~1,800 words | ~7 minute read
Written by: Benny P
Edited by: Corporate Clarke
The birds are chirping, singing their desperate songs. He doesn’t hear them yet. He’s comfy and ignorant with his duvet and dreams and wife and kids. All comfort arises from not knowing what hell is coming next.
The birds get louder, trying to seduce him with the knowledge of the morning. But he doesn’t hear them before he hears the rattle of the little aluminium phone on his bedside table. He rolls over and taps the snooze button, delays the tumbling tsunami of reality for nine more minutes. Is it worth it? The birds are laughing at him.
He’s half awake when the little aluminium phone rattles again.
Snooze!
Nine more minutes and he will feel better. This time it will definitely work. Six years and he still sets an alarm for an hour before he needs to get up. Enough leeway to press the snooze button three times
He moves at 5:48. He needs to leave the house at 6:10. He hobbles down the stairs, his knees and ankles are still pressing snooze. They’re stiff from sports injuries and graft. There’s a new pain in his back. No time to worry, just get on with it. Maybe it’ll go, maybe it’ll stay, wait and see. A day off sick is a day unpaid.
He moves quietly, gets his work clothes, packs his lunch, waits three more minutes, as long as he can. Sometimes the eldest wakes up before he leaves. But no cuddle today. He has to go now. It’s going to be another growler of a day.
He’s concentrating on the road while he listens to a podcast. One guy is saying that aliens are already here. Another says he believes the zoo hypothesis. Joe asks them if they think aliens will be taking DMT to communicate across interstellar space, or something like that. The city is quiet. It’s not a bad morning all things considered.
He wonders if he’ll see the old couple today. 7:04 every morning.
*
It’s 6:20 and the old man opens his eyes. No alarm for 25 years. He just wakes up.
He uses the bathroom. It takes a little longer. Every month he seems to need it a little more urgently and it comes out a little slower.
He takes the newspaper out of the letterbox and gets a cup of coffee. Just a spoon of instant from the five kilogram tub in the cupboard. He puts on a nice pair of trousers and a button up shirt, slips on his new Sketchers that his wife bought him for Christmas when the last pair wore out. He grabs the dog’s lead, sits back down at the kitchen table and waits for his walking companions.
He greets his wife the same way he has for as long as he can remember. “Good morning my dear, you look as beautiful as the first day I met you.”
She walks in completely dressed. Nothing fancy, just enough to look like she has tried. She has been wearing the same perfume since they met. You can only get it at one department store now. He thinks it smells like a memory of a summer meadow.
“Good morning sweetheart, I’m ready when you are,” she says.
*
“And it’s all a big scam, you will own nothing and they will tell you you’re happy. It’s on the WEF website for everyone to see…”
The podcast cuts out when he kills the ignition. The parking is too far away from site. Bossman says be on site for 7:00. He will not make it. He will get a hard time. Bossman will start the conversation with, “afternoon…” or “weren’t sure if you were coming…” or “thought we paid you from seven…”.
He knows he’s at least four minutes late when he sees the elderly couple. He smiles and waves. They smile back and say, “morning”. Their golden retriever is with them, strolling unhurriedly as always, its coat browning like autumn leaves, salty white whiskers on its face.
He thinks about his grandparents for a moment before he starts the grind of another day.
*
The old lady wakes up naturally as she has for the last 50 years. She’s in pain but she is happy to get another day — hopefully an enjoyable one, but she’ll take what she’s given. The walks were something they started in the pandemic. She is sure that they’ve given her a few more years. She finishes dressing and sprays on her perfume. She hears the muffled words of her husband. He’s talking to the dog again. This started a month ago. She has no idea what he’s saying to it.
Sometimes when she’s in pain, she wonders how it will happen. Which order? Which order would be best? Who could take the burden of living without the other two? She pushes the thought out of her head, there’s another day to enjoy.
They walk down the drive and see a milkman unloading his van. It’s a different man almost every month. They see the company name on the truck. The salesman has been to their house, telling them it’s a small business, batch process, farm to bottle, every order is personal. The deliveryman has the milk in one hand and his phone in another. Perpetually on a videocall, speaking a language they don’t understand to a family in a different time zone. The van is parked over half the curb. It hurts her leg to shuffle around it.
A man jogs past them. He’s topless, his shirt tucked into the back of his shorts. A heart monitor is strapped around his chest. He has earbuds in. The old couple smile and say, “Good morning.” The jogger looks past them.
“A bit nippy for that malarky,” says the old man to his wife. They chuckle and walk towards the park.
They stop to clean up after their dog and use another bag to pick up after someone else’s. Just past the pharmacy there is a new school being built. They never had children of their own — it just didn’t happen. There weren’t many options when they were trying.
*
He has a rough commute. Too many people do not know how to merge-in-turn. Loud words are exchanged with the driver of a cement mixer. There are swear words in a language he doesn’t understand.
He parks in his usual spot. Late again.
He jogs towards site and sees the elderly couple. They all smile, say good morning, he continues to site. Each morning has the same routine, smile and say the little greetings. Both the couple and the man look forward to the brief morning ritual.
“Nice of you to join us,” says Bossman, when he finally gets to site.
On Sunday he’s playing an online tabletop game with some friends and drinking a wheatbeer when his phone rattles on the dining room table.
It’s a text from Bossman, “Need you to go back down south to finish some snags at the last job. Two months working away. Can you get down there tomorrow?” No, he thinks. But it’s decent money so he apologises to his mates, they invent an extravagant death for his character. He packs a bag — just got to get on with it. At least he’ll be home on the weekends.
A couple of months later, he’s back at home. Back at the school job. His bank balance feels healthier. The birds aren’t chirping as loudly now, a lot of them have already migrated he guesses. His little black mirror rattles on the bedside table. Snooze. Nine more minutes of…
“Shit, I need diesel.”
When he gets to site, his usual spot is gone. He tries a few other roads, spinning the van around several times. Other commuters are smashing their horns as he blocks their rat-run for a few intolerable seconds.
It’s 7:12 as he’s locking the van door. He sees the old couple as he’s sprinting to site. They’re moving a little slower than two months ago .
He stops and asks if they’re okay. The couple smile and say they are, then ask after him. He notices their faces are not as bright as they once were. There’s a little more pain, a little more tiredness. The young man feels like there is something missing but doesn’t know what. He continues running to work, he’s got to get on with it.
“Was about to send out a search party,” says Bossman, as he enters site.
He grinds out another day.
*
The time is 6:40 and the old man wakes up naturally as he always has. He shuffles to the toilet and it takes a long time to come out, even when he sits down. It keeps stopping. He knows what that means — but none of that matters now.
He goes to the kitchen with his newspaper and drink. Two tablespoons of honey in his coffee this morning. Why not treat himself, he thinks, as he shuffles to his bedroom to get dressed. The house feels bigger now. He can’t smell the summer meadows anymore. It feels like the end of autumn. The first chill of winter. His arms hurt from digging the hole in the back garden yesterday. But you’ve just got to get on with it.
The golden retriever is laying on the bed, wheezing. It’s not allowed to sleep on the bed but last night he let it. He’s talking to the dog. Telling him what he’s about to do. Why he has to do it. The dog can’t be the last one. That wouldn’t be right.
He’s telling the dog that when he’s done, he won’t be far behind it. On the kitchen unit there are eight boxes of paracetamol. Four of them are open. The tablets have been crushed into the dog food.
It’s a tough morning in front of him but he’s just got to get on with it. The afternoon is going to be an endless summer.
*
He’s already lying awake when the phone rattles on his bedside table. He dismisses the alarm, no snooze today. The air is cold, he never noticed when the chirping stopped. He gets himself up and stretches out a little. It’s excruciating in the moment but it helps him in the day.
He looks at his wife and kids sleeping in the double-bed and kisses their head. He has the horrible feeling that he’s lost something but he can’t put his finger on it.
Must be the birds, he thinks.
END
