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.