Post by lucafont90 on Mar 2, 2007 21:53:48 GMT -5
I haven't written in a while or so due to my failing health. A few weeks or so ago I started writing this story, which is posted below. I wanted to know what people thought of it. This might be my last work, but I dearly hope not. So, read on, my fellow writers. Read on.
The Aberrant Day of Melancholy, Mr. Munglar
Once again he awoke, screaming in a blinding sweat that stung his eyes. It was the same reoccurring nightmare that had pervaded his subconscious for months. This time, though, the nightmare was strangely different. It seemed real; a crystal clear picture of the past. The colors and the sounds erupted in his mind as if it were reality instead of a nocturnal sleep.
When he realized that he was still screaming, Joseph Munglar let out a final yelp of terror and surprise. Cutting off the scream, he felt the familiar burning sensation spread through his chest and slither through his esophagus up to his throat. It was the burning feeling of hard liquor rushing down the throat as it plummeted to the deep green sea like stomach.
He forced himself to bite down on his lip to dull the pain while a shaking sensation overtook him as sweat poured down his muscular body. The sheets beneath his soiled buttocks were soaked to the brim, as though he had wet himself during the fit of his nightmare. None of it was new to him, though. He had felt and knew the feeling quite well since she had died; his love.
“Don’t think of it any longer, you fool,” Joseph yawned as the pain slowly dissipated into a dull burn. “It happened years ago and you can’t change it. No good can come of it. She’s dead and gone.”
He rubbed his neck. His hands shook as he did so, but he didn’t seem to care. All he cared about was sleeping away the nightmare that he had almost every night. After an hour of tossing and turning, he drifted into a restless sleep that engulfed his subconscious with iron fists.
* * *
The familiar distant ring of the apartment’s doorbell erupted in the darkness. Staggering to the dense wood door of his tomb like apartment, he unlatched the lock. As if in a deep dream, he pushed the door open to reveal a blurry image of a short man in a billowing crimson cloak. The miniature man’s pig like nose, bead like eyes, and string like mouth looked upon Joseph with a deep loathing that suggested a vile temperament hiding within like a locked sepulcher waiting to be set free so it may take it’s vengeance.
“Yes?” Joseph mumbled, rubbing his sand crusted eyes. “What do you want?”
“You are being evicted, Munglar!” the short man put out as a putrid hiccup jumped forth from his gaping mouth.
“Why?” Joseph questioned his belligerent landlord, Mr. Hue. “I paid rent through next month, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Mr. Hue squealed like a North Puritan Black Hog .
“Then what’s the problem?” Joseph catechized.
“The check you made out to me bounced, you fool,” Mr. Hue muttered, angered by the though of not being paid rent. “You have to go.”
“Will you take another check?” Joseph asked apologetically. “I assure you that it will go through the bank just as smoothly as I run my hand through the air.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Mr. Hue hissed, his mouth turning into a piece of black licorice. “You know how things are these days. You can’t trust anybody.”
“Trust me this once,” Joseph implored, trying to persuade his landlord to let him write another check, which he knew would bounce again since he didn’t have enough money in the bank. “Please, trust me. I give you my word that the check will go through.”
“Oh, well, all right,” Mr. Hue sighed, giving in. “But this is the last time that I take your word or anybody else’s.”
“Thank you, sir,” Joseph laughed as a sense of relief shaded itself upon his soul.
“But if this check bounces, out you go.” Mr. Hue shook his finger back and forth like a clock’s gold pendulum. “Do you understand me?”
Walking back into his apartment, Joseph retrieved his checkbook and a fountain pen. Flourishing the check with a signature, he handed it to his landlord, nodded arrogantly, and slammed the door. Taking great strides to his grimy cream tiled bathroom, he let out a pleasurable sigh of relief. A heavy burden had lifted itself from his soul; for at least a few hours. Time for work, Joseph smiled as the thought struck his subconscious.
Smearing shaving cream unevenly across his stubbly face, Joseph fetched his gleaming sharp razor from the medicine cabinet and proceeded in shaving off all the unwanted stubble that had grown on his pale face over night. When finished shaving, he slicked back his hair with the fat from the belly of the Butter Beatle. It smelled revolting with a slight hint of rosemary, which only worsened the smell quite a bit. Once finished, he brushed his glossy yellow teeth, washed his rough pimply face, showered his soiled body, and dried himself off with a putrefied towel. It was his normal morningtide routine that rarely ever changed; a tradition that repeated itself day in and day out.
Drifting into his bedroom, Joseph sat on the edge of his box springs mattress and contemplated the days activities. First he had to travel to the college to grade papers. Following that he had to lecture a class on Joyce’s Ulysses. Then he had a meeting with the college headmaster, Headmaster James Dimsdale, an impeccable man with a sad disposition due to chronic constipation that had slowly taken over the lower quadrant of his bowels. After that he had another class that was concerned mostly with English literature written in stylized prose. Following that class he had the rest of the day to himself.
Most days went like this and seemed dully monotonous in its own right.
Laying back on the mattress, Joseph fumbled with his manhood until the intensity of his orgasm faded into oblivion. Wiping his soaked hand on the bed cover, he stood and ambled toward his opened square closet. He retrieved from within the darkness his usual gray suit complete with a wool waistcoat, white crème fresh shirt, gray tinted tie, gray soiled socks, recently polished shoes and proceeded in dressing himself for the day.
Time for some breakfast, Joseph thought as he waltzed over to his small stained ice box. Actually, it looked more like an ice cube with Polar bear waste plastered across it. Opening the creaky door of the cool box, he pulled out a glass flagon of curdled milk. The odor wafted into his nostrils as if it were the welcomed smell of a baking pie, but instead of making Joseph feel hungry, it made him want to gag. The putrid odor of rotted meat wafted out into the atmosphere and mixed with the milk‘s. Gagging, he threw the flagon of milk back in the ice box, slammed its door shut, and cursed to the malodorous odor that hung in the air.
“Damn,” Joseph cursed, every word like snake venom. “Looks like I’m not eating breakfast this morning.”
Looking at the pocket watch that resided in his waistcoat, Joseph fetched his briefcase full of un-graded book reports, marched out the door of his apartment, locked it with a rusty key, and sauntered out to the gray pavement of the city sidewalk. Calling out for a cab, he coughed up a great wad of bubbly saliva and spat it down upon the remnants of cigarette.
A nearby cab pulled up to the curb, motioned for Joseph to get in, and patiently waited. The driver was a young man who had not fully grown into his beard and complexion. He was dressed in a purple uniform that looked specially made. The car blew forth hot steam as Joseph got comfortable in the back seat of vehicle.
“Ready, my good fellow?” the young man’s rough and raspy voice cried out.
“Ready when you are,” Joseph replied. “And could you hurry up. I am late as it is.”
“Of course, sir,” the young man coughed. “Where can I take you?”
“Chaucer City College,” Joseph answered, closing his eyes so he could enjoy the ride to work.
“Right away, sir,” the young man growled, not meaning to sound agitated. Pulling on the gear shift, the young man pressed his foot down upon the gas pedal while the tires of the cab rumbled from beneath the dirtied gravel as it tracked farther and farther toward the city college.
* * *
Minutes later the cab came to an abrupt stop. Joseph opened his eyes, pulled out a wad of monetary bills, and removed himself from the vehicle. “How much?” Joseph fumbled with the bills as the young man replied, “Five dollars, sir.” He removed five bills from the wad and gave it to the young man.
Turning on his heel, Joseph walked up the rocky path that led to his one room classroom. The campus of the college was spread out about Chaucer at seemingly odd locations. One building could be a mile away from the other or one building could be fifty miles away from the other. The college seemed to be in an utterable mess. The college board did it this way for no rightful reason at all. They claimed that it would sort out things. Well, it did nothing of the sort.
* * *
Setting his briefcase upon his creaky wood desk, Joseph pulled out a tiny key. He slid it into a slot on the top of the case and unlocked it. Pressing a square button, the case flew open to reveal a stack of crumpled un-graded papers. I have to grade these papers before I’m fired for not giving grades, Joseph thought to himself and sighed.
Just as he finished grading a particularly thick book report on Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, the dean of Chaucher City College, Master Arthur Genslow, stumbled into the classroom, an envelope enclosed in his clenched hand and a devious smile forming on his face. “Master Genslow,” Joseph muttered, despising the dean more than the Capulet’s did the Montague’s. “So good to see you.”
“And the same to you, Professor,” Master Genslow murmured in a high vehement voice.
“Can I help you?” Joseph got right to the point as he wrote a brightly crimson red note onto a book report that dealt with Dante‘s Inferno, an intimate look at Hades by the famed Florentine poet.
“I am so sorry to bring you such saddening news.” Master Genslow handed the crumbled envelope to Joseph.
Tearing the thin paper envelope open, Joseph pulled out a folded piece of thin paper.
Unfolding it, he read.
Astonished, he looked up.
His lips quivered slightly as he stuttered, “I’-m-m f-fired?”
* * *
“We are eliminating the literature department,” Master Genslow’s serpentine voice spat its venomous words from within the darkening cave of his mouth. “The college board thinks that the department is an nuisance to society and our students. We said to ourselves, ‘When will the students need such frivolous knowledge of meaningless novels and poems that do nothing for society or mankind itself?”
“Eliminate the literature department?” Joseph choked on his words. “Why would the board even think of doing that? The students at this college need literature as much as they need algebra.”
“Oh,” Master Genslow sighed. “No need to worry about algebra. The board is eliminating that next month.”
“This is unbelievable,” Joseph growled as though he were a monster instead of a respectable professor. “What is this college coming to?”
“Beg pardon?” the voluptuous dean belched, pulling a miniature tin box from within his school robes. He opened it to reveal white powder. He held it out to Joseph and said, “I find it helps when one is in distress.”
“Why would I need it? I’m not in distress.” Joseph refused the white powder.
“Well, you were just fired,” Master Genslow barked madly. “I only thought that it would help. Sorry that I even offered it to you.”
“Nothing can help me now,” Joseph said, choking on a large wad of acidic spit.
“Please except our condolences, Munglar,” Master Genslow replied unsympathetically. “It had to be done, good man.”
“I understand,” Joseph said as he threw his un-graded papers into a whicker waste basket.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Master Genslow remembered, pulling a folded paper from within his school robes. “Your final paycheck from the college. It should tide you over till you get a new job.
“If I get a new job,” Joseph replied, very pessimistically as though he were in a dream.
“Well, farewell, old chap,” Master Genslow shook his former employee’s unblemished hand and left the room without even another word.
Joseph stood alone in his classroom and alone in life. He had no job now. Barely any money in the bank. No family whatsoever. And no food. His life was changed in a matter of moments by a dean who cared nothing for the art of literature and algebra.
Slamming his briefcase shut, Joseph folded his paycheck in half and slid it into his waist coat pocket. He left his old classroom, walked down the rocky path to the gray cement sidewalk, and hailed down a cab. One pulled up. A particularly fierce looking man with a great grin about a mile wide was the driver. Intimidated, Joseph got in and cried out to the man in precise enunciation, “Take me to forty-one, forty-one, South Thackeray Way.”
“Right away, sir,” the fierce man spoke roughly, pulling on a the gear shift as his foot throbbed against the pedal.
* * *
The cab came to a slow stop in front of Joseph’s tall gray apartment building. “How much?” Joseph questioned the fierce man.
“Six dollars, sir,” the man replied.
Joseph pulled out a wad of bills and detracted six dollar bills. Taking the money, the fierce man mumbled something under his breath and pushed his foot down onto the gas pedal. The cab quickly rumbled down the street as the man’s laugh slowly faded away.
Joseph shrugged and walked up to his apartment, unlocked the door, pushed it open, and was accosted by the Chinese Mr. Hue.
“Munglar, the check bounced again,” Mr. Hue fumed as though he were on fire, a bit of saliva forming in the corner of his mouth like a mad dog. “I went to cash the check at your bank at it bounced. What do you have to say for yourself, now, Munglar?”
“I can’t help that the check bounced, sir,” Joseph whispered all dream like.
“I am throwing you out,” Mr. Hue’s thin lip quivered as he spoke, pulling an eviction notice from within his cloak. “I gave you enough chances and each time you hassled me by writing bad checks. What is the matter with you? Are you drunk?”
“No, I’m not drunk,” Joseph replied simply as he tried to slam the door to his apartment.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Mr. Hue belched.
“I was fired from my job, not that it is any business of yours.” Joseph again tried to slam the door, but Mr. Hue just put his foot in the way.
“I want you out of here, Munglar.” Mr. Hue pulled a revolver from under his billowing cloak and cocked it. Joseph’s eyes widened and he let go of the door. “Get your personals out of my building.”
Joseph packed all that he could carry into his briefcase. It wasn’t long when the greedy landlord pulled out the revolver and threatened Joseph with it. Finally leaving his apartment, Joseph was flung into the cold streets of Chaucer and an even colder new life that promised to be cursed with despair and loneliness.
He strolled the city streets until he passed a particularly dingy pub. A hopelessly crooked sign made out of cardboard read:
The Coaxing Cat
High Class Pub
Established 1905
“Should I stop,” Joseph thought aloud as a filthy old beggar screamed, “Croizy bastard! Talkin’ to hims own self!”
“Oh, shut up you old fool,” Joseph growled, walking into the pub.
The inside of the pub was dimly lit with various sizes of tables and chairs scattered about the room at odd intervals. Burley men drank ale from cracked glasses that were hazed over by bacteria and filth. Women offered themselves to sailors for a considerable price of money and horny sailors pushed those women up a rickety flight of stairs to a filthy bedroom with a creaky bed that would certainly wake even the deadest soul.
The barkeep was an old badger of a man who stood behind a large wooden bar that stretched across the back of the room. His nose was long with cream filled pimples scattered about his sly mug. Every so often he would reach down into his trousers and scratch his oily testicles while a grunt of unattainable pleasure jumped forth from his mouth.
His wife was more man than woman. A large mole stared out into the world from her left cheek. Her aura was of a prostitute who hadn’t made any money in years, which was quite true in its own right. Whenever she could get the chance, she would nibble the dried scabs that vacated the lower and upper parts of her frail lips.
After a prolonged moment of staring about the pub, Joseph went up to the bar and announced in a whispered voice, “Sir, do you have any absinthe?”
“You know as well as I do, sir. Blimey, where ‘ave you been?” The barkeep shot a look at Joseph. “This bloody bloke asking me if I ‘ave absinthe!”
“What are you talking about?” Joseph sputtered.
“Talking about? This gent asks me what I am talking about? Are you as ignorant as that man whore in the back?” The barkeep glared around the room with his shiny eyes.
“Ignorant porker,” the barkeep’s wife belched as she drank a tankard of ale from a doorway that presumably led to a back room where the barkeep and the wife most likely would make dirty love later that evening.
“I am not ignorant,” the man whore in the back barked. “I just don’t choose to show my intelligence to the world.”
“That’s a lie within a lie,” the barkeep intoned as he graphically flashed an obscene gesture that disappeared just as fast as it came.
“I don’t care about that man-whore in the back, even if he is intelligent, which I highly doubt,” Joseph bellowed with an underlying of contempt in his tone of voice. “Do you or do you not have absinthe?”
“I do,” the barkeep replied, his manner all business now. “It’ll cost ya a pretty penny though.”
“How much?” Joseph questioned the bohemian barkeep with a sneer. “Never mind how much, actually. Just give me a bottle.”
“Foine, it’s your money, sir.” The barkeep reached under the bar and brought out from under it a bottle of neon-green colored liquid; absinthe. “You kna’ it’s illegal, don’t cha?”
“Sure.” Joseph stared into the bottle with curiosity. A dark green skinned fairy in a tuxedo was printed upon the bottle’s ruffled label.
“If the police catch ya with it, don‘t tell um that ya got it from ‘ere,” the barkeep purred, an undertone of deception present. “Anyway, that’ll be fifty bucks.”
“For this small bottle?” Joseph felt ripped off.
“Yrrr lucky yrr gettin’ it for fifty bucks!” The barkeep crossed his arms with determination.
“Fine, I’ll pay even though it is far to expensive for this small bottle.”
“Ya know ‘ow ya drink, don’ ya?” The barkeep growled.
“Yes,” Joseph pursed his lips with clenched teeth.
When he finished paying, he languidly asked for a reservoir glass. The barkeep slammed the glass onto the table and went to fetch an absinthe spoon, sugar cube, and ice water. He returned and hastily handed Joseph the supplie. Murmurming about filth, the barkeep left and never returned.
Pouring a fairly large amount of the green liquid, that would turn his brain ultimately to mush, into the reservoir glass, Joseph prepared the drink and and zealously drank. The taste of wormwood spread through his tongue.
An aberrant feeling of delirium overpowered his body as he stumbled out to the wide sidewalk. The world around him twirled in motions that were described only in neon bibles. Regaining his balance, Joseph made his way to an alley that looked comfortable for the night.
He listlessly dumped his belongings on a arid spot of cement. The atmosphere was shady and ominous but it would do for the night. Draining the remaining amount of absinthe from the small glistening bottle, Joseph slowly fell head on into a incoherent state of unconsciousness.
* * *
“Push!” the nurse urged sternly as a shrill scream rang in the hospital room’s bland atmosphere. “Madeleine, push!” She pushed but cried out in pain. Her face was a bright red that was reminiscent of a plum. Her lips were small with a thin crease in between in the middle. Her hair looked blonde with black streaks of highlights in segments. “Push!” the nurse intoned with more force in her rough and raspy voice.
Madeleine screamed as the baby slowly began its journey. “Push, sweetheart,” Joseph crooned softly into her ear. “Push!”
She screamed. She pushed. She cried.
The infant slowly traveled from the uterus, through the cervix and finally reached the birth canal, while Madeleine pushed as she felt excruciating pain. “I can see the baby crowning,” the shrewd nurse exclaimed with excitement. “All right, Madeleine. It’s almost over. Almost over, hun. I just need you to push a few more times.
“All...right,” she stammered with frustration, horrific pain running through her body in light speed.
“We’re almost there,” the nurse rumbled. “One...two...three! Push!”
Madeleine pushed laboriously as the small bloodied infant left the slick birth canal. A small and meek curdling scream rang out into the air as the nurse heaved the new born baby into the air as if it were the holy chalice of God.
“Congratulations!” the nurse proclaimed. “It’s a girl!”
The nurse dried the small infant off as Madeleine cried out in pain as one last breath left her body.
“Maddie?” Joseph looked down at her soft round face as small beads of sweat rolled down her face. “Maddie? Sweetheart?”
She just stared into the dark abyss known as death.
The long monotonous monotone of the heart rate machine cleared his senses as he looked down as Madeleine’s lifeless body. The nurse held the baby in her arms. It too was lifeless. Death had taken both mother and daughter.
“What’s happening?” Joseph roared, looking down at Madeleine. “Maddie? Honey? Can you hear me? Maddie? Maddie?”
The nurse sat the baby into a small plastic rectangular crib as she ran to a phone. “Get emergency down to room six-six-six, immediately!”
Frantically, Joseph looked into Madeleine’s soft blue eyes, then took her head in his hands. Her blonde hair flowed effortlessly down over his hands as he gave her a gentle kiss on her plump lifeless lips. He stepped back as a large group of medics rushed into the room with metallic instruments. Joseph could see a few nurse working on the lifeless body of his deceased daughter as he was pushed out of the room and into a long hall that seemed to go on and on.
It seemed like an eternity before a plump charge nurse with curled locks of brown hair stepped into the hall with a thick rectangular holder that homed ruffled papers. Her face was worn with black bags under her seemingly innocent eyes. As she opened the folder, her mannerisms seemed pessimistic. She sighed and pursed her cherry red lips as her rough hands shook, the folder swaying to and fro with her.
“I am so sorry to inform of such sorrowful news, sir,” the nurse shed faux tears. “Your wife has passed. The coroner informed me that she died just after childbirth. Her small body just couldn’t take the stress. I am so sorry.”
Joseph’s already fragile soul crumbled in a matter of seconds. He fell to his knees while he sobbed uncontrollably. The blurred image of a white bag with the right dimensions of a woman’s body on a thin metallic gurney rolled past him. Not a second had passed when the small plastic rectangular crib was carried out by a particularly grave nurse in green scrubs. There was no body bag, but there was the cold lifeless body of a small baby girl.
The Aberrant Day of Melancholy, Mr. Munglar
Once again he awoke, screaming in a blinding sweat that stung his eyes. It was the same reoccurring nightmare that had pervaded his subconscious for months. This time, though, the nightmare was strangely different. It seemed real; a crystal clear picture of the past. The colors and the sounds erupted in his mind as if it were reality instead of a nocturnal sleep.
When he realized that he was still screaming, Joseph Munglar let out a final yelp of terror and surprise. Cutting off the scream, he felt the familiar burning sensation spread through his chest and slither through his esophagus up to his throat. It was the burning feeling of hard liquor rushing down the throat as it plummeted to the deep green sea like stomach.
He forced himself to bite down on his lip to dull the pain while a shaking sensation overtook him as sweat poured down his muscular body. The sheets beneath his soiled buttocks were soaked to the brim, as though he had wet himself during the fit of his nightmare. None of it was new to him, though. He had felt and knew the feeling quite well since she had died; his love.
“Don’t think of it any longer, you fool,” Joseph yawned as the pain slowly dissipated into a dull burn. “It happened years ago and you can’t change it. No good can come of it. She’s dead and gone.”
He rubbed his neck. His hands shook as he did so, but he didn’t seem to care. All he cared about was sleeping away the nightmare that he had almost every night. After an hour of tossing and turning, he drifted into a restless sleep that engulfed his subconscious with iron fists.
* * *
The familiar distant ring of the apartment’s doorbell erupted in the darkness. Staggering to the dense wood door of his tomb like apartment, he unlatched the lock. As if in a deep dream, he pushed the door open to reveal a blurry image of a short man in a billowing crimson cloak. The miniature man’s pig like nose, bead like eyes, and string like mouth looked upon Joseph with a deep loathing that suggested a vile temperament hiding within like a locked sepulcher waiting to be set free so it may take it’s vengeance.
“Yes?” Joseph mumbled, rubbing his sand crusted eyes. “What do you want?”
“You are being evicted, Munglar!” the short man put out as a putrid hiccup jumped forth from his gaping mouth.
“Why?” Joseph questioned his belligerent landlord, Mr. Hue. “I paid rent through next month, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Mr. Hue squealed like a North Puritan Black Hog .
“Then what’s the problem?” Joseph catechized.
“The check you made out to me bounced, you fool,” Mr. Hue muttered, angered by the though of not being paid rent. “You have to go.”
“Will you take another check?” Joseph asked apologetically. “I assure you that it will go through the bank just as smoothly as I run my hand through the air.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Mr. Hue hissed, his mouth turning into a piece of black licorice. “You know how things are these days. You can’t trust anybody.”
“Trust me this once,” Joseph implored, trying to persuade his landlord to let him write another check, which he knew would bounce again since he didn’t have enough money in the bank. “Please, trust me. I give you my word that the check will go through.”
“Oh, well, all right,” Mr. Hue sighed, giving in. “But this is the last time that I take your word or anybody else’s.”
“Thank you, sir,” Joseph laughed as a sense of relief shaded itself upon his soul.
“But if this check bounces, out you go.” Mr. Hue shook his finger back and forth like a clock’s gold pendulum. “Do you understand me?”
Walking back into his apartment, Joseph retrieved his checkbook and a fountain pen. Flourishing the check with a signature, he handed it to his landlord, nodded arrogantly, and slammed the door. Taking great strides to his grimy cream tiled bathroom, he let out a pleasurable sigh of relief. A heavy burden had lifted itself from his soul; for at least a few hours. Time for work, Joseph smiled as the thought struck his subconscious.
Smearing shaving cream unevenly across his stubbly face, Joseph fetched his gleaming sharp razor from the medicine cabinet and proceeded in shaving off all the unwanted stubble that had grown on his pale face over night. When finished shaving, he slicked back his hair with the fat from the belly of the Butter Beatle. It smelled revolting with a slight hint of rosemary, which only worsened the smell quite a bit. Once finished, he brushed his glossy yellow teeth, washed his rough pimply face, showered his soiled body, and dried himself off with a putrefied towel. It was his normal morningtide routine that rarely ever changed; a tradition that repeated itself day in and day out.
Drifting into his bedroom, Joseph sat on the edge of his box springs mattress and contemplated the days activities. First he had to travel to the college to grade papers. Following that he had to lecture a class on Joyce’s Ulysses. Then he had a meeting with the college headmaster, Headmaster James Dimsdale, an impeccable man with a sad disposition due to chronic constipation that had slowly taken over the lower quadrant of his bowels. After that he had another class that was concerned mostly with English literature written in stylized prose. Following that class he had the rest of the day to himself.
Most days went like this and seemed dully monotonous in its own right.
Laying back on the mattress, Joseph fumbled with his manhood until the intensity of his orgasm faded into oblivion. Wiping his soaked hand on the bed cover, he stood and ambled toward his opened square closet. He retrieved from within the darkness his usual gray suit complete with a wool waistcoat, white crème fresh shirt, gray tinted tie, gray soiled socks, recently polished shoes and proceeded in dressing himself for the day.
Time for some breakfast, Joseph thought as he waltzed over to his small stained ice box. Actually, it looked more like an ice cube with Polar bear waste plastered across it. Opening the creaky door of the cool box, he pulled out a glass flagon of curdled milk. The odor wafted into his nostrils as if it were the welcomed smell of a baking pie, but instead of making Joseph feel hungry, it made him want to gag. The putrid odor of rotted meat wafted out into the atmosphere and mixed with the milk‘s. Gagging, he threw the flagon of milk back in the ice box, slammed its door shut, and cursed to the malodorous odor that hung in the air.
“Damn,” Joseph cursed, every word like snake venom. “Looks like I’m not eating breakfast this morning.”
Looking at the pocket watch that resided in his waistcoat, Joseph fetched his briefcase full of un-graded book reports, marched out the door of his apartment, locked it with a rusty key, and sauntered out to the gray pavement of the city sidewalk. Calling out for a cab, he coughed up a great wad of bubbly saliva and spat it down upon the remnants of cigarette.
A nearby cab pulled up to the curb, motioned for Joseph to get in, and patiently waited. The driver was a young man who had not fully grown into his beard and complexion. He was dressed in a purple uniform that looked specially made. The car blew forth hot steam as Joseph got comfortable in the back seat of vehicle.
“Ready, my good fellow?” the young man’s rough and raspy voice cried out.
“Ready when you are,” Joseph replied. “And could you hurry up. I am late as it is.”
“Of course, sir,” the young man coughed. “Where can I take you?”
“Chaucer City College,” Joseph answered, closing his eyes so he could enjoy the ride to work.
“Right away, sir,” the young man growled, not meaning to sound agitated. Pulling on the gear shift, the young man pressed his foot down upon the gas pedal while the tires of the cab rumbled from beneath the dirtied gravel as it tracked farther and farther toward the city college.
* * *
Minutes later the cab came to an abrupt stop. Joseph opened his eyes, pulled out a wad of monetary bills, and removed himself from the vehicle. “How much?” Joseph fumbled with the bills as the young man replied, “Five dollars, sir.” He removed five bills from the wad and gave it to the young man.
Turning on his heel, Joseph walked up the rocky path that led to his one room classroom. The campus of the college was spread out about Chaucer at seemingly odd locations. One building could be a mile away from the other or one building could be fifty miles away from the other. The college seemed to be in an utterable mess. The college board did it this way for no rightful reason at all. They claimed that it would sort out things. Well, it did nothing of the sort.
* * *
Setting his briefcase upon his creaky wood desk, Joseph pulled out a tiny key. He slid it into a slot on the top of the case and unlocked it. Pressing a square button, the case flew open to reveal a stack of crumpled un-graded papers. I have to grade these papers before I’m fired for not giving grades, Joseph thought to himself and sighed.
Just as he finished grading a particularly thick book report on Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, the dean of Chaucher City College, Master Arthur Genslow, stumbled into the classroom, an envelope enclosed in his clenched hand and a devious smile forming on his face. “Master Genslow,” Joseph muttered, despising the dean more than the Capulet’s did the Montague’s. “So good to see you.”
“And the same to you, Professor,” Master Genslow murmured in a high vehement voice.
“Can I help you?” Joseph got right to the point as he wrote a brightly crimson red note onto a book report that dealt with Dante‘s Inferno, an intimate look at Hades by the famed Florentine poet.
“I am so sorry to bring you such saddening news.” Master Genslow handed the crumbled envelope to Joseph.
Tearing the thin paper envelope open, Joseph pulled out a folded piece of thin paper.
Unfolding it, he read.
Astonished, he looked up.
His lips quivered slightly as he stuttered, “I’-m-m f-fired?”
* * *
“We are eliminating the literature department,” Master Genslow’s serpentine voice spat its venomous words from within the darkening cave of his mouth. “The college board thinks that the department is an nuisance to society and our students. We said to ourselves, ‘When will the students need such frivolous knowledge of meaningless novels and poems that do nothing for society or mankind itself?”
“Eliminate the literature department?” Joseph choked on his words. “Why would the board even think of doing that? The students at this college need literature as much as they need algebra.”
“Oh,” Master Genslow sighed. “No need to worry about algebra. The board is eliminating that next month.”
“This is unbelievable,” Joseph growled as though he were a monster instead of a respectable professor. “What is this college coming to?”
“Beg pardon?” the voluptuous dean belched, pulling a miniature tin box from within his school robes. He opened it to reveal white powder. He held it out to Joseph and said, “I find it helps when one is in distress.”
“Why would I need it? I’m not in distress.” Joseph refused the white powder.
“Well, you were just fired,” Master Genslow barked madly. “I only thought that it would help. Sorry that I even offered it to you.”
“Nothing can help me now,” Joseph said, choking on a large wad of acidic spit.
“Please except our condolences, Munglar,” Master Genslow replied unsympathetically. “It had to be done, good man.”
“I understand,” Joseph said as he threw his un-graded papers into a whicker waste basket.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Master Genslow remembered, pulling a folded paper from within his school robes. “Your final paycheck from the college. It should tide you over till you get a new job.
“If I get a new job,” Joseph replied, very pessimistically as though he were in a dream.
“Well, farewell, old chap,” Master Genslow shook his former employee’s unblemished hand and left the room without even another word.
Joseph stood alone in his classroom and alone in life. He had no job now. Barely any money in the bank. No family whatsoever. And no food. His life was changed in a matter of moments by a dean who cared nothing for the art of literature and algebra.
Slamming his briefcase shut, Joseph folded his paycheck in half and slid it into his waist coat pocket. He left his old classroom, walked down the rocky path to the gray cement sidewalk, and hailed down a cab. One pulled up. A particularly fierce looking man with a great grin about a mile wide was the driver. Intimidated, Joseph got in and cried out to the man in precise enunciation, “Take me to forty-one, forty-one, South Thackeray Way.”
“Right away, sir,” the fierce man spoke roughly, pulling on a the gear shift as his foot throbbed against the pedal.
* * *
The cab came to a slow stop in front of Joseph’s tall gray apartment building. “How much?” Joseph questioned the fierce man.
“Six dollars, sir,” the man replied.
Joseph pulled out a wad of bills and detracted six dollar bills. Taking the money, the fierce man mumbled something under his breath and pushed his foot down onto the gas pedal. The cab quickly rumbled down the street as the man’s laugh slowly faded away.
Joseph shrugged and walked up to his apartment, unlocked the door, pushed it open, and was accosted by the Chinese Mr. Hue.
“Munglar, the check bounced again,” Mr. Hue fumed as though he were on fire, a bit of saliva forming in the corner of his mouth like a mad dog. “I went to cash the check at your bank at it bounced. What do you have to say for yourself, now, Munglar?”
“I can’t help that the check bounced, sir,” Joseph whispered all dream like.
“I am throwing you out,” Mr. Hue’s thin lip quivered as he spoke, pulling an eviction notice from within his cloak. “I gave you enough chances and each time you hassled me by writing bad checks. What is the matter with you? Are you drunk?”
“No, I’m not drunk,” Joseph replied simply as he tried to slam the door to his apartment.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Mr. Hue belched.
“I was fired from my job, not that it is any business of yours.” Joseph again tried to slam the door, but Mr. Hue just put his foot in the way.
“I want you out of here, Munglar.” Mr. Hue pulled a revolver from under his billowing cloak and cocked it. Joseph’s eyes widened and he let go of the door. “Get your personals out of my building.”
Joseph packed all that he could carry into his briefcase. It wasn’t long when the greedy landlord pulled out the revolver and threatened Joseph with it. Finally leaving his apartment, Joseph was flung into the cold streets of Chaucer and an even colder new life that promised to be cursed with despair and loneliness.
He strolled the city streets until he passed a particularly dingy pub. A hopelessly crooked sign made out of cardboard read:
The Coaxing Cat
High Class Pub
Established 1905
“Should I stop,” Joseph thought aloud as a filthy old beggar screamed, “Croizy bastard! Talkin’ to hims own self!”
“Oh, shut up you old fool,” Joseph growled, walking into the pub.
The inside of the pub was dimly lit with various sizes of tables and chairs scattered about the room at odd intervals. Burley men drank ale from cracked glasses that were hazed over by bacteria and filth. Women offered themselves to sailors for a considerable price of money and horny sailors pushed those women up a rickety flight of stairs to a filthy bedroom with a creaky bed that would certainly wake even the deadest soul.
The barkeep was an old badger of a man who stood behind a large wooden bar that stretched across the back of the room. His nose was long with cream filled pimples scattered about his sly mug. Every so often he would reach down into his trousers and scratch his oily testicles while a grunt of unattainable pleasure jumped forth from his mouth.
His wife was more man than woman. A large mole stared out into the world from her left cheek. Her aura was of a prostitute who hadn’t made any money in years, which was quite true in its own right. Whenever she could get the chance, she would nibble the dried scabs that vacated the lower and upper parts of her frail lips.
After a prolonged moment of staring about the pub, Joseph went up to the bar and announced in a whispered voice, “Sir, do you have any absinthe?”
“You know as well as I do, sir. Blimey, where ‘ave you been?” The barkeep shot a look at Joseph. “This bloody bloke asking me if I ‘ave absinthe!”
“What are you talking about?” Joseph sputtered.
“Talking about? This gent asks me what I am talking about? Are you as ignorant as that man whore in the back?” The barkeep glared around the room with his shiny eyes.
“Ignorant porker,” the barkeep’s wife belched as she drank a tankard of ale from a doorway that presumably led to a back room where the barkeep and the wife most likely would make dirty love later that evening.
“I am not ignorant,” the man whore in the back barked. “I just don’t choose to show my intelligence to the world.”
“That’s a lie within a lie,” the barkeep intoned as he graphically flashed an obscene gesture that disappeared just as fast as it came.
“I don’t care about that man-whore in the back, even if he is intelligent, which I highly doubt,” Joseph bellowed with an underlying of contempt in his tone of voice. “Do you or do you not have absinthe?”
“I do,” the barkeep replied, his manner all business now. “It’ll cost ya a pretty penny though.”
“How much?” Joseph questioned the bohemian barkeep with a sneer. “Never mind how much, actually. Just give me a bottle.”
“Foine, it’s your money, sir.” The barkeep reached under the bar and brought out from under it a bottle of neon-green colored liquid; absinthe. “You kna’ it’s illegal, don’t cha?”
“Sure.” Joseph stared into the bottle with curiosity. A dark green skinned fairy in a tuxedo was printed upon the bottle’s ruffled label.
“If the police catch ya with it, don‘t tell um that ya got it from ‘ere,” the barkeep purred, an undertone of deception present. “Anyway, that’ll be fifty bucks.”
“For this small bottle?” Joseph felt ripped off.
“Yrrr lucky yrr gettin’ it for fifty bucks!” The barkeep crossed his arms with determination.
“Fine, I’ll pay even though it is far to expensive for this small bottle.”
“Ya know ‘ow ya drink, don’ ya?” The barkeep growled.
“Yes,” Joseph pursed his lips with clenched teeth.
When he finished paying, he languidly asked for a reservoir glass. The barkeep slammed the glass onto the table and went to fetch an absinthe spoon, sugar cube, and ice water. He returned and hastily handed Joseph the supplie. Murmurming about filth, the barkeep left and never returned.
Pouring a fairly large amount of the green liquid, that would turn his brain ultimately to mush, into the reservoir glass, Joseph prepared the drink and and zealously drank. The taste of wormwood spread through his tongue.
An aberrant feeling of delirium overpowered his body as he stumbled out to the wide sidewalk. The world around him twirled in motions that were described only in neon bibles. Regaining his balance, Joseph made his way to an alley that looked comfortable for the night.
He listlessly dumped his belongings on a arid spot of cement. The atmosphere was shady and ominous but it would do for the night. Draining the remaining amount of absinthe from the small glistening bottle, Joseph slowly fell head on into a incoherent state of unconsciousness.
* * *
“Push!” the nurse urged sternly as a shrill scream rang in the hospital room’s bland atmosphere. “Madeleine, push!” She pushed but cried out in pain. Her face was a bright red that was reminiscent of a plum. Her lips were small with a thin crease in between in the middle. Her hair looked blonde with black streaks of highlights in segments. “Push!” the nurse intoned with more force in her rough and raspy voice.
Madeleine screamed as the baby slowly began its journey. “Push, sweetheart,” Joseph crooned softly into her ear. “Push!”
She screamed. She pushed. She cried.
The infant slowly traveled from the uterus, through the cervix and finally reached the birth canal, while Madeleine pushed as she felt excruciating pain. “I can see the baby crowning,” the shrewd nurse exclaimed with excitement. “All right, Madeleine. It’s almost over. Almost over, hun. I just need you to push a few more times.
“All...right,” she stammered with frustration, horrific pain running through her body in light speed.
“We’re almost there,” the nurse rumbled. “One...two...three! Push!”
Madeleine pushed laboriously as the small bloodied infant left the slick birth canal. A small and meek curdling scream rang out into the air as the nurse heaved the new born baby into the air as if it were the holy chalice of God.
“Congratulations!” the nurse proclaimed. “It’s a girl!”
The nurse dried the small infant off as Madeleine cried out in pain as one last breath left her body.
“Maddie?” Joseph looked down at her soft round face as small beads of sweat rolled down her face. “Maddie? Sweetheart?”
She just stared into the dark abyss known as death.
The long monotonous monotone of the heart rate machine cleared his senses as he looked down as Madeleine’s lifeless body. The nurse held the baby in her arms. It too was lifeless. Death had taken both mother and daughter.
“What’s happening?” Joseph roared, looking down at Madeleine. “Maddie? Honey? Can you hear me? Maddie? Maddie?”
The nurse sat the baby into a small plastic rectangular crib as she ran to a phone. “Get emergency down to room six-six-six, immediately!”
Frantically, Joseph looked into Madeleine’s soft blue eyes, then took her head in his hands. Her blonde hair flowed effortlessly down over his hands as he gave her a gentle kiss on her plump lifeless lips. He stepped back as a large group of medics rushed into the room with metallic instruments. Joseph could see a few nurse working on the lifeless body of his deceased daughter as he was pushed out of the room and into a long hall that seemed to go on and on.
It seemed like an eternity before a plump charge nurse with curled locks of brown hair stepped into the hall with a thick rectangular holder that homed ruffled papers. Her face was worn with black bags under her seemingly innocent eyes. As she opened the folder, her mannerisms seemed pessimistic. She sighed and pursed her cherry red lips as her rough hands shook, the folder swaying to and fro with her.
“I am so sorry to inform of such sorrowful news, sir,” the nurse shed faux tears. “Your wife has passed. The coroner informed me that she died just after childbirth. Her small body just couldn’t take the stress. I am so sorry.”
Joseph’s already fragile soul crumbled in a matter of seconds. He fell to his knees while he sobbed uncontrollably. The blurred image of a white bag with the right dimensions of a woman’s body on a thin metallic gurney rolled past him. Not a second had passed when the small plastic rectangular crib was carried out by a particularly grave nurse in green scrubs. There was no body bag, but there was the cold lifeless body of a small baby girl.