Broken men don’t dream

She saw the sadness in her eyes and it hurt. She turned away and kept walking toward the door. He slumped down into his arm chair, a piled mess of elbows and duffle coat. He wasn’t a fan of life anymore. Just trying to waste the days.

Doctors sketch

Doctor: I’m afraid she’s caught crazy.
Waving arm crazy.
It’s a very treatable condition.
Simply take no booze and no drugs.

Parents: I don’t think she can do that.

Doctor: Alright the other solution is no booze, more drugs.
But of the prescription kind.

Parents: She won’t like that either

Doctor : Oh. Well then here is a prescription for do whatever the hell you like.

Parents: Well that sounds quite promising. How does that work.

Doctor: Get out of my office

Lunch might be difficult

Everything I touched was ash, my face a mess with tears and dirt, hardened across my cheeks and around my mouth. This place was hell, if not before the accident it certainly was now. Except without the fire and brimstone, they got that wrong. It was endless nothing that tore your soul apart. Scorched earth lay as far as I was prepared to look. The gas station was a giant hole in the ground now. I assume the tanks went up when all this started, and along with it most of the food supplies as it housed most canned goods and dried meat products. Scavenging from the deli can only go so far, without power most of it had already turned, an oversight eco friendly hippie types missed when demanding fresh produce. Damn them all.

boutique beer

The pint thrust before me was dense and brown.
“Honey you say” Trying to fake interest with accentuation on the raised eyebrow.
“Yea matey, honey, its good aye.”
“How do they put the honey in the beer?”
“Micro brew mate, better than that production line shit I normally see you throwing down your neck.”
Smaller batches equal quality apparently
“Boutique, it’s just like cufflinks.”
I was confused, and I assume it showed.
You know
A jab in the ribs with an elbow helped to clear nothing up.
You’ll have to explain, diagrams, pie charts or slideshows may be necessary
Alright, it’s just like dressing up. Slobs wear t-shirts, Collars class that up. So those of us better than dressed up slobs have to go the cuff, you know, to show were still superior.
Just like our beer, matey.
I was relieved the y had returned to mate. I thought I was slipping down the friendship ladder.
Plebs drink local brew. Then when they’re trying to be fancy they’ll go an imported. So as you can see we have to drag ourselves up another notch, to boutique. They’ve no idea what it even means.
Yes, that makes sense, but ill put it into a flowchart when I get back to the office so I don’t get lost in the intricacies.
“So once I’ve Mastered fancy beer and cufflinks I’ll be as good as you?”
“Oh deary no, you can see I’m far superior.”
“So you’re better than me then?
Well yes of course I am. It’s blatantly obvious to all and you asking the question adds even more to the argument. It makes you seem to be stupid and oblivious.
It’s not economically pheasable that you could be better than me.
But I’m better than that guy right?
Yes, defiantly, but not everyone can tell at a glance. So drink that boutique and clamp something shiny metal on your wrist.
Oh, I’ll try I guess.

Trains cause pain

The train rushed past in a fury of noise. The cold numbed my hands and face. It had also slowed my reflexes but not my thoughts. Interacting with the world was arduous and involved. My mind whirred relentlessly. There was no stopping that.
I hadn’t heard the whistle, the ambience of train motion or the shouts of the guard. Collision was imminent until a flash of tin grabbed me from my dreams, a shiny chocolate rapper flew by my head dragged and dangled in the wind commanding my attention. My eyes followed it and my body came along for the ride turning ever so slightly now uncrossing the path of the train and myself.
The train guard so relieved by my miraculous yet unknowing escape from death he rushed at me to embrace in a kind hug. I was startled by the contact and fell backwards into the now stationary train striking my head on the stainless steel stairs.

Family servitude

My father had always assumed he was a hearty standalone type but without his wife there to prop up his illusion of self reliance his world crumbled fast. This meant he required a full time nurse and carer, but this he couldn’t bring himself to admit. He forced them to wear formal service suits and attire and be referred to as butler. He burnt out a lot of them in the first few weeks but finally one of them stayed. Whether this was through ignorance or they enjoyed the antics we didn’t ask. We didn’t even discover their actual name, it was just butler. Who they were and what they did meant the same thing to us.
And dad loved having someone to be in charge of. He missed the old days when he used to be a hands on whip cracker on the production line floor at the factory. Loud clear orders barked directly at incompetence. That had all been phased out with HR and PR legislation running amok through business. You couldn’t tell someone what’s what without three to five lawyers and representatives of different gender and cultural backgrounds standing in between to mediate. Sugar coating words so they lose all meaning. The fun had left; he had to consciously avoid all unskilled labourers and was left upstairs sulking in the boardroom. Yelling there didn’t go down well either even though the HR found no issue with overpaid executives coping a blast for pure idiocy (HR despise anyone payed more than themselves and pity anyone who earns less). The problem arose from the fact that apparently the university types, thought themselves above being belittled in front of others. Quitting was their way out and a lot of them took it. Leaving him in a position of toothless tiger. All aggression without an outlet which depressed him greatly. These butlers were now copping 15 years of pent up frustration. He had tried to bring (let-out) his frustration home but was at least weary of the fact he knew mum was fiery and wouldn’t take to well to any nonsense. He would take it slow, ease into it. The first comment in she tore strips off him, he sulked away with his plan in tatters within minutes. Shortly after the fruitless exploit while wandering the grounds, the result of being thrown out of the house after his indiscretion, he came up upon the notion that us three children were important in the scheme of things. But only if we were really successful. This was going to be his legacy and he knew how to push hard. As his life settled into a nice routine of work and family life ours was degrading to a point where the former meant the latter. Every waking moment was now one long raucous explanation of how we were failing him and ourselves.
This suited me fine, as up until now I had been rambling through life without direction or forethought. Someone else planning it for me was perfect. Freedom from thoughts, where to aim and how to get there laid out before me like numbered stepping stones
My sister was not so welcoming of the regime change turning against our father and then against herself falling into quite a self destructive pattern. Booze and drugs weren’t her fault; it was the family taking care of turning her life into a chore as far as she was concerned.()
My brother survived it by discarding every piece of personality he had ever conjured. Bland was his coping mechanism working under the theory ‘if you don’t draw attention then you can’t be noticed’. It meant a slight distancing from the rest of the world but he had never really enjoyed the company of others when he was younger anyway.

Diamond smuggling in the current times

He had become a diamond smuggler. A grand job for the Sauvé gentleman. A gesture to the himself he wasn’t dull, or an illusion to others the he was mysterious. Aparently he was a very successful smuggler. No actual proof backed that up, I think it was an assumption based on the fact that he hadn’t been killed or caught. We knew nothing else about the job, not even small details or a general outline, what countries do you even need to smuggle diamonds into these days anyway. Besides all that nonsense he did wear it well though. Thick aviator sunglasses, pencil moustache and Panama hat. A call back to the olden days of smuggling. I constantly badgered him trying to ascertain how he got into this caper but always to no response, just diversions and distractions. He has given only one skerrick of information, a tiny glimpse into a smugglers mindset released under heavy intoxication at a family affair.
“The only bad thing about being an international diamond smuggler is that having your underpants chock full of diamonds is quite uncomfortable but still even this has is upside. It leaves your crotch smelling of diamonds, and the ladies love diamonds.”
An intrigueing fact if true or if it were just a comment in jest. This lead me to wonder about what my brother was like under the cool bland veinier he had lived under for so long.

A fine collection of haircuts.

They had managed to turn a regal mansion into a cut and paste copy of inner city living. Dining rooms converted into loft style apartments, the kitchen now a free rang vegan cafe/lounge bar and the manicure lawns were just scattered with second hand record and used clothes stalls. It was surrounded by the massing collection of trend.
A harsh experience lay before me as I was walking through it all on my way to the house, my house should I reiterate. The judgement I was subjected to tore my ego apart.
I did strike up a conversation with one young lady though on my tumultuous journey. The ‘house that zippers built’ was the way I overheard they were referring to the mansion. Leaning in trying to give my two cents worth in as smartass a tone I could muster I announced “ We’ve gone well beyond zippers now. Clasps are the way of the future” I waited for ridiculed but y sarcastic ton of overzealous joy must’ve intrigued her. “Really clasps? Like big brass buckles on your pants front?”She inquired.
“Oh no, no, no, no. Tiny discreet metal tabs like the one I’m fashioning on this said pair of slacks” I explained while pointing down to my zipper less fly as if an infomercial salesman. “See these bits here just clip around these bits here, it’s a far superior pants retention system.”
Someone who I assume was a friend of hers ran over and dragged her away by the arm yelling “Nice to meet you” over her shoulder while departing. I realised that from a distance our conversation would have appeared to be me looking her up and down and pointing wildly at my crotch Very acceptable behaviour in these crowds excepts I wasn’t one of them. Their impression of me was as an outsider trying to lure one of them away to a van with candy.
I wasn’t disappointed though as the interest in the clasps had seemed genuine. And as she was a hipster it either means that this is the fashion of tomorrow or several decades old. It’s an even bet but it was promising.

The curse of witty retort

“Well this all looks in order” expresses the bank manager gleefully.
“Your mum looks in order” he responds.
“Sorry, What?” the manager responds set back by the comment.
“I mean your face is in order” immediately looking embarrassed. “Wait no I’ll get it, just give me a minute. Ah... ah... Thank you. That’s what I meant. It was right on the tip of my tongue. I hate when that happens, don’t you?
“Get out” the manager said turning back to his computer.
“Yea that’s more than reasonable. Thanks for your time.” He said standing and walking out of the office in a muted hurry.
What a terrible time for his stupid witticisms to flare up again. It had cost him his job, his relationship and now just when he was getting back on his feet he insults the bank manager who was about to help him stave off bankruptcy. He headed off down the local to drown his sorrows. He never had any wit related trouble while drunk. According to his doctors it’s the first thing to go under the influence of alcohol in many circumstances.
This solution had not worked well in daily life. A mix of recklessly drunk and obnoxiously sober had led to the downturn in home and work life. No happy medium was ever struck, just seesawing from one to the other.
He edged gingerly up to the bar and nervously asked for 2 beers. This was going well. Down these beers and he’d be right. A rush of alcohol through the veins would flush the wit out.
“Midi or schooner glasses love?” the barmaid acquired chirpily.
“Your mum’s your dad.” Darn it “I meant schooners,” He handed over the correct change in coin, then threw some more down a tip or apology, she could work out which. He scurried away from her angry glare to a table he found hidden away from the main bar and sunk deep into the chair. The beers didn’t stand a chance, being violently engulfed at speed. He returned back to confront the barmaid to repeat the order and this time it passes without the wit induced awkwardness from earlier but still under a blazing glare. He returned to the new found haven of his recently declared favourite table.
His sister strolled up and sat down opposite him, he stared at her drinks, one in each hand just like him, and both for personal consumption. She had come to ‘comfort’ him, but normally this mainly meant a life lecture, one that he had heard many times but he would always put up with. She meant well and she was his sister, what could he do but love her for it.
“Heard you had trouble again?” She said knowingly, he’d been the one to tell her.
“Yea, same old trouble.” He felt relieved that the words came out right. The beer was working.
She spoke quietly and softly. “You know my thinking on the problem. I know you don’t like it but it’s your only solution.”
Playing dumb wasn’t an option. But he took it anyway.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know, my Tourettes theory, people will forgive you for your outbursts if you tell them it’s Tourettes” she stated softly.
“But it’s not Tourettes, I know it and you know it.” He cried while trying not to yell.
“Does it matter if it’s not, it looks the same from outside.” She queried.
“I can’t just lie like that; I don’t want that stigma following me around”.
“What stigma, tourettes or lying? How would anyone know about either? Do you prefer the stigma of being an asshole wise mouth? Because that’s what your lugging around now.” She was upset and she wanted him to know.
“Why can’t everyone just be fine with the disease i have, if they want to i can underline it with ‘kind of like tourettes but not’. I can right it on my business cards” he snarled.
“You don’t have a business anymore.” She responded snappily with a sly smirk.
“Ouch.... harsh lady” he sunk further into his chair.
“You need a drink?” she offered, more a truce than an offer.
“That’s what she said” they shared a look, his head dropped.
“Damn it, I meant yes please” he corrected himself.
“Something strong by the sound of it” she offered.
“Yea a bucket of jack or a gun”. He said, surprising himself.
“Was that you or the wit” she said, standing and leaning on the back of her chair.
“I’m hoping wit” he puzzles.
“You worry me” she says starkly
“Yea. I know” apologies in his words.

Self medicating bonanza

“Why am I yelling? Help me stop yelling.” A gentleman yelled from the top of the stairs down to the butler.
“You’re the one driving this storm. Hopped up on cold medicine. You sir are a codral maniac” the butler replies knowingly.
“As long as I stay this side of Sudafed monster I think I’ll be able to save myself and others from any physical or emotional damage” the gentleman throws back his head with a wobbly pride.
“I doubt it, the way your medicating you brain will be a liquidy mush by lunch.” The butler responds smartly.
“Lunch! What time is it?” asks the gentleman frantically.
“9:30, but I don’t think that has too much relevance to you. You haven’t slept in 2 days.” The butler states wile nodding his head in the direction of the bedroom hopefully.
“Oh yea, I remember Wednesday. Switching from night time formula to non drowsy. Hoohoo. Momentus. Gave me heaps of energy.” He remembers the experiences of the last few days fondly.
“By night time formula are you mean the morphine you were taking. You know that won’t treat your flu.” Sweeping a pile of viles into the bin off the counter.
“It didn’t have to. I didn’t even notice I was sick. I was gloriously ill. Every second of it bliss. Made me sleepy though.” He said, visibly tiring with the thought.
“It also made you hallucinate and try to mount the dog.” The butler shouts from the laundry while emptying the trash down the garbage chute.
“Oh you can’t blame that on the morphine. It could have easily have been the fever, or I could have wanted to do it of my own accord. That’s not morphine’s fault.” The gentleman replied staunchly.
“I see.” He lingers baffled in the statement, Raised eyebrows go unnoticed.
“And what’s with the daily recommended dosage. That’s for chumps. I’ve exceeded that several times over and there’s not the slightest inkling of dying going on inside me. I think it’s made up to scare kiddies. Like the boogie man.” He claims, while pretending to stand at an imaginary podium, speaking to the crowd of 1.
Cue spontaneous fountain of spew erupting from the gentleman’s mouth.
“Looks like it’s time for new medicine. These pills aren’t working anymore. Bring me something in a blue box. Away with you now.” Tapping his walking stick twice upon the wooden floors so it echoes through the house.
“Very well sir” the butler, wanders out to the medicine cabinet, and sits down on the stool with his head in his hands staring at hundreds of boxes of pills in envy.