A Million Versions of Right (9 page)

Hedging went silent as he awaited the arrival of Mr Wilkens. After four hours it was apparent that this wasn’t going to happen. With a finger pointed toward the tangential board, he boomed the question, “WHERE IS MR WILKENS?”

The stunned members of the board looked among themselves, nodding furiously like falling plates of jelly. The position of their V.I.P. area made a quick dash for escape impossible without an elaborate series of limbo-like manoeuvres. One member was begrudgingly nominated as a spokesperson.

“We’re terribly sorry to you and your band of unusual men but Mr Wilkens is a no show. Nobody has seen him today. We assumed you were a planned part of the demonstration but we’re starting to believe that is not the case. It would be very much appreciated if you would leave. No one from the board will speak ill of this incident and you can go about your confusing protests freely.”

Before Hedging had a chance to reply, five more Scroats burst into the room and began circling the corpse-strewn rubble chanting, “GOD ENJOYS THE SCROTUM! JESUS HAD A SCROTUM!”

“Stop it!” Hedging yelled at his chanting men, who obeyed immediately. “This isn’t working at all. Let’s get out of here.”

The teachers and board members watched in fascination as the strange group of forlorn men lumbered out of the auditorium in single file. When the coast was clear, the board members had their drivers come and physically pick them up and take them away.

* * * * *

Bernice was already waiting on the couch when Mr Wilkens stumbled through the door, bricolage scrotum in tow.

“What in the heck is that, Mr W?” she asked in disbelief.

Mr Wilkens look surprised but happy to see his assistant. It was a dash of normality in what had turned out to be a decidedly un-normal day. “Bernice, my dear, when did you get here?”

“I’ve been waiting here for about five hours. I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”

She became guarded before asking, “So, d’ya get Tina back?”

Mr Wilkens fell onto the couch next to Bernice and allowed himself a hearty laugh, which released some of the negativity within him.

“No, Bernice, it’s fair to say that I didn’t get Tina back. All I got was
this
thing.”

He waved the bricolage scrotum about in her confused face.

“And what exactly
is
that?” she asked, selfishly pleased that Tina was still gone.

“This is my new scrotum. It would appear that my real one is indisposed right now and I shouldn’t expect to get it back anytime soon.”

Mr Wilkens’ laughter was quickly replaced with pitiful sobbing and helplessness. Bernice wasn’t prepared to let her boss dwell.

“Now let me get something straight, Mr W. You’re telling me that even without Tina, you want your balls back?”

“I don’t know, Bernice.”

“Well, do you hate balls or not?”

“I really don’t know, Bernice.”

She rolled her eyes and pressed on, “Okay then, are you so obsessed with balls that you’d be willing to keep that ridiculous thing?” She pointed toward the bricolage scrotum.

Bernice snatched the scrotum from his hand and flung it into the fire, which resulted in an unexpected explosion that blackened the room.

“Even if you did want your balls back, Mr W, you don’t wanna be worshiping some imitation. If there’s sanctity to be had, whichever side of the scrotum debate you’re on, you don’t wanna be shitting all over it with a crudely made recreation.”

Mr Wilkens draped his arm over Bernice’s shoulders and nuzzled into her neck.

“You know, I think you’re right,” he mumbled through mouthfuls of neck fat.

Bernice grinned. She was comfortable in this position and she yearned to make it last.

“You know something, Mr W?” she asked.

“What?”

“I prefer you without balls. I don’t want them things getting in the way when I have my tongue up you.”

Mr Wilkens laughed a little too hard, accidentally biting down on Bernice’s neck, taking a chunk of flesh with him as he pulled away.

“Sorry about that,” he said as blood trickled down his chin.

Bernice waved it off with a forgiving hand.

“You know, Bernice, I also prefer myself without balls. I don’t want balls. I’ve never wanted balls. The fact that Tina managed to convince me otherwise is actually quite terrifying and that isn’t an influence I need in my life.”

He kissed Bernice on the cheek and fell to the ground in a violent coughing fit. Hundreds of moths poured out of his mouth with every new heave. They died just as quickly as they were born. Bernice was instantly at his side, massaging his stomach and brushing the dead moths from his eyes. It took some time for Mr Wilkens to recover from the exertion.

Bernice helped Mr Wilkens to his feet and gently guided him back toward the safety of the couch. As his backside made contact, one last cough birthed two perfectly formed butterflies, which danced about in rings together. The two sat in comfortable silence for some time as they watched the butterflies dance.

“Bernice,” said Mr Wilkens, eventually breaking the silence.

“Yes Mr W?”

“Call me Spencer.”

THE GREAT HEADPHONE WANK

She tells me to shut the fuck up and that little nightly zone I so carefully create for myself vanishes, like it never existed. I muster up a huff and flick off the stereo. The sound cuts out immediately and I’m left in an uncomfortable silence. My ears begin to adjust and pick out night-time noises, usually ignored by those blessed with the ability to sleep. She has already drifted off. I stare into the back of her head through the darkness, resenting her completely.

I admit I’m prone to melodrama but music is important to me and without it I just can’t sleep. Or, if I do manage to shut down, my sleep is infiltrated by damaging thoughts. There’s something magical about the sonorous ebbs and flows of a trusted CD. It lulls me into comfort; it massages my brain. I’m lost without it.

Fucking Nadia! She’s snoring already. I have no doubt that she could sleep through my most ferocious death metal album at full blast. She could find warm slumber during the chilliest black metal. I try not to think the worst of people but she’s doing this solely to punish me, I’m sure of it. I clutch my music to me like a security blanket and it clutches me right back. Tonight my blanket has been shredded.

I lie awake in bed with my wide eyes staring at the ceiling. Fearing the dancing shadows, I masturbate while thinking of limes.

* * * * *

Nadia counteracts my miserable, insomnia-ridden mood with sickening cheerfulness. She’s eating toast and passing comment about something on the television. I have no time for it.

“You really pissed me off last night!” My words drip with involuntary venom. She stares at me with surprised eyes.

“What are you on about?” she finally says.

I enter damage control. “Shit, sorry babe. I didn’t mean to sound like such a fucking prick. I just had trouble sleeping ‘cause you made me turn off my music.” Fuck I sound pathetic! A smile crosses Nadia’s face as she comes to grips with the petty childishness I’m displaying.

“You’re kidding me right? You haven’t been brooding all night have you?” Her lack of respect sends a spike of anger to my brain. I repress it admirably.

“I’m having a shower,” I respond as a means of escape, knowing full well she will have left for work by the time I get out.

I hear music in the stabbing shower water. It cleanses me metaphorically and physically.

* * * * *

I hate my job thoroughly. It’s so redundant that my not doing it would affect the world in no perceivable way. I work for a company called Astenburger Ltd. My job is to yell at walls in order to test their emotional fortitude. The company founder, Leonard Astenburger, claims that walls absorb the emotional state of anyone who comes into contact with them via a process similar to osmosis. Over time, the weight of a wall’s emotional burden can lead to degradation and instability. Unsubstantiated documentation presented by Astenburger himself, claims that many lives have been lost due to the collapse of emotion charged walls. This claim has been scientifically refuted ad nauseum but due to a core group of supporters and stakeholders the shady operation continues. This rakes in considerable money for the company and Astenburger personally. Of course this doesn’t translate into much money in my pocket.

“You shit! You smell like old tits! Why don’t you give a fuck to your father?”

The wall gives no indication that it has absorbed what I’m yelling. Company policy dictates that no less than 90% of what I yell must consist of inexplicable insults. I yell more in one week than most people probably yell in their whole lives. My throat is covered in a leathery callous. I have developed formidable vocal stamina.

The various instruments used to measure the emotional fortitude of a wall before and after yelling, spit out esoteric data. I send this data to a department which specialises in the analysis. The results of the analysis are little known among those outside a key circle of managerial types. Annual reports are circulated under the guise of transparency but these reports are virtually impenetrable and go largely unread.

I shout myself hoarse for eight hours. The day ambles along at a painfully slow pace. The thought of arriving home and soothing myself with music normally calms me enough to deal with my miserable days but Nadia fucked that up the arse with a knife.

I’m tired and angry.

* * * * *

People have a way of surprising you and sometimes this surprise is even a good thing. I arrive home in woeful spirits having spent my nightly train ride rehearsing polite yet hateful things to say to Nadia. Before I have a chance to unburden myself I am confronted with a parcel placed atop the doormat. It’s lovingly gift wrapped and addressed to me. My inner child is excitingly clicking his heels. There’s a card attached that says:

Dear Michael,

Get a good night’s sleep, okay!

You can be such a baby sometimes.

Don’t worry numb nuts, I still love you.

This way we both win!

Lots of love,

Nadia

I tear into the delicate package, unsympathetic to the time and care taken to wrap it. I’m dumbstruck. Entombed within is a simple set of headphones.

“You like?”

I look up. Nadia is leaning against the doorframe wearing nothing but one of my old, large t-shirts. A large smile beams from her face. She looks fucking good.

“Now I can sleep in silence and
you
can sleep to your music.”

The solution is so simple that I make a mental note to kick myself later for not having thought of it.