Shit on a Peacock

“Here I sit, broken-hearted, tried to shit, but only farted”

Josh read it out loud. He didn’t care if someone was in the stall beside him. Anyway, reading  a stupid poem aloud was far less awkward than shitting in public. Shitting in public is the worst. Not in the middle of the street of course, no. A public toilet. Josh’s favorite was one of those one’s with the wall’s that didn’t completely reach the floor or roof. He loved to sit, in mid shit, and contemplate the existence of such a thing. A wall that didn’t function as one should. You could even see the other patrons feet if you tried. And of course you’d hear them shit. The urge, the squeeze, the plop, the sigh. Might as well have been glass. Chicken-wire for shit sakes! Fuck it, he’d think, lets just shit in public. He’d done that before. Long story. Bad ending.

Flush. He exited the stall, made his way over to the basin, and proceeded to wait for the electronic soap dispenser to go forth and dispense. It didn’t. And waving his hands in front of its red eye didn’t help. He gave up and washed his hands with water. Leaving the bathroom with shit on his hands wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done. What the fuck had society come to. Electronic soap dispensers. Yet another  limp wristed attempt at modernisation. How’s about first building a public toilet that dampens awkward noises. Or how’s about a mother fucking robot that wipes your ass. Or even better, one that sucks the shit right out of you. He left that toilet with shit on his hands. Proud of the fact that he didn’t give a fuck.

A mother fucking peacock.

Tonight, there will be no.

Walking up the staircase of the now converted Victorian home, he noticed something. Stalling at the top, he scaled in on a familiar face. He took another glance, and yes, it was her. Carol had been a friend at varsity. They had been in the same circle. At the time she had had a boyfriend. A useless specimen of a man who treated her less than well. Looking back he remembered her as the lap dog. Agreeable and dismissive, she almost enjoyed the sideways jibes and overt flirting that was dished out daily. But now, standing alone with a beer in hand wearing a tightly fitted leather jacket and ass-hugging jeans, she was confident. Confidence that was bordering on arrogance. He liked.

Over at the bar he ordered a beer – the same as hers. Casually he made his way over to where she was standing. She had her back to him. For a moment he stared at the slick brown hair that had been neatly plied back into a pony. He remembered that hair, and it hadn’t changed. A tap on the shoulder was all it took. She turned around. He held his breath. And in that instant something changed. The moment her face became visible, he changed. From pasty to red and she noticed. Silence.

Verbally he stumbled. She said something. He didn’t hear. After what seemed like five minutes of silence, he made a second attempt.

“Hi, it’s Jack!”, he blurted.

Her face didn’t give any indication of whether or not she remembered him. Inside he curled.

“Hi Jack”, she said, with a tone that echoed her nonchalant stance.

Silence. The dimly lit bar didn’t show it, but his face was now an even deeper shade of red. Almost purple. He curled again, still vacantly aware of the silence that lay between them.

“From varsity, I was mates with Mike”.

“Jack!” she shouted.

The people beside flinched. He winced. Did she really remember him? He wasn’t sure.

A further five minutes in and it was obvious that she knew who he was. She talked and he stared. Flicking between her lips and her eyes, he noticed something. A thinly etched horizontal scar just below her left eye. It crinkled when she smiled. He wondered if it had been there before. Maybe now, on the precipice of something more, he had become hyper-aware.  In mid-sentence he smiled. For no apparent reason she smiled back. The scar crinkled. He shivered. To him it was more than just a smile. Not only did it sparkle, tickling his heart with effervescence, but in it he saw something more. A future. And in that moment he made a promise. Tonight, there would be no fucking.

Faith Wood

Lacy hadn’t taken this trail before. It was a novice walk in the nature reserve that bordered her upmarket suburban home. A gentle stroll was what she had decided on, though usually she preferred something with more of an effort. Where sweat would be broken, and where limbs would ache with the acid of accrued activity. She enjoyed that gentle pain, but what she enjoyed even more was the morning after. It was that stiffness that made her feel alive – worthy of a life. An effortless existence wasn’t an option for her. In fact, she detested it.

At the slowed pace of the stroll she began to notice her surroundings with more of an acute sense for the detail than as per usual. This time it wasn’t just the moss-covered stumps and leave-littered trail that vied for her attention. This time it was more. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a sun-licked vertical sparkle. Hanging delicately by a single thread was a spider of some sort. To her, usually an eight-legged creature of horror, yet today it seemed quite beautiful. It’s web was strung between two arched leaves. An island of solitary. She wondered how long it would take for something to get trapped. In nature it was the mistake of prey that fuelled the spiders existence. An invisible thread that should have been seen. A random act that had been meticulously planned. “You can’t see it, but it’s coming”, she thought. And for her it had already come.

Now sitting beside a small stream she thought about Robert. It was he who had caught her and had somehow let her go. An act against nature. An act against her. Two and a half years had ended in an affair. With his secretary. How predictable she thought. Nature wasn’t supposed to be predictable. Her grip on the idea that everything was completely random was waning. It wasn’t a belief in God that was brewing. For her God would never really be an option. Sitting beside that stream, on a rock, pants damp and bum cold, she leaned towards faith. Faith in a force that would once again make everything all right. She didn’t care who or what it was, all she cared about was her heart and right now that heart was tethered by a rope. Slowly making its way down-river. That rope would eventually run out. The end of the rope. She bear the thought.

Destined for Grapeness

Kerry wasn’t the dating type. Fifty-six dates and counting. Maybe she was fooling herself. Maybe she enjoyed the tedious conversation, the average men with nothing to offer and the awkward silences that threw her hope for love into a never-ending abyss of twenty-first century spinsterism. Sometimes she would drift off from the date. Drift off into the future or at least the future in which she hoped to exist. One man, one child, one dog. One man as she believed wholeheartedly in monogamy (though she often detested it!). One child as she herself had been an only child and had by all intensive purposes turned out perfectly. And finally, to complete it all, a dog – preferably short-haired and female. There would be no cats.

The buzz of her vibrating phone startled her out the fantasy. She read it and then took another sip of the already half empty glass of red wine. The message read that her date for the evening would be late. Steven was his name. Someone she had never met, already late – a bad sign. She held onto those flavours for a second longer than usual and then took a gulp. She inspected the label of the now also half empty bottle in front of her. It was a 2006 Hougard Brother’s Pinotage. Full bodied yet subtle, it had been a good year for the brothers. Not so much for her.

Three or so years ago she had found herself sitting wounded on the floor of the flat that they had once shared. Two bedrooms, one bath, big enough to entertain. It was now empty. Echoing only her sobbing. It was over and she had no idea where to go or what to do. The transitional period would be spent with her sister. She was great – three kids, a big house and a wonderfully caring husband. Yet she ached at the thought of staying there. She had no choice, he had left her with nothing. Five months spent in ICU had completely drained their combined savings. Medical Aid just wouldn’t pay. Not for someone who was already legally dead – brain-dead. For three months she had fought to keep him alive. And in the final month had even resigned from her job. And now, for what? An echoed sob? Her only partner.

She had no option. No exit and no retreat. Back in the present she decided to wait for the stranger that she most probably wouldn’t like. A man who in her present state she most definitely didn’t want to like. It was easier. So still she sat. Hopelessly waiting for destiny to kick in.

Labor of Love

Tom’s heart held him frozen in cheek to cheek contact with his newborn son. Named after his wife’s father, Jeremy was the bouncing baby boy that Tom and Sam had always wanted. A hefty four point five kilograms and just like his father, Jeremy was already a giant of sorts. He had those swirling blue eyes, a gift from his mother. And that button of a nose. Tom held onto that velvet-skinned cheek for one more extended moment and then pulled away. A single tear and a smile emerged. In his arms was his first-born and he loved him with all his heart.

Tom looked over to the bed beside him. They were no longer in the labor ward. After a prolonged and exhausting birth, Sam had been moved to high care. They had explained to Tom that her womb hadn’t contracted as it should have. In a daze he had only heard the first sentence of that stoic but cutting encounter. Even before that address he knew that something was wrong. Something awry with the way his wife smiled. What they went on to tell him was that she was bleeding from her womb. Bleeding for longer than was usual. According to them, it had something to do with the prolonged labor. That was two day’s ago and one surgery later.

And still she lay. Tubes and monitors invading what should have been a sacred space. Mother and child. And father. The rise and fall of her chest made him feel uneasy but so did the warmth of her flesh. They were both a lie to which he refused to enjoy. He looked down at his son once more. He wondered what would happen – a life without a mother. Before all of this he wasn’t even sure he had wanted children. It was Sam who had convinced him with her mothering smile and tender heart. But now she was drifting. Drifting between one world and another. He looked out of the window in attempt to forget, but it did nothing to ease his pain. In the distance he saw a shadow of a tree. It was her he thought. Dancing. Dancing in the wind and moving with the sun. Though her body lay beside him, he knew in his heart that she was out there. Somewhere. Dancing in the wind and moving with the sun. He got up from his chair and a carefully lay Jeremy beside her.

Next of kin had to make the decision and for Tom it was time.

Bar man

“Shaken, not stirred”, was what Jim like to repeat over and over again in his head. A reassuring epitaph to the life unlived. His life unlived. From his perspective there was no particular reason for this peculiarity. To him it was just a mindless word sandwich that he enjoyed repeating  for repetitions sake. A labour of circularity. But for the unbiased observer of  this private ritual, this was what defined him. A man who had neither the gaunt nor bravado to even request a drink of such sort. A man who wanted what he didn’t desire. And a man, like all men, whose shameless and limitless height of self expectation was dwarfed by his inability to accept loss, change and all the other things that modern men are held to live up to in a world that still fails to honour the male tear.

Looking over to his right he noticed that the man two stools beside him was now starting to nod off. The glass bowl of mixed nuts sat upside down and had become a make shift head rest to the now hunched over stranger. The mess of nuts and spilt beer gave Jim an undeserved sense of accomplishment. Those salt-lined empty skins and pools of yeast made him feel somewhat better than the curling mess of a man that lay before him.

This was his first time in bar of such sort – a shady basement establishment on fifty-first street. It didn’t have a name or rather no one seemed to care or ask. What it did have though was a particular brand of clientèle. It was one of those institutions – an institution to sorrow where broken men lay bare at its unwashed feet, emptying their souls’ dis-fortune to anyone that would listen. A group therapy session for the sickle-souled and disheartened. Yet Jim wondered of his place in all of it. He felt a sense of comfort bordering on the pathological. And out of the pathology came a sense of loss. A sense of loss to which he wasn’t wholly ready to accept. Maybe that was a sign of hope. In that temple to wallow was a red-faced army ripping down his white flag of surrender. A couple of thoughts forward, Jim, gracious and mindful of his time, went on.

Efd

It was just a one night stand, just a night of fun he thought. And by God did he need that night. Looking back though, if Charlie had to be honest with himself, it wasn’t the most need-fulfilling night of his life. In fact if he dug a little deeper he’d have to realise that it was most likely counter-productive to the state of his mental health at the time. A state which was already fragile and fair even before he had stumbled into Jane on that humid February night.

You see it wasn’t that Jane happened to be a bad lay, actually it was quite the opposite, rather it was his apparent lack of enthusiasm which appeared half way through the act. From one moment to the next he turned from the happy-go-lucky drunk guy to the sad little man who couldn’t handle sex with a stranger. It was just bad luck for him that he couldn’t stand up and say that he’d had enough. No, he couldn’t do that. In mid-thrust he wondered who would even do such a thing. So instead of following his instinct, he lay there in silence, waiting for an end to the madness.

In the coffee shop the broken record of “It was just a one night stand” played over and over again in his head. Remixed in was the “I thought she was on the pill” thought complex. Jane was sitting there in front of him with an espresso that had yet to be touched, her lips were moving but all he could focus on was the child in the stroller two tables over. He knew what she had just said but he couldn’t help but stare at the sick joke of a scene that the universe had placed in front of him. He hated that child, that two-year old child. He had no reason to, but he just did. Turning his attention back to Jane he found that she had begun to cry. Now probably wasn’t the best time to point out that there was an abortion clinic just two blocks south. He stared blankly into her tear-swollen eyes and made the conscious but silent refusal to not touch her. Touching her equalled reality. Touching her meant that life as he knew it was officially over.

The Breakdown

For a while he just stood there. A mouth full of teeth and a shiny forehead was all that was left. A shell of consequence, empty of words and manner, but still aware. Aware that everything around him was now different. Spinning around him was a changed world, all the while being the same old Marc.

In hindsight he had seen this coming. The way her mouth took far too long to curl up a smile. The way her body almost irked at his presence. The way she couldn’t help but stare at him blankly. The type of blank stare that imitates purpose. She had done all of these things yet it was the words that he needed to hear in order to make it real. He deserved the words he thought. God, he deserved more than the words.

With a now beading forehead he stared back. It was one of those deep stares that pierces even the toughest of shields. He stared with all his might for the off chance that she realised how much she loved him. Maybe it wasn’t about love he thought. That was too cliché of an answer for his liking – an easy way out. He made a last ditch effort and moved closer. He touched her hand and she instantly pulled away. To him it was like a scene from a movie, a complete and utter out of body experience. One man and one women, once a couple – The end.

Sitting outside her house he replayed that scene over and over again. Sometimes he would script it so that they ended in embrace, a happy ending. In his mind the credits would roll and he would then dwell in their imaginary life together. Right now, outside her home, he watched her in real life. She was at the kitchen window washing the dishes. Her husband had just made his way into view. She smiled as he embraced her from behind. It had been two years since Louise had broken up with Marc. Two years on and he couldn’t help but smile when she smiled. Cry when she cried.

Scream when she screamed.

Nightmare

An apple was all he needed. Just enough of a stimulus to get his juices flowing. Three months after the break-up, he now remembered her as an apple. Strangely enough it was now a bright green Granny Smith that gave him the gentle reminder that he was no longer part of a couple. It wasn’t like that in the beginning. In the beginning she was everywhere. Everything used to remind him of her. The carpet she had always used to trip over. The couch that they had had their first kiss on. Worst of all he was reminded daily, with acute intent, by the dog that they had decided to get together. Always there. Woof. Right now he wasn’t much of a dog person. Right now he felt that he wasn’t much of a person at all. Alone and tired he couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone over the hump. The hump that each and every one of us fails to foresee. The proverbial peak that dictates that future events will never compare to those which preceded. Also known as the mid life crisis. Joe was only 24. Maybe it was a quarter-life crisis. He wondered if such a thing even existed.

Gone were the days where he would wake up thinking of her. Today he woke up thinking of pizza. He was moving on. That said, there were times when his body forgot. His whole body would just forget that he was no longer with her. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night, turn to his right, and wonder where she was. Must have gone to the toilet he thought. In heartache he would roll back over, unable to fall asleep, and unable to forget the way that she used to make him feel. He couldn’t even express in words how much he loved her. Actions failed him as well. What he couldn’t bear was the chance that maybe she didn’t truely know the strength of his love. Maybe she just didn’t understand that this wasn’t some sort of puppy love that preceded the one. He hoped she understood. If not then what was the point of it all? What was the point of the labour of love if it ended before the harvest? He hated himself for loving her but most of all, right now, at three thirty in the morning, he hated her.

The pillow of grief

It had been a long day for Candice. Waking up under her general guise was usually hard enough, but that Tuesday held something more, something she wasn’t ready for. A cold start to the morning left her with the feeling that it best be better spent in bed. She couldn’t do that, she wanted to, but she couldn’t. After a lukewarm, weak-streamed shower which made her feel like she wanted to die, she had a small bowl of cereal and then left. While making her way out of the house she shouted goodbye to her husband. She had nearly forgotten to say goodbye to him, and she didn’t even give it a second thought.

Now lying in bed she held onto his pillow, it was the only worthwhile thing she had left, it smelt like him and she liked that about it. Like a drug, when she inhaled she went to another place. Hairs stood on end and the shivers followed. She knew it was counter-productive to the flow of her grief, but she just couldn’t help but indulge in what was left of him. His scent was something that she had never before considered. It brought back so many memories. The tears that followed didn’t soother her pain, in fact, they seemed to justify it. He was what she had lived for for so many years, and now he was dead and with him went a part of her. All she was trying to do with that pillow was hold onto herself. A death and half a soul later she lay there with hopelessness resting heavy on her heart. The questions followed. “How do I live with only half a soul? Will I ever love again? Will I ever see you again?” She didn’t know if she was asking God, the universe or herself. What she did know was that she would give anything to ask him. She couldn’t.

It was this loop of pillow-memory-him-tear that she almost enjoyed, she couldn’t and definitely wouldn’t let it go. Without that pillow the other half that she so earnestly held onto was gone. His death had broken her heart and somehow she hated him for it.