(Here is another of the tales of Roy in Clingfilm which people other than myself have written. I find this one unlikely in the extreme. It is highly improbable that Roy would be found in a place like Detroit. Perhaps it is best viewed as an alternate world fiction. This tale has been edited due to considerations of space. - Ulli)
Another frost-bitten night in Detroit. My skin is trembling from the winter's assiduous cold, and I huddle further into my cheap trench coat in an attempt to alleviate the numbness that standing on this street corner is giving me. I check my watch brusquely. A quarter to three already? My eyes dart up to the sickle moon glaring malevolently down above the sycamore-lined avenue. I'll give him to three. Then I'm out of here. Nothing's worth this relentless cold...
I light another cigarette for the transient warmth it offers. The smoke mingles with my misty breath. Hurry the hell up, man, I snarl to myself, feet stamping the ground, teeth chattering. A car glides round the street corner, silently. This better be him....the car slides to a halt beside me. The passenger door swings open, and I get in.
I slam the door shut behind me, and try to ignore the click of the door's auto-lock mechanism being activated. Just a precaution, I re-assure myself. Nothing's going to get out of hand. I turn to greet the driver. The man himself, dressed in trademark black, those eyes of his shielded from inspection by shades that reflect the avenue's street lights. I attempt a joke. "So, Roy, did you drive all night to get to me then?" His laugh was humourless. "Let's just get this over with. My hotel's a few blocks from here." I nod my assent, and sit quietly as Roy navigates his way through the streets back to his hotel, not saying a word. The whole situation is starting to un-nerve me and I begin to think of backing out. I remember the locked doors. No...I'm in this for the long haul.
Fifteen minutes later we're sitting in Roy's hotel room, and it's a good deal more seedier than anything I could have imagined such a man as he lowering himself to. Looks like it hasn't been redecorated since the Thirties. Gods above. Maybe it's all part of the kick for him, I ruminate silently. Roy pours me a whiskey on the rocks, which I dash down my throat with alacrity.
Roy sits perched on the end of the bed. Let's do this, I think, and will myself to start the procedure. I stand up. "So," I remark with practised nonchalance, "You have the clingfilm here with you?"
"More than enough" he replies, and nods over to the corner. A small pile of clingfilm rolls lie arranged in the corner. He's right, I muse to myself. He really has thought this all out. "You get paid when the job's done. Two hundred dollars as arranged. Now," he drawls languidly, "Take the rolls of clingfilm, and wrap me good."
"Do you want to take your glasses off?" I ask, and know it's a mistake as soon as the words are out of my mouth. His teeth bare in a grimace. "Just do as you're bloody well told man!" he barks, and in an attempt to pacify him I hurry over and start rolling the film round his head. I take first one arm, then the other, rolling the film in workmanlike fashion round him, noting the callouses on his fingers that years of guitar-playing have left. Soon I'm unravelling the shiny, translucent material round his waist and torso, and onward, cocooning him completely once the legs and feet have been done. It's like he's in a chrysalis, I remark to myself in wonder. Is he going to come out of this transformed in some way? Who knows...
He lies there, in a state of pure grace, until the rays of the mornings icy sun pierce the mist outside the partially-blinded window. I sit beside him, holding vigil. This is what peace on earth is like, and I am grateful for being part of something greater than myself through this experience.
Six hours later I unwrap him. He hands me over my money, but it's not about that anymore. It's something deeper than any burial that I have shared with Roy, and as I walk out into the dawn's early streets, I feel that I have been transformed from that clingfilmy cocoon, just as much as the big O.
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