Daily Dose of Biggs

Alexander tracked flight QF95 for its full duration. The aircraft was a new Boeing 787-9. It departed Los Angeles fifteen minutes late. The forecast predicted mostly a smooth flight, with episodes of moderate turbulence by the equator.

Alexander was confident that George Biggs was on the flight. On his Instagram story, George had said he would fly to Melbourne on Saturday. Alexander reasoned he was unlikely to take one of the morning flights. Doing so would mean missing his son’s baseball game.

QF95 landed in Melbourne at nine in the evening and Alexander took his place by the barrier at arrivals. Alongside him assembled a clique of women who whispered excitedly to one another in a close huddle. Some of them trembled. One fanned herself. All of them had dyed their hair red, in imitation of George’s wife and two ex-wives.

George was preceded by his two security guards. These enormous men immediately recognised the gang of red-haired women for what they were, and positioned themselves between George and his zealous fans. Alexander hoped they would not recognise him. They had met once before outside George’s Los Angeles home two years ago. They had called the police.

The coven of redheads surged towards George, and Alexander trailed behind them. His phone began to ring with the sound of the theme to George’s best film, One Flower Too Many. Alexander’s wife Ava was the caller. He hung up the call.

The crimson-haired gaggle was blocking Alexander’s way. He announced himself to them as “Daily Dose of Biggs”, and ordered them to move. But they were focused on George and in return he received only sharp elbows.

Daily Dose of Biggs was the social media brand Alexander had spent several years building. Every day he posted images, videos and short essays about George and his films. On Instagram alone he had two hundred thousand followers.

George walked along the group and greeted them individually. The two security guards loomed close, their eyes narrowed. They peeled off a woman who refused to let George free from a hug. Alexander pushed forward to the front rank just as George came by. He smiled at Alexander with a warm familiarity.

“Hey man, love the hair,” said George. Alexander had of course grown out his hair and dyed it red.

Alexander stuttered and made only a few incomprehensible sounds. As if he had seen such a response many times before, George lowered his chin, looked into Alexander’s eyes, and asked him if he would like a selfie.

Alexander nodded wordlessly and stepped forward. George placed his arm over Alexander’s shoulder. He nestled in close, felt the strength of George’s body, and breathed deeply of the man’s smell.

“I’m Daily Dose of Biggs,” said Alexander.

“What’s that?” asked George.

“You know, Daily Dose of Biggs.”

“Don’t know what that is, but I’m sure it’s pretty cool, right?”

Alexander raised the phone, ready for a selfie. But before he could take the picture, Ava called again. Her image appeared on the screen and the phone began to buzz and sing.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Alexander. He fumbled with the phone. “I really apologise.”

“I best move along, but it was nice meeting you,” said George.

One of the security guards plucked Alexander from George’s side. Still stuttering and weak-kneed, Alexander tried to get back to him, but George had completed his rounds and was on his way to the exit. The red-haired women followed close behind him.

As George climbed into a waiting car, Ava called yet again. Alexander knew what she would ask him. She would want to know why he had not come home from the call centre. When he told her, she would then spend quite some time berating him, asking him why he had flown from Sydney to Melbourne without telling her, why he had spent a significant amount of that month’s rent on the flight, and why the hell he needed a selfie with George quite so badly.

When they were first married, Alexander told Ava everything. There was nothing he did not trust her with, and there was nothing about him she had not understood. But she had never grasped his connection with George, no matter how many times he explained it. She would tell him he should spend his time learning a skill rather than follow “some failed Hollywood C-lister”. And now, when at last he had made it into George’s embrace, she had completely ruined the moment.

Alexander had not booked any accommodation in Melbourne because he had thought he might be able to stay with George, so he now booked a single night at the airport’s cheapest hotel. This prompted a barrage of text messages from Ava letting him know she had seen the charge go through and that she did very much want to know what he was doing in Melbourne. He sent her only one text that read, “I’ll be just a few days.”

Earlier that week, George had posted about his upcoming trip to Australia. He was looking forward to a few days in Melbourne before going to a filming location in the bush. The speculation was that he planned to star in a genre-busting film about Victorian bushrangers who experience an alien visitation. A script had leaked online and Alexander had already read it through several times.

Alexander spent the night doing just two things: unsuccessfully trying to determine where George was staying in town, and watching One Flower Too Many. In 2012, when George was writing the film, Alexander had been publishing to his blog every day. He recorded the collapse of his childless marriage, the humiliation of the civil case against him, and the horrible pains of working at a call centre. The film concerned a man in just such a position. The critics had given One Flower Too Many very poor reviews, but that was because they could not understand it. It was a film that George had made for Alexander personally. Regardless of whether George had indeed based the script on Alexander’s blog, Alexander needed to let George know the depth of the connection they shared. Ava might not have grasped the logic of it all, but George surely would.

Alexander rose early and took a bus to the city centre. He took up a place by Flinders Street station and repeatedly refreshed his Instagram, waiting for the inevitable story to arrive. At nine o’clock, George posted a picture of a coffee and croissant. Conveniently, the image included the menu on the table. The name of the cafe was Human Bean. A quick search confirmed its location on Gertrude Street.

Gertrude Street was not very far away, but it was far enough that he would not be able to run the distance in good time. Alexander ordered an Uber and handed the driver an extra thirty dollars in cash as he threw himself into the Prius.

“Go. Go as fast as you can.”

The driver looked at him in the rear view mirror as he pocketed the money. “Sir, there will be no delay, I promise you that.”

Alexander strapped himself in, ready for the driver to throw him about with a rally-worthy performance. The driver instead drove precisely at the speed limit, repeatedly gave way, and indicated for what felt like several minutes before seizing any gap. Alexander bade the man to drive faster, more aggressively.

“What did I pay you for? At this pace I might as well have taken a tram.”

“I have to follow the law,” said the driver. “I’ll get you there as soon as legally possible.”

Not far from Gertrude Street, they reached a spot of traffic and a red light. Alexander jumped out of the car, dodged a motorcycle he had not seen coming, and began to run along the pavement. The driver did not call out after him.

He arrived at Human Bean spluttering. Through the front window there was no sign of George. He swept his long red hair from his face, coughed the phlegm from his throat, and asked a waiter where George was.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Who’s George?”

“You know, George Biggs,” said Alexander.

“I don’t know who that is, sorry.”

“He’s a big guy. American. Blond. Goes about with two security guards. I know for sure he was here at Human Bean just moments ago.”

The waiter took a step back. “I haven’t noticed anyone like that. Are you sure that your … friend isn’t at our Centre Place location?”

Alexander opened Instagram to the picture of George’s coffee and pastry. Sure enough, the menu clearly said “Centre Place” below the name of the cafe. Alexander cursed himself, turned on his heels, and immediately headed back to the city centre on foot. He scanned Instagram as he went and ignored the notification that let him know his driver had left a one-star review. By the time he reached Centre Place, George had long since moved on.

This experience repeated itself. George posted something that revealed his location and Alexander raced to him, only to find that George had left. Before very long, Alexander came to understand that George deliberately posted photos only once he had gone.

If Alexander could not catch George on the street, he would have to narrow down exactly where the man was staying, and meet him there. He would tell reception to pass along a message. George would understand. He would come down immediately.

Alexander took a seat on the lawn by the State Library and scoured through not only George’s social media, but also the wider internet. He found no articles with any hints, and no entertainment journalists or gossip columnists had tweeted anything useful. The fan pages were equally void of information.

By this time, his phone had accumulated more text messages from Ava. They said things like “Are you OK?”, and “Do I need to call the police?”

Alexander wandered between the city’s many sights in the hope he might encounter George. Some hours later, he was in Fitzroy Gardens beneath a line of elm trees. The canopy they formed was a brilliant green in the summer light. He and Ava had enjoyed a picnic at almost that exact spot a few years earlier. In their living room Ava kept a framed photograph she had taken that day. The long weekend they spent in Melbourne had been just before Alexander saw One Flower Too Many for the first time.

Not far off, Alexander spotted three women scurrying along a parallel path, heading away from the city centre. Each of them had dyed red hair, and they moved with a fevered urgency.

Alexander turned and followed them out of the park and down a series of narrow streets. One wore an exceptionally long dress, as if she were on her way to a formal dinner. She occasionally stopped to collect the fabric before rushing after the other two. They led Alexander to an old townhouse with ornate ironwork in the local style. Alexander took to the opposite side of the street and watched as the women looked in through the windows and took photos. A few more red-haired women joined them. Alexander resolved that he would force his way into whatever private Facebook or WhatsApp group they were using to coordinate.

A squeal went out through the group of women, now almost a dozen in number. A large car with dark windows pulled into the reserved space outside the house. George’s two security guards left the car first and cleared a path through the baying women. Alexander was among them, pushing and grabbing to secure a place. The woman with the evening gown was beside him. He called out to George, “Please, George, it’s me. I wrote the blog. It’s me, Alexander. You know me. I promise. We have a connection. Let’s take a selfie, please. Please.”

He lunged forward to embrace George, but his foot tangled in the fabric of the voluminous dress. He lost his balance and tumbled to the pavement. There he found himself on scuffed knees before George. He cleared his hair from his face and scrambled to his feet. With his hands clasped together, he pleaded with George more unctuously still. One of the security guards grasped Alexander’s shoulder, but George made a gesture and the guard let go. George looked down to Alexander with his warm and understanding smile.

“It is very nice to meet you, but I’m afraid you’re in my way. I’m trying to enter this little house here. I hope you don’t mind if I just slip by you now.”

George attempted to pass, but Alexander blocked his way. George’s smile strained as he tried to pass on the other side, and was blocked again.

“I don’t think you understand. It’s me, Alexander. I wrote the blog you used to write One Flower Too Many.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You made it for me. I know it. Don’t pretend otherwise. I won’t sue you for copyright infringement. That’s not why I want to talk.”

A few of the redheads jeered at Alexander. George was no longer smiling when he said, “I’m afraid you really must let me pass.”

Alexander reached out and took a hold of George’s hand. “Please, let me explain. I’m Daily Dose of Biggs.”

George wriggled out of Alexander’s grip and wiped his hand on his jacket as if clearing off something putrid. He now looked at Alexander with snarled disgust.

“That’s enough. Out of the way.”

One of the guards took a firm hold of Alexander’s shoulders. George made another gesture that tempered the guards’ building desire to toss Alexander in the gutter. He quickly passed Alexander. The guard let go his grip.

There were only a few metres between the pavement and the front door of the house. One of the security guards stood in the way, while the other managed the flock of red-haired women. When George unlocked the door and opened it wide, Alexander took his chance.

Alexander launched himself into the forward security guard and knocked the man clean onto his back. His skull struck the concrete with a horrible crack. The women cried out, in disgust or delight Alexander could not tell. With the guard dazed, Alexander pulled himself up and dived at the open door. George saw him coming and his eyes flashed wide. He tried to slam the door, but Alexander reached through the gap and it closed on his shoulder. He reached in his other arm and pried the door open.

Alexander entered and shut the door behind him. It closed in the face of the second security guard, who then pounded on it and called out urgently to George. George backed away from Alexander, holding up two open palms.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked George.

Tears ran down Alexander’s cheeks. “I put a lot at risk to come here. It wasn’t easy at all. My wife doesn’t approve of it. I couldn’t really afford the flight. But I just had to make sure you understood that we have a connection. We do.”

Alexander stepped towards George, who stepped back in turn.

“So what, do you deny it?” said Alexander.

George eyed Alexander’s pockets and waistband. “Do you have a gun?”

“A gun? No, of course not,” said Alexander, almost laughing through his tears. He came forward again, but this time George did not step back. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just need you to show me that you understand. And a selfie would be nice as well, don’t you think?”

George threw a fist into Alexander’s tear-soaked cheek. He stumbled in place but did not fall, and so George struck him a second time, and a third.

Alexander awoke on the floor with one of the security guards sitting on his back. The door to the house was open. Through swollen eyes and strands of red hair, he saw the other guard motionless where he had fallen. Red and blue lights were flashing.

At the police station, Alexander was given the chance to call his wife. Her voice came so loudly through the receiver that he held it away from his ear.

“Alex? Jesus Christ. What the hell are you doing in Melbourne? Are you down there trying to see that bloody George?”

Alexander leant his forehead against the wall and did not respond.

“On Twitter they’re saying someone attacked George,” said Ava. “Apparently one of his security guards got hurt. Is that something you were caught up in?”

“Wait, what’s the matter with the guard?”

“I don’t know. But they say he’s badly hurt. What, was that you?”

Alexander shook his head. “I had to get alone with George. And I did. It was only him and me, even if only for a few seconds.”

“And you hurt one of his security team to do it?”

“I just needed a bit more time with him. If I’d had at least a few minutes, I could have made him see things differently.”

A sharp exhalation came down the phone. “You should have got help when you promised you would. Alex, he doesn’t care about you. Did he tell you he doesn’t have any idea who you are?”

“I suppose he did, in his own way,” said Alexander.

Jake Roseman is a writer and software developer. He has a website at www.jakeroseman.com.