Chapter Four: 

‘I dearly regret my actions and will take full responsibility for my them,’ I look at the ceramic floor of the empty courtroom. The prosecutor’s friends and family have showed up to give their moral support. ‘I’m sure my therapist will see this as a sign of progress and my doctor will be ever so relieved, he won’t be able to prescribe me my medication if I have to go to jail, I’m guessing for atleast 60 days.’ 

I look over to those two kids who have no clue what’s going on. They got on with their lives the moment they coughed the smoke out of their little lungs, scuttling off to play Angry Birds on the nearest shiny iPad after their mother patted their backs, while I was screaming with my face pressed against the mat at the front of the store. The carpet was wet but it hadn’t rained in days.

‘This must have been a traumatic experience for these kids, one that may scar them for the rest of their lives. A mentally ill man, taking his anger out on innocent kids,’ The kid’s parents have held their children’s head close to their chests, stopping them from making eye contact with me. Jesus Christ. The judge just stares at me with his droopy eyes, with the pink of the bottom of his eye lids showing. He hasn’t slept in days. I go on, ‘I just hope from the bottom of my heart that you kids…Sorry what are your Christian names?’ The mother and father tuck their children’s head back in between the chests. I just stare at the parent’s waiting for them to return my smile. Now I know what it’s like to talk to a social retard, now I know what it’s like to talk to me. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. ‘I just hope that one day they will forgive me and my actions,’ I wring my hands infront of my thin grey tie, ‘And give me another chance in life.’

‘Jesus,’ he mumbles, ‘How many times are we going to go through this? How many goddam times?’ The judge shakes his head in disbelief.

The court is adjourned for one week, more than enough time to come to an agreement on my sentence.

A week has passed. I’m wearing the same suit I was wearing last week. 

I look over to the family while the judge is rubbing each eye with both hands as if to say ‘Give him a second he’s had a long day.’ I shrug and smile politely then turn to face the judge before his eyes gain focus. The thing is I know what the judge is thinking, and he knows I know what he’s thinking and we both know he can’t say the reasons why he passing what he’s passing.

‘Look here you lil son of a bitch, I’m going to play along with your little games here but only because if I don’t it’s going to cause the city a lot of grief. If I don’t give you the minimum sentence you’re going to be an awkward son of a bitch. Don’t worry we’ll pin you down in the Ashton Love case. Mark my words, we will get you,’ is what the judge wants to say.

With his chin in his left hand he sighs at me then looks at the prosecutor’s bench then back to me. ‘As the defendant has expressed remorse for his actions, and has a history of mental illness, the court orders you pay a fine of $1500 to the city and $1000 to the defendants in order to pay for the medical charges incurred as a result of the incident in question,’ is what he had to say.

What if he did say what he wanted to say? What is the worst that could happen? Yes, he loses his job after a being forced to publicly resign. He painstakingly sets up his own office for cases of the small court. He works around the clock just to so he can afford to send his eighteen year old daughter to college…

Due to my understanding boss who probably wants to fuck me in a public bathroom on the other side of town so he doesn’t run into anybody he knows, I haven’t returned to work in just over a year.

For four years in college every Thursday during fourth period I sat at the back of the class so nobody would notice me leave half way through the lecture to see my therapist. I clocked a total of sixty-four hours in my final year of filling in blanks on work sheets that were meant for elementary school children. I’ve been receiving forty percent of my usual pay every month, the company’s human resources office finally caught on. My boss put in a word for me so I can return to work on one condition, I have to attend a twelve week cognitive behavioural therapy course, twelve sessions of self-absorption. I only lasted one.

I experience flashbacks as I sit down infront of my therapist. She starts off the session by introducing herself, a mature student in her final year of therapy. I spend half of the session talking about a news article I read earlier today. Sometimes I throw in a nonsensical statement just to keep her interested. She stops breathing while she tries to hold her tongue. Her face starts to turn purple. Before she interrupts she lets out a great gasp of air. I pause. Tilting her head and smiling she asks ‘How does that make you feel?’ One of the images I came across last night while surfing the internet was of a Congolese woman posing with a smile for the cameras after an interview with a documentary maker. I tell her of how Congolese soldiers forced their way into the woman’s house while she was at home with her husband, probably relaxing after a meal barely providing enough nutrients to replenish their energy after a hard day’s work. The soldiers raped her while he watched, beat him to death while she watched, finally cutting off his penis and force feeding it to her. She was told to stick out her tongue to prove she had swallowed every last bit. ‘How does that make you feel?’ I ask stretching out the word ‘you’. I expect her to end the session and schedule to re-adjourn next week. She shuffles forward.

‘Last week one of our professors gave us our first assignment, to select one of our patients, with their consent ofcourse, for the subject of a case study.’ She’s starting to get excited. ‘I would like to choose you.’ She smiles. ‘Every week I’ll record our session and play snippets back to the class. In the end I’m supposed to produce a report about your progress over the twelve weeks. What do you say?’ Her lips look elastic, stretching wider until I say something.

‘Doctor’s diagnosed me social anxiety, we all know what the effects are. A paralyzed feeling, jaw wired shut, never knowing what to talk about. The thing is, I know exactly what to talk about, either you or me. Pretty self-absorbed I think?’ She nods in agreement. ‘So what do you call an hour a week to talk about yourself?’

‘Therapy?’ She replies looking bewildered.

‘Hmm…What are you averaging? Fifty, sixty per cent?’ She nods with embarrassment.

 ‘Well, I need to get back to work. You need to increase your average. I could keep your tape recorder for the next twelve weeks, tape twelve hours of endless rants and send it back by post. Insert a clip of yourself introducing each session. I swear I’ll provide you with enough content to write a fucking manual.’

She stops breathing to hold her tongue, water fills her eyes. Was it something I said? She asks to be excused. I look at the clock and notice she’s been gone longer than the time it takes to urinate and wipe. That’s strange. I open the door slightly and peak through the gap, she’s talking to two casually dressed men dressed in thick black raincoats, but it’s not raining outside. She looks distraught. Jesus. What happened to a life of compromise? There’s a loud knock at the door by one of the men in raincoats. She’s the first to enter the room pretending she’s alone, peering from behind the door checking to see if I’ve moved. I’m sitting down in the same position she saw me sitting in before she left. I smile, nod and blink slowly. She’s enters the room followed by two men displaying no badges who leave the door open, standing infront of the exit with their hands crossed over their crotches. The therapist and two men without badges who I assume have been given the authority to drag me out of here screaming look like a relative recently passed away. I notice a box of Crayola crayons sitting on the shelf.

“Who are you guys supposed to be?” I stutter. “What? You can’t even be borderline crazy anymore?” I let out a sigh while rubbing my temples with my thumb and forefinger. “Can I atleast know who’s about to drag me kicking and screaming to wherever it is I don’t want to go?”

They turn to look at each other in agreement and reach into their inside pockets. They unfold leather wallets with one side holding a badge and the other some identification. “This is Detective Wellborn,” He points at Det. Wellborn. “And I’m Detective Hassle.”

“Go figure.” I say. Det. Hassle acts an expression of surprise. 

 “You are a key witness in the events following the murder of A Ashton Love’s romantic partner.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“Jesus, I hate dealing with these nut jobs.” Det. Wellborn mutters in the back. He inhales, angrily tucking his shirt into his trousers. Det. Hassle waves him to calm down.

“We need to ask you a few simple questions.”

I return to my seat. Look Det. Wellborn in the eyes and say “Kicking and screaming.” I nod and blink slowly. If I don’t go they’ll use it against me. They always do. Det. Wellborn looks back at me and nods and blinks slowly in agreement.

I go kicking and screaming. I don’t resist. I just go kicking and screaming.

I meet Steve in front of the police station. Steve looks sad. We walk down the street in silence for a full minute. He doesn’t even ask why he was asked to come and get me.

 I ask him “What’s the matter?” but he can’t put his finger on it.

It takes a while for him to answer “I was watching T.V. and an ad showed a circus bear in chains made to dance. The bear was crying. He was probably minding his own fucking business…”

“I’ve seen the ad, Steve.” He doesn’t hear a word.

“…Fishing in the river when a fucking no-good-inbred-fuckwit who is too fucking lazy to get a job shows up and blows a dart in the bear’s ass!” Steve starts to raise his voice. His throat still isn’t cut up after all these years of shouting. He sounds like a teenage boy.

“Steve, I know I’ve seen the ad.” He hears me this time and calms down.

“So it just got me thinking, you know?”

I phoned my ex-girlfriend from the police station even though I wasn’t under arrest. The phone rang and went to voice mail. I phoned a second time. After a few rings she answered but didn’t say anything. I’ve started thinking about her more often. We never said talked, laying side by side. She just used to gaze into my eyes. I don’t think she was in love. It was as if she was waiting for me to notice something odd about her.

We’re walking along a busy road which is used by truck drivers to transport cattle. The truck engines make it hard for me to make out what Steve‘s saying. I try to make out what he’s saying by paying attention to his hand gestures. He waves his hands around, grabs his hair and pretends to strangle someone. He squeezes the thin air with both hands. I can make out bits and pieces. He’s probably talking about one of his close escapes with an assigned assassin sent to kill him. I do wonder how he managed to escape this time.

I tried to schedule an appointment with Steve’s therapist but she said “I’m sorry but if you turn out to have as much problems as our little friend here I’m the one that will have to request for paid time off!” 

We enter the coffee shop. Standing next to the counter we call over the owner’s son. I raise my hand over the heads of those waiting for their order. The low murmur of the news reporter on the television above us causes me to raise my head. Now that I’m watching the screen I can make out what’s the news reporter’s saying. A key witness in the events following the murder of the unnamed girlfriend of Ashton Love was questioned earlier today? Although police have found no evidence of the witness’ presence during the time of the murder the sister of the deceased is said to believe he did in fact hire the convicted to kill her? They show a black and white video recording of my questioning with the millisecond, seconds, minutes and hours in the top left hand corner of the screen. Is that allowed? The camera angle only captures the top of my head. Nobody knows I’m getting my fifteen minutes of fame.  

The T.V. cuts back to the news reporter. She moves on to a story about the release of former politician’s auto biography. Everybody in the coffee shop stops talking all at once. People turn around to look at each other looking confused by the sudden silence. I don’t move a muscle trying not to attract any attention. I start to feel my stomach muscles tensing up. I can’t breathe. I feel a burning sensation at the tips of my fingers.

Outside I light a cigarette and start to pace up and down. I stop to concentrate on a sound I hear off in the distance. A harmonica is playing the same few bars of a familiar song repeatedly. I look around. I screw my eyes to focus on a homeless man wearing brown clothes camouflaged into the brick wall of an abandoned building. People pass and throw coins into a hat infront of him. I swear I can hear the copper coins landing. I start pacing again. I reach deep into my pockets to look for some change. I can’t find any. I’ll be the stranger that made his day. I open my wallet, looking through old receipts for notes, mistaking some for cash. I used the last of my change to pay for my coffee. I look up from my wallet and find myself standing infront of him with no cash. I don’t smile until he nods in appreciation. I nod back. I open my cigarette box, pull out two sticks and toss them in his hat. I don’t even know if he smokes. He closes his eyes blowing harder into the harmonica. He opens his eyes. I’m half way down the street pacing up and down infront of the coffee shop’s window pane.

I return to the same spot to a warm cup of black coffee underneath the T.V. “Jesus Christ.” There playing the same black and white video tape footage of me being questioned by the two officers wearing think black raincoats. Twenty-four hour news channels brining us the news in fifteen minutes, every fifteen minutes. It looks like the only person who would be able to recognise me is my neighbour who lives one floor above me. I spend a tremendous amount of time with my head on crossed arms leaning out of my bedroom window.

Steve turns around to ask “What’s wrong, with you?” I just tell him “Being booked in and out of jail isn’t as fun as it used to be. “

I don’t behave out of line because I’m some sort of attention seeker who’s upset about never being considered worth anybody’s time in his group of friends he’s known since leaving college. In a state of fight or flight, I start to miss the subtle behaviours people convey when interacting with one another. You know, the look of disgust that lasts for only a fraction of a second which if you were to react as signalled, you may be seen as someone who is capable of playing the role as the subordinate of the group. Or when someone is staring straight at you in a group of people, waiting for you to give him a little nod to show him you’ve got his back if word slips that he’s been sleeping with his other best friend’s ex-girlfriend. People don’t interpret this behaviour as ignorant or snotty with your nose to the sky thinking your better than everybody who’s ever walked the earth, no. They don’t even know how to interpret it so they just blank all awkward instances from their memory. 

The other day I tagged along with my co-workers to a night club, after a few beers my nervous system decided to take the night off. I slammed my hand into a door and it dripped blood all over the dance floor. I didn’t notice any discomfort until one of my co-workers unnecessarily pointed and scream at by cut hand. My blood pressure had fell way below normal but my hand was dripping blood like a tap that hasn’t been closed properly, drip drip dripping throughout the night keeping you awake at night. I stared at my hand like a demi god seeing his own blood for the first time. In the bathroom the mirror above the sink had been removed leaving a square hole of missing tile. The wall behind the white tile is the colour of wet sand. My blood tastes of salt.

Till this day I still don’t know what the newspaper article was about.

“I talk aloud just to block out the voices in my head.”

PERSON 1:

a few weeks ago some guy died in a motorbike crash who was from our village, just found out that he was a pikey…… not a real loos now

12:10 PM

loss*

12:10 PM

maybe a bit hardsh but thats one less potential burgular

12:11 PM

PERSON 2:

Okay.

12:13 PM

…but you glorify murderers.

12:13 PM

:\

12:13 PM

PERSON 1:

wasnt murder

12:13 PM

PERSON 2:

…psychos.

12:13 PM

PERSON 1:

accident

12:13 PM

lol you glorify irans leader

12:13 PM

so tu che

12:13 PM

PERSON 2:

Haha. No.

12:13 PM

Not touche.

12:14 PM

Hold on. You like the idea of the insane murdering gangsters. Hammers cracking skulls but you dont like a ‘pikey’ you don’t know?

12:15 PM

I’m just saying.

12:15 PM

Just saying.

12:15 PM

PERSON 1:

yep

12:15 PM

PERSON 2:

To each his own.

12:15 PM

PERSON 1:

you still glorify irans leader however

12:16 PM

PERSON 2:

If I did, explain why one shouldn’t.

12:17 PM

I think it’s strange to allow the G8 to have nukes but lesser countries are not.

12:18 PM

PERSON 1:

they dont need them

12:18 PM

PERSON 2:

Nobody needs them.

12:18 PM

PERSON 1:

absolutely no reason to have them whatsoever

12:18 PM

PERSON 2:

It goes for Russia, China, NK, USA and UK.

12:18 PM

We agree

12:19 PM

PERSON 1:

the ones we already have stop any kind of major war like ww2 and 1 ever happening again, all that will happen is small scale in comparison

12:19 PM

brinkmanship, no one wants go over the edge

12:19 PM

either way i am sure if we dont go after them the israeli’s will or already are

12:20 PM

PERSON 2:

So how do they defend themself?

12:21 PM

PERSON 1:

having nuclear weapons wouldnt defend them either

12:21 PM

PERSON 2:

Could you eleaborate?

12:21 PM

PERSON 1:

the rate at which their technology is at the weapons would not be capable of their enemies soil which is most of the western world and anyone who doesnt agree with the totalitarian ways

12:22 PM

no way to use it

12:23 PM

PERSON 2:

I was refering to your comment about Isreal attacking Iran.

12:23 PM

PERSON 1:

what do you mean

12:23 PM

PERSON 2:

‘either way i am sure if we dont go after them the israeli’s will or already are’

12:23 PM

Is nuclear weapons not a way of defending themself against Isreal?

12:24 PM

PERSON 1:

they have enough military firepower to wage war with isreal

12:24 PM

the israeil’s wouldnt use nukes on them anyway

12:24 PM

PERSON 2:

But Isreal have nuclear weapons.

12:25 PM

What makes you say this?

12:25 PM

PERSON 1:

but wouldnt use them

12:25 PM

the last 50 years

12:25 PM

if iran got rid of the dictatorship

12:25 PM

the archaic system of government

12:25 PM

then

12:25 PM

i wouldnt be against them having them

12:25 PM

PERSON 2:

So if Iran were nuked under a dictator ship which killed a large number of people, you would accept it?

12:26 PM

Rather than posses the threat of nuclear weapons under a dictatorship and save lives?

12:27 PM

PERSON 1:

no i didnt say anything about nuking them

12:27 PM

or even attacking them

12:28 PM

should be blocked out economically at the least until they stop

12:28 PM

PERSON 2:

Cool. Though we weren’t talking about economics, I thought we were talking about national defence.

12:32 PM

PERSON 1:

i never said they should be attacked or nuked

12:32 PM

i said they shouldnt have the option to have nukes

12:32 PM

PERSON 2:

Yeah…because they have a totalitarian government.

12:33 PM

PERSON 1:

exactly

12:33 PM

PERSON 2:

Okay. A reason for possesing nuclear weapons is the hypothetical scenario that a country attacks your own, more precisely, they attack your country with a nuclear weapon.

12:34 PM

To defend a country from a nuclear weapon you could use a nuclear deterent. To prevent a country from firing a nuclear weapon a country could threaten to attack thier enemy with with own nuclear weapon.

12:35 PM

PERSON 1:

there wouldnt be an attack on them with a nuclear weapon by the west

12:36 PM

and IF in the smallest scenario there was there would be war with russia and china

12:36 PM

it wouldnt happen

12:36 PM

its called MAD for a reason, mutually assured destruction

12:37 PM

PERSON 2:

I can’t accept you saying IT WILL NOT HAPPEN, nobody can say. The best thing a country can do is defend itself against a potential threat.

12:37 PM

PERSON 1:

if they calmed down and got rid of that system of govt then there would be no publicity to allow it

12:38 PM

as i have said i dont have a problem with them having a nuclear deterrent WHEN they get out of the stone age style of govt

12:38 PM

PERSON 2:

But how do they defent themself if they don’t have a deterent?

12:39 PM

Also, is it the people fault that they are under this style of governance?

12:39 PM

Shoudl they die because of thier leaders decision?

12:40 PM

PERSON 1:

get rid of the style of govt and stop the programme would do it, doing that would be quicker and arguably safer than continuing the programme

12:40 PM

PERSON 2:

Shoudl the civilians of Iran die because of their leader’s decision?

12:41 PM

PERSON 1:

no obviously not that is still not a reason to let a clearly unstable govt from having hte weapons

12:42 PM

and mentally unstable i may add

12:42 PM

PERSON 2:

So then there is an ultimatum…for iran to defend it’s people with a nuke or not defend themself with a nuke.

12:43 PM

There is no proof he’s unstable unless you’ve seen his medical records.

12:43 PM

PERSON 1:

still using stoning for adultry is pretty unstable to me

12:43 PM

PERSON 2:

No. Now your insulting his religion. No religion says to hate pikey’s yet you do. Should that be considered insane if one thinks that?

12:44 PM

PERSON 1:

that is a personal dislike its not allowing it to happen

12:45 PM

i have to go make a call to my tutor

12:45 PM

PERSON 2:

12:45 PM

Cool.

Chapter one: Public Transport

The lights inside the bus are not alight, one lamp is smashed. I can’t see my reflection.  It’s 4 am on a Saturday morning. My guess is a scuffle broke out earlier in the night and somebody managed to crack the plastic like casing covering the light. The bus driver looks chirpy; he probably switched with the previous driver because he got injured in trying to break up the fight. Poor him. Really. I don’t want any hassle. I just want to lay my head down on a soft pillow and watch the room spin in the dark. BANG!  Jesus Christ almighty. Somebody hits the window I’m leaning against as hard as they can. ‘Keep driving. Keep driving,’ I murmur to myself hoping to god he doesn’t get on the bus. I’m definitely not in the mood. BANG! BANG! BANG! The wheels of the bus do not go round and round, they rather stop and allow a very drunk man to board. The man’s ticket is not valid but the driver doesn’t pull him up for it. I’m the only passenger on this bus but every seat is occupied. He sits beside me. He’s completely wasted but doesn’t smell of alcohol. He stinks of aftershave. ‘Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me.’ I whisper under my breath, two minded as to whether I want him to hear me. I could just about make out what he was saying.

“Igavethatwomaneverything and shethrewitrightbackinmyface,” He begins. “Whore. Ican’tbelieveher. Ican’tbelieveher. Howcouldshedothistome?” He turns to face me. “Ididn’twanttodoit but shespatinmyface. Myfuckingface,” He slurs his words but apart from that you’d have a hard time telling he was drunk. “Shit. WhatamIgoingtodo? Shitshitshitshit. I’mgoingtojailforthis,” Okay, now I’m interested. “Ifuckingkilledher.” I’m interested but not an idiot.

I press the stop button. DING! I don’t expect him to move out of the way, he doesn’t. I pace to the front of the bus feeling the force of the bus as it stops at a red light. It’s 4am, no cars. ‘Could I alight here, please?’ The driver smiles as if to say ‘If I aint getting off this bus then you aint neither, pal’ It’s 4am. There are no cars crossing. ‘Please.’ He ignores me. ‘Okay. I’ll wait. Right here.’ I look behind me and see the man seated at the back of the bus sober up and come to his senses thinking about how to cover up his tracks. The emergency button sits above the door. I push the button. Air escapes from the hydraulic pumps opening the door while I sincerely thank the driver, smile, and step down from the bus. The traffic lights turn to green and in the flickering of lights I see a guy who just murdered his significant other stand up and make his way to the front of the bus. I stop half way down the road to turn around and watch the bus drive off. ‘Should I, should I call the police?’ I think about it for a second but decide not too. He’s drunk. He probably doesn’t even have a girlfriend. Yes, that’s right. It’s cold. I blow into the wind to see my breath leave me, cover my face with my collar, find my pockets and try not to think about the warm bed waiting for me back at my apartment.

After a quarter of an hour I find myself walking behind a female figure way ahead in front. She hears my foot steps, looks behind her and starts walking faster. This is awkward. ‘She’s just being cautious.’ I say to myself. Squinting my eyes I see she’s wearing a brown waist length fur coat with black spots, her long blonde or brunette hair is tangled behind her in the fur. A shame. Animals hunted down, offspring caged since birth, all to keep us warm while we sip on white wine, smoke cigarettes and show our teeth. I start to walk faster. So does she. ‘I’m a law abiding citizen, occasionally visit church on Sundays if carrying a guilty conscience, use a condom and refrain from punching my boss square in the jaw. How dare you!’ I say this all in my head, nearly breaking into a run. I can hear birds singing. She stumbles, she’s drunk. Lights appear ahead, bright, so I slow down eventually to a walk as she runs on. I feel the lactic acid building in my arms and legs, burning, so I lean against the nearest wall, exhausted. It’s dark but I can make out I’m leaning against a wall covered in graffiti. Without making sure my discoloured white shirt isn’t marked with blue paint I stand up and take in the view. You have got to admire the level of skill that goes into vandalising public property. Amateurs mark the borders of the grey wall leaving room for work the professionals. ‘If I had a heart I’d shed a tear.’ Stencilled images of popular icons brandishing weapons and a monkey with the caption ‘God’ underneath. Should I be offended? Maybe God is a monkey. I take a few steps back to take in more of the view. Stencils of lone icons, lined up one after another, soon become a crowd of rioters fighting a corner. I’m reminded of high school, page after page of pictures drawn to pass time in class while Ms. Smith rambled on about something I’d probably find useful now. Advanced algebra? Reading comprehension? Biology? I stare at the wall thinking how normal it looks that all of the icons seem to be holding rifles. I can see it right now, doors swinging open, Marylyn Munroe jumping out the back of a truck wearing a helmet shooting aimlessly, her scream heard over the ‘brrr!’ of the gun. If only God gave her the chance to fulfil her destiny.

I’m so deep in thought I forget how cold it is. All you can hear is the kicking of a soda can and birds flying off to safety. The sun still isn’t out but it looks as if it’s hiding behind a cloud. I hear a bus in the distance, look round and notice a different driver. I walk to the nearest bus stop. He doesn’t pull over until a full bus length a head of me. I struggle for the change in my pocket and board the bus. Maybe I should have called the police and told them about a self confessed murder now regretting what he’d done. The bus is now full of passengers with there heads tilted back sleeping, trying to squeeze in a few extra minutes shut eye before work. You can spot women walking the streets making there way back home alone after a one night stand with a stranger, carrying their high heeled shoes. We pass a young woman, probably a teenager, wearing a golden short tight dress struggling to walk. The man didn’t even have the decency to give her money for a taxi, even though it may have been mistaken for payment of services. Is she a whore? I don’t really know. Does it really matter? Two people expressing an emotion through the act of sex. ‘Why is that frowned upon?’ I ask my self but I don’t try to come up with an answer. I just sit quietly until I reach my stop. People waiting at the bus stop don’t make way for passengers alighting so we squeeze past newspaper readers huddled together skimming through the world affairs section to get to the showbiz page to find out the latest celebrity gossip. They don’t get enough of it through television or radio. How can I blame them? I counted ninety-eight deaths reported on my news app I downloaded for my mobile phone. How much did you count? Most of the victims were innocent and killed after the detonation of an explosive device. Those just outside the blast radius didn’t get hit by the force of the explosion; they were killed by shrapnel from the car containing the bomb. Pain I can’t comprehend but I’m still not grateful, not yet.

‘Well, Francesca, not only does this pancake maker come with a built in timer for that perfect pancake, it also has a non-stick stainless steel surface. Francesca, that’s not all. If you were to hold that up to the camera, Francesca,’ he looks at the camera smiling, ‘If you look closely, you can see an imprint here showing where the steel for this product was made,’ Wait for it. ‘Francesca, could you tell our viewers what this says?’ An animated star shoots across the screen with a swooshing sound. ‘Made in the United States of America.’ The men and women in the studio behind the cameras let out a great big gasp. ‘That’s right ladies and gentlemen, made right here IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!’ I swallow two sleeping pills along with a sip of water before getting into bed with the T.V. on in the background. I sleep better with the T.V. on. Francesca and Bob ‘Mmm,’ and ‘Ah,’ while the credits roll and a soundtrack from the 80’s plays them out. ‘…on today’s news, police have just arrested a man on suspicion of killing his girlfriend in the early hours of this morning.’ I know it’s him but I don’t get up. ‘Lawrence Duval,’ Fuck. I did not want to know his name. ‘Was captured on C.C.T.V. attacking bus driver Charles Hesson in what was understood to be an unprovoked attach earlier this morning. After Mr. Duval alighted the bus Mr. Hesson radioed in the attack to authorities immediately. Police apprehended Mr. Duval when he broke down into tears and confessed to the murder of his girlfriend who has not yet been identified. Matthew Ashford reports.’ I should have called the police. I point the remote, switch off the television and close my eyes.

The cupboards are full of cereal with cartoon animals on the box. A duck trying to pass off as an astronaut, a dolphin swimming in some kid’s bowl and ‘Hmm, a rat wearing an eye-patch’. I reach for the cereal with the giraffe posing as a soccer player. Chocolate and cinnamon. Bill left a voicemail on my phone asking me to call him back. ‘What happened last night?’ he groans, ‘I think I lost my wallet. Fuck. I can’t remember anything from last night.’ Bill spent most of the night talking to a girl he swore he knew from the ‘Save the Koalas’ project in Queensland, Australia. She knows Bill. Not just his name, his credit card number, date of birth, address. (Six months later I received an email asking for donations to help fund a wildlife reserve project in Queensland, Australia, coordinated by Bill’s friend. She included a picture of her cradling a koala.) Place of birth, mother’s maiden name, national security number. And she seemed so interested in him. ‘Call me when you get this.’ He forgets to hang up; during the seconds before the call ends he lets out a great big sigh. He sees the irony.

Steve Bat. Steve graduated top of his class from university with a degree in information technology. His first job was as a data logger for a government encryption agency responsible for encrypting fairly sensitive government information. He spent most of his day entering unencrypted data into the agency’s internal database to later be encrypted by programmers with sticky fingers eating glazed donuts. The rest of Steve’s day was spent transferring the encrypted data to CD before being posted half way around the world by airmail. Steve received a phone call from an unknown caller one night waking him. Before answering ‘Hello,’ a man interrupted and ran through the entire history of government intelligence, finishing with ‘Hey, it could be worse.’ Steve, in shock slowly hung up the receiver. Without any hesitation he quickly packed his bags for a trip up north and disappeared for years later resurfacing as William Bradley, also known as Bill. Bill made a living buying encryption codes from one government agency and selling to another, not only spreading nation wide panic nearly starting the occasional war but also made a profit for all parties involved. Bill never bought anything on credit, always cash. Years later he received a call from another unknown caller who ran through the entire history of government intelligence again but with an alternate ending. Bill says he’s wanted by the state. His therapist says he’s schizophrenic. Today you can find Bill handing out newspapers in the city for a living

He lets it ring for awhile before answering ‘Hello. Not dead. Does that mean your having a good day?’He laughs.

‘Maybe. I’m not too sure,’ I chuckled back to him.

‘Me neither.’

‘What happened?’

He’s sighs, sounding like he’s blowing into the receiver.

‘I don’t blame her. Everybody needs a break sometime’

‘I agree.’

‘I guess there’s not much to say except I’m anally fucked.’ We laugh for a while at what’s just been said. ‘I’m expecting a call from the authorities at any moment now.’

‘The government work on a Saturday?’ I ask sarcastically feeling distracted. An animal rescue charity commercial is on television showing blind circus bears performing for a crowd in a small Asian town. I feel pretty emotional right now.

‘With my credit history, it’s a sure thing.’ Bill says.  ‘She said her name was ‘not important’. Can you believe that?’

‘Yes. Yes I can.’ I say with no concern. Worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. If the problem is not yours you know how to solve it.

‘You’ve got to give it to her,’ he ends the subject. ‘I’ll see you later if you drop by the café.’

‘Yeah, see you later,’ I reply. ‘Don’t worry. Coffee is on me.’

A circus bear side steps in slow motion shaking a pair of tambourines that have been tied to its hands with dirty rags. Its eyes lids look like they’ve been burned shut by its trainers and its feet are chained with just enough give to walk. Smiling kids run rings around the bear while the slow, sad commercial music plays instead of the laughter of children. A woman with a sensual voice good enough for any chocolate ad asks people to donate a monthly sum of money, then the music changes into something cheerful and the same bear is seen playfully mauling its game keeper. This puts a smile on my face. Tears fill my eyes but I wipe them with the back of my hands before I blink and snap out of it.

Every Sunday Bill and I spend the afternoon drinking cups of coffee and smoking cigarettes in our local café down the street. The café doesn’t have a name per se as it doesn’t have a sign. Long story short; the owner’s son fell off a ladder and hurt his back trying to paint a new sign. He painted over the old sign before falling. He’s okay, although now he walks with a limp. ‘Black coffee, guys?’ Bill and I nod. The dull décor, like the chipped chalk blue coloured painted walls, is overpowered by animated customers all having thought provoking conversations. During pauses in conversation between Bill and me, I listen in on conversations close by. The owners’ son returns with two black coffees with a hint of whisky. The first sip doesn’t go down well.

‘Did you read the newspaper today?’ I cough.

‘I sell newspapers for a living.’

‘Lawrence Duval. I sat next to him on the bus last night.’

I haven’t smoked my cigarette since I set it alight but the tobacco has burned all the way up to my finger causing me to drop my cigarette and blow on the burn. This place seems to draw in a wide variety of different people (I look around the room). The homeless, heroin addicts, heroin dealers, post men and women, truck drivers, factory workers, shop owners, bankers to professional photographers, painters, musicians, professional writers, university professors and a number of half deaf elderly South Asian women who pretend to understand a few words of English. ‘Wha? I no understan’.’ I swear they know what I’m saying.

‘Do you appreciate life now?’ he asks sarcastically. He’s right. In a few days I’ll forget about the whole thing and get on with my life.

Chapter Two: The Apple Store

                It’s the end of the first half of the financial year. We’re supposed to give a seminar announcing company results to the managers and broadcast the seminar globally to our business locations all over the world by an internet conference. The sweat dripping from my armpits and scrotum are dripping down my leg. Nerves. Walking by me on your way to the coffee machine along the corridor with your ‘Worlds Best Dad’ office mug, you get a smile, nod and a ‘Good morning, Dave.’ As soon as I’m in your blind spot I run to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face and start going through my presentation. My mind is blank. I pull cue cards from my pocket and flip through them. ‘Fuck,’ I can’t make out a thing. The ink is smudged from the sweat from my hands. My reflection in the mirror can’t tell what I’m thinking. Last year at the end of financial year seminar my throat closed up and I hit the floor faster than a space shuttle re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere. Lying on the floor the last thing I saw was the hand of my boss under the table creeping up the thigh of his eighteen year old male assistant. My boss said he sees a lot of himself in me when he was my age so he thought it would be a great idea to sign me up to public speaking classes to overcome my fear of being judged by a room full of people. ‘It’d be a great success story if you made a comeback and blew everyone away.’ My boss pats me on the back for encouragement and images of him on his knees, in the men’s bathroom cubicle, with his assistant burn behind my eyelids. Fuck this.

                I open the door an inch and take a look at the crowd. People are whispering to the person beside them thinking they can’t be heard, others are sending text messages, the bright white light from their phone shining on their faces, and some people in the audience are falling asleep. The vice president makes his way to the platform to thank Dave for his presentation and asks for applause. I wait for that one annoying person in the crowd who claps loudest and the longest to finish before I decide to turn around and make my way through the corridors, down seven flights of stairs and out of the rotating doors. The security guards now behind me had placed a bet on whether I’d go through with the presentation or not. I look round and the fatter of two security guards show me the finger from behind his desk. I quickly look back around and pretend I never saw the sign. I struggle to make my way down the street. Don’t these people have jobs? Maybe they’ve ran away from their jobs and seeking refuge in the apple store where you’d have a hard time telling the difference between the over elaborate white décor and heaven. The overwhelming selection of colours you can choose, black or white.

‘Hello, how are you? Would you like any assistance today?’ Before I can answer I’m following a seventeen year old boy on happy pills working trying to save up for a ski trip to the Switzerland. What it is to be young. ‘Here you can find our latest…’

‘Look, buddy. I don’t want to buy anything,’ I say politely, the sting in ‘buddy’ still there. ‘I just want to listen to a few songs on Youtube and use your store’s internet for free. Is that okay?’ The store assistant’s expression shows he’s heard this many times before. I hum the tune to Do the Funky Penguin by Rufus Thomas while making my way over to the latest model of the iphone. I put on headphones and listen to the same song. A fat man walks past the dock walking like his ankles have been tied together. I’m calm now. I’m sure my boss would understand if I told him what happened. The thing is I don’t want to go back. Word is now passing around, seat to seat, desk to desk. I am the laughing stock of the office. How I left a trail of urine from the seminar to the main entrance of the building. Just for your information, I haven’t. ‘Hey, it could be worse.’ The snapshot of Lawrence Duval’s facial expression while confessing next to me on the bus enters my mind. I’ve never seen anybody so scared other than on television, but that doesn’t count. I search my pockets for my cigarettes and a lighter, hold a cigarette in my teeth and light up in the store next to a couple of kids that have strayed from their parents. I kneel on one knee with smoke in my lungs, wait a moment or two and blow second hand smoke in their little faces. Nobody saw it. The smoke has alarmed members of staff but they don’t have the moxy to ask me to ‘put the cigarette out and expect a fine with seven to ten days.’ A part-time security guard walks over with his radio in one hand, holding out the other as to say ‘I’m on your side buddy.’ I am an endangered animal, a species on the brink of extinction about to be captured with no intention of throwing me in a cage with a female to repopulate the earth with our kind. I hold my cigarette in between my index finger and thumb and flick it between the eyes of the security guard. I jump up on the dock of iphones in one swift motion and take in the view of confused faces. I leap from dock to dock, accidently putting my foot through an ipad, while store assistants and security make weak attempts to stop me. Do the Funky Penguin is echoing around the store. Just as I’m about to leave the store I turn around and wave the crowd goodbye when a customer tackles me to the ground.

I meet Bill in front of the police station. Bill’s in hysterics. The officer at the front desk told me how Bill was desperately trying to hold in a fit of laughter as he handed in my bail. I used my only telephone call to phone my ex girlfriend. We weren’t really in a relationship; occasionally she used to phone me up in the middle of the night when she was feeling aroused. I’d travel across town at two o’clock on a Tuesday morning to have her open the front door to her apartment, the smell of weed hitting me as she pulls me in. Sometimes I’d get a call in the morning and I’d show up to an empty apartment, instead of turning back home I’d sleep against the front door. I don’t know why I called. She still hasn’t forgiven me for sending her name, phone number and address to every telesales marketing company I could find using google. I also paid a college student to hack into her email account and change her subscriber settings allowing third parties access to her personal information. Try waking up to a call from someone trying to sell you two IVF treatments for one. She must have phoned Bill immediately after hanging up.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asks noticing the pain in my face.

‘My back. A concrete floor isn’t exactly the most comfortable place to spend the night.’ There was a bed but the yellow stain on the mattress was still wet.

Bill continues to cough in fits in laughter while boarding the bus. I wait for the driver to hand over the ticket and signal from the outside for the bus driver to close the doors and drive. I can see Bill making his way to the back of the bus without looking up, he doesn’t notice. I walk home. In the dead air of my apartment I can smell the urine from my clothes. I toss them in the empty laundry basket. Hot water is sprinkling from the shower head steaming up the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror unrecognisable as I run my fingers through a newly received number three hair cut, courtesy of me. Liking the feeling, I rummage around the cabinet for an electric razor and a number 4 clipper, since I don’t really need a haircut. I run the razor through my hair scratching my scalp, the buzzing sound and vibrations sending me off somewhere nice. Shaves of hair start to appear on the white bathroom sink.

  ‘Be sure to apply plenty of Sun screen before heading out today, folks.’ The reporter laughs along with the weather man on the afternoon news. The desk with my laptop sits infront of the bedroom window which looks down on to the back garden over run with laundry lines of drying clothes. I try to open the window to let in some air but it’s no use. It only opens a couple of inches. The landlord retrofitted a permanent latch preventing the window to open fully. I can’t take the heat. The overweight tenant who lives on the floor directly beneath me sits in a beach chair which squeaks every time he rolls over to find a new position. I open my laptop and type my password, ‘password’. I have nothing to hide except an internet cache of data from stream pornographic videos of big busty women riding cowboy on well endowed men. I empty my recycling bin before typing in ‘Wikipedia’ into the web browser, the online encyclopaedia site, which countless numbers of students use as a primary source of information to aid them in the writing of reports, rearranging semantics to pass pages off as their own. Jimmy Wales’, the co-founder of Wikipedia, covers the top of every page asking for a small donation to help with maintaining servers of data typed up by hundreds of thousands monkeys wearing square academic caps typing up article after article. ‘Hey, here’s a banana.’

No More Maybe

“Preach non-violence.”

“Pfff…No.”