Reading Time: 4 minutesRoger looked at this often spruced expression displayed on the screen in front of him. He had everything handed to him on a silver platter, this could be the suggested post / story, offered to him this weekend. Maybe it should be the topic. It had been sent by a mysterious friend – teasing him about the perceived “fortunate” aspects of his life. Maybe it was a cocaine reference, but that was unlikely. The mysteriously wonderful friend hadn’t experienced drugs, other than those sold in liquid form, (normally fermented in some way) on prescription, or indeed when administered during child birth.
The friend had endured child birth a number of times and could share a range of horrible stories to younger colleagues if she so desired. The colleagues probably didn’t want to share such gruesome body opening tales. They had to look forward to their own. One young man even teetered on the edge of denying his true love – sanctioned true love. His next step would more than likely be baby production. With a range of tales of personal pain and blame of his own.
Message window
Roger looked at it again, blinking there in the Facebook message window … and pondered his own life. No children, no wish to have any or provide the genes to have any. His life had smatterings of claims of course, but no proof and no responsibility parked at his door. His life had been a little odd all round and certainly different to most.
This caused Roger to view folks around him through a coloured lens that may not have been rose coloured. It would be better described as a “disdain for most” colour. He was surrounded by buffoons and dealt with them on a regular basis. Not everyone was a buffoon of course but there were many. Roger had learnt to build a wall. life imitating art as Roger’s wall could be compared to another Roger’s wall. Roger Waters and Pink Floyd – The Wall.
Annoyed
Many people looked at Roger with wonder and annoyance. Wondering how someone could be that pompous, opinionated and arrogant. Annoyed at how he seemed to sail through events, normally without too much trouble. Sometimes the closest buffoons gave him grief but in terms of a lifetime they withered away on the edges. Like a scab who’s work is done and drops off the now healed wound. Roger had plenty of wounds some healed more than others. No real open ones. Many very deep and well locked down. Nothing was handed to him on a silver platter.
These views and less that glowing observations were more than likely offered by his closest friends. Not many people sat in that section of the bus, in fact it was normally only 1, 2 or 3 at any given time through his life. Their number and makeup depended on the location, the work, direction and time frame. Age had soured Roger into a grumpier, grey haired old bugger with even less time for fools. Oddly though he had developed a wider appreciation and passion for tolerance, sharing himself and overall generosity. He’d even let loose some nerve tingling emotional responses to the most unlikely situations.
He increasingly started crying at anything that twigged and pricked this newly acquired emotional response. Be it wondrous things like the last Monty Python stage extravaganza, various sensible Tv and even the news. Roger couldn’t come at reality Tv, cooking, building, surviving, dating or other self described “shit shows”. He couldn’t handle conservative right wing Politicians or fanatics of any kind.
Fools
His response to these blinkered fools was becoming as emotional as was his tearful reaction to other matters. Despite his once being a butcher and a big meat eater he was torn over animal cruelty, and he was very upset at the stupidity of modern man. He offered a cold icy exterior but was softer than a bee’s belly hair on the inside.
This softness was very well concealed behind a range of social skills. The true friends saw the true Roger and maybe that’s why he’d only let a few in on the sick twisted mindset of what Roger had grown into. Just what did that writing idea mean? He didn’t think that anything was handed to him on a silver platter. His own struggles, jumping into opportunities offered, so called fate and maybe some blind luck – squeezed him out and moulded his wounds into the shape he was today. Big belly, skinny legs, very hairy and strangely each of these features developed in their own way. Bigger, thinner and more luxurious.
He was pissed
Where he was, was giving him the shits. He’d fought for everything he got in one way or another. Even things he didn’t. Someone in his life at the moment, someone who’d been forced upon him was really poking at the very core of grumpy Roger. An arse wipe of the highest order. He’d brought absolutely no personality (not the kind that Roger expected at least), a unique set of awkward social skills and an alternate view on how to conduct oneself at work. Not a case of handed to him on a silver platter for that clown, it was kept well clear.
The arse wipe was very different to Roger. Many attempts at changing approach, or saying yes to anything and everything failed to lighten the mood, instigate conversation or change the oppressive blanket the arse wipe had draped over Roger.
Arse wipe did talk when approached, but only discussed work it seemed. He had apparently been chastised and hauled before the management squad. He’d been on the receiving end of some personal objections in his previous location, so maybe this was the way to handle it. Have no interaction at all. Roger liked interaction.
The silver platter
Roger thought of the handed to him on a silver platter idea again. How could anyone think that he’d absorbed good fortune, rather than actively increasing it. To be more accurate, he was enduring a level of fortune that could always be improved upon. Roger always wanted more. More life, more music, more films Tv, sex and laughs. Like a lot of people he was less than satisfied with the amount he had. A fair slab of the grass is greener on the other side syndrome. Roger starred at his Facebook Messenger window and wondered how he’d answer or write about the topic that was set for him. Firstly he’d have to find out what that phrase actually meant. Moreover how it might relate to him. Indeed how did his wonderful friend think that it did.
After a good nights sleep, Roger woke and started writing.
An increasingly grumpy old fart posting rants, observations and trying to write somewhat twisted short stories for adults. All rights reserved unless otherwise credited © Alan Crawford - 2024
