The Mostly Unfabulous Homepage of Ethan Green

You probably want to know what Glove Puppet means and who the fuck I am. Well no one calls me that anymore, or not to my face. You probably wonder why I'm writing a biography at the age of 20. I'm not famous, I'm not a supermodel, nor am I a former child star from a popular TV series. But I was famous three years ago. That's why I have to write about what happened. Everyone read the papers, they all had opinions, but there's a lot of stuff that no one knows.

Brigitte reckons I should write everything down, including my dreams. Maybe she's right and maybe if I could get my shit together I could sell the real story about what happened to some magazine; maybe the very same ones that made our lives hell. "Think of writing as a form of exorcism," Brigitte says. I haven't got too much to lose and I'd love to lift 25,000 dollars out of the coffers of some of those magazines. I've heard that's how much they'd pay me for a story like mine.

Somewhere warm on a plane. Australia. That was the promise. We caught the train to Heathrow. It all happened so fast. "Dad" at a counter saying he hadn't a chance to reconfirm or something, but, yes, his son was now traveling with him. I had my bag of clothes and my truck. I suppose it looked better for me to have something; I must have looked a bit like an urchin. He organized everything. He was saying to people about how sad it was that my mother passed away. I didn't realize they were talking about someone else, not my real mother, no one would mourn her. I thought I was going through some procedure that must just happen if your mother dies; someone else could simply take you on. Then I remembered we were tricking these people, that even though they didn't look like police, that was effectively what they all were. People to be tricked.

"Dad" scarcely looked old enough to have a 7-year-old son, but he was confident: he had the passports, the tickets and they never looked closely at me in my tracksuit with pyjamas poking out from underneath. I suppose that is what kids travel in, not bowties like in "my" picture. My accent wasn't like his, but I never spoke to anyone. Perhaps his clipped and refined voice intimidated the officials, or perhaps the papers just seemed so in order that there was no drama. The last thing officials want late at night is a complex problem like a kidnapped child who no one wants anyway. It's the little things they like to flex their muscles over: dates, incorrect forms, uncertain, non-English-speaking foreigners who are easily unnerved and frightened, shy sari-clad Indian women whose packages may look suspicious. There were softer targets around that night for those passport controllers; they weren't interested in a boy and his Dad.

"You must be tired, Vas," he smiled. "Why don't you go to sleep while we wait to get on the plane."

I did this without hesitation, and when I woke he was carrying me down the walkway. His arms were incredibly strong and I felt I didn't ever want to do anything for myself again. Once on board, he curled me up on some cushions and stroked my forehead. "We're taking off now," he whispered. I tried to stay awake, but once we were in the air I drifted off to sleep again. The hum of the aircraft, the constant shshshshsh, the smell of the food and my sleepy head in his lap conspired to make me feel like some modern-day Oliver Twist, an escapee from the workhouse who could be saved by love. He could be my Dad, he could be my anything.

On that long flight he talked to me lots, told me some of "the secrets" that I was soon to know off by heart. He reminded me that he was my Dad, that my name was Vas. We dealt with all the "police" at the Australian end. I looked so tired and crumpled from my trip, my long hair almost obscuring my face, that no one really observed me anyway. By miracle or providence I got to Sydney. Then I went to "Dad's" house in Paddington and the real story began.

Vaslav Usher. Not bad for council estate white trash. Poor Johnny's surname was Smith - John Smith can you believe. Mum either had no imagination or a very black sense of humour. I suppose I was named for all my real fathers after all. I became Vaslav, named for Nijinksy. Alas, I have failed in the ballet department; I did try but it really wasn't in the blood. I'm okay on the podium of a nightclub but that's about the extent of it.

And my new father? "Dad" was never really a suitable title. I preferred Shamash. Shamash is an ancient Babylonian God; son of sin, God of Sun, protector of the poor, the wronged and the traveler. It was a title given to him after his portrayal of that very god on a Mardi Gras float, the first float I ever helped on. He was a veteran of many Mardi Gras. That's who I pray to, that's what he was to me.

Copyright © l998, Neal Drinnan.

Sound interesting? Read some excerpts and an interview:

• Glove Puppet: Find out what people are saying about this exciting, sexualy-charged novel.
• From the Prologue: At seven, Johnny Smith's mother dies, and he lets a stranger carry him away.
• Changling: Vaslav explores the highlights and lowlights of his new life in Sydney.
• Melting Ice: After Shamash's parents die in a plane crash, things begin to change.
• An Interview with the Author: Find out what gets author Neal Drinnan pissed off in this candid conversation.

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