Nobody: A Micro Novel
Chapter 1.
Bertram
Perry-Wicks walks into a bar after having stared out his kitchen window for the
best part of an afternoon. He’d been dwelling on the age-old question: Is it
too early for a drink?
Chapter 2.
Bertram is not an alcoholic—he’ll be the first to tell you that. He went to an AA meeting once, just to check. When it came around to him, he had to introduce himself and admit he was an alcoholic.
— I thought
this was anonymous, he said.
— You can use
any name you want, said the chapter lead.
— My name is
Nobody, he said. And I’m an alcoholic.
— Nobody is an
alcoholic, said the leader.
— Nobody is an
alcoholic, said a woman.
— Nobody is an
alcoholic! shouted a man, standing with arms raised.
Chapter 3.
Soon, all hands
were chanting with glee that nobody was an alcoholic and they all decided to
celebrate over a few cheap bottles of Blue Star down to Lucy’s on Duckworth
Street. That particular chapter of AA has never recovered, and they no longer
meet in the basement of the Anglican Cathedral.
Chapter 4.
Now then, where were we? Ah, yes. Bertram Perry-Wicks—not an alcoholic—walks into a bar after spending 180 degrees of the day wondering if it’s too early to do so.
— Some hands
waste their lives wondering and worrying, he says to the barkeep. Some hands make
their lives by drinking and doing.
The Arm Wrestler: A Micro
Monologue
Don’t give a fuck how big you are
Billy, you’re not beating me in an arm wrestle. Know what he said? He said “If
it weren’t for this corona disease, I’d be down to Lucy’s right now smashing
the back of your hand against the bar.” Know what else he says? He says “If you
ever beats me in an arm wrestle, I’ll buy you a hat.”
Sure
you knows yourself I made good money at wrestling arms down to Lucy’s! Sure my
income’s down to zero now. Worst part? I never declared any of it so it looks
like I never made a dime in me life and so I don’t qualify for them Ottawa
COVID bucks! I’m after falling between the cracks, right? That’s what Paddy
Daly said when I called into the Open Line there last week.
Looking
forward to the new normal or whatever else so I can get back on me stool down
to Lucy’s. Someone’s left hand holding my elbow in place. My left hand holding
their’s. I miss that, right?
And I don’t give one solitary fuck,
Billy. That’s what I said to him. I don’t give one fuck in this world how big
you are—I’ll see you down to Lucy’s at the stroke of Alert Level 2.
The Presentation: A Micro Novel
Chapter 1
Craig, recently laid off, sits at
his computer on a Tuesday morning thumbing through YouTube.
“If you eat tomatoes and have arthritis,” says the man, “you need to watch this video.”
Craig does not have arthritis. He’s 34 years of age, love of God. But he does eat tomatoes. And the unexpected link snags him. He cranks up the volume. He slides his chair closer, leaning in.
Chapter 2
Craig wasn’t fired! Who’s
after telling you that? Gross incompetence? Negligence? No, my son, not our boy
Craig. Yes, he let a pallet of garage doors slip off the forklift—I’m not gonna
deny that. He’d only a few pints at lunch though, so don’t blame booze. And
sure the doors only came within a few inches of Rhonda—not like she was crushed
to death! Fired? Nope, not Craig. He was laid off.
His father sold
the company a few months back. Hiring Craig was a blatant display of nepotism.
The man in the
video explains: tomatoes contain small amounts of the toxin solanine. Causes
inflammation, swelling, and joint pain. The doctors at my institute have
prepared a presentation, he says. Only $49.99 for a limited time.
Craig pauses
the video and calls his father: “They laid me off, dad.”
“Laid you off?
Why?”
“Sure I don’t
know,” said Craig. “Cashflow?”
Hale Inc.
hadn’t a cashflow issue since 1992.
“Come for
dinner tomorrow,” says Craig’s father. “I’ll give them a call.”
Chapter 3
Craig’s father, legs crossed, is
face and eyes into a softcover Sudoku book. Craig enters the sunroom. His
father peers at him above his reading glasses. You’ve seen the look in films—a
questioning peer.
“How’s the arthritis, dad?”
“The wha’?”
“Arthritis.”
“Sure you’ve never asked about that before.”
“Well, I’d like to know.”
“Get in to the jeezly kitchen, would ya? Dinner’ll be up nowda once.”
Craig watches his father pierce a
baby tomato with his fork and bring it to his mouth.
Craig’s father pauses for a second with his mouth open. Slides the tomato into his mouth. Puts down the fork. He looks across the table at Craig. He chews slowly without speaking. He twirls his glass of red wine. Chews and swallows. He takes a sip without breaking eye contact. He clears his throat.
“Enlighten me, Craig,” he says, gesturing to his plate of vegan lentil casserole with a side of green salad, tomato, croutons, and balsamic vinegar. “What is it, exactly, on this plate, that I should not be eating?”
Craig—our boy Craig—hasn’t the foggiest notion of where to even begin.
