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arry sat looking at the wine glass. It had been a difficult day. On this particular day, he had been drawn into a quarrel with a cantankerous custodian of the local library over the correct printer to use for black and white documents and had eventually been escorted from the premises by an old man dressed as a woman. Still, he had won the argument over the printer, and had even managed to leave the building with 40p’s worth of printing concealed under his coat.
What was the world coming to? pondered Harry, as he topped-up his glass. Such hostility everywhere, and now, old ladies with goatee beards. He thought back to his childhood when he had regularly attended the very same library and once vomited on their copy of Aesop’s Fables. He remembered the librarian asking him to be quiet, and also how upset he had been not to be allowed to take the book home. Nothing’s changed, he thought, and now here he was approaching middle age, and with what to show for it?
He took another sip from his glass. At 42, Harry had been married and divorced, had two teenage children, a job he hated (until recently), and a small family who made up for what they lacked in numbers in their sheer eccentricity. He thought about the mother of his children. In spite of her flaws, Harry had always loved his ex-wife, and had been shocked to discover her infidelity with a part-time bingo caller. In a rage, he had confronted his wife’s lover and attempted to force-feed him the number 37 bingo ball. He was however eventually restrained by several pensioners, one of whom had given him a mild concussion with an ash tray. Such injustice that it should happen to him, a man so devoted to his wife and family that he had turned down several advances by the opposite sex, as well as one once by a man in a train station. Well, perhaps his ex-wife had regretted her actions, something he had suspected ever since her attempt to electrocute herself one Christmas by bathing with the fairy lights. The bingo caller had soon eloped with an underwear mannequin from the local department store, and so his ex-wife, as well as having to live with the guilt of breaking up the family, would be forever plagued with feelings of physical inadequacy. Good.
And what about the children? Harry was a doting father and had found separation from his children difficult, particularly when his 17 year-old daughter had started dating a boy she had met on the internet called Harold. His son worried him too, although his fondness for all things macabre, particularly his habit of sleeping in the cellar in a boxful of earth had at least kept him out of trouble with girls. Sitting staring at the wall, as he often did whilst enjoying his after-dinner bottle of wine, Harry drifted into a world of reminiscence. He soon found himself at the birth of his daughter amidst scenes of chaos as, resulting from the effects of sufficient pain-killing drugs to send a horse doo-lally, his wife’s legs had fallen off the bed. He never forgot seeing his daughter’s face for the first time as she was brought to him soon after he came round in the arms of the obstetrician. She had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, including his wife on their wedding day, and all without the need to spend nearly £350 on make-up. His son’s birth had been equally memorable. Harry had been very lucky, as he had first wanted a girl, then a boy, then private lessons from the long-legged brunette at the tennis club. Still, two out of three wasn't bad, and his children had loyally repaid his constant love and affection with cherished memories, and now a bald-spot that was starting to resemble a large egg in a nest.
Yes, but where are they now? Harry was becoming a little drunk. He looked down at his empty plate, then across the table to an old photograph of his smiling daughter dressed as the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Whatever they’re doing, they’re happy, he told himself, and being well brought up, even if by a mother who had the sexual morals of a rabbit. Besides, there were more pressing issues to contend with, like what he was going to do to earn a living now that he’d packed in his job.
Harry had detested his job. Since he was at school, apart from a short period when he declared he would enter the space race, he had never known what he wanted to do when he grew up, and still didn’t now. Not wanting to think about his problem, he briefly rose to clear his things and put on some music before returning to his seat at the table that, as usual, hosted only his wine glass. As John Coltrane’s tenor saxophone caressed the curry-tinged air of the room, Harry tried hard to think of anything other than his career dilemma.
He was soon distracted by pleasant thoughts of a young lady he had recently met whilst being attacked by a dog at a local beauty spot. Recovering from an operation to repair a hernia that had evidently been carried out by some kind of trainee, Harry had taken to going for walks in his favourite places in an effort to restore feeling to his reproductive system. On this particular occasion he had been sitting on a bench enjoying the view of the sea, when his attention had suddenly been drawn by a sizeable dog approaching at a speed suggesting an intention either to make lots of puppies, or kill something. Dismayed to deduce the latter, Harry had been forced to protect his vulnerable groinal region by doubling over and assuming the crash position as the dog struck. The lady that Harry was thinking about now had eventually caught up with her pet, who was soon distracted sufficiently to begin eating instead a small stick. For Harry, this had been a typical way to meet the opposite sex, as his past experiences had all been prophetically triggered by unfortunate circumstances. He once went out with a girl he had shared a car with at a funeral, and had actually met his ex-wife when she vomited on him in a nightclub. Although he didn’t realise it, Harry sat smiling at memories of difficult situations in which he had so often found himself whilst in the company of past romantic interests. There was the time when he had mistakenly smeared hot mustard onto a sirloin steak whilst on a first date and had almost passed-out attempting to eat it rather than admit his error. Then there was the incident at his mother-in-law’s house when he had fainted whilst answering the call of nature and was found sprawled in the bathtub. And of course, he would never forget the time when he had sunk his uncle’s boat whilst trying to impress a girl with his sailing prowess and had been forced to watch as she was rescued by a windsurfing ex-Chippendale.
Returning to the present, Harry thought about the girl with the rabid dog. Was he interested in another relationship? This he didn’t know, although he did sometimes wonder about getting a budgie. Ever since his ex-wife’s adventures with the bingo caller, he had sworn never to trust any woman again, even if she did look like the one on the Timotei advert. Perhaps he would just like to be friends with someone, and therefore not have to worry about all that other stuff that only ever gave him hiccups. Yes, it seemed there was a lot to be said for a platonic relationship, particularly if one half of it was a neurotic wreck. The girl with the dog had seemed very nice, and Harry couldn’t help but think how effortlessly their conversation had lasted until they had reached her car. Admittedly, it had been parked only across the road, but even this was a result for Harry, who had usually struggled even to smile at a girl without getting his words mixed up. They had bid farewell and vowed to look out for each other again, and as she drove away with a smile and a wave, Harry had not felt so good for a long time.
Still thinking about this recent incident, Harry found himself in the kitchen opening another bottle of wine. It was no good. Even if he was somehow transformed into a strutting Adonis, since he’d left his job at the herbarium all he could ever afford would be a date at the cafe on the corner run by the woman with the tattooed forearms. He still couldn’t face thinking about what he was going to do for money, and as he took his glass to the sofa, his mind turned to his writing.
Since the breakup of his marriage, Harry had sought solace in writing when he had discovered an old-fashioned typewriter at a car-boot sale. He had written several pieces about his ex-wife for which he one day hoped to sell the rights to an occult magazine recommended by his son. He had also come up with some ambitious essays on such lofty topics as philosophy and art, as well as a one-act play based on his marriage, entitled Flies Down For a Full House. Recently, Harry had been seized with the idea to sell his work, and so had been in touch with several publishers in an attempt to promote his growing portfolio. A literary journal had shown some interest in his piece on meta-ethics but had ultimately been turned down by Harry, who had refused to remove the illustrations. His reflection on the role of country dancing in modern society had drawn a blank, despite its frankness and moral relevance. Meanwhile, universal rejection of the piece he considered his best work to date, a 180,000 word epic juxtaposing the subject of psychological dysfunction with several of his favourite pasta recipes had depressed him, and he had for a time considered retiring as a writer. As he reclined on the sofa, Harry thought about his works-in-progress. He always worked on at least two pieces at a time. That way, if he got stuck on one, he could always fall back on the other until inspiration struck. He also liked to leave his manuscripts lying around his flat, as he enjoyed their company and often had deep conversations with them. He currently had high hopes for a comedy screenplay he had written inspired by his former work colleagues at the herbarium entitled Pass the Hemlock, which he had forwarded to several agents as well as his ex-boss. Perhaps, Harry wondered, one day I will be recognised for the talent that I am, and not just as the bloke with the bald-spot like an egg in a nest who wanders round the supermarket on his own.
Harry hadn’t noticed that John Coltrane had long-since packed away his saxophone and retired to the bar. This had been a typical evening for Harry, as he had sat thinking his thoughts with his wine to the accompaniment of some favourite music, and the sound of the man in the flat upstairs apparently either entertaining a lady-friend, or bench-pressing a piano. Although he wouldn’t realise it until he tried to stand up, Harry had become very drunk. The job... the job... he thought. What are you going to do? He tried desperately to think about something else.
The girl who had saved him from her dog once more popped into Harry's head. She had been very attractive, despite the presence of the ubiquitous nappy bag that had swung at her hip like the scrotum of a large bull. She was typical of the type that Harry would go for, particularly in her habit of not only acknowledging his presence, but also for talking to him for what had seemed like a whole three minutes. Harry wondered if she had liked him. She certainly had a nice smile. Maybe I could bump into her again? Would it be obvious? Why? I go there all the time anyway... She might be hoping to bump into me! Perhaps I could ask her for a drink, perhaps...I...I...perhaps...I...
Harry woke up at 2.30 am from a vivid dream in which he had asked the girl with the dog to go out for a drink, and as she had replied yes he suddenly realised that she had a goatee beard. As he peeled himself off the sofa, Harry remembered what it was that he’d been trying not to think about all night. The job. Well, there’s always tomorrow, he thought.
Harry stood swaying in the dark room thinking about big eyes, big smiles and big nappy bags.
Then, finally, Harry went to bed, and dreamt about bingo.
© Matthew Jenkins, December 2010
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
