Soliloquy

Every once in a while, the random guy perched precariously on the barstool next to you would lean / lurch over and say something in the nature of advice completely unsolicited. It would apply exclusively to his life and how he’s muddled it up. It would take a couple of iterations of his increasingly vehement slurring for you to glean its gist. And it would take the most beatific patience to not smirk or roll your eyes.

Then again, he’s been quiet for disquietingly too long, even by his standards… so indulge the man his rant. Or fuckoffplisthx.

What I’m trying to say, basically, is that you better be prepared for the realization that you’re the same chomu you always were….even before you changed cities. That shifting the job setting, pub setting and life setting, cant really help you with the quintessential fuckups of your life that you wreak on yourselves. Your life experiences (pfft!) are going to be as abysmally non starter as ever, you’re going to get the same appraisal feedback from your new boss, your folks are going to sound just as exasperated over the phone and your love life would still be a cruel joke.

What just might pull you through is the gradual realization, albeit belated, of the above. You may even pledge to learn the lesson this time.

Or get another mug. Even if it’s bloody Fosters now.


Currently listening : 15 Step, Radiohead

Reimagined

The mailman awoke with faint puzzlement, wondering why the slumber was so quiet and unbroken. There was none of the blanket tugging Olympics tonight, and he looked across the bed to see if she was okay. But she wasn’t there, and her side of the bed looked unslept in.

He called her name out and waited, but only the howling blizzard outside seemed inclined to reply. The first instinct was to assume she’d sneaked down for a midnight snack, and dive back into the covers…but something seemed wrong. He scanned the room and finally saw the emptied cupboards, and his clothes heaped in a pile at the bottom.

Only they looked piled up after being cut through. With a pair of very effective scissors, and the vengeance of a seamstress scorned.

This seemed now like waking from one of his hangover nights gone wrong, except he hadn’t done those in a long time now. He called out her name more frantically, but with rapidly fading hope. Her clothes and shoes were missing from the wardrobe, as were the suitcases. His clothes were strewn around the room in an assortment of little pieces and colors, like a macabre playpen.

He raced downstairs, hitting every light switch in every room, trying to will her presence somewhere in the house. Everything else still seemed in picture perfect order…with a sense of purpose and placement that unnerved him most times. Which is probably why he stopped to stare at the overcoat she’d now left draped over his chair. With a one word note perched on top. Goodbye.

He’d bought it as a joke. They’d been exchanging lovely and yet useful gifts for a score of seasons now, and he’d gotten weary of racking his head about this yet again. And he’d seen this coat beckon from the toy shop window everytime he’d pass it on his mail rounds. Well, it belonged to nowhere but a toy shop….a ridiculous fat suit draped in bright red velvet and complete with poofy tassels and a dunce cap. One that never failed to make him chuckle. So today, our man had a drink too many, chuckled again, thought to himself; ‘Fuck it’…walked in and bought the coat. Cap and all. Then hopped along home, kissed his lovely wife, and handed this over. It was a bit early for the gift giving, but she’d sneak a peek and get him something stupid too….he hoped.

They hadn’t acted stupid for too long a while.

She’d been thrilled. Or her version of thrilled. The husband was never one to get anything done on time, let alone in advance. And yes, he smelt of rum…but his cheerfulness was infectious, the affection genuine. The fewer these moments of spontaneity, the more welcome each were. He knew she’d sneak back to try the coat out once he was asleep. He knew she’d come charging back in mock indignation and hit him with a pillow. Or douse him in water. Or laugh. Loud and clear and like the girl he’d once fallen in love with.

Not this. What the fuck was this about?

He peered out the window, and blinked at the blizzard. She couldn’t have gone far…not in this weather, and not with all that luggage. Maybe to the neighbors, or her bridge club friends. Better sense would prevail the next morning…he’d profusely apologise…they’d burn the coat together, and they’d gift each other books or something. He checked the house for any of his clothes that were unshredded, but the woman never did miss much. And he now found himself dolefully staring back at the coat. Joke’s on me.

He fixed himself a drink, and then put the coat on. Surprisingly warm and comfy…but gay as hell. And it came with a pair of pants, for which he was much relieved. The prospect of walking into town, in only a gay fatsuit, in the middle of the night & in a blizzard to find and pacify his irate wife sounded a tad more agreeable if one had pants unexpectedly coming alongwith the fatsuit. So he slipped the pants on, and stepped to the mirror .

He could see why she might be miffed. The sight may have seemed hilarious to anyone but the wearer, but the wearer himself was now flinching. He should have bought this in a more sober moment. It was a badly made piece…the padding was scrunched up towards the bottom, and there was just too much of it. He looked more pregnant than obese.

And that dawning comprehension turned his veins to ice.

They’d been trying to conceive for years, until the doctors told them she never could. It seemed to bring her life crumpling down, but she wouldn’t let them adopt, and she wouldn’t let her pain show. Her unshakeable belief in God’s will seemed reinforced , instead of being questioned. He held her close, and he let her come to terms with this in her way…but they suffered in silence.

And he then spent his life protecting her in that silence. Shielding her from pity and unsolicited advice and innocent questions and religious doctrine and sympathy. It was a fragile bubble that could be burst by anyone…a clucking relative, an inquisitive stranger, an idiot child.

Or a fool ass drunken husband.

He turned heel swiftly, and ran outside. The blizzard struck him with a pent up, frozen fury, punishing him for the cozy warmth he’d been mulling in at home. Five uncertain steps…and then he realized that he had forgotten his boots.

He knew he wouldn’t step out again, if he went back home for them. And that she hadn’t flinched in this same storm. It slowed her, maybe…but her resolve was always monumental. She’d be walking now to the train station, to the last train of the night. Footwear, weather, home, town and husband be damned. It was the way of her rage.

He swore at himself and trudged on. The storm now seemed to bristle at his defiance, and the wind grew sharper…the snow nearly blinding him. He ducked into the shed for respite, and then remembered his mail van.

The van was loaded with the season’s mails. And coaxing it out into this beast of a snowstorm would be a hellish task. And he hated the way it handled, even on a sober day. But she was currently disappearing into the night, with no intent of coming back. He sobbed at his despair, the cold, her fate… and charged the van blind into the blizzard.

A blizzard that already had many a youngster awake and staring through their windows in awestruck wonder. Now add in a gaily dressed & comically obese man, sobbing away in a mailvan that lurched unsteadily into the storm…and they should all be fishing frantically for their cellphones…racing to turn this into the next viral video sensation.

Except that this particular scene played out a thousand years too early for cellphones.This was back in the times when mail vans in Scandinavia were reindeer drawn sleds. And the youngsters would have to make do with drawing on postcards, the slightly embellished versions of what they saw, and mailing their hapless relatives and friends the world over.

Currently playing :

Kings of Convenience - Riot on an empty street