And I Slept Through The Whole Number

Since any experience it’s easy to feel tense. Talk to a friend/girl, I feel anxious, start to wonder how long I’ve been gripping the arm of the chair I’m sitting in, and if the company I’m keeping has noticed. I refer to them as if they’re not here, but they are.
“How do you breathe in here?”
“What do you mean…”
“It’s too damn hot, and why are they showing this stuff on daytime TV, I’m trying to eat my lunch for fucks sake.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No you finish…”

Having lunch with this friend it’s just that it’s a memory and I’m sitting across the desk from a doctor that some people would refer to as my doctor. I can’t remember if they were a boy or girl, male or female. But I know at some point I was turned on. They were drinking beer and I had a White Russian, and had been to the bathroom twice since they arrived; in a black and white world I was simply taking drugs… I only mention this now ‘cause I didn’t tell my company at the time. I had an image of me or a girl I know, on a street corner laughing manically, clutching a bottle of wine, knees bent as if we don’t…
“Hey are you listening?”
“Are you talking to me?”

The sun has ducked behind a cloud.

“Yes I was listening, you were talking about the need for someone to be a kind of emotional translator… I think its common, but… I don’t know, I hate giving my opinion… the same as I hate talking about err… black and white drugs, is it time for another drink?” As I say these words a very pretty girl begins to clear the table next to us. “Hello could I get rum and ginger and a long island ice tea?” I feel quite out enough to comment to this waitress that I think she is ever so cute. I can’t tell if her smile is professional or genuine. But either way the drinks are coming, and at this point I excuse myself again to go to the bathroom. On my way up I notice the TV again; swear there’s a program flashing split-seconds of chest operations or hardcore porn; without glasses it’s hard to tell from the small TV in the corner of the bar. Why are they playing this shit in the middle of the afternoon?

On the way up the two flights of stairs to the toilet I wonder what she’s doing; now that she’s dead (I am to attend a funeral tomorrow), probably asleep due to the time difference.

In the cubicle I’m sat taking a piss (my legs aren’t up to scratch), when I decide I must leave immediately, no questions. Who am I to be sat here drinking and pissing when there’s mourning to be done? I go back down, have one last cigarette with the girl and please excuse me I’ve been called away, guzzling the drinks that have arrived as I’m standing up.

The sun is so hot, as I get in and start up the car the steering wheel burns to hold.

I’m nearly through the potential massacre of driving this car this car, passers by are barking voices, bawling at my back, screaming down the hill now, the car seems so light, but those dreadful voices still close behind, ringing in my ear. I can imagine what they’re saying and I’m thinking, “So get out the fucking road.”

Reaching the house, I double-fault my steps and fall over every shadow on this hot day, but nothing of it, slamming the car door behind me. Above or below my conscience run headlines on shedding it’s skin and forgetting everything about me, but I’m simply not there. I have come with remnants of tomorrow and the end of a bottle of whisky I found in the foot-well of the car. I’m glad to say the phone didn’t ring all day cause I would have had to answer it and I’m in no state for that. I bang on the door until someone answers.

The door opened by some idiot with a sloppy face who offers me a drink and I instantly feel hostile. I refuse to accept credit from these stale bread pussy crumb shysters, push past in to the house confronted by a gang of oblivious strangers. I go through the house room by room trying to find a friend who can be tough, when I disturb two people fucking. I think, “It seems rank pushing these things up inside each other,” but I can’t look away. The make shift dildo is going all the way up to the prostate, or cervix (I couldn’t be sure who’s receiving) and we know how deep that is! So… the scene we have is of he/she getting frigged up the pros-vix, my eyes are blurred behind sun glasses, now the girl’s on all fours and he’s underneath, his neck craned, the creature’s beak chattering away at her clitoris and she’s wondering if the vinegar strokes is a guilty feeling. Her face a frozen mask of cheap ecstasy. I close the door and move on to the next room. You wouldn’t have thought I had to go to a funeral tomorrow and I can’t concentrate on why I came here so I just sit down for a while…

A Girl is shaking me awake, she is beautiful and I would have been turned on if it weren’t for the panic.

“What day is it” I blurt out,
“Tuesday” she replies,
“What time is it!” I demand,
“11am” She replies.
“Shit I’m fucking late.”
“What for” She asks almost sounding concerned.
“I have to go to a funeral!”

Her face turns a shade of disgust.

I’m no harbinger of ordered disrespect, it just so happens that I have blood stains all down my shirt from a nose bleed, and generally look like shit, though feel soulfully together. She simply assumes the worst, what ever that is. A little embarrassed to be here, I hide the stains with my tie and jacket, rather creased and worn from the night before, but it is too late. She made a few final assumptions and passed over me, falling on the floor, bitch-drunk with a disapproving frown on her face.

I had been thinking about the following day for the last week or more (as if it’d been polished through premeditation, but no; that would have been crass), been wondering if it would be inappropriate to take a camera to this woman’s funeral.

Make the church just in time and usher myself in quietly at the back, holding onto anything available until I find a seat. Hard glances from all who noticed me I’m sure, not that I would know with my eyes fixed on the coffin up front. Heavy sobs scattered through out the church drown out the inept, ham-fisted religious drivel; as soon as the organ starts to groan I’m gone.

Back at the wake for food and drink, a fine spread fit for the dead. I’d managed to pick up a clean shirt, bar that it’s the same creased up old suit. It’s soiled with salt traces from when I went swimming at the beach two days ago. I don’t really know any persons here, so am sat in the corner minding a bottle of whisky. A strange situation, run on through guilt. Who knows what to say, so I keep quiet and just want to quit out on the whole proceedings and would have done if it weren’t for this girl. She looks remarkably like the deceased only a little more experienced. She’s sat across the room from me and I’m sure she’s clocked me looking. A short black skirt, so lots of leg, she has on these black, diamond patterned tights and all I can think about is her sex, imagine rolling down those tights in the bathroom and getting my fingers and face in there.

I almost feel bad thinking like this at a wake; but it can’t be helped; and in my opinion it’s a hell of a lot more disrespectful turning up here in a short skirt and those fuck me tights.

MGD Smith

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