Years ago I came upon a website containing several short stories, short stories that centered around singer and songwriter Roy Orbison being wrapped entirely in clingfilm.
That was the subject, the goal, the point of every story: a man with a large collection of clingfilm wraps Roy Orbison in clingfilm.
It was strange, the stories possessed a certain... mesmerizing quality, a quality that I remember to this day and occasionally attempt to emulate in my own writing. You might say to yourself: "ha! what a strange and silly thing to write about... wrapping a man in clingfilm, how is that entertaining?". And... I would no doubt have agreed with you.
...but then I read the short stories myself and it was... strange. It was calming, in a way. I was drawn in to the narrative and --strangely --I almost felt like I... related. I became enamored myself with the idea of wrapping an individual that I admire, be he Roy Orbison or Jeff Bridges, in clingfilm. Then patiently watching him, making small talk, enjoying the moment.
The first short story is here, I highly recommend you take the time to read it:
It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.
'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'
'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.
'Ah,' I say.
He apprises Jetta's lines with a keen eye. 'That is a well-groomed terrapin,' he says.
'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'
'Very well.' He says.
Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'
'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.
I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.
'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.'
'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.'
'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.'
Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.
'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.'
I nod. 'So then. If you will please to stand.'
Roy stands. 'Commence.'
I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.
'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.
'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'
'Not for several hours.'
'Ah.'
I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta's needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.
There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision...
It always starts the same way.
For those who prefer their stories to be interactive, there is also the Roy Orbison Wrapped in Clingfilm Adventure Game
Read, play, and become engrossed in the state of mind it puts you in. The state of mind of wrapping loved ones and those you admire in clingfilm.
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