A short story called "The Story of the Inception of a Global Phenomenon"

The Story of the Inception of a Global Phenomenon

He was extremely short, yet also scrawny; he had a small, pale and acne-marked face; and his dull ginger hair was shaped into an unfashionable fringe. Also, one of his eyelids drooped in a miserable way, lending him a look of permanent unattractive sleepiness.

He was standing in the playground – in the corner of the great asphalt space, at the edge of one of the basketball courts – standing and staring, with a serious expression, at the action occurring on the playground in front of him. There was a lot of action: intense games of basketball, skilful handball contests and spirited games of ‘tip’. There was noise all around him too: the cries of boys competing in games had melded into a loud, indistinct rabble of noise, distinctions between victory and loss entirely blurred. All of them were ebullient, gregarious and jocular boys; all of them were so different to him.

They didn’t understand anything of the world, they were all so ignorant. Only he knew the reality of the world. He had experienced life on the periphery, as an outsider, as a hideous and disfigured pariah! Normal society had spurned him, but he was not defeated. No, it was an advantage being an outcast, a blessing. His shunning had led to his realising his true purpose, his ultimate destiny in life: he would be an observer, an examiner of human nature – an interpreter of the mysteries of the world. He was to be a philosopher. He – unlike all of those in the playground – understood the truly callousness and cruelty of the world. They were all playing basketball in naivety of the truth – the truth of it all.

How can they smile when they will all eventually die? he wondered profoundly.

Standing there, still in the corner, a basketball suddenly landed next to him with a loud thump and he flinched. His serious gaze and rigid pose were restored as it bounced past him, slowly diminuendoeing. Samuel Peters – trailing it – began sprinting in his direction, his body hulking and sweaty, his gait lurching and awkward. It was a truly grotesque sight.

As he approached he spoke: “Hanging with your mates I see, Thom.”

Thom – thinking about how stupid he was, how oafish and juvenile and immature and ignorant he was – said nothing. He just stared at Samuel Peters, directly in the eyes.

“Okayyyyy” Samuel Peters said as he ran past him, towards the rapidly escaping ball. When he grabbed it and ran back towards the basketball courts, he didn’t try to engage Thom again.

When Thom saw Samuel re-immerse himself in his basketball game, he began humming to himself. It was a song he’d come up with in his head:

 “I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I even doing here? I don’t belong here.”

He imagined a rock band playing it and started making guitar noises:

“Duh-dah! … Duh-dah!”

Then, all of a sudden, he heard a voice, right next to him. He felt his face flush. Where had it come from? There was only shadow. It spoke again: “Cool song man”. Someone was right next to him!

Out of the blackness next to Thom, a tall, gangly boy with a large face, great bulging eyes and slight kyphosis suddenly appeared.

“Where did you come from?” Thom asked in an accusatory tone, red in the face from having his highly confessional song intruded upon.

“I came from the shadows, man.”

“How?”

“I just did, man.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to make you an offer, Thom. We’ve been watching you, me and the guys. We’ve been watching you closely, Thom. We think you’re the guy we’re looking for.”

“What? Why? How do you know my na –”

“Shh, Thom, enough of your questions; you’ll have plenty of time for them later.”

“What is going on though?”

“Alright man, I’ll tell you. It’s just that… me and the other guys think you’re the right man to join our band.”

“I don’t want to join a band.”

“This is not a normal band, Thom, not at all. It’s different. We’re all people like you Thom. We’re all pariahs, lepers ostracised and shunned by a narrow, prescriptive society where everyone has to follow orders, where everyone is forced to accept their simple but meaningless place like a cog in a massive machine. We’re against that, Thom, we’re against the Wolf at the Door. We’re fighting it. And we need you, Thom. The truth is we need you.”  

Thom maintained his serious, impassive expression, giving nothing at all away. Secretly, he was excited but still somewhat wary – a little dubious of their true intellectuality, and of their sincerity and devotion to the cause. He’d faced a lot of disappointment in his life before; he didn’t want this to be more.

He chose his words wisely: “What’s the band called?”

“We haven’t come up with a name yet.”

Then it was sorted. He’d join because he could choose the name. This band would have to be under his control; he’d make that clear when he met the rest of them.

“I’ll join.”

The strange, gangly boy offered his hand. Thom took it and they shook. The gangly boy slunk back into the shadows, whispering as he did that he would see him on Friday afternoon, in Music Studio 4.  

Thom Yorke knew what he would call the band now: On a Friday.