I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

by BarnaWilde

  Oh, I forgot to tell you. I think I've decided to shoot her. It would be quick. And I think she wouldn't feel any pain. As long as I shoot straight. My only problem is that I don't have a gun. But I'm working on it.

  The bus takes an age to come. The dogs come more quickly. The two who are waiting get their go. Their tails never stop wagging for a moment. The bitch stands cooperatively still while they take their turns. Funnily enough she is the only one whose tail isn't wagging.

  I stand waiting for the bus. I wonder what it would be like to have a tail. I drift off into a semi daydream and imagine swishing my tail about. I suppose they must have some sort of function. Cows use them for flicking flies away. Hippos have their own perversions. But why do dogs have tails? I've never seen a dog flick away flies. I suppose they might help you to balance when you run round corners. I imagine myself running around a corner with my tail flying behind me.

  Suddenly I become aware that the other people at the bus stop are looking at me. I have become more interesting than a pack of copulating dogs. I realise that I have been swaying about shaking my rear end as I wondered about dog's tails. I feel a little foolish. I feel the need to explain.

  "I was just imagining," I say. "What it would be like to have one. A tail I mean."

  This doesn't seem to be helping. I can hear their brains whirring. The messages are going out to their eyes. "Don't look. The poor man is obviously demented." Their eyes all go out of focus and I can tell that for them I'm no longer there. I've become invisible just like the dogs.

  "I can't do that," I say. " My switch is broken. My eyes don't turn off like yours." But I can tell that I'm talking to myself. Their ears have switched off too.

  I knew today was going to be a bad one. As soon as I found the car with the battery flat, I knew.

  I can feel the colour rising. My neck is getting redder. I decide to walk on and get the bus at the next stop. "I think I'll walk," I say, to no one in particular. And no one answers.

  As I walk away, the dogs decide to follow me. We walk in procession along the street. I try to look inconspicuous, but other dogs join the procession until there are ten or more. Large and small. Tails waving and silly grins on their faces. I start to move faster, but the dogs keep trotting along behind me. I start to run, but the dogs see it as a new game. In fact they seem to prefer this to sex. I see a bus in the distance, and eventually draw level as it waits at a red light. Luckily it waits long enough for me to jump on. I have no idea where it is going. Frankly I don't care.

  By the time I get to my appointment I am over an hour late. The house is prewar, semi detached, and set back from the road. I check that I have my recorder and ring the bell.

  I was right. She is an eight. When I guessed I mean. When I answered the phone this morning I guessed she would be an eight. She is blonde, too. I was right about that as well.

  A slim, elegant woman of about forty answers the door.

  "Good afternoon," I say. "Tom Fletcher, from Hudson, Hudson and Hudson."

  She is dressed in a short skirt and a skinny red top.

  "Carole," she says. "Please come in."

  "Thankyou Mrs Carroll," I reply.

  "No," she says. "Just Carole. No Mrs."

  I explain to her the details I shall need, and she tells me to feel free. She stands and watches me as I dictate into the recorder.

  She follows me into the kitchen and eyes me up and down as I measure and record the vital statistics of her home. It's mildly unnerving to be studied like this. I feel as though I'm being marked off against some mental score card that she has.

  I walk back into the hallway, dictating as I go. She keeps just one pace behind me, never taking her eyes off me for a moment.

  "You've got a nice bum, Tom," she says quietly, as I tell my recorder all about her hallway.

  I almost fall over in surprise. Did I hear what I thought I did? I try not to react. I carry on speaking into the machine.

  "Open hallway with doors off to lounge and separate dining room."

  "I said `You've got a nice bum, Tom`."

  "Radiator and telephone point. Yes, I thought you did. Thankyou."

  What would a suave man do now?

  "Stairs to first floor with hardwood bannister and window overlooking the side garden."

  She's still looking at me. I can tell. She's still looking at my backside. No woman has ever admired it before that I know of. Funny, it's the same one I've always had. I pull in my stomach. My buttocks tighten at the same time. God, she'll think I did it on purpose. Keep cool. Keep cool. This has never happened before.

  "Radiator and telephone point."

  "You've already done that."

  "Done what?"

  "The telephone point. You've already done it once. On your little thingy." God, yes. She's right. She's making me nervous.

  "Do you mind me watching you work?"

  "N.No. Not at all," I stammer. "Not at all, Mrs ....."

  "Carole," she says.

  "Mrs Caroll"

  "Just Carole."

  Her voice is low and sultry. I have to let my stomach out again in order to breathe. It's getting warm in here.

  "I'll need to measure," I say.

  "Would you like me to help you? Or would you prefer me to fix you a drink, Tom? You don't mind me calling you Tom, do you?"

  "No. Yes. No thankyou. I mean yes, please."

  God, why can't I be suave. Please god, for once in my life make me suave.

  I get my sonic tape measure out and start to take measurements. I continue to read them into the recorder. As we move from room to room I suddenly find I'm holding a glass of whisky. I didn't ask for whisky. I don't drink whisky. I don't like whisky. "Thankyou," I say, and take a sip. No water! I fight to suppress a cough. I see that she is holding a glass too.

  "Bottoms up," she says. She somehow manages to infuse the toast with a meaning that I'm sure is not usually intended.

  "And you," I respond. "Your's too. I mean up, up, bottoms." The switch has gone again. The two milisecond delay circuit has cut in. Brain and mouth belong in two different time zones. I know that I am going to spill whisky down my chin.

  I try to move very deliberately. Raise arm slowly. Move towards mouth. Tilt glass. Sip gently. Yep. There it goes. A finger of whisky crawls out of the glass, hovers tantalizingly near my open mouth, and then settles near my right cheek to begin the journey down my chin and on and on.

  It all happens in slow motion. I see Carole move towards me with a handkerchief in her hand. And before the whisky has a chance to reach the floor she is dabbing my chin. I feel her breasts pressed against my arm as she works at my chin with her left hand. Her right hand reaches down and feels between my legs. I am rooted to the spot. My buttocks tighten so hard with the surprise I feel sure they have bitten a huge chunk out of my underpants.

  It's over in seconds. I can scarcely believe what has just happened. I down the rest of the whisky in one. Carole is standing back about eighteen inches watching me. Smiling.

  "My, you were thirsty Tom," she breathes. "I can see I'll have my hands full with you."

  Somehow I manage to get around the rest of the house without further incident. I'm going to have trouble explaining some of the noises on the tape to Julie though when I get back to the office. Carole follows me around as I complete the inspection. In the main bedroom she sits on the bed with one leg stretched out in front of her and one on the floor. I stay between her and the door the whole time. I can feel the whisky taking it's effect. It was only one glass, but I'm sure my speech is sounding slurred already.

  She offers me another drink as I finish dictating. "Bathroom with low level suite. N.. No thankyou. Not today. I don't usually drink anything in the daytime. Well, tea and coffee of course. And water, sometimes. But not with alcohol. Oh, except xmas. I do have a glass of wine at xmas. And birthdays. Yes, sometimes on birthdays we go to the pub for lunch. But not while I'm on duty. House rule you see." I'm burbling. I know
I'm burbling, but my mouth just keeps on running. And so does the tape. I'll have to rewind and edit that bit out.

  She pouts gently at my refusal. "I shall have another one, Tom. Are you sure you won't join me? We'll need to get to know one another better if you are going to sell my house for me."

  I somehow get to the door and through it, promising to ring her the next day with the valuation.

  "I'll look forward to that, Tom," she says. "It's been lovely to meet you."

  As I back away down the path she blows me a kiss. I turn and run. Only later do I realise that I haven't got my sonic tape measure with me any more.

  CHAPTER 3

  Geoffrey fitted the last wall panel into position. He was well pleased with his handiwork. He was a good craftsman, if he had to say so himself. With the last wall panel in place he had created a cosy little den. He sat down on the chipboard floor and admired his achievement. He plotted in his mind's eye how he would complete the decor. He needed more lights and mirrors. He would need a good thick carpet, too, and a cupboard or some drawers, but as the room was small he imagined that he would find a carpet offcut somewhere that would be ideal. Yes, it was all going well. Life was good sometimes.

  ****

  Someone, somewhere, sometime, it was back in the sixties I think, carried out some research on people's attention span. Whoever it was, and I think it must have been a university professor, would pause at random points in his lecture and ask his audience to write down what they were thinking about at that instant. The results were illuminating. At any time only twenty percent of the audience were listening to what was being said. A further twenty percent were thinking about something related to what was being said, but the remaining sixty percent were thinking about sex.

  A lesser man might have been distressed that his words were having so little effect on his audience, but this professor consoled himself with the thought that no matter what he said, at least sixty percent of his listeners were enjoying themselves.

  I think about sex all the time. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Why is it that everyone else is getting more than me? And better!

  Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

  Gail likes sex too.

  I finally get home on the bus from my valuation trip. Already I am wondering if I imagined the whole episode. But I can still taste the whisky, and I don't have my sonic tape measure.

  Gail is home before me.

  "Didn't you take the car today?" she asks.

  "Uh. No. No, I decided to walk." Now why did I say that? Why didn't I tell her about the battery?

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks.

  "Yes. Yes please." Go on, admit to her that you let the battery go flat. No, she'll only think I'm a plonker. She already knows you're a plonker. Why don't you admit it? Why don't you shut up? Coward! Not. Yes you are. Alright, alright I am. I will.

  Gail is disappearing out of the door while I fight with my alter ego. "The battery," I say. Just as she disappears finally.

  "Sorry?" she calls back. "Didn't catch that."

  "The battery," I say. "I left the car door open and it went flat."

  Her voice drifts back down the hall, "Oh that's nice."

  She wasn't even listening! I needn't have said anything. God, she's thinking about sex. I know she is.

  A gun. Yes, I'm sure that's the thing. But where do I get a gun from? I frown for a second, thinking. Then it comes to me. Exchange and Mart of course. You can find anything in Exchange and Mart. I saw an elephant advertised in Exchange and Mart once. It was in the Pets and Livestock section. Along with the incubators for hatching chicken eggs and devices for doing unspeakable things to young male cattle.

  Listen. I'm not making this up. There really was an advert. It said 'For Sale, Elephant, surplus to requirements.' And then there was a box no.

  My Dad wouldn't even let me find out how much it was. It's puzzled me ever since. Not how much it was, but how anyone could have an elephant surplus to requirements. Unless you normally buy them in sets, perhaps.

  "I'd like some elephants please, my man."

  "Certainly, sir. Would that be African or Indian?"

  "Some of each, I think. Yes, a mixed herd would look nice."

  "How many were you thinking of sir?"

  "About ten I would think. Say five of each."

  "I'm sorry, sir. They only come in dozens."

  "Is that dozens of one kind only, or can one have a mixed dozen?"

  "We do mixed dozens or single species."

  "Couldn't you split a set for me? You see I don't have room for more than ten."

  "More than my job's worth to do that, sir. You see there's no call for single elephants. People only ever want full dozens."

  "No they don't. I don't want a full dozen."

  "Are you trying to be funny with me, sir? You could always buy a dozen and sell the odd ones through Exchange and Mart you know."

  "Yes. I hadn't thought of that. Thankyou. You've been most helpful. I'll take the mixed dozen then."

  Gail comes back into the room while I am searching through the old newspapers. "What are you looking for?" she says.

  "I thought there was an old copy of the Exchange and Mart here somewhere."

  "Oh, that got thrown out weeks ago. What are you wanting to buy anyway?"

  "Oh nothing. Nothing really. I was just thinking about elephants. Wondering. You know, how much do they cost. That's all. Quite expensive I would have thought. Even if you could buy just one. Probably they come in sets anyway."

  "Why do you want an elephant, Tom?"

  "Didn't really want one. Just curiosity you know."

  "Yesterday it was hippos and today it's elephants. You've never been interested in big game before. What's brought this on all of a sudden?"

  "Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all. Always been interested, actually. Just haven't talked about it a lot, that's all."

  She's giving me a very odd look. I've got to change the subject somehow. Got to talk about something else. Not guns. Not elephants. Not sex.

  "I saw some dogs earlier today."

  "Dogs, Tom? What sort of dogs? What were they doing?"

  "Oh, just dogs. Ordinary sorts of dogs. Big ones, and little ones. Doing? Uh, they weren't doing anything. Nothing. Just dogs that's all. Isn't that tea ready yet?"

  I think she's suspicious. I watch her pour the tea. She turns me on. Whatever she does. Wherever we are. She turns me on.

  Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

  She puts the tea on the small table beside my chair and sits down with her own. She is still not sure what I've been talking about. She picks up the newspaper and begins to read.

  No Exchange and Mart. Now where do I go? I could buy one tomorrow I suppose. I sip my tea. A small drop somehow finds it's way around the rim and slides gently down my chin.

  I sit and watch Gail reading the paper. I enjoy watching her. I look at her legs. She's wearing dark tights today. Sleek and shiny. She has nice legs. Slim and long.

  "I see that bloke got life then," she says suddenly. "Better than he deserves."

  "What bloke?" I ask.

  "The one that killed his wife with a machete."

  I feel my collar tighten. Does she suspect something? A machete? I haven't even got a machete.

  "I haven't got a machete."

  "Pardon?"

  "I said, I haven't got a machete."

  "I know you haven't got a machete. You haven't got a gun either. What has that got to do with anything?"

  "A gun? Why are you talking about guns? I haven't got a gun. I wouldn't even know where to buy a gun. Except Exchange and Mart perhaps. No I shouldn't think even they have guns. Elephants is more the sort of thing you find in Exchange and Mart, I expect."

  She lowers her paper and looks at me over the top. "What are you talking about, Tom? I was telling you about this bloke in the paper, and suddenly you start burbling. Are you alright?"

  "Yes. I'm fine. I must have misheard you. I thought you were talkin
g about guns that's all."

  "Drink your tea, Tom. And stop dribbling. You're worse than a baby."

  I finish the rest of my tea in silence. It seems safer that way. My mind begins to wander back over the events of the afternoon. An eight I thought when I first saw that Carole. Maybe she's only a six.

  Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

  She was obviously thinking about sex, not about house valuations at all. I've never known having their house valued turn anyone on before. Unless it was me? Perhaps she just couldn't resist me. Perhaps she's now regretting what she did. Probably embarrassed about the whole thing. Probably never happen again. Just a momentary thing. Probably the whisky. Probably she'd been drinking before I even arrived. Best not to mention it to anyone. Save the poor woman the embarrasment. Yes, that's best. Pretend it didn't happen. Actually it was nothing much. Just an accidental brush really. Yes, I probably imagined most of it. Pity about leaving the measure behind, though.

  Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

  Yellow pages. That's a possibility. I expect they have guns in there. Only I can never find things in Yellow Pages. Never listed where you expect it. You look up guns and it tells you in very small print to try Spray Guns, Military Suppliers or Antique Dealers.

  None of them seem very likely, but you take a chance on the Military Suppliers. M..M... Market Traders, Marriage Bureaux, Meat Wholesalers, Miliners, Milinery, Milinery Suppliers, Milinery Trimmings, Milinery Yarns, Milk Products, Mills, Millers. No entry under Military Suppliers. You go back to guns and check again. Yep. There it is. Spray Guns, Military Suppliers, Antique Dealers.

  M...M... Marquetry, Medical, Metalwork, Miliners, Milinery, Milinery Suppliers, Milinery Trimmings, Milinery Yarns, Milk Products! And then you see it, in tiny print just after the Milinary Yarns, it says for Military Suppliers see Government Agencies, Arms Manufacturers, Aircraft Manufacturers, and Uniforms.

  A...A....A.. Animal Products, Ambulance Services, Architects, Arms Manufacturers see Aircraft, Explosive Manufacturers or Guns.

  No. Maybe not Yellow Pages. Not tonight anyway.

  "Ha, that's strange, Tom. You were just talking about elephants, and it says here in the paper that one died today at a private zoo. Apparently someone gave it a couple of table tennis balls and it sucked them up it's trunk and suffocated."

  I'm stunned. "You'd think they'd have more sense," I say.