Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 86
clothes, hearing sleepy warbles echo like prayers in a cathedral. I stand in a bleak channel
between cliffs of cages, each holding a dim sort of lump whose feathers spill down like
snow. Something furry brushes my calf. All through the pipe I felt followed but that was
paranoia. Oh Christ, it wasn’t. That’s a fox, zooming up the cage fronts into the gloom.
Trespassing’s bad enough, but letting a fox into a henhouse means jailtime even if you were
extremely cold when it happened. So up I go; the cage fronts make easy but painful
toeholds. Before I rest and consider how to rescue Mr Car and Orchid Jeff, I might as well
catch a fox with my bare hands. A rattle eight feet above, a rebounding cage door... I reach it
and insert my head and, yes, there’s a fox inside, hissing because the cage is empty.
Yes! And then:
Not good.
I can’t remove my head. It went in like nothing, now my ears are trapped. The fox
hisses and claws my nose; I scrabble, kicking lower cages and triggering a gothic choir of
panic. Cornered and now deafened, the fox mauls my face in earnest; I scream, causing
chicken bedlam. The fox resumes the onslaught till I scream again, this time because my
toes have slipped and I’m hanging by the ears. The fox cringes back from the noise.
Up close, its snout is crossed with deep scars. In its eyes is a frank, unhappy need
which reminds me of someone I never think about, or try every minute not to.
From her loose hair and raw skin I suspected she might have wanted free
drugs/compensation. Nurses were trained to look out for it. Her symptoms were
unprovable; I gave her an embellished prescription and, feeling good, moved on. An hour
later I was called to the head doctor’s office to answer the allegation that I had performed a
rectal exam for my own perverse gratification. “Are you sure?” he asked three times. Of
course sure. I was extremely married to the eighth wonder of the world.
It spiralled; a cloud of suspicion turned to thunder; whispers became torrential. In
the canteen, colleagues edged away or fled. Still, nothing came, no follow-up, no baseless
inquiry. It didn’t matter. I was sweating through my scrubs by day and hearing voices next to
Maud at night. When at last I surrendered my employment, everyone - including those who
showed furtive sympathy - was grateful.
Go on, piece the rest together. Maud left, took Jeff, remarried in less than a year. I
kept my chids and Mr Car, my last friend.
I confess all this and more to the fox, who scrabbles at my face when I fall silent. I tell
him/her about my son Jeffrey, bright as Einstein, about Maud and Steve, tight as two peas,
about Orchid Jeffrey whose rareness guarantees a big return. And the more I talk, the hotter
my eyes get, the stiffer my throat, because I never talk about myself, not ever, and what I’m
hearing is news from outer space. Things aren’t going well. I’m not happy any of the time.
This isn’t something I can write off as funny: homeless, naked, head stuck in a cage, facing
feral claws. Lately I'm always fighting, fighting just to stay afloat, to be a punchline — why?
What universe reserves this situation for you and cares if you keep fighting? For the first
time in a long time, I make a decision about me: No more. This is where it stops. This is the
lowest I can go. Whoever you are, wherever you find yourself, whatever you’ve lost, know
this: Morning
comes.
Two guys with torches find me dangling eight feet up, nude and ranting about forgiveness.
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