The day was dribbling along as it used to, glowing in sunshine and household chores and Martin weighs less. The phone rang and rang again. It seemed to do so every day now, with disturbing regularity. Especially as the caller is as annoying as fuck. Up until a year or so ago, the caller was nowhere in Martin’s life. Martin liked it that way but did not like it this way.
Martin raced to his computer to document detail of this ugly intrusion in his life.
He suddenly thought better of it. He’d reveal more than he’d ever done and that wasn’t done. Instead he made up some shit about life in the neighbourhood. It, the neighbourhood, was a fairly standard suburban affair. All as seen from the street as rampart pride, blissful ignorance and an “I don’t care” attitude to the presentation of their homes. Gardeners and builders and not at all.
One particular property had transformed from a world class drugs den, manufacturing and distribution centre to a beautifully rebuilt home with care, love, money and that rampant pride. The customers had moved on, probably still in the neighbourhood, but remaining unknown for now. The renovation bug had bit hard on some. They look like a bomb site, drug tastes and situation unclear, but have remained so for at least two years so far.
Martin walked about this neighbourhood in a set route and direction. He’d previously walked the opposite way. Randy’s story has been presented here and his health remain a topic of conversation in the building were Martin lived. Randy is not as randy as he would like to be and becoming less so. The neighbours on this torture route knew nothing about the trials and tribulations of those who stumbled by. They wouldn’t care even if they did.
Maybe if one died on their driveway, but otherwise not knowing was far easier. Martin was getting faster, less of the heavy breathing and much losing of weight. His Very Low Calories Diet (VLCD) routine was working. Indeed, he farted with much more vigour and weight as a result of this new diet. His diet was high protein, stacked with an increased intake of vegetables, more than he’d ever eaten in his life. That the daily drink of “Metamucil” created a change in consistency, may become folklore.
The issue of the body bits that are left was becoming quite a concern for Martin. He seemed to see a Doctor once a week and nothing they said, or provided, provided a cure or benefit.
Writing out the list was becoming debilitating, let alone living it:
- Left arm – shoulder
- Right ankle – foot
- Something unmentionable – down below
- Strange chest pains when lying on the left side – not heart itself but believed to be posture
It was a Sunday and it was hot. Martin wondered why he was sat (he likes to sit) at the computer tapping out nonsense for the main site alancrawford.com.au It was an addiction of sorts, broadcasting the edges of his imagination, regaling the unwary with stories of sheer nonsense. He wondered how much longer it would continue? Could he keep up with it? He sat back and remembered the juicy hamburgers he’d enjoyed in Hillsdale.
Martin turned on the self described Smart TV and sank into the often frightening world outside his neighbourhood. Some of it was real and some not, sadly it was hard to tell nowadays.
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
