ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
Accountability
God doesn’t have an imagination.
Patrick wakes up every morning, disappointed that he is still alive. For breakfast, he eats a boring bowl of cereal. Patricia, his boring wife, pours the coffee. She never smiles. The number 75 tram, scheduled at 6:54 am, is always late. Something to complain about. A conversation starter for the boring people at the tram stop. Always the same people, going to their boring jobs. They have the same conversation every morning. The football results. The inaccuracy of weather reports.
The boring tram people, constantly peer down the road to see if the tram is coming. They stand on the tracks and crouch down, to get a better view. They share glances, silently agreeing that the state of public transport in Victoria is unacceptable. They are stuck, on the side of the road, without television to distract them from the horribly dull reality of their lives.
Sometimes young hungover-types linger around eating kebabs, their faces buried in smart phones, music blasting in their ears. It never ceases to bewilder Patrick how dependant young people are on technology. He often chuckles about the i-pod generation. The boring tram people, wearing cheap suits, crouching down on the tram tracks in the early hours of the morning; the boring tram people, armed with umbrellas in the middle of summer: they agree.
Our story begins on a Tuesday, the least interesting day of the week. Patrick hates Tuesdays. There’s nothing to talk about. You can’t complain about “the Mondays”. Thursdays and Fridays are reserved for discussions pertaining to weekend plans, so that’s out. Wednesday is the middle of the week; there are an equal number of days between Wednesdays and both surrounding weekends. On Wednesdays, Patrick often points out – to co-workers – that they are “half way there”.
The alarm rings at 4:25 am. Patrick, realizing that he is still alive, curses God. Patricia hits the snooze. For five minutes, they grunt and – accidentally – shove at each other under the blankets. Curiously, over the course of their marriage, both Patrick and Patricia have become more and more prone to involuntary early morning spasms. Neither husband nor wife mention the bruises.
Showers are timed by a waterproof hourglass. Three minutes each. Patrick brushes his teeth, devoting an even amount of time to each. He spits and gargles four times, twice with water and twice with mouthwash. He tries not to look himself in the eyes.
The cereal has dried chunks of guava and mango. Since Patricia bought it as a treat, some months ago, Patrick has recommended it to seventeen people on a hundred and forty three different occasions. He talks about it as if it changed his life.
On this boring Tuesday morning, sitting at his boring kitchen table, with his boring wife, Patrick realizes that he doesn’t like the cereal. His mouth full of soggy bran and sugary freeze-dried fruit, he realizes that he has never liked it. Patricia pours him a cup of cheap instant coffee.
The tram is late. “Typical,” Tim says, squatting in the middle of the road, peering at the horizon. He looks over at Patrick, grinning. “They’re fucking hopeless, aren’t they?”
But Patrick is still thinking about the cereal; he stands up, and steps out into traffic.
*
God is sitting at his computer, masturbating. There is a knock at the front door. God tries to ignore it, but it’s no use. He has lost his erection. Irritated, he stands up, zips up, and tip-toes towards the big glass door. A blurred figure is standing on the opposite side. God squats on the carpet. Whoever it is on the other side keeps knocking. “I can see you in there,” comes a muffled voice. Fucking typical, God says to himself. Never get a minute to myself. And he opens the door.
Patrick bursts inside.
“Can I help you?” says God, closing the glass door.
“Yes,” replies the chartered accountant. “As a matter of fact, you can.”
God sighs, ushering Patrick into his study. The room is a pig-sty, piled ceiling-high with computers and fax machines. In the corner, a pigeon – sitting in a small cage – shits onto a graven slab of granite. A computer on the desk displays an image of a woman tied to a radiator, covered in candle wax. Wadded up tissues are scattered around the room.
God motions to the fax machine. “Take a seat.”
Patrick sits down, awkwardly. The fax machine rocks back and forth under his bum.
“So,” God says. “What can I do for you, Patrick?”
“I don’t like my cereal.”
A bird flies into the window. God opens it, and leans outside for a second, fishing around on the ground. “Excuse me, for a second,” he says, unhooking a message from the dead bird’s foot and throwing it back out the window. Patrick looks at the image on the computer screen. The woman, bound by leather staps, covered with melted candle wax. She looks familiar.
His seat starts to rumble. It makes a series of computerized noises. Patrick spreads his legs to make way for an incoming fax. God, tying a message to the caged pigeon, says “Can you get that for me?” The bird takes flight, God closes the window, and Patrick hands him the fax.
“Typical,” says God, reading the document. “Fucking typical.” He screws it up into a ball and throws it across the room, through a basketball hoop and into a small waste bin. “Sorry,” he returns his attention to Patrick. “What were you saying?”
“My cereal,” Patrick says. “It’s shit.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” says God, feeding a page into the fax machine between Patrick’s legs. “Maybe you should consider changing brands?”
“No. You’re missing the point.”
A ticking sound comes from a pile of instruments, on the far side of the room. God rummages through the pile, producing a telegraph machine. “Pancakes?”
“What?” Patrick says.
God, tap-tapping in Morse code, says, “I’ve never been a big fan of cereal myself.”
“No,” Patrick says. “My life is a bowl of cereal.”
God sits down at his computer, minimizing the sado-masochistic website. Another window, containing his email account, is blinking furiously. “Forty eight million. Fuck me.” He starts scrolling down the list. “I bet most of them are SPAM: charity pleas; poor mes.”
“You’re not fucking listening to me!”
“I’m sorry,” God says. “You were saying your life is a bowl of cereal?”
“You can do anything, can’t you?” Patrick says. “I mean, you could have made me a lion tamer or a skydiving fucking porn star. Right?”
“I suppose so,” God replies, doing a Google search for shaved pussy.
“Then, why am I an accountant?”
An image of a woman pops up on the screen. She is lying, spread-eagle on a bed. Her clitoris is pierced. “You know what I like on my pancakes?” God says. Patrick stares at the nude photo. A bird flies into the window. His seat starts to rumble. A phone rings.
“Blueberries,” God says. “Maple syrup, and ice cream.”
*
Patrick wakes up in the middle of the road. Tim is leaning over him. “Jesus, Pat. I thought we lost you there for a second. You okay?” Traffic is streaming past them on both sides. “That guy was a fucking maniac. He didn’t even stop to make sure you were alright.”
“Blueberries,” says Patrick.
Tim turns to the boring tram people. “Did anybody get the license plate?”
Patrick gets to his feet, says “Maple syrup,” and, starts wandering back to the tram stop.
The 6:54 arrives.
"You sure you’re okay?” says Tim.
“Ice cream,” Patrick replies, boarding the tram.
Tim sits down next to him, handing him a blue folding umbrella. “You left this back at the stop, mate. I think you should go to the hospital. Just as a precaution.”
“I hate my wife,” Patrick says.
Tim laughs. “I’m not too fond of mine either. But what are you going to do about it?”
Patrick unfolds the umbrella and extends it. “I’m going to have pancakes,” he says, spinning the rainshade between thumb and forefinger.
“I think you might have a concussion.”
“God uses a fax machine. Did you know that?”
“Nobody uses a fax machine, anymore.”
“Exactly.” Patrick exclaims, leaping to his feet and running out the door of the tram. The umbrella gets caught in the closing doors. Tim watches his friend disappear into suburbia, his face like a mad clown, parasol twisted out of shape; the event would provide him with conversation material for the rest of the year.
*
A woman is lying topless on the tattoo table; the artist leaning over her, inking Minnie Mouse on her tits. Patrick enters, a paisley neck tie wrapped around his forhead, and approaches the counter.
The tatto artist doesn’t look up. “Just a second mate,” he says.
A woman – who will later introduce herself as Sticks – pops up from behind the counter. “I like the umbrella,” she says. “You think it’s going to rain?”
“You never know,” says Patrick.
The woman on the tattoo table squeaks.
“So,” Sticks says. “What can I do for you?”
“I want some pancakes.”
“Sorry. The breakfast menu is only available till 10:00.”
The tatto artist laughs.
Patrick rips open his shirt. One of the buttons hits Sticks in the forehead. “I want them right here,” he says. “A big fucking stack of pancakes.”
*
Sticks is running her fingernails over Patrick’s swollen tattoo, when his mobile phone starts ringing.
“Hello?” he says. “I’m in bed. No, I’m not sick. I just don’t give a shit. You can take your job and shove it up your fat fucking ass.” The phone sails across the room and smashes against the wall.
“You’re crazy, you know that don’t you?” Sticks stands up and walks across the room. Her back is an unfinished canvas. A hundred tiny interconnected tattoos. She bends over to dig through a cabinet, her clit ring dangling between her legs. “You want to get high?” she says.
“Fuck yes,” Patrick says. “I’ve always wanted to.”
Sticks turns and walks back towards him. The front of her body is just skin, there are no tattoos. Her tits sway from side to side as she walks. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been stoned.”
They smoke. Patrick leans his head on her shoulder. “Why do they call you Sticks?”
“I’m a drummer.”
“You’re beautiful,” Patrick says. “God looks at you, when he masturbates.”
*
He stumbles, hungover, onto the road. A woman is crouching on the tram tracks, squinting against the rising sun. Patrick takes no notice of her. Nine Inch Nails is blasting into his eardrums. When the tram arrives, he drifts onboard and sits down, tapping his fingers against his hip.
A hand grabs him by the shoulder. Tim is sitting opposite, wearing a cheap suit and holding an umbrella. “Pat? Jesus Christ, is that you?”
Patrick slides his headphones down around his neck. “Hi Tim.”
“What the fuck happened to you? Is that a tattoo?”
Patrick looks down at his bare chest. “You like it?”
“I heard you quit, and Patricia said you guys are getting divorced?”
“You know what I like on my pancakes?” Patrick says.
A bird flies into the window of the tram, rebounding onto the pavement. It startles Tim; he watches out the window as it flutters about on the ground.
“Blueberries,” Patrick says. But it's not true. He doesn't like blueberries. He never has.
Patrick is sick of his life; sick of getting stoned; sick of listening to his girlfriend practice on her drum-kit; sick of her hundred interconnecting tattoos. Patrick is sick of pancakes; sick of the tattoo on his chest.
Silently, he curses his creator.
God doesn’t have an imagination.
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