a twenty first new story...'bad objects'

Justin walked straight up to me and said for me to put it down. He said: ‘You shouldn’t carry bad objects around’. I said: ‘Yes, Justin – I’ll put it down’. ‘Why have you still got it anyhow?’, he asked, eyes hard and mean. ‘I don’t know’, I said, ‘in case they come back’. ‘They isn’t coming back’, Justin said, and took the bottle from my hand, I let him have it. ‘Stay out of it’, he said, and went away to talk to the people in the kitchen. The lights were off in the bar. I let my hands fall to my sides and thought about following Justin into the kitchen, but Jim was still in there and I didn’t want to see Jim after he shouted at me. Besides Jim was bigger than me – even bigger, Justin said. ‘You big lummox’, Jim said. And together they dragged the man away who was causing trouble. The man had blood all over his face and his shirt was soaked with blood, and there was blood on the floor of the bar. ‘Don’t worry’, said Justin, ‘we’ll sort this’. The man was sleeping with blood all over him. ‘Where did he get that bottle from?’, Chef asked, meaning me.  Jim shouted at Chef too, and he nearly went for Chef, but Justin held Jim back, and the man kept on sleeping. And I kept a tight grip on the bottle in case the man waked up and went for me again. Then Justin came back and asked why I still had the bottle. I let him have it and waited while Justin and Jim and Chef and the others talked in the kitchen. I wondered where the man who caused the trouble was sleeping. There were harsh voices coming from the kitchen. And yellow light spilling out into the bar where I waited. And some more men came around and threw a rock at the windows of the bar, one of the windows smashed, and there was lots of shouting and glass, and Justin, Jim and Chef called for the police. And they came with their blue lights and big, square faces and clubs and heavy black boots and they wanted to talk to me as well as Justin but Justin wouldn’t let them, said I couldn’t talk anyway and so I didn’t say anything, and when they went Jim came over, pulled my cheek and said I done well. I asked him if the man who caused trouble was still asleep, and Justin said to Jim they had better go and check and Chef gave me a glass of water and waited with me until it got light and Justin and Jim came back with long, tired faces – and Chef started crying and saying he never meant to get into this game, and saying what about Elaine? And what about the baby?

a twentieth new story...'rubber man'

The Advent work party: Edwin’s boss, a Christian, wanted to put up a stand against faith neutral festivities. Partners are welcome too, after all what would Jesus do? And as ever Edwin’s wife was being charming, engaging, appropriately dressed as an angel. And Edwin was all sour cabbages, a Brussels sprout. He had come as the overshadowed Joseph. Does my breath smell? And now found himself in a conversation about school days, salad days?

At least it wasn’t work, salary hikes, promotions.

But school had been dull.  Lessons had dragged into what seemed like the next century. The teachers were all on medication for depression – or most of them. So Edwin had passed the time picking his nose. And one day he had got a pencil rubber stuck in his nasal passage. Cue two decades of sinusitis, until Edwin finally divulged the incident to his wife, was operated on, and thereafter became known as Rubber Man – among family, friends, now, work associates.

‘The Rubber Man who works in plastics!’

Edwin smiled weakly, already regretting his attempt to be self-deprecating and funny at the same time. ‘Yes’, he said.

Oh! The hilarity! The company made Perspex for exhibition and retail display, as well as kitchenware. And all the ‘team’ here, at an awkward grown up nativity.

‘Of all the jobs!’, Martin from Sales was saying, the conversation apparently not changing tack. Of all the jobs! Edwin thought to himself - The Rubber Man in plastics. ‘But I suppose I sell kitchenware and I can’t even cook’, scoffed Martin, pastry falling from his mouth and onto the shag pile carpet. Thus, ‘real’ life like school continues interminably Edwin mused. Still, there was drink – he sniffed his mulled wine. Drink and music – palatable mulled wine – and the occasional good film of book, book of film – evidence for God?

‘The Wicker Man’. Boy’s conversation arrived at last. Terence (Marketing) had joined the fray, always had something to say. ‘Good film?’ Edwin wondered aloud. ‘A cult classic’, asserted Terence, self-styled movie buff, black-framed specs, sculpted quiff. ‘Don’t tell the boss’, said Edwin trying to wink. He envied Terence. ‘The boss is a Christian’, added Martin helpfully, crumbs on his Christmas sweater...‘The boss makes an unconvincing wise man’, said Terence. Then back to movies: ‘They should make a feature about you!’, Martin –  joking and clapping Edwin forcefully on the shoulder, cider punch in his spittle. The Rubber Man.

‘What would be better or worse for the crew – the acrid smell of burning artificial elastomer, or the scent of human flesh on fire?’ Edwin replied. So bitter these days both Martin and Terence confided in another party guest further into the evening. And Edwin overheard.

You can’t win.

But can you really lose?

A philosophical question of the middle classes Edwin considered often enough. And any existence that involved being born and subsequently dying … did it matter what the Average Joe did in between?

‘Whatever you do, turn out a nice boy’, Edwin’s mother – Eleanor – had said to Edwin on her death bed. Edwin was fourteen when his mother died. And by eighteen he had decided being a nice boy meant mostly keeping one’s mouth shut, smiling with eyes, laughing charitably in the company of others – sells kitchenware for a living and he can’t even cook. Hahahaha!

It was painful.

‘There are no revelations’ said Edwin to his wife in bed that night, reluctantly engaged in a little pillow talk. ‘No revelations?’, said his wife. ‘What about us? Married happily or otherwise for three years, together for seven’.

‘True’, Edwin replied, and they kissed. 

What a nice boy.

His wife’s lips were full and moist.

What a nice girl.

‘I think you’re experiencing low mood’, she whispered, stroking his cheek, her breath all red wine, cheese and digestive biscuits.

‘I don’t dream anymore’, said Edwin, blindlessly to the darkness.

‘I dream about living in a medieval castle in the middle of Central Park’ said his wife.

‘That’s really something’, said Edwin.

‘Don’t be cynical’, said his wife, and kissed him again.

‘Good night’, said Edwin.

‘Good night, Sir Knight’, said his wife.

~

Next morning they woke late, went for coffee at Grind.  ‘Does that sound wrong to you?’ Edwin asked as they pushed through the swing door. The sign outside read: It’s beginning to feel a Latte like Christmas. Inside, the wait staff, bedecked in seasonal red and green, wore hair bands with reindeer antlers; the duty manager, a Santa hat with flashing LED bobble.

They found a table, sat down and squinted at the menu.

‘I’ll try the vanilla macchiato’, said Edwin when asked what they wanted to order by reindeer woman who had trotted over to them smiling like a moose. Edwin’s wife went for a double espresso.

‘It’s cold isn’t it?’ she said, rubbing her mittens together, as reindeer woman went behind the counter to inscribe their names in felt tip on their Styrofoam cups. ‘Between two and six degrees’, Edwin replied opening the newspaper at Weather Report, then news of mass murder at a synagogue in Bethlehem.

You can’t win.

But can you really lose?

Unable to stop himself, he pushed the article in the direction of his wife, watched her expression for traces of irritation, pain, anger, fear, revulsion.   

‘Shall we get mistletoe at the DIY store?’ she asked instead by way of reply. The light shining in her eyes – bright, bright, bright …

Edwin felt low and mean, quickly snatched the newspaper back and thrust it deep into his bag.

‘Sure’, he said.

And tried to wink. 

a nineteenth new story...'beyond saying'

Sandra worried about Joel. She worried he had never been at the centre of things – in life. Sandra felt she looked in a mirror and saw herself.  She blinked, put on her make up, got dressed and went to work.  She worried Joel saw someone else staring back at him – the great undiscovered artist, the alter ego, the latter day Van Gogh. Joel had once painted his left ear blue: Was this a sign?

Joel was big, clumsy, but with delicate hands; he played Spanish guitar, wrote flamenco protest songs about champagne socialism formed from bits and pieces he read online or in magazines left lying around in doctor’s and dentist’s waiting rooms – The Economist? National Geographic? He was capable of enormous generosity. And astonishing naïveity. He could be self-centred.

Recently when Sandra had come home early from work she heard Joel on the toilet talking to himself. Quietly she had slipped off her shoes, tip-toed up to the bathroom door, pressed her ear close.  Joel was conducting an interview with an imaginary music journo. The difficult third album? Yes … At an earlier point in their relationship Sandra would have laughed and banged on the door: Shut up you silly fool!! Instead she crept back down the hallway and started to make dinner.

In fairness Joel had a few gigs here and there. He played in pubs, clubs, wine bars – though not the trendy ones. He was a good player. One of the reasons I fell in love with him Sandra would tell girlfriends. What were the other reasons? They would respond. Can you imagine having his babies?

Sandra had imagined having Joel’s babies a thousand times.  She wanted babies. Her girlfriends now had babies, and for some reason Sandra was part of a Facebook group, but she had long since given up reading posts about morning sickness, or following links to articles about the pelvic floor.  When she held babies she came over all motherly, when she saw Joel holding them she worried about their soft little heads.

Joel had dropped a stack of six plates in front of dinner guests before. He could be pre-occupied.

‘What are you thinking?’, Sandra would try during their evenings on the sofa together in front of one sitcom or another. ‘Nothing’, Joel would reply. Sandra’s idle moments were filled with anything and everything. And worries about Joel. ‘You are distant today’, she would continue. And Joel would say ‘no’. The sitcoms they watched were invariably filled with broken lives, heads, broken people fighting with blind eyes in broken beds. The two of them: At least they could share a space beyond words.

Joel made love gently. And Sandra was thankful for this. Making love to Joel was not like exploding through the cosmos, nor was it like scratching an insect bite.  It was something in between, something almost serene – Zen? It was also when worries in all shapes and shades were left under the pile of clothes on the bedroom floor.