Postcard Fiction - Spreading Yourself Thin

Yesterday was Christmas and Mr. M spent it alone. He spent it alone not because he didn’t have a choice, but because he didn’t feel the need to see anyone. He spent it alone because for Mr. M Christmas is just another day. Mr. M called his mother at exactly 5:50 in the afternoon yesterday. She’s living at the Barton, a retirement home an hour and a bit away from where he lives in the downtown core. Mr. M. is a modestly successful accountant who leads a quiet life and has unique hobbies. Visiting friends and hiding their television remotes are among them. Sick shit, really
......His mother, Lila, was happy to hear his voice and asked if he was close. She assumed he was calling from the car. He said it was snowing really hard in his area, he said he couldn’t leave the house. His mother, packed and ready to leave, sitting at the edge of her tightly made bed said, “Oh… it didn’t say anything about snow on the radio.” He lied and said it just started an hour ago, and that the hour before freezing rain was coming down. He told his mother that if she wanted he’d come and get her, adding the roads must be really slippery though. She told him not to risk it. He knew she’d say that. After all, she loved him.
After a little bit of chatting, his mother doing most of it and Mr. M throwing her an “uh-huh” and an “oh yes, yes” every once in a while, he asked her when dinner was. Looking at the clock, not needing any glasses or to squint any since her vision was remarkably clear for a seventy-five year old, Lila said, “It’s 3 minutes to 6, they should be done setting the tables, I better get going.” Mr. M told her to have a nice dinner with the girls, and then said goodbye mother. Lila wished him a Merry Christmas, Mr. M said, “You too, Mother. Talk to you soon.” He hung up without a word more.
.....Lila was only one of five tenants left at the Barton over the holidays. Two were unpleasant old men; one who liked to call the cleaning staff niggers, even though they were clearly Pakistani, and the other who pissed his bed purposely for the human contact of a sponge bath, but complained that the nurses were too rough. The other two tenants were bed ridden. Mr. M didn’t know that most of the tenants, those who were still strong enough to go home for the holidays, had left days before. Had he known would he have picked up Lila? Probably not.
.....But that was Yeterday. It’s Sunday today, Boxing Day too. Mr. M is getting ready to go for his usual jog. He jogs on Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and sometimes Fridays. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays Mr. M. does free weights. He doesn’t go to a gym for the free weights. He doesn’t like how other people smell and he likes to do his free weight training in the buff. Since today is Sunday Mr. M. is putting on his black and yellow spandex. Along with that he puts on his Nike Shox runners, his Old Navy polar-fleece pullover hoody, his white and baby blue Roots Italia toque (complete with pom-pom), and to top it off a banana down the front of his spandex. Why a banana? Well, that’s simple. A banana is large, and Mr. M is not.
.....Mr. M. does most of his jogging through Mount Pleasant Cemetary. He likes the image of himself jogging against the backdrop of others standing still mourning the loss of a loved one. He thinks it’s romantic, but only if he can’t hear the mourners cry. He dislikes the sound of crying, not because he feels pathos, of course. It’s just a personal preference. If you asked Mr. M. about how he feels about the sound of crying, he’d group it with his dislike of strawberries and riding the TTC.
.....While Mr. M is securely duct taping the banana in place he’s got the television on. There’s breaking new of a giant tidal wave killing thousands in South-East Asia. Mr. M is checking the slant of his make-shift cod piece in the mirror, making sure it’s bending to the left since having it too centered would look fake. Why to the left? Well, that’s easy. Mr. M is left handed and he believes that if a young woman were to be enticed by his package his writing down of his phone number with his left hand would put to bed any questions concerning the authenticity of his cock.
.....On the television screen are images of dead bodies laying face-up and face-down in the surf, there are orphaned children wandering the debris ridden streets, and weeping mothers. Mr. M turns from the mirror to watch and listen as a mother tells her story through a translator’s voice, I was trying to run away from the waves, I had my little boy in my arms. I was holding on to him as tight as I could, so tight that I was afraid he couldn’t breathe. But he started crying, so I knew he was okay. Then the wave hit us. I lost my grip. I couldn’t hold onto him. Then I couldn’t find him. The Sri Lankan mother starts to cry.
.....Standing there in full jogging regalia Mr. M stares at the screen for a while. Out of the corner of his eye he catches his reflection in the mirror. Turning his head to the mirror, he admires the profile of the bulge in his spandex. He grabs the banana and gives it a good firm shake. Another mother begins to tell her story as Mr. M jogs on the spot while staring into the mirror. He’s checking for gigglage and chaffing. When he’s satisfied with the fit Mr. M. shuts off the television. With backpack and keys in hand Mr. M. makes his way to the door ready for his jog. .....After an uneventful jog — no burials today — Mr. M spends 8 minutes going through cool down stretching before getting in to his pastel red Hyundai Elantra and heads for home. Puttering down the road, listening to his Bob Carlisle CD, Mr. M hums along to Butterfly Kisses. Before going home, Mr. M has to go to the bank.
.....Parking in front of CIBC branch No. 138, Mr. M squints over from his car to the instant teller inside. One person is finishing up their transaction. Mr. M. smiles a little as he watches the young man with the tidy fade and the Triple 5 Soul jacket lick the deposit envelope, seal it closed, and feed it into the machine. Mr. M readies his banking card, bank book, and backpack.…..Once inside Mr. M inserts his bank card, types in his pin number (1 2 3 4) and updates his bank book. While the machine is printing onto his bank book, Mr. M pulls the stack of deposit envelopes from the dispenser and replaces them with a stack from his bag. He’ll take the others home.
…..The machine prompts him; Would you like to make another transaction? He pushes No, his card is spit out as well as his bank book.
.....When Mr. M. gets home after his jog through Mount Pleasant and his banking, he undresses and carefully removes the duct taped banana from his inner thigh then hops into the shower for half an hour. After towelling him self off Mr. M strokes his below average size penis until it has a semblance of hardness. He then takes the wet towel and hangs it there. It falls off three times, once it’s stable Mr. M. proceeds to flex his penis. He calls these penis lifts. The reason why he does them is not for any particular health or fitness reasons, but purely for his ego’s sake. After he’s done three reps of five he jerks himself off into some toilet paper. When he’s finished Mr. M slides the mirror of the medicine cabinet to the left and takes out an empty nail polish bottle, there’s some residue in the so he fills the bottle with warm water and gives it a few good shakes. When the bottle is clean Mr. M scrapes the contents of the toilet paper into the nail polish bottle and adds a bit of tap water. He’ll do the envelopes later, and next Sunday he’ll go to the bank again.
.....When Mr. M is finished in the lavatory he heads off to the living room with duct taped banana in hand. Peeling away the duct tape from the banana then peeling the banana, Mr. M. takes a bite while watching City Pulse 24. It’s still tsunami coverage, but now the coverage is concerning donations.
.....The news segment is pieced together with footage from Halloween, spliced with images of the worst hit areas of South-East Asia. While most kids out on Halloween this past year were knocking on doors with only their own sweet tooth in mind, a tireless little fundraiser named Bilaal Rajan was thinking of others again. Many eight-year-old boys want to dress up like superheroes. Bilaal prefers to act like one, the news caster’s voice says over the images of a boy dressed up for Halloween as a UNICEF collections box. A sound bite plays of young Bilaal enthusiastically saying, “Trick or Treat for UNICEF!” then the footage shifted to images of devastated Phuket. Mr. M had finished his banana and gets up to throw out the peel.
.....When he returns the news segment is almost at a close. The reporter is offering some final thoughts while walking towards the camera, Donation of cash are being accepted at local fire houses and police stations within and outside the GTA. The public is urged to give what they can as cash can be most easily translated into goods over seas.
.....While watching more Tsunami coverage it crosses Mr. M's mind that he should donate. After three consecutive segments dealing with the natural disaster Mr. M decides on Thai. Not to donate, but for dinner. All the news has given him a craving. Mr. M. turns off the television and gets dressed to go out. Turning as he leaves, he looks to the kitchen table where the deposit envelopes sit. He smiles, turns out the lights, and pulls the door closed.