Argue Everything

Being the son of Professor Edward J. Williams was a heavy cross to bear. His high standards, cold demeanor, and judgemental nature were often too much for Edward Junior. He hated his father and the feeling appeared to him to be mutual.

Edward Junior, no longer able to stand sharing a name with his father, adopted the nickname “Teddy”. Teddy was no name for a Williams boy, certainly not the son of a professor of law. And when Teddy grew shoulder-length hair his father was sure that his dreams of having his son follow in his footsteps, studying law and eventually partnering at the family firm, were slipping away.

Relations hit a new low when, after a day at the private sixth form college his father was paying for, Edward Junior was to meet the Professor at his office for assistance writing his personal statement for university. Williams men went to Cambridge as a rule and Edward Senior was damned if he'd let his son break the tradition.

Teddy hadn’t been at sixth form that day. He’d been at a battle of the bands competition at Shabby Shirley’s, a gig venue for unsigned bands, and had managed to get himself drunk. The second prize in the competition, a 1 litre bottle of Jack Daniel’s Whiskey, unclaimed by a band already too drunk at the gig’s end to remember it, was quickly commandeered by Teddy and his friends, but it was the first place prize that dominated their slurred conversations: a year-long tour performing in Europe with the competition winners from 4 other cities.

“Your son is here to see you, Professor. Shall I send him in?” Edward Senior’s secretary announced via the intercom system. There was a snigger in her voice that didn’t register.

“Very well, Linda. Have him take a seat in here.”

Teddy knew the drill. He walked in, sat opposite his father’s oversized polished oak desk on the matching chair intended for clients, and waited to be addressed. He sat in a slump, gritting his teeth and taking deep breaths to squash the queasy feeling in his stomach.

At first, his father didn’t look up at him, choosing to finish writing his memos in his trademark black Moleskine notebook, taking careful and deliberate strokes with his fountain pen. It was at this point, as the pair’s eyes met over the desk, that Teddy lost his battle with his stomach and vomited into his lap, then twice more on to the beautiful pashmina rug separating his seat from the polished floorboards.

Teddy thought the cold shoulder would cease after a week or so. But the more his father punished him, the more young Teddy rebelled, and the more Teddy rebelled, the more his father punished him. The cycle continued until the pair barely looked at each other. The final nail in the coffin was when Teddy chose to study music at a polytechnic college over pursuing the prestigious Cambridge Law program.

Teddy hadn’t asked to be a lawyer, he hadn’t even asked to be born. These themes were clear in the music he made with his college band, Argue Everything. The four-piece punk band were about 40 years late to the scene, but that never stopped them from spending the weekends playing in whatever bleak basement bar had a slot for them. A lot of people could identify with the casually handsome, now bearded Edward J. Williams Junior. It turns out he was not the only person to have a problem with authority. 2013 was a rough time to be a teenager and soon they were flocking in their tens to embrace their angst in sticky-floored, windowless hovels. Shabby Shirley’s quinquennial Battle of the Bands was calling.

Being in a band as rebellious as Argue Everything required a look as edgy as the music. The four bandmates spent hours in Teddy’s room experimenting with hair spray, make-up, and scissors before they found their look for the evening. They emerged in torn denim jeans, black leather boots, and eyeliner. The rest of the band had decided to write an offensive slur on their torn, white vests in lipstick, and vowed to have it tattooed as a badge of pride if they placed first in the competition. Fearing reprisal from his father, whom he knew he would have to engage with downstairs, Teddy declined to participate in this decoration and instead pocketed the lipstick for later.

The young rebels crept timidly down the wide spiraling stairs to the hallway. Teddy lightly maneuvered towards the dining room where his father was having dinner with Henry, an old friend from Cambridge. Phrases like “the future of finance” and “profit margins” could be heard in monotonous tone from the other side of the door as he signaled his degenerate peers to exit the house. Once clear, he slid the door open and muttered, “Going out now, I’ll be back late,” avoiding eye contact with either party.

“Good Lord. Edward Junior, is that you?” Henry’s eyebrows nearly met his hairline.

“Afraid it is, Henry,” Edward Senior scoffed. “Are you going out like that? How very… tasteless.”

Teddy glanced at the paperwork spread around the table next to the pair’s empty plates. Statements from the usual boring-looking financial institutions and his trusty Moleskine notebook open at the center with the word Bitcoin written atop the page.

“Enjoy your evening. it looks… riveting,” Teddy zinged before pulling the door shut and exiting the room. Immediately he felt for the lipstick in his pocket and scribbled at his chest. He approached the doorstep, from which the band had been eavesdropping, with a cocky stride, revealing the word “Tasteless” stained in bright red letters on the ripped white vest. Teddy Tasteless was born.

That night there was a rebellious confidence to him that made every action immensely watchable: the way he’d open a door; the way he gestured to the barmaid for another drink; even the way he received his wrap of cocaine from the drug dealer loitering beside the cloakroom - always smiling, embracing the guy with one arm and using the other to make the exchange. The days of swigging forbidden Jack Daniels had long passed for Teddy. Not everything he had learned at his polytechnic college had been music-related. When Argue Everything were selected as the competition winners it was straight to the toilets to celebrate.

The tour was a mess from the get-go. The Transit van doubling as their accommodation couldn’t fit the four young men and their kit inside. Teddy often had to sleep upright in the driver’s seat, which placed him in a mood that benefited their live sets. Rage fueled their already angry music. Fights were inevitable. Band Vs band, band Vs security, band Vs crowd. It didn’t matter. Everyone had their battle scars, which were medicated with cocaine: a medicine they each became more reliant on as the months went on.

Ten months into the tour, before going on stage in a dive bar in Antwerp, Teddy pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time. 4 missed calls. Subwoofers had trumped phone tweeters in the fight for his attention. The screen lit up suddenly. It was ringing again. “Teddy Tasteless speaking. Who dares call the king of punk?”

“Edward?”

“Edward. Yeah, Teddy. Speaking.”

“It’s… It’s Linda here. Your Dad’s secretary.”

“Linda? Is there something I can help you with?”

“It’s your father… He’s… He died this afternoon. He had a heart attack. The doctors did everything they could. I...”

Beep. Teddy cut the call. His eyes glazed over as if in trance. Muscle-memory guided his free hand to his pocket. The phone screen, now held flat, was still illuminated as he buried it in cocaine and hoovered it straight back off. Argue Everything had a show to perform.

Less than a month later, the British leg of the tour ended in disaster. The cocaine, heavy drinking, and lack of sleep had caught up with everyone.

The lead singer of Puss Cavity, the winning band from Liverpool had invited the other bands to stay at his flat overnight as the gig venue was close by.

Teddy made himself at home. He cut up two lines of cocaine on the living room table, rolled up a banknote, and knocked back the first line. Immediately he became breathless. Then the colour drained from him. His heart was beating so fast that it almost swayed his entire body. He could barely appreciate the fight his bandmates had gotten into, especially after attempting the second line. An onlooker called for an ambulance.

The paramedics weren’t phased upon hearing the concoction of substances Teddy had ingested. They matter-of-factly studied his heart rate and checked his pupils before proceeding to the hospital. It was there he faced a full barrage of questioning from the Doctor. He had real sick people to deal with and was angered by the fact another “junky” was wasting his time. He explained that Teddy had given himself a heart arrhythmia from the intense substance abuse and handed him a leaflet with an advice line and a list of rehab centres on it.

Teddy looked down at his emaciated torso through his open shirt. The pads linked to the ECG machine didn't look out of place amongst his scars and bruises. His “Tasteless” tattoo had acted as a bullseye for the doctor's stethoscope.

Upon discharging himself from the hospital it dawned on Teddy that he had some issues to resolve. He had received an answering machine message from Linda explaining that he needed to meet at his father’s office to discuss his estate.

Edward Senior's office was as droll as he remembered it, but Teddy couldn't help notice the breezier feeling the place had without his father. The lack of atmosphere. He sat opposite his father’s desk, like he did as a child, and noticed the black Moleskine book resting closed, channeling his father’s authority.

Before long a well-dressed man entered and introduced himself.

“Hi Edward, My name is Stanley. I have been charged with taking care of your father's estate." He proceeded to open the notebook. "Your father has written you a letter. would you like me to read it?"

Teddy nodded.

“Dear Edward, It's no secret that I had hoped you would succeed me as head of Williams Legal. Seeing as you have journeyed down a rather more colourful path, I am afraid to say that I will be leaving the business in the hands of the trustees. Most of my wealth will be donated to the university that made me the man I am today, Cambridge. A university I always believed could have made a success of you. In the hope that you’ll understand the value of your potential and reconsider studying there in years to come, I am leaving you the 100 bitcoins I have amassed. Hopefully you’re not as blind to their potential as you are to your own. Don’t spend it all at once.”

Both men were shocked at what Edward senior had left Teddy. Neither of them were aware of how or where you could spend bitcoins, especially in fractions.

On the 23rd January 2015, Edward Williams exchanged the 100 bitcoins his father had left him at the startling rate of £141.6691 per coin, making his total haul £14,166.91. The equivalent of 20,000 US Dollars, 2135660 Japanese Yen or 2053590.00 Albanian Lek. He laughed at the transaction slip revealing his new fortune, sure that this silly heirloom was left with spite - salt in the wounds - leaving his only son 100 coins in an unheard-of currency. He could go anywhere now. He could do anything. Should he consider Cambridge?

Outside his Father’s firm, with his belt around his left arm, Teddy chose between the Rehab leaflet and Cambridge prospectus in his left hand and the needle in his right.

“Fuck you, Dad,” He whispered as he nodded off