Exhausted being myself, I slept like a sated lover, deeply and dreamless. My bed of troubles hardened against me only at daybreak. The talented sun shone and rapped on my window. Night is done, dude. Sleeping done. I threw aside my sheets and sleeping doll. My right eye wouldn’t open. I jumped off the bed and slipped on my flip-flops. In the bathroom, I scrubbed my eye with warm water and a toothbrush. It opened in time. I gazed out the window over the toilet. There, in my neighbour’s backyard, two young men—wearing green-and-white striped rugby shirts—tossed a football between them. I wondered who the fuck they were.
I stubbed my toe returning to my bedroom. My curses reverberated throughout the bungalow. Life is a hollow horse, but riding it hurts. I’ve considered other ways of living, but I’ve grown accustomed to the junk mail. It reminds me that although I’ve been nudged to the margins, I’m still part of the world. If people in general shun me, I think I know why. It’s my face. It makes people uneasy. I remind them of men they know whom they dislike or fear. I use this to my advantage at times.
The fellows tossing around the football sparked my annoyance. This happens all too frequently. I can’t explain it, save to say I’ve accepted it as part of who I am. Were I not so quick-triggered, I’d be a different person, one I’d probably dislike. But I thought that with everyone around me embracing and celebrating their uniqueness and individuality, why couldn’t I do the same for my demeanour and temperament, for my genetic predisposition?
Thus I stepped out to my backyard, wielding a red ceramic mug brimming with black coffee. Coffee steam rose aromatically as I crossed my lawn and watched the lads tossing the football ball. In their early twenties, they bore the earmarks of youthful vitality and hauteur, indispensable for the continuation of the species. I approached the wooden fence and stood there sipping my coffee. One of the lads turned and glanced at me but made no gesture of salute. He looked at his friend and offered a quip that prompted chuckles. What’s so funny? I said. They said nothing and continued throwing the ball back and forth. I asked them who they were. Again they ignored me.
I wondered if they were relatives—nephews perhaps—of my childless neighbour Sheldon. I knew he had a brother. Perhaps these were his sons. Are you Sheldon’s nephews? I asked. Again, they were unresponsive. And while they shared a resemblance from afar—similarly clad and clearly of the same genera—upon closer examination, the resemblance proved superficial. For instance, the one with his back to me had reddish hair while his mate’s was jet black. Also, the latter had a weak chin in contrast to the redhead, whose face reminded me of a Jeep.
If you’re his nephews, I said, I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Sam, friends call me Sammy, as does your uncle. The guys continued playing catch as if I’d said nothing. I didn’t want to shout. Perhaps they were just rude. A commonplace these days, rudeness. I wondered if they were actually intruders, break-and-enter guys, squatters, arsonists, or even terrorists. But why’d they be tossing a football?
It was a lovely day. Bluest of skies, nary a cloud, and a light breeze scented like a minty air freshener. Made one feel good to be alive. I sipped my delicious coffee—I’d outdone myself with the French press that morning. Sometimes you just nail a thing. I wouldn’t let these indifferent young men interfere with my felicity. Just as I sank into the moment, the football came wobbling over the fence and knocked the mug out of my hand.
Not only did the coffee spill all over the lawn, but the mug must have struck a stone and had shattered into red and white shards. The duo now stood there staring at me, hands on hips, accusatory. I glanced at the football, lying near my cement birdbath, and walked to it. I picked it up and gripped it across the laces. Then I gave a little pump fake. Of course, it drew no reaction.
I’m never without my trusty Swiss Army knife— aka the Rambler, with ten functions, including tiny scissors and a toothpick. My Uncle Joe had given it to me when I was in university and it had served me well over the years. I fanned out the knife’s small blade and stabbed the football with it. It sank into the pigskin with surprising ease. I withdrew it and air hissed out of the puncture.
No reaction? I shouted. Nothing? The guys merely watched as the football deflated, neither changing expression. I wondered if they were just aliens who hadn’t gotten the groove of being human yet. You made me do this! I cried, holding up the flattened football. It’s your fault! I tossed the football over the fence and it thudded at their feet. They looked at it and exchanged a glance. Then they wordlessly mounted the back porch stairs, opened the screen door, and disappeared into the house.
I figured they were ratting me out to Sheldon; or, envisaging a darker scenario, had gone in to seize some variety of weapons. I wasn’t worried, though. I could deal with Sheldon; we were on good terms. As for weapons, che sera sera. I’d lived a pretty long life. Not a good one, but a reasonably long one. Nothing scared me anymore. It happens as you age. You stop giving a fuck. Indeed, after ten minutes, neither Sheldon—who was likely working at his bodyshop, given it was Tuesday—nor the possibly armed young men, emerged from the house. The deflated football lay there, abandoned, forlorn. I felt bad for it, a strange remorse. It had done nothing to deserve its fate.
