A Million Versions of Right (13 page)

“When it happens, we’ll both know.”    

An air of excitement buzzes within me as I wait. I have no idea what it is I’m waiting for but I’ll stay here as long as it takes. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I cast my mind to Nadia. She must be pacing the house in a powerful state of insecurity – fuck I love that crazy bitch! She needs the headphones more than me. I feel horrible for depriving her. It’s like scooping a fish from a pond and throwing it on the bank to flop around in agony. It isn’t hard for me to envision Nadia as a helpless fish, drying under the blazing sun. Flopping and flailing in concentric circles as her life ebbs away. I shed a tear which feels like a nail forcing its way through my duct. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I think about my job – I think about all jobs. The lack of purpose chokes me. My bank account remains at a constant level of stifling oppression, willing me to keep going, filling me with fear. How many jobs could be removed from the world without consequence? I’ve never met a single person who does anything worth a damn. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. Sex! This absurd drive, which satisfies for mere moments before we’re compelled to need it again. On more than one occasion I’ve dreamed about tearing my cock off and firing it into hell’s cunt, where it is swallowed and forgotten. My testicles manufacture generations of potential people, all of which die a quick death in a condom or the shower drain. I perform millions of abortions daily and nobody cares. The day my seed grows is the day I owe my sincere apologies to the world…

The instrumentation is going fucking nuts!

A rumbling sound, like a localised earthquake, shakes the room. Mrs Webber lets out a deathly scream. An enormous crack traces its way from ground to ceiling. Steadfastly, I keep the headphones pressed against the wall. More cracks form and dance randomly over the surface. Mrs Webber is cowering in the corner, entranced yet terrified. A small portion of the wall crumbles away, giving birth to a plume of plaster dust. More sections crumble and fall, covering me with dust and debris. Before long I’m holding the headphones against nothing. The wall has turned to rubble.

Both Mrs Webber and I are powder white and blinking through the dissipating plume. My instrumentation has thrown up vast quantities of data and the blinking light indicates that automatic shut off is imminent to avoid overload.

I stare at where the wall used to be, taking in the mound of rubble. Mrs Webber dives with surprising agility toward the debris and frantically starts to sift through it.

“The Lime! The Lime!” she yells.

I get down beside her, compelled to aid in her search. It doesn’t take long for a green, circular shape to emerge. I pluck it up and hold it above my head. Mrs Webber falls back sobbing. I can’t believe the condition the lime is in.

“The lime! You found the lime! I knew it would be there. I found my father’s beloved lime!”

Slowly I hand the lime to Mrs Webber’s shaking, hungry hands. She carefully takes the lime from me and holds it before her eyes. With tears flowing, cutting trails through her powder white face she looks warmly toward me and says, “Mr. Astenburger is a FABULOUS man.”

I let the events and Mrs Webber’s words sink in before saying, “You know something Mrs Webber, you may actually be right.”

Ever so gently she wipes the dust from the lime with her shirt, cleaning it with love. She studies the lime ever closer, eventually her expression changes. The awe has vanished.

“You know Michael, this lime really isn’t
that
perfect at all. I’ve seen hundreds of limes more pristine than this at the supermarket. This is actually a little disappointing.”

* * * * *

I exit Mrs Webber’s home. Nadia is waiting for me. She must have followed me. Sweat is pouring from her body and she is visibly shaking.

“Michael! The headphones, Michael, give me the fucking headphones. I need them, Michael, please let me have them.”

I completely die inside as I hand the headphones over. Everything Nadia was has been distorted beyond recognition. She snatches them from me and begins to run.

“I’ll see you tonight Michael. I’m sorry.”

Her voice trails away and she’s gone. Instinct tells me that she’s gone for good. Right there, on the footpath, I break down and cry. A few passers-by give me a wide birth and utter things amongst themselves.
Goodbye Nadia
.

My mobile phone shears through my pain and despair. I hold the phone against my ear half expecting to hear Nadia crying.

“Michael!” Mr Hayes’ voice booms instead.

“Hi sir.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I got a response, sir.”

“You’re fucking telling me you got a response! The remote data feed is off the charts! How?”

“Persistence.”

“Can you meet me in two hours at the office? I have someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“See you then, Michael, see you then.”

* * * * *

Until this day I had only seen Astenburger in photos. Now, there he was, sitting in front of me, eyes gleaming. He was a man in his late sixties with snow white hair and black rim glasses. He reminds me somewhat of Colonel Sanders.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you who this is,” says Mr. Hayes, full of pride.

“Of course not. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Astenburger.”

Astenburger leans across the table to shake my hand. He has the smooth hands I’d imagine aristocracy to have. “The pleasure is all mine Michael. You look terrible. Are you alright?”

“To be honest sir, it’s been a fairly taxing day.”

Astenburger’s shrill laughter fills the room, followed closely by the laughter of Mr. Hayes. I’ve never seen the office and I don’t even know who it belongs to. It has a blurry, maniacal edge to it, which disorients me.

“I’m sure you have, I’m sure you have. Now, Michael, I came here today to thank you personally. The readings we received from you have been triple-checked and there is no doubt regarding the certainty of the results. I believe that what you did today single-handedly validates my assertions more than any theory I can wretch forth. How on earth did you do it?”

“It was all just a big wank, sir.”

A stunned silence replaces the joviality. Mr. Hayes stares at Astenburger, searching for the correct response. Laughter fills the room once more.

“You are a scream, Michael! Seriously though, I’ll have you fill out a report detailing the events. I can essentially guarantee a hefty raise coming your way.”

* * * * *

The scene I walk away from resembles a cardboard cut-out of reality; faces frozen in rehearsed emotion. Everywhere around me there is overwhelming heat and suffocation. I make my way to the bathroom. The mirror reveals several coagulated wounds mapped across my face. Beyond these I search for that spark which makes me who I am. There is no spark to be found. I am officially empty. I hear Nadia’s voice tripping down stairs in my head, fading away into nothing. I dive after her but she’s already gone – broken and gone. I leave work, resolving to never return again.

Approaching my house I can’t quite shake the feeling a mausoleum might elicit. The sky around me is sympathetically overcast and grey. I vomit down the face of my front door where I find a note:

Michael,

Every part of me loves you. You subvert my hell and I give you nothing in return. You deserve so much more than me and I’ll never be more than I am. Please find it in your heart to hate me with everything you have. Anything less would crush me.

I’ve taken the headphones, Michael, I need them. I won’t be coming back. I can’t come back. There’s something I haven’t told you. Remember how the masturbation in the headphones never resulted in orgasm? I was proven wrong, Michael. Eventually it did. The disembodied voices came in me en masse, drowning me in their seed. I think I’m pregnant, Michael. My skull is engorged with life. I don’t know where this process will lead me but I do know that I need to be alone with the father. The father in the headphones. I can’t say what I’m about to give birth to, but I will love it with everything I can muster.

You still mean more to me than anything. Other than my child, I can’t imagine anything coming close. I’m in pain, Michael. I am in such never-ending pain and I don’t know how to cope. When you picture me, picture me leaving. You have to kill your love for me.

Love eternally,

Nadia

I skulk through the house, kicking CDs out of my path. Every room is infused with our combined BO, which reminds me instantly how far we both slipped. I have an urge to open every curtain and window to flush the place out but I can’t be bothered. Instead I begin sifting through the CDs littering the carpet, trying to find something to suit the mood. I settle on a mid 90s Funeral Doom album that I didn’t even know I still had. I contemplate emptying my bladder and maybe inducing some more vomit but I do neither. I pop open the tray in my stereo and place the CD inside. With the sticky remote gripped tightly in my hand I fall back on the couch. I hit play, close my eyes and resent her completely.

MEETING MAX

Part 1: How I met Max.

I met Max unusually. He would lurk about the barber shops that dotted the streets around the Hair District. He was bald as a snooker ball and clearly had no need to utilise the services of a barber. I was a barber enthusiast and chronicler. I was compiling an elaborate volume about local barber culture when I met Max in Dean’s Hairporium. Well, I didn’t exactly meet Max but it was the first time I noticed his presence. I was comfortably reclined while Dean himself lathered up my cheekbones with a custom made mixture. I began questioning him about contextuality within shaving perception, and the juxtaposed aesthetical versus functional dichotomy within hair design. Dean’s answer was unsatisfactory inasmuch as he didn’t answer. Eventually he relayed a story concerning the banality of the day thus far.

It was Max who knocked over the jar of combs on the adjacent bench. It was Max who interrupted the banality. Both Dean and I directed our attention toward the ruckus. There was Max, crouching in a pose of frozen fear. Before we could question him, he had leapt dramatically through the storefront window. A shower of glass ensued. With cheeks still foaming I hurried after the mysterious intruder, which proved to be an exercise in redundancy. Max was quite a speedy man. I emerged outside just in time to see him duck into an alley. Meanwhile, there stood Dean, gesticulating wildly toward the broken window. He made mention of his mother before sobbing rather powerfully. He shooed me away and flipped the sign on the front door several times, eventually deciding on ‘closed’. I made note of the event in my journal.

My journal had become a tome dedicated to the minutiae of barberal life. I drew a sketch of the shattered window as I recalled it from the safety of a local eatery. The eatery in question, ‘Peter’s Peatery’, had attracted my attention several months ago when a barber’s pole was erected by the entrance. This was a crafty way of ushering the countless barbers through the doors on their many and varied lunch hours.