It was eleven o’clock the next morning, and, despite rising to a headache he would much rather have ducked under (a reminder of death at dawn was a small price to pay for life at night, he had measured), it had turned out to be an eventful morning for Bob. More eventful than usual, at the very least. Bob had gone to Mike’s, bought some rizzla and forgotten to buy the paper, he had walked home with nary a glimpse towards the dunes, and, on his way back, he had stopped to talk to some young people who appeared to be contributing to this truancy “epidemic” that the politicians were blathering on about. When Bob had approached them, regarding the availability of something he now viewed as green and secret and escapist and lovely, they had protested their innocence, their pimpled mouths informing him quite politely that it-was-bank-holiday-don’t-you-know-sir, even though a tacit awareness floated amongst them that it was, in fact, very-much-a-Thursday-young-man. Still, they were friendly enough and they had what he wanted (it was understandable at least, he had later reflected, that their commerce had no real call to know the opening hours of the local HSBC), so he let them off.
Upon walking through the door to St. Annes-on-Sea, Bob was greeted with spectacle unusual for this time of day. There were people in the foyer. There were real living people in the foyer who were standing up and moving around and actually seemed to be, whisper it, concerned about something. None of the inmates were up yet (“inmates” - he had actually thought that; he shook the thought from his mind); it was far too early for that. Something serious must have happened, and somethings that were serious were rarely good somethings. Like an accident on the motorway that is still spitting flames, this piqued Bob’s interest, so he wandered over to a portly young man who was wearing a cheap three-piece suit, the blazer of which was already beginning to evidence the sausage roll-fuelled perspiration that had made fast work of his equally cheap white shirt, and had just finished talking into a shockingly small phone with an inordinately long aerial. Bob didn’t even know people used aerials anymore.
“What’s going on here, then?”
Sausage Roll Sweat turned to him and gave him the once-over. Bob saw those thoughts flash through his eyes, thoughts the sight of which he had become far too familiar with, so much so now that Bob was afraid he had begun to imagine that he saw it in innocent eyes; dithering useless old codger poking his nose in where it will never belong anymore.
“I’m afraid that there’s been an accident, sir.”
“What sort of accident?” Bob barked back.
At this, Sausage Roll Sweat gave him the look again, definitively so this time, vindicating Bob’s youthism, before affecting a Compassionate Look™ and asking, in a Sensitive Voice®, “Were you acquainted with a Mr. George G. Russell, sir?”
Bob’s interested waned instantly; another dull day along with another dark death. All these people bustling around the foyer signified was that George, whether he deserved it or not, was much more important to a great deal many more people than anybody else in this prison (there the thought was again; he let it linger this time) would ever be.
“Aye.”
Sausage Roll Sweat affected a newer model of the Compassionate Look™ - updates and modcons included for a small additional price - and began again, “Perhaps you’d like to sit down, sir?”
Bob looked down at the floor and shook his head. “No. I’m going to go and watch television instead”, he sighed, turned on his heels, and left the ageist official standing alone and confused on the foyer carpet, eyes and mouth wide, sweating onto the inside of his suit jacket.
*************************************************
There were five different women displayed on the television screen that the residents of the Home - Gloria, Bev, Mavis, Nessy, and Carmilla - clustered around. The women onscreen were animatedly discussing the possibility of the existence of ghosts.
“I’ve bin in a haunted house before, I ‘av.” Gloria decided to venture at the introduction of this topical debate, bringing the discussion slap-bang into the TV room. Sadly, this was lost to the other viewers, who were trying to block out any distractions to their daily afternoon viewing. Gloria surveyed the situation, realized this was so, and, reclining in her armchair, undertook a small nap. Mavis and Nessy, as if to channel out a snoring they knew to be imminent, craned their heads forward from the beige sofas, their noses awhiff with the expectations of dark mysteries’ shocking illumination. Bob’s fingers digged into the arm rest, but he carried on watching regardless, masochistic silk caressing recalcitrant venom.
“Yeah, I ‘ave too,” Bev revealed. Nessy smiled; Bev was her favourite. “I were living in one during my first marriage, and I’ve got to tell you, it were horrible. Such a bad energy.”
“It had a bad aura, I’ll venture,” Camilla ventured.
Bob looked to each of the rapt viewers in their worn slip-ons, their eyes so concentrative on something so removed from anything resembling life, and he felt a wave of sadness come over him. He pushed himself up from the sofa with his wiry arms, and walked past the television, interrupting his inmates’ view, out into the hallway.
Upon leaving the television room, he heard Nessy’s delayed complaint “You’re in the way,” which was too late and too quiet.
***************************************************
It was now dinner-time, and Bob refused to eat. They tried everything they could to make him eat short of pretending his spoon was a choo-choo train, but he wasn’t going to fall for it. Flush out of tricks, the young attendant had resorted to near-screaming, into his ear, that she would do anything if he would just eat something.
Bob pulled his napkin out of his collar and swiveled his head around to face her, standing over his chair, locking his eyes onto hers. She needn’t have shouted so loudly; he already had his hearing aid cranked up to the nines.
“I’m not eating this tripe.”
“It’s not tripe, Mr. Neff. It’s good for you; nutritious, like.”
“I don’t care if it’s nutritious, like. I’ve been served it four times this week already. It’s started to turn. I can tell.”
They didn’t like it when he talked back, he knew that, which is what made it all the more enjoyable.
“Well, then,” the attendant began, considering a new strategy, “what would you like?”
Something different, that’s what he’d like. Something new and exciting that wasn’t the nondescript gloop they forced upon him day-after-day in this stagnant reverse-Petri dish as nurses and attendants watched specimens die under a microscope of pathetic condescension. He wanted something exotic that reminded him of somewhere far, far away from this waiting room for the dead. It was true what they said, see; variety was the spice of life, and Robert Neff was fed up of dried thyme.
“Chicken Tikka Massala. I want a chicken tikka massala.”
The attendant stared down at him, wondering whether how serious she had to take this demand. Observing his obstinate expression she realized that it would be easier to at least explain why this was in fact impossible, rather than to wait until he simply forgot about it and fell asleep. This one was awkward, though; you couldn’t just fob him off. Bob stared at her as she went through these thought processes, and they shone clear as day to him through her dull eyes. They would not allow him to have a chicken tikka massala; not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He could listen to her patronizing explanation as to why not, but he knew it was simply be a smokescreen for their laziness and belief that the people here weren’t even worth a fatty, processed five-quid-takeaway. As the attendant opened her mouth to veil apathetic reasoning with goo goo baby talk, Bob stood up, and left the dining room.
He was walking away a lot more recently, he realised, as he climbed the stairs to his nook. Only way to deal with them, really.
Upon walking through the door to St. Annes-on-Sea, Bob was greeted with spectacle unusual for this time of day. There were people in the foyer. There were real living people in the foyer who were standing up and moving around and actually seemed to be, whisper it, concerned about something. None of the inmates were up yet (“inmates” - he had actually thought that; he shook the thought from his mind); it was far too early for that. Something serious must have happened, and somethings that were serious were rarely good somethings. Like an accident on the motorway that is still spitting flames, this piqued Bob’s interest, so he wandered over to a portly young man who was wearing a cheap three-piece suit, the blazer of which was already beginning to evidence the sausage roll-fuelled perspiration that had made fast work of his equally cheap white shirt, and had just finished talking into a shockingly small phone with an inordinately long aerial. Bob didn’t even know people used aerials anymore.
“What’s going on here, then?”
Sausage Roll Sweat turned to him and gave him the once-over. Bob saw those thoughts flash through his eyes, thoughts the sight of which he had become far too familiar with, so much so now that Bob was afraid he had begun to imagine that he saw it in innocent eyes; dithering useless old codger poking his nose in where it will never belong anymore.
“I’m afraid that there’s been an accident, sir.”
“What sort of accident?” Bob barked back.
At this, Sausage Roll Sweat gave him the look again, definitively so this time, vindicating Bob’s youthism, before affecting a Compassionate Look™ and asking, in a Sensitive Voice®, “Were you acquainted with a Mr. George G. Russell, sir?”
Bob’s interested waned instantly; another dull day along with another dark death. All these people bustling around the foyer signified was that George, whether he deserved it or not, was much more important to a great deal many more people than anybody else in this prison (there the thought was again; he let it linger this time) would ever be.
“Aye.”
Sausage Roll Sweat affected a newer model of the Compassionate Look™ - updates and modcons included for a small additional price - and began again, “Perhaps you’d like to sit down, sir?”
Bob looked down at the floor and shook his head. “No. I’m going to go and watch television instead”, he sighed, turned on his heels, and left the ageist official standing alone and confused on the foyer carpet, eyes and mouth wide, sweating onto the inside of his suit jacket.
*************************************************
There were five different women displayed on the television screen that the residents of the Home - Gloria, Bev, Mavis, Nessy, and Carmilla - clustered around. The women onscreen were animatedly discussing the possibility of the existence of ghosts.
“I’ve bin in a haunted house before, I ‘av.” Gloria decided to venture at the introduction of this topical debate, bringing the discussion slap-bang into the TV room. Sadly, this was lost to the other viewers, who were trying to block out any distractions to their daily afternoon viewing. Gloria surveyed the situation, realized this was so, and, reclining in her armchair, undertook a small nap. Mavis and Nessy, as if to channel out a snoring they knew to be imminent, craned their heads forward from the beige sofas, their noses awhiff with the expectations of dark mysteries’ shocking illumination. Bob’s fingers digged into the arm rest, but he carried on watching regardless, masochistic silk caressing recalcitrant venom.
“Yeah, I ‘ave too,” Bev revealed. Nessy smiled; Bev was her favourite. “I were living in one during my first marriage, and I’ve got to tell you, it were horrible. Such a bad energy.”
“It had a bad aura, I’ll venture,” Camilla ventured.
Bob looked to each of the rapt viewers in their worn slip-ons, their eyes so concentrative on something so removed from anything resembling life, and he felt a wave of sadness come over him. He pushed himself up from the sofa with his wiry arms, and walked past the television, interrupting his inmates’ view, out into the hallway.
Upon leaving the television room, he heard Nessy’s delayed complaint “You’re in the way,” which was too late and too quiet.
***************************************************
It was now dinner-time, and Bob refused to eat. They tried everything they could to make him eat short of pretending his spoon was a choo-choo train, but he wasn’t going to fall for it. Flush out of tricks, the young attendant had resorted to near-screaming, into his ear, that she would do anything if he would just eat something.
Bob pulled his napkin out of his collar and swiveled his head around to face her, standing over his chair, locking his eyes onto hers. She needn’t have shouted so loudly; he already had his hearing aid cranked up to the nines.
“I’m not eating this tripe.”
“It’s not tripe, Mr. Neff. It’s good for you; nutritious, like.”
“I don’t care if it’s nutritious, like. I’ve been served it four times this week already. It’s started to turn. I can tell.”
They didn’t like it when he talked back, he knew that, which is what made it all the more enjoyable.
“Well, then,” the attendant began, considering a new strategy, “what would you like?”
Something different, that’s what he’d like. Something new and exciting that wasn’t the nondescript gloop they forced upon him day-after-day in this stagnant reverse-Petri dish as nurses and attendants watched specimens die under a microscope of pathetic condescension. He wanted something exotic that reminded him of somewhere far, far away from this waiting room for the dead. It was true what they said, see; variety was the spice of life, and Robert Neff was fed up of dried thyme.
“Chicken Tikka Massala. I want a chicken tikka massala.”
The attendant stared down at him, wondering whether how serious she had to take this demand. Observing his obstinate expression she realized that it would be easier to at least explain why this was in fact impossible, rather than to wait until he simply forgot about it and fell asleep. This one was awkward, though; you couldn’t just fob him off. Bob stared at her as she went through these thought processes, and they shone clear as day to him through her dull eyes. They would not allow him to have a chicken tikka massala; not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He could listen to her patronizing explanation as to why not, but he knew it was simply be a smokescreen for their laziness and belief that the people here weren’t even worth a fatty, processed five-quid-takeaway. As the attendant opened her mouth to veil apathetic reasoning with goo goo baby talk, Bob stood up, and left the dining room.
He was walking away a lot more recently, he realised, as he climbed the stairs to his nook. Only way to deal with them, really.
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