Story 1 (in which Thom speaks of Macondo)
Colin bids everybody good night and runs up the stairs, taking two at a time. Jonny smiles and clutches his teacup between his palms, while Ed groans and rolls his eyes. Thom has a small smile on his face, which thoroughly hidden by the shadowy room.
“Ed!”
Thom and Jonny shift in unison, masking their giggles, as Ed gets up, mumbling. They count his steps as he goes to the kitchen to put the cup in the sink, then, shuffling his feet, up the stairs. That’s it. They are alone, with half-full cups, and it’s late. Jonny counts the butterflies in his stomach, his thumbs traveling over the smooth ceramic.
“I’ve read a book,” Thom starts, “And um…well, it’s hard to explain, but it’s about a village that is located far away from the society. And one chapter of the book tells how everybody in that village acquires amnesia because of the disease…they forget the names of the things and their uses…and so, one leader decides to put a name tags on everything around him…”
Thom is looking at his cup, concentrating on his trail of thought, and Jon is looking down, his eyes flicker to Thom’s face from time to time.
“That’s nice,” he says, “Do they forget everything eventually?”
“No. They recover and go back to normal lives,” Thom says, taking a sip, “It’s just that…I think, when you try to name everything around and try to think of a use for it, you always forget the ambiguous cases…for example,” Thom looked around himself, “Well, a guitar…some play it with fingers, others use picks, others use violin bows…but if one would tag it ‘A guitar. Used to make music with picks,’ it would be over…I mean, it takes a while for a person to realize that the rules do not embrace everything.”
“Yes, but you can’t possibly put all the uses of an object on the name tag.”
“That’s the worst part. You choose the most common use. But, you can put a small ‘et cetera’ in the end. A small message to the future generations, to make them wonder.”
Jon nods and pictures the small village, deep in the jungle. Grass huts and cornfields, people with sun burnt faces. And on every object, there’s a tag with neat calligraphic writing. Jonny’s eyes travel up Thom’s leg and settle on his calloused hands. ‘Thom Yorke. A human being,” vaguely appears in his head.
“What tag would you write for me?”
Jon’s question wakes Thom up from his musings and he raises his head slower than his eyes, glazed with though. Thom looks at Jon for a second before registering the question and exploding in a million of bashful smiles and snickers.
“Uuumm….erm….well….”
Jon cocks his head to the side, interested.
“…I dunno…I might…um…put…’Jonny Greenwood. A multi-instrumentalist and a good friend.”
Jon produces a small “Oh,” scolding himself for being so foolish.
“…Et cetera,” Thom adds quietly and Jonny’s head shots up to look him in the eye. But it’s too late, because Thom is finishing his tea, getting up and going to the kitchen.
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