Every morning he made sure to sit on the edge of his bed and sob.
Just a couple of
hacks, coughs of utter dismalness, whilst he allowed himself to
acknowledge the weight pushing his back forwards and his head into
his hands.
He growled and
hiccupped and groaned and wheezed until the self-embarassment broke
through enough for him to realise it was another morning.
A couple of hefty
breaths from the bottom of his lungs, and he was ready for the day.
Everybody had their
crosses to bear, of course. That was no comfort. Other people had
lost lovers and family and friends. Sad for them, but not helpful to
him. He supposed that
somewhere else in the universe – maybe on this planet – another
being was waking up and having a little giggle for the same reasons.
Probably someone in
his ramshackle town-that-was-a-city. Possibly someone under the
grey-blue slate skies of his neighbourhood. Maybe right now. A little
chortle at how hilarious and random life was. Mirth response. That
wasn’t a bad band name. Mirth response. Sounded like an ambulance
for superannuated clowns having heart attacks on stage.
Ah, they’d say,
but that was the way he’d’ve wanted to go, old Panucci the clown.
Surrounded by laughter. That sounded alright. That sounded like a
well-lived-life. And, of course, the great clown Panucci had a well-known and tragic joke involving mental health, didn’t he?
Yes, but actually: Fuck that guy.
No, he’d rather
put a notice around his neck – tattoo it on his face – that he
was 100 per cent certain he was a DNR case. In fact, rather than even
trying to put him in the recovery position; instead of bothering
smacking his chest about to the rhythm of the Bee Gees; and as an
alternative to someone breathing life back into his lungs –
whomever found him choking finally on life was to sit with him and to
force out a genuine belly-laugh. That’d do him and he could go out on a smile.
Lately he’d been
wondering whether his treasured morning sobs had not been about the
dead people that he missed, or the lovers with whom he’d been
star-crossed for a day, a month, a year, or a glance across a packed
train, or the state of… everyfuckingthing. That was all sad enough,
and perhaps had once been the catalyst for the two or three tears
he’d shed. But these days, he was suspicious that actually he was
crying because once again he’d woken up alive and still robust
enough to have to get the fuck on with it.
He padded naked
toward the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Black-rimmed eyes like
a shit panda. Hair greying but thankfully not balding. He could
probably do with a shave. He moved his head back and forth and blew
air into his cheeks. The trick was not to think of any of that shit.
But to consider that meant that the consideration of it was bad
enough, so he tried not to consider what the trick was. He swore at
his reflection and creaked rustily toward the shower:
1. Get in shower
2. Squirt mint gel
on feet
3. Showerhead in
hand, turn on water
4. Aim jets of
freezing water away from body
5. When it warms up
enough, aim at feet
6. Wash one foot
with the other
7. And so on
At some point during
the process, he'd forget his woes and locked into the moment. It was
water, it was lovely and warm, and to stand there underneath this
cleansing rain was a luxury. The steam clouds built up, and as they
loosened the phlegm from his misbehaving lungs they also released a
hum or a tune or a swearword or a jest or an idea.
Today the ritual
bubbled up the notion that if his skin was only made of bubble-wrap he
could sit at home all day popping himself stupid.
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