A Day in the Life of

A day in the life of an unburdened free-thinker of independent means

Archie Gault

Day dawned for Fragrance McMillian far earlier than he’d have liked. He wasn’t sleeping of course - sleep was far too mainstream - but occasionally he would rest his eyes a little, always making sure to get up early enough to be sure no one saw him at it. Most of the nights were spent sitting in his genuine 1900’s ol’ Western rocking chair listening to genuine 70’s prog rock vinyl records on his genuine mahogany record player which, he’d been led to believe, predated the birth of Christ. It was quiet in the hours between 3 and 4; he liked that, even if it meant there was no one else to hear that he was listening to music that they’d probably never heard of. Oh well, sighed Fragrance; he could always tell people about it later on.

For the next track he’d selected something a little alternative. Nursing the mug in his hands, he lay back into the shroud of the chair, sighing distantly as the subtle tones of the Lumen Drones washed over him. It wasn’t that he liked the Lumen Drones, in fact quite the opposite, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that, by listening to Swedish drone music which none of his peers had even heard of, he was cultivating that cool, laid back, alternative image that deep down he felt he deserved. That’s what he thought at least. In actual fact it merely gave the impression that he had a weird, mushroomaddled taste in music, meaning that when his group of friends (or at least close associates) went out to concerts and such he was never invited. Ever. Not even when they’d all gone to see that all-transgender Abba tribute band in a club near Camden, which was a shame really, because if Fragrance had one secret love, it was definitely either Abba or Transgender people - but they weren’t to know that as he’d never voiced his affection for anything remotely mainstream like that ever. It wasn’t that he was some kind of slave to his own image or something, perish the thought; he just lived in constant fear of being seen as basic or weird, or, even worse, a strange combination of the two in which he was so mundane to the extent that it became creepy.

The sudden noise of a car backfiring somewhere in the neighbourhood brought Fragrance back to his senses. He glanced around for a second, certain that someone was stealing his collection of vintage records. A couple of years back, somebody had told him that, to the thieves of the East End, vintage vinyl was like gold dust and that he should be on his guard at all times. He’d never quite made up his mind whether said person had been serious or not but, ever since, his nightmares had been plagued with images of balaclavaed youths, parachuting out of the window of his first floor apartment, an LP under each arm and presumably a malicious grin under all those layers of knitwear. 117

Alone in the suddenly colder dark of his apartment, Fragrance got to his feet, swirling the mug of coffee he held in his suddenly shivering hand. It was cold. It had been for days. The coffee itself was a blend so exquisite that, according to the shifty- looking salesman he’d bought it off, it contained 7 different types of bean and the blood of a virgin sacrificed under a full moon. He hadn’t been sure whether the virgin’s blood should be taken literally or whether it was just another obscure coffee bean; either way the blend was far too exquisite to drink and consequently he’d taken to carrying it around for the last couple of weeks, forever professing to the purity of the blend and lamenting the fact it’d gone cold to anyone who would listen.

It should be pointed out here that the name Fragrance McMillian was not the one that the man known as Fragrance had been given at birth. In actual fact he had been christened Robert but, he reasoned, the name Robert didn’t exactly convey the image which he wished to project. Truth be told, Fragrance, a name which he considered reflected his suitably sensory nature, was only a recent development, having been preceded by Charlemagne, which in turn had been chosen because Fragrance felt it harked back to the European blood which simply had to be in his veins somewhere. Certainly he knew he was not of British stock and, though his family hailed from the noble concrete of the East End and had done as far as anyone could remember, he was determined to one day show the ancestry test he’d taken to be as false as he’d always suspected, and prove himself to be of noble Viking stock. How else could you explain the majesty of his beard? In quick succession before Charlemagne had come Martin-Luther, Barack and Ghandi, all of which he’d only dropped after people assured him that yes, it was disrespectful, which was a shame because he felt he’d really identified with Ghandi.

Fragrance, as he had finally settled with, for now at least, liked attention, but only the right kind; he liked the sort of attention which turned heads, he liked the sort of attention which drew the approving gaze of young women in the underground clubs he frequented but most of all he liked the sort of attention which caused people to ask questions. He liked questions very much, as they gave him the excuse he needed to talk about himself, and then of course they couldn’t then object because they’d asked him. What he’d never been so keen on was the sort of attention that aroused the attention of journalists. He’d heard about the sort of things that happened to a fellow after journalists got interested in them; things like hails of angry tweets, pictures of him without any pants on circulating in the most shady corners of the internet, and of course casual shootings, none of which really got Fragrance going.

They’d shot Ghandi, he reasoned, so they’d probably shoot him too.

It was no good, thought Fragrance, he just couldn’t focus on the music anymore. He stood, silencing the Lumen Drones and sliding the record back into its case. With an almost drunken gait he made his way to the kitchen, placing the mug of what presumably still counted as coffee back into the fridge where he had taken to storing it, walked on into the bathroom and set to preparing for the day. Not that he was going to give in and use any of these modern products to style the hair known to him as his baby and to the rest of the world as his beard and moustache. No, good old water and soap would see him though. The man who had sold him the soap a week or so back had waxed lyrical about the genuine tribal recipe to which it was made and if that didn’t give Fragrance’s countenance that certain cultural zing, he didn’t know what would.

He stood, almost in silence for a minute, maybe longer, gazing at his reflection in the polished glass of the ornate mirror. He’d bought it a couple of months ago from an antiques store somewhere out in the suburbs, thinking it would fit his vintage chic design theme so well. He’d been so pleased then, but now, looking at it in the early hours of the morning, it didn’t seem quite so great. The focus in his eyes shifted back to his own reflection in the mirror. His own image didn’t seem quite as it had before either. Distracted fingers ran through his immaculately groomed beard, tugging on it thoughtfully. Gazing into the mirror he regarded himself more than on just a physical level, looking back at his life and indeed all the things in it. Things he’d bought flashed mentally before his eyes, a phantasmal price tag attached on a little cardboard slip; it cut him deeper than paper should be able to. His friends’ faces appeared before him also, one after another. It didn’t take long. Worth was something that Fragrance knew about. He knew his own worth and he knew the worth of others, especially in comparison to himself. He knew the worth of his own possessions and, thanks to Antiques Roadshow, he knew the worth of other people’s also - not that he would ever openly admit to having watched the programme. However, now as in reminiscence, his purchases passed before his eyes like the memories of a man on the brink of death, his sense of worth seemed suddenly blurred. Wincing, he splashed his face with water from the sink, blinking as the water rolled down into his eyes. He looked up again, back to the mirror, and, face dripping in the image that he saw there. A paleness seemed to have afflicted his skin. His face used to have a full hue, good skin and a perfect complexion; he’d put it down to the natural prevalence of the noble Nordic heritage in his genes, but over the last few months he’d hit a slow decline as the pallor in his face grew and the bright smoothness he had once enjoyed faded away. For weeks his friends (acquaintances) had tried to press upon him some lotion, (bought from the local chemist but true origin unknown) but he wasn’t having any of it; he wasn’t going to let his own personal defects and insecurities force him into the vicious cycle of fuelling the capitalist machine. No, he would fight these battles on his own.

That morning as Fragrance headed out, he was troubled. Quite what troubled him he was unsure, but there was something that weighed down upon him as he took the short walk down the street to the small coffee shop where he worked. It was not quite light and, in the half light of the dawn, he found his mind wandering. His thoughts passed like a cloud over the horizon of his right side brain. They dwelled on the peaks of the previous night, pensively stirring in a miasma as he replayed the memories. Tongue running absently over his dry lips, he thought once more as he had then. Biting his lip, the futility that, last night, had seemed so all-consuming presented itself once more but now the bite was gone. A hollow threat, nothing but the product of a fatigued and overworked mind; he paid it no heed.

Fragrance was cheering up now. The shadow had lifted and, behind the cloud was, not sun if Fragrance was perfectly honest, but it looked to be a little less grey. His step deepened as the confidence returned to his movements. Self-righteousness blossomed once more behind his eyes, he straightened his thick rimmed glasses (they were fake, but no one had to know that), smoothed down his beard and stepped confidently onwards.