Slow Chemical (NaNoWriMo Day 3, Wordcount: 1,416)
I should point out that I am not normally involved in things as exciting as this. I wouldn’t want anybody to read my story and get the impression that I’m interesting in any way at all. I’ve always tried to lead a mostly quiet life, keep away from the bad seeds, brush and floss with some regularity; I really am a simple man, but this is a story of extraordinary circumstance. If it had happened to anybody else I’m sure it would be that much more amazing, but you’ll have to accept that this moderately exciting story is entirely my own.
By the way, I’m Clover Malcolm. I am a thirty-three-year-old retired evangelist who has no idea what the church and that is really all about; I had gotten into it for the money, you see. I was born and raised in a small country town not far from here, where my mother still lives with my two brothers, but I moved to the city in pursuit of a girl I’d known in high school. Most people back home would probably describe me with a lot of adjectives, which of course I couldn’t define, but they would make me sound really interesting. They would be wrong on most of them anyway, because I think the general perception of me is that I’m a real sweet country boy with his head on straight and no cavities at all. Odd of me to grow cynical with age and eat all sorts of sweets and no greens, isn’t it? I never did like most people back home.
People in the city are no better really. I mean, some of them stuff lemons in your throat and take you as a hostage, for example. I haven’t met a lot of people since I made the move out here, and I’ve been out here for about twelve years now. It suits me fine though; I like the quiet, the simple routines and such. The only jobs I’ve ever held are the kind you don’t really want to mention in a piece of literature about yourself. I’m a bad man, with cavities and an unhealthy cynicism, and I kicked a puppy once when I was thirteen. Oh I’m a bad man all right.
I didn’t feel all that bad at the moment, bound and gagged with a fat man leering over me. He seemed to be genuinely perplexed with something as he stared down at me, beads of sweat rolling off of his nose and into mine. I wasn’t very comfortable at all.
“Who the bloody hell put a fucking lemon in your dumb head?”
I don’t think I was supposed to answer. Of course I had been wondering that myself, so I didn’t mind his question at all. I think I did a lot of very random winking and blinking to give him the impression that I was trying to communicate with him.
“Quit that, or I’ll bust you in six pieces,” he calmly informed me before turning to leave the room. He was a very ugly man, covered in tattoos and scars, and I imagine the stench of rum on his clothes wasn’t such a rare thing.
I studied the long tattoo on the back of his forearm as he made his way out the door. It was a snake wrapped around a badger, or a guinea pig, or something that he probably drew himself in any case. I remembered it, and thought hard about where from. It hit me all at once, like a fog being parted by... some sort of a man with a large machine to quickly be rid of fog. I told you I wasn’t big on metaphors, right? That’s not the point though - I remembered everything that had happened to me all of a sudden. Or, well, I thought I did anyway.
I had awoken the previous Friday morning with an appetite for pastries. Normally I wouldn’t be out of bed until at least noon - even if I wake up early, I’ll roll around trying to will myself to stay cozily tucked in for as long as possible - but I needed a goddamn strudel and I wasn’t going to waste any more time salivating. I didn’t bother getting myself put together or anything, I just threw on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt on my way out the door. I can’t underestimate how hungry I was, and how nothing but pastry could possibly satisfy it. I’ll say now, if you are taking notes and hoping to deconstruct every intricate piece of my character, that pastries really have nothing at all to do with the story, but this normally would have been the most notable part of my day.
I arrived at the nearest baker’s before 9:00am, looking entirely homeless and slightly unstable, and demanded that he whip up his most delectable strudel-or-maybe-anything-else at once. When he told me that it would be fifteen minutes before he could get started, and another half hour before he might finish, I settled for a carob square and two sugar donuts. I thought the sugar donuts would give me whatever it was I so badly needed that morning, and the carob square I bought so that the baker might think I had a pregnant wife to excuse my rabid need for pastries.
I sat outside at a bus-stop bench to enjoy my breakfast, and to watch people as they made their commute to work. I mostly do my people-watching from my kitchen window when I’m doing the dishes -- it’s become a favorite part of most days -- and it was a real treat now to sit next to some real people with real families, on their way to real jobs. I quickly devoured both donuts and tucked the paper bag into my waistband, with the carob square still in it.
I noticed I was seated next to a pretty young thing, mid-twenties, chattering away on her mobile phone.
By the way, I’m Clover Malcolm. I am a thirty-three-year-old retired evangelist who has no idea what the church and that is really all about; I had gotten into it for the money, you see. I was born and raised in a small country town not far from here, where my mother still lives with my two brothers, but I moved to the city in pursuit of a girl I’d known in high school. Most people back home would probably describe me with a lot of adjectives, which of course I couldn’t define, but they would make me sound really interesting. They would be wrong on most of them anyway, because I think the general perception of me is that I’m a real sweet country boy with his head on straight and no cavities at all. Odd of me to grow cynical with age and eat all sorts of sweets and no greens, isn’t it? I never did like most people back home.
People in the city are no better really. I mean, some of them stuff lemons in your throat and take you as a hostage, for example. I haven’t met a lot of people since I made the move out here, and I’ve been out here for about twelve years now. It suits me fine though; I like the quiet, the simple routines and such. The only jobs I’ve ever held are the kind you don’t really want to mention in a piece of literature about yourself. I’m a bad man, with cavities and an unhealthy cynicism, and I kicked a puppy once when I was thirteen. Oh I’m a bad man all right.
I didn’t feel all that bad at the moment, bound and gagged with a fat man leering over me. He seemed to be genuinely perplexed with something as he stared down at me, beads of sweat rolling off of his nose and into mine. I wasn’t very comfortable at all.
“Who the bloody hell put a fucking lemon in your dumb head?”
I don’t think I was supposed to answer. Of course I had been wondering that myself, so I didn’t mind his question at all. I think I did a lot of very random winking and blinking to give him the impression that I was trying to communicate with him.
“Quit that, or I’ll bust you in six pieces,” he calmly informed me before turning to leave the room. He was a very ugly man, covered in tattoos and scars, and I imagine the stench of rum on his clothes wasn’t such a rare thing.
I studied the long tattoo on the back of his forearm as he made his way out the door. It was a snake wrapped around a badger, or a guinea pig, or something that he probably drew himself in any case. I remembered it, and thought hard about where from. It hit me all at once, like a fog being parted by... some sort of a man with a large machine to quickly be rid of fog. I told you I wasn’t big on metaphors, right? That’s not the point though - I remembered everything that had happened to me all of a sudden. Or, well, I thought I did anyway.
I had awoken the previous Friday morning with an appetite for pastries. Normally I wouldn’t be out of bed until at least noon - even if I wake up early, I’ll roll around trying to will myself to stay cozily tucked in for as long as possible - but I needed a goddamn strudel and I wasn’t going to waste any more time salivating. I didn’t bother getting myself put together or anything, I just threw on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt on my way out the door. I can’t underestimate how hungry I was, and how nothing but pastry could possibly satisfy it. I’ll say now, if you are taking notes and hoping to deconstruct every intricate piece of my character, that pastries really have nothing at all to do with the story, but this normally would have been the most notable part of my day.
I arrived at the nearest baker’s before 9:00am, looking entirely homeless and slightly unstable, and demanded that he whip up his most delectable strudel-or-maybe-anything-else at once. When he told me that it would be fifteen minutes before he could get started, and another half hour before he might finish, I settled for a carob square and two sugar donuts. I thought the sugar donuts would give me whatever it was I so badly needed that morning, and the carob square I bought so that the baker might think I had a pregnant wife to excuse my rabid need for pastries.
I sat outside at a bus-stop bench to enjoy my breakfast, and to watch people as they made their commute to work. I mostly do my people-watching from my kitchen window when I’m doing the dishes -- it’s become a favorite part of most days -- and it was a real treat now to sit next to some real people with real families, on their way to real jobs. I quickly devoured both donuts and tucked the paper bag into my waistband, with the carob square still in it.
I noticed I was seated next to a pretty young thing, mid-twenties, chattering away on her mobile phone.