No Name.

This was it.

I reached out to knock, but before my knuckles met the wood, the door swung open, a figure stepping into the widening gap.

The man was tall and slender, dressed in a black suit and an odd little black hat, but although the sun was shining, he seemed to be standing in shadow, as though the light didn’t venture beyond the doorframe. The man was elderly, his features drawn and his skin sallow, but all I really noticed were his eyes: bright as cut glass, dark as obsidian.

"Tim," he said.

"Yes," I replied, though it hadn't been a question. "I've come about—"

"The job," he interrupted. "Come in. We've been waiting for you."

I checked the time on my phone. My appointment wasn't for another 15 minutes. I was early.

Nevertheless, the man was welcoming me in with a gesture, sweeping his arm to usher me inside, so I obliged. I stepped through into a wide hallway with a high ceiling. The walls were painted an odd cream colour that might be described in a paint catalogue as ‘hints of wet canvas’. The overhead lights did little to brighten the place, and although I was standing close to the man, it was taking my eyes a while to adjust to the gloom, and I realised that I still hadn't had a proper look at him.

"Excuse me," I began, "but I didn't catch your name."

"That's because I didn't throw it." The man grinned, his lips parting to reveal a row of uneven teeth, the enamel stained to match the walls. "But you may call me Frank. Frank Middle, at your service."

He extended his hand for a shake. I took it, and his grip was firm, his bony fingers digging into my flesh.

"You will be working in the bar," he went on. "I'll show you the way."

"Sure," I replied to his rapidly retreating back. I hurried to catch up, and Frank led me on a disorientating journey through a series of corridors.

How big is this place? I asked myself, but I put my confusion down to unfamiliarity, and the anxiety that comes with starting a new job.

For the sake of something to say, I asked Frank if he'd received the CV I'd sent by email.

"Oh yes," he intoned. “It was all most satisfactory."

That was all I got out of him before we arrived at the bar.

The room was long and narrow, but although it had all the neon signs and trendy overhead lights with industrial style shades that you can see in any bar, the overwhelming effect was of darkness. In the battle between light and shade, there was no contest. The shadows were winning hands down.

"Interesting decor," I said. "You really leant into the whole day of the dead theme."

Frank stopped abruptly and turned to face me. For a moment, he simply stared, his gaze cold. But then a smile brightened his features and he looked genuinely pleased.

"You like it? You admire the ambience, the…?”

He waved his hand in the air as though grasping for the right word.

“The milieu, "I suggested.

Frank clicked his fingers, then, stepping close to me, he added, “You and I are going to get along famously."

"Right," I managed to say, my voice choosing that moment to become a high-pitched squeak. I cleared my throat. "Sorry, I have a dust allergy. Sometimes."

Franks face fell.

"Not that it's dusty in here,” I added. "I'm sure it's all spick and span, what with all the rules and regulations these days."

Frank’s cold stare was back. “Rules? Regulations?"

I waved his questions away. "Never mind. I was just… talking. I'm a little nervous. I wanted to make a good impression."

Frank nodded wisely. "Of course. Forgive me, Tim. I don't have much call for chitchat. I'm always working, and I'm generally on my own."

"What about the customers?"

"I work in the kitchen. Alone." He stressed the last word, drawing it out as though savouring it. "Always alone."

"Okay." I shuffled my feet and looked at him expectantly. He didn't get the hint. After an uncomfortable 30 seconds, I said, “So, who runs the bar?"

Frank blinked at me. "You do."

"On my own?"

"Why, yes," Frank replied. "I'm sure you can figure it out. In your CV, you said that you'd managed a bar last summer."

I clasped my hands in front of my stomach. Sometimes, when I'm nervous, I tend to fiddle with my fingers, tying them in knots, and that's never a good look.

"You have done this kind of work before, haven't you?" Frank asked.

"Oh yes," I lied. Helping out at my uncle’s place wasn't quite the same. He ran a small restaurant in Wales, and I'd given him a hand when we’d stayed with him last summer. Sure, he'd shown me how to pull a pint and work the till, but that was it. I’d enjoyed myself, but I hadn't actually been paid, unless you counted a few free bags of crisps and the occasional glass of shandy on the house.

Running my tongue over my suddenly dry lips, I added, “But last time, I was part of a team. I didn't run the place on my own, that's all. But I'm always ready for any challenge."

Frank looked unconvinced.

"Seriously, I can do it. Just point me in the right direction, and I'll get to work."

Without a word, Frank extended a thin forefinger toward the bar.

I rubbed my hands together in what I hoped looked like enthusiasm. “Right you are."

"We open at six," Frank said, then he turned and walked away, his footsteps making quiet sucking noises as the sticky carpet tried to cling to the soles of his shoes.

Alone, I checked the time once more. I had half an hour before we, or I, opened the front doors. There was no time to waste.

I hope you found that fun or entertaining or intriguing or all three.

In case you were wondering, here’s the real street sign in Teignmouth