Short Story: Steering Clear

A short story about listening to Sting. And other bad choices.

About 25 years ago, I was driving to Wellington with one of my mates – and one of his friends. The three of us had all left it too late to sort out any sort of flatting group. So, by default, we were going to be a group of three. That’s if we found a flat that suited. There was one teeny problem. I hated her. And she hated me. Meaning our mutual friend was very much in the middle.

It was instant dislike. But we tried to make it work. Not a huge issue in the end, as flats were hard to find. We fought and argued on the drive down, and ended up empty-handed very quickly. So it was already an awkward return ride, and though we hadn’t formally agreed that we’d break up the gang, it was pretty obvious that this was the only real way forward.

I was driving, so I had the tapes. And I put in this bootleg recording of a Sting concert. It’s not about whether I like or hate Sting, it’s about the fact that his drummer was Vinnie Colaiuta. Actually, the whole band was amazing. But, anyway, that’s the reason I loved this particular gig.

Next thing, from the back seat, “can you turn this off please – I don’t like it!”.

Instinctively, I turned it up. Because, sure, this story may contain traces of nuts. But it most certainly contains no heroes. 

I didn’t think about this that much, but was pleased the flatting group fell apart.

Flash forward, so many years…I’ve since seen Sting in concert a few times, with The Police, with Peter Gabriel, and most pretentiously, with a symphony orchestra. (He even played a song on the fucking lute). I’ve kept listening to his music, and mostly for the backing musicians. And then I’ve ditched every Sting album I ever owned. They’re all gone.

One day, I’m watching this documentary about the anti-vax movement in New Zealand. The protests at parliament. The tin-foil hat wearing morons. The dangerous idiots. The conspiracy lunatics. And I hear this voice. I swear it could cut glass, so I was somewhat surprised to find the camera lens didn’t crack.

There she was. Detected by voice. The person I nearly lived with in a mismatched flatting group a quarter century ago, maybe out by the Zoo in a rip-off two-storey joint with wavy carpet, black mould, and no insulation. We would have torn each other apart.

She’s now called Claire Deeks. A mummy-blogger made bad. She probably owns more Sting albums now than I do.