DARWINIAN // Feeding the Fish

“Y’know, me dear old nan used to say that it isn’t normative for a god to reveal itself supernaturally. And she was a nun!”

Bleary-eyed and rat-mouthed, Ezra Darwin squinted up at the ceiling, wondering why the clock radio wasn’t there.

“Which begs the question: What would you do to provide for your loved ones in the event of your untimely demise? Would you leave their fates to fate, or would you step up and take charge?”

Oh. That’s right. It wasn’t normative for clock radios to dwell on ceilings. Ezra turned his head. His cheek rolled into the soft, fresh swell of a pillow. God. That soothing coolness felt so damn good.

“Death can come a-knocking at any moment, so instead of praying for resurrectal intervention, why not hop on the blower and give Miracle Life Insurance a call? We’re true blue, and we bloody care.”

And there it was. The clock radio was a bit blurry and a bit… vertical, but well within reach. Ezra extended his arm and arced it downward, silencing said device with a decisive thwack. Goodbye annoying ad, and hello annoying new day! Ugh. It was time for his morning wee.

Ezra rolled onto his side, swung his feet to the floor, and sat up. Okay, so he wasn’t going to throw up yet. His head felt like a block of marinated wood with buzzing, nightmare insects for eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have downed that fifth Balkan last night.

He jerked to a standing position. Well, Ezra thought he was standing. He hoped he was standing. And why were the walls dancing around? Were they celebrating something? Surely it was too early in the morning for celebration? He tried not to move his head too much, and concentrated on aiming himself at the ensuite door. Once he was vaguely lined up with its somewhat sideways edges, Ezra lurched forward in one gangly, awkward motion.

It didn’t help that everything was too small in this apartment. Space was at an absolute premium, and there were boxes and other shit absolutely everywhere. Ezra hadn’t unpacked since his arrival nearly ten months ago. Time was slipping by at a rate of impossible deadlines and boozy binge sessions punctuated by episodes of extreme anxiety, and nothing had improved. There had to be a better way to make a living.

Ezra fumbled with himself. Shit. Was it just his imagination or was it getting harder to piss? Or was he simply dehydrated from the previous evening’s impressive, alcohol-fuelled train wreck? He should get his prostate checked. Prostate was remarkably like prostrate, which all of a sudden seemed like an outstanding career move. His junk still flapping from his trunks, Ezra resisted the impulse to fall back, and flopped forward onto the toilet bowl instead.

He was in the process of disgorging the contents of his stomach when he noticed the goldfish looking up at him.

Huh?!

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

DARWINIAN // Wonky Vision

So, I’m waiting at the lights for the little green man to stutter. That’ll be my signal to cross.

I’m late for the bus again, and my back is sloughing into the seat of my pants via a river of sweat. Sizzling in this heat and humidity like a piece of rump steak is no fun, and the light is searing its bad self into every cranny of my awareness so there’s nothing but blank canvas everywhere I look. Yup, I’m a squinting Mr Magoo at the Seeing Eye Olympics. On the face of the sun. Being spit roasted by Satan himself. Or I may as well be. Summer sure loves to make me its inelegant, sweaty bitch.

I can barely make out the couple in front of me. They happen, as it turns out, to be making out—I can make that much out. Oh, hang on, they’re not actually making out. They’re just holding hands, sharing adoration and kisses despite the sun’s brutal, disapproving efforts. How sweet! I can’t help but smile. Not that you’d know it was a smile. It’s more like a scrunched up, mortified towel really—one that’s been used to exfoliate Donald Trump’s junk. Well, abused more like.

We’re hearing the green man now, so we all step out onto the road. The couple are still hand-in-hand, swinging their arms in time with the endearing skip in their gaits and hearts. We’re halfway across when a horrible realisation hits me. It’s two men! Shit! TWO MEN! I immediately begin to panic. The squinting has to stop. Like. Now. What if they see my expression—the grimacey scrunch that reads nothing like a smile—and come to the conclusion that I’m hating on their public display of affection? God almighty!

I try to unsquint as much as I humanly can, only to be blinded even more. Jesus! Fuck! The pain! The light is so fucking aggressive… and, holy fuck, the tears! My face is contorting all over the place like an epileptic cow with a cattle prod up its arse. It’s a wonder I’m not staggering into oncoming traffic. Still, I’m certain there’ll somehow be blood and recriminations next.

We reach the other side, and it’s only at that point when I realise something. Not only has this couple failed to notice my wank-walk of over the top social maladjustment, they clearly wouldn’t give a damn even if they did. They’re so besotted with one another, and so at ease within themselves and their immediate surroundings that… well, so what if I existed? Hell, it’s not even remotely about me. Or about what I think, for good or ill.

I’m just lucky to have witnessed this unabashed display of affection without getting smeared up the road by a Mack Truck—you know, like red jam over toast. Gaydom’s so normal that I should be considering it a bore really, not something to be noticed and having judgements formed about. Yup, nothing to see here. Just two folks very much in love. All’s right with the world.

And that’s enough for now.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018