The next afternoon, Chapter 2

Both Midge and Sam awake way past breakfast time, with a start. Sam is late for office. Midge is late for whatever that she was up to the previous night. Hurried byes later you find Sam at the bank. Sam was too late. His cushion had been taken. The daily charade had beaten him to it. His hunt was however very brief. The girl who helped him out the previous day was being a complete darling. She had helped herself to the cushion before anybody else in the office could. She handed it over even before his eyebrow could as much as quiver into a question.

No, she was not in love with him. Neither will she be smitten in the course of events. Even the thought of a predictable ménage a trois so early was not admissible. Which is why her name is being withheld. In fact, she continues to work at the very same cooperative bank till this day.

A grateful Sam perched himself at his daily place and handed out the notes and collected them until it was closing hours that afternoon. His last customer was a blind man. So Sam not only handed him the money but also asked him to wait as he closed up. He accompanied the old man back to his home.

No, it wasn’t that Sam wanted to play Samaritan. The blind man was his friend. He lived on a rather busy street adjacent to the street where Sam lived. They met at the paper stand on the kerb. The blind man sold newspapers. Magazines too. His 13-year-old nephew played the saxophone well. Sam and the old man would often sit at the porch outside the old man’s home while listening to the nephew practicing his scales. He was learning from a Brazilian who lived down the lane.

Sam didn’t understand jazz. Sam did not understand rock n roll either. Sam was not averse to music however. He listened patiently. He smiled when he liked something. Sometimes he would smile when he was listening to the blind man’s nephew too.

Blame it on endorphins. Happiness is nothing but a chemical reaction. Chocolate has the same effect as marijuana say some researchers. One man's chocolate, one dog's respiratory problem. Says research deadpan without a hint of a wink. The Animal Planet however runs chocolate commercials while warning their faithful to refrain from feeding it to their pets. It could be fatal. Is there anybody there who wants chocolates to feature a statutory warning stating that eating chocolate could cause serious harm to the heart, kidneys and central nervous system of dogs?

Well, blame it on chocolates. She’s not feeling happy because of your thoughtful gesture wrapped in silver foil. Sam knew that. So no matter how much Midge pleaded/whined/complained he would never gift her chocolates though he would sit with the blind man Joe and eat a bar of dark chocolate. And of course, smile. But that’s not taking away from the kid’s saxophone playing prowess. He was genuinely good; he could even play parts from a Wynton Marsalis album. And yes, Sam was smiling after having had his second bar of luscious dark chocolate. All by himself.

Old man Joe too smiled to himself. But that was more because of cognizance. He knew Sam had quickly supped on two bars of chocolate without even offering him one out of courtesy. Sam was possessive like a child. He smiled again at that. Blind men often have a great sense of humour. They were simply putting on an act for the world to have a moral when six of them spent an afternoon with an elephant. They knew even before they had groped twice that it was an African pachyderm that they were dealing with. Blind men are extremely observant with their fingers. But no one has ever seemed to question how those with such insightful digits would ever arrive at such an incongruous conclusion. But then that’s how it is with these sticky parables; in no time they become clichés and people mistake them to be the truth. People just don’t seem to question the veracity of clichés. They meekly submit. Clichés are the truth is itself a cliché.

Happy Sam spent a little more time with happy blind ol’ Joe and then left for home. Home was empty once again. Not even a note. Quietly the furniture in the room raged.

Rage, rage against the dying of self-esteem.

The furniture too counts for something. Even the verb was insulting. It was an affront to their individuality. Out of deference we will employ the collective pronoun them in all further reference. And referring to the home as empty with them being there was further more insulting. A massive mahogany wardrobe with gleaming brass handles and ornate corners and measuring more than six feet was tired of being perceived insignificant. It wanted to rumble its interiors but stopped out of empathy for the shirts and trousers and other accessories that are also victims of this unfair practice. Litigation was not an available option. Silence was not an acceptable one but the only available recourse.

Hush now mahogany wardrobe. Hush you navy blue blazer. Hush you chromosome underwear. Hush you little folded handkerchief. Irony. What do you offer the kerchief that wants to weep? An ode by an Urdu poet, who is just one of many to have mastered the fine (indeed) art of irony.

We lived in a neighbourhood of fire worshippers/my house was ablaze and the sea was close by.
Salaam to the poet. A salute in a language he truly understands: Urdu.

Salaam Sam as well, because that is often the greeting that poets and people use alike when they meet each other. Sam was not in the mood for a conversation however. He was, you guessed right, in the mood for another mental dual. Out came the chessboard. Out came the chessmen.

Aah!

Mortal blow to our chess indifferent audience. Head for the exit. Ruin your lungs with a smoke. Munch on something. Kill yourself with an overdose of caffeine. The frayed burgundy curtains have most certainly come down on act no. 82987746646648888884994041. A figure you’ll arrive at after you tot up all the acts including those by politicians, football players, schoolboys and girls, executives, clients, venders, call center professionals, opera singers, newspaper delivery boys, janitors, cashiers, tellers and all. Feel free to run a check and while you are at it also count the number of crows in your city. Actually just counting the number of crows would be more than enough. You could begin by looking for the black-feathered variety settled on the trees lining the lonely street to Sam’s home. Or then you could begin elsewhere.

Begin closer to where Midge is hard at work. Earning the dollar equivalent of the now redundant deutchmarks. What with Euros having finally obliterated every last pfennig of German mint from even the lexicon of the day-to-day.

Who is really concerned about those crows? Was Midge at work? She was. So much so she was already having withdrawal symptoms. Turkeying as they refer to it in slang. (Yet another bird with bird problems.) She just did not have a second to even step out for a few puffs. She was faced with an increasingly, seemingly impossible deadline. Though we all know in story land that the protagonist and even the supporting cast often achieve the incredible. She wasn’t going to refreshingly enough.

She would ask for an extension and yes, it’s still in some ways story land because at the end of that evening she would get intimation that the extension would be granted. But she doesn’t as yet know that and suffers her sincerity.

She returns home positively pooped. Aching all over her pretty body. Though Sam is too deep in slumber to even appreciate. Midge slides into bed but though she is tired can’t seem to sleep. Her mind wanders. Wander, wandering into the realm of possibilities. Marriage. A diamond ring. The precedent: predictable stuttering. Followed by the all-important haltingly delivered question. And her torturously delayed response. Oh! Even the conjecture was all so wickedly delectable. She licked her lips almost and slipped into a stupor with just the initial stirrings of a smile flitting on her lips. Into the very same beatific land that butterflies never seem to return from.

Where do all the butterflies disappear?

Actually let it lie. Another unsolvable mystery is totally OK. Nothing could be more tragic than a butterfly on its deathbed. Not even curious now. Sleep. Snore, oblivious. Sleep some more. Wake up with happier thoughts. When the dream sets the morning begins. This morning began like someone had just pushed the day out of a running train. It thudded into being. Tuesday was having a bad morning. It glared unnecessarily. Sam squirmed. Sam turned brushed against Midge’s empty blanket and then turned around again. Tuesday glared even more. The sun was merely playing messenger. Sam began to snore.

Corrigendum: Sometimes the afternoon begins when the dream sets.

Sam woke when the clock struck three. Midge had long flown the nest. Bavarian Motor Werken couldn’t be kept waiting. Work beckoned the young lady and she obediently traipsed in the direction she was bid to. Poor sincere Midge. Poor Midge. Sincere Midge. Midge. Miiiiidge. Miiiiiiiidge. Recognise Sammy’s voice? It was high pitched and whining. Tuesday smiled sadistically. Mission accomplished.

Sam did not work on Tuesdays however. Neither did Tuesday appreciate the proverbial out stuck thumb. Sam had breakfast. Alone. Sam returned to bed. The radio was tuned into a country music station. Sam flitted between attentive and non-attentive spans. Sam did not call Midge up.

Midge was waiting for Sam to call. Midge was done with her work. She had delivered. Tuesday had met with stern opposition in her and was down on the mat. But Tuesday was not ready to admit it. It got up on the count of 7. It swayed from left to right but would not throw in the towel. Midge was in for a long and bitter struggle. To make matters worse Midge bought some chocolate cake. She smiled naughtily even before she had a bite. She would take it home she decided. Things were not looking good for Tuesday.

Midge returned home to a huge hug. Tuesday shrank some more. In fact, Tuesday’s cameo role in chapter ended quite there.

Good riddance.

The rest of the evening and night was joyous for Midge and Sam. The gloom had lifted. Lethargy had fled the room. Sam was up and about. I don’t like green eggs and ham that Sam I am. He announced his awakening. Not with somber words of wisdom as awakening often seems to signal. But with good fun and abandon. Abandon me again he threatened Midge and see what I’ll do to you. He chased her all around their little home with a cushion in his hand. She ran more to participate in the play game of pursuit than because she wanted to evade the cushion. Pursue me once again dear Sam her fast beating heart seemed to say. But her exhausted lungs would not hear of any to be told. They gasped for all the intake of air. Sam caught up with her and hugged her back. Not one-all but love-all. The game had just begun.

Midge and Sam left home. Smelling good and looking as good as they possibly could. They were ugly people. She had a hunchback and he limped. She spoke with a lisp and he stuttered. And even the keyboard detests playing fellow conspirator in a fabrication of zero consequence. Confessions of an abused keyboard are the subject matter of a biography by an artist obsessed with his tools. Meet one suggest it. Edison says he became famous because other suggested their inventions to him because they were too lazy to see it to its completion. Maybe these confessions are what will make a Nobel laureate. Then this is a gift that extends all the way to Stockholm to meet the king and kiss the queen’s hand.

In the meanwhile Sam and Midge have overtaken the story. They have already reached the restaurant and were three wines down cumulatively. Midge, 3 vodkas down and Sam yet to make his mark on the scoreboard. In fact, Sam never drinks and will not unless the keyboard decides to play tricks later on. The keyboard even if it wants to, cannot play a cameo role in this exercise though now and then a fountain pen and ruled paper may, decide to join the party.

Welcome to the table of three, dear Sheaffer pen.

Enjoy the view from the window while you over drop on Sam and Midge’s conversation. The view from the window shows the sea and a nymph on the shore. She’s waving her hand to the world but no one except the Sheaffer pen can see her. And that was a side of the truth that you rarely see in the courtroom. Though I am pretty sure I read somewhere that Santa Claus stood for trial somewhere in America and the US post came to his rescue at the crucial juncture. Santa Claus acquitted.

A journalist has no justification of not paying attention to every event on a football ground when he is there to cover the event. Authors however are not compelled quite the same way. In fact a screenplay writer once wrote that she waits for the 13th Nebraska car plate number before she begins to write. Apply for a date. She has all the time.

Midge asked for the cheque. Midge paid for it with her American Express card. After all she was anticipating a payment. The counterfoil arrived and she signed on it. The bill returned with a message at the bottom, which wished her a nice day? She missed it. Midge and Sam were the last to leave the restaurant that night. Actually there was a drunkard on table no.4 who had just gone to the restroom.

The drunkard was Sam’s friend from the alcoholics anonymous. Sam ignored him ever since but Midge was far kinder. She wanted to have a word with him that evening too. Sam sulked on that account and also on the count that when he was depressed (euphemism), she only threatened to walk out on him.

Did she now? Midge was too hazy to corroborate. She leant her head on Sam’s shoulder. She would wake up with a memory of the previous evening. A crick in her neck and a lethargic feeling in the head, more commonly described as a hangover. Sam went to office the next day and there were no untoward incidents from start to end. His cushion and his height somehow were no longer the butt of attention in the bank.

Perhaps people in the bank couldn’t keep up their zest to jest when the object of their humour was only available alternate days. Perhaps.

Sam missed the attention in a strange sort of way. He missed not starting the day with a pretty girl who was not Midge handing him his cushion. Now let’s save the pretty young girl the trouble of explaining away would could possibly sound like a previous night’s amour. Especially to those who have joined in late. Sports commentators often employ that phrase, though it does sound incongruous in a novel. How many of us ever begin a book on page 53? Sounds like the headline of an advert that advocates press more than television. Flip the para.

Sam returned home to Midge. She was the form that lay motionless under the blanket. She stirred, but didn’t peek out at the world. Not even Sam.

Flip the chapter really.