I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

by BarnaWilde

"Did you say 'zoo'?"

  "Yes. We haven't been for ages."

  "What's brought this on? Why the zoo?"

  "Oh, just an idea. Elephants. Haven't seen one for a while. Not many left now with all the poachers."

  "Poachers at the zoo?"

  "No, in Africa. They shoot them with ping pong balls you know."

  "Ping pong balls? Surely you couldn't kill an elephant with ping pong balls?"

  "Did I say kill? I meant make ping pong balls from elephants. From their tusks. Yes, the finest ping pong balls are made from elephant tusks. I thought you would know that."

  "Are you sure you don't mean billiard balls?"

  "Well, yes. Those too. Anyway I just wondered if you would be interested that's all."

  She is putting the flowers into the sink. She looks puzzled. "Well," she says. "If you want to go to the zoo, of course I'll come with you. You seem to be very interested in animals recently."

  "Just thought it would be a nice outing. Make a change."

  "Yes," she agrees. "It would be nice to go out somewhere together, and thankyou for the flowers."

  I can't stop thinking about Carole. Perhaps I should have gone round again to collect my tape. Perhaps she really did have something to show me. She's probably a bit anxious about selling her home. A woman on her own like that, without a man to help her. I wonder what happened to Mr Carrol?

  I keep thinking about Julie, too.

  Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

  Sex with Julie. Yes, that would be good. I'm sure she fancies me. Just a bit shy that's all. Probably attracted to a more mature man and doesn't know quite how to say it. Tomorrow I'll make my move. Yes, I reckon I should be free of Gail in about another week. Allow a couple of weeks for mourning. And then Julie could move in here with me.

  Perhaps two weeks is a bit short. Probably take a week to organise the funeral. "Better make it three"

  "I'm sorry, Tom. Did you say something?"

  "No. I don't think so."

  "I thought you said 'make it three'. At least that's what it sounded like."

  "Three? Oh that. Just three houses to sell that's all."

  "Only three houses? Is business that bad?"

  "No. Business is looking up actually. Just need to sell three houses before the funeral that's all."

  "Has someone died?"

  "Died? No, I don't think so."

  "But you said something about a funeral."

  "Oh that. Yes, well I expect someone will die soon. Bound to almost. Yes, actually lots of our house sales are for executioners."

  "You mean executors."

  "That's what I said isn't it?"

  "No, you said executioners. You know you did."

  "Just a slip of the tongue. I wouldn't even know where to buy a gun."

  "You said that before."

  "Said what?"

  "About buying a gun. Yesterday. You talked about buying a gun yesterday. Why do you want to buy a gun?"

  "A gun? Why would I want a gun? I don't even need to kill anyone."

  I think she's getting suspicious. I must change the subject.

  "Ha. Ha. You thought I meant a real gun. I meant one of those joke guns. The kind that has a little flag saying 'BANG' when you pull the trigger. Just a joke, for someone's birthday. Yes. Mr Hudson's birthday tomorrow. All the staff had a whipround and I've got to buy the thing. I don't suppose you know where they sell them?"

  "No. I don't think so. I thought you said Mr Hudson didn't have a sense of humour."

  "Oh yes. Great sense of humour Mr Hudson. Always telling jokes in the office. What was the one he told today? Something about an elephant and two ping pong balls."

  I never could remember jokes. I either can't remember the punchline when I get to the end of the joke. Or can't remember the joke that goes with the punchline. Somehow, even when I do get the two together I always get the feeling that it's me everyone is laughing at and not the joke. Do you know why people become comedians? Because they want to be loved that`s why. Very sad people comedians.

  After tea we settle down to our normal evening pursuits. Gail marks books, and I write my diary. She sits on the settee with her legs curled under her. The pile of books slowly moves from her left side to her right, picking up red graffiti on the way. I find myself watching her as she concentrates on her work. She turns me on.

  I think a gun would be no good. I wouldn't be able to watch, and pull the trigger. If I tried to do it with my eyes closed, who knows where the bullet would go. I don't want to hurt her.

  I could always hire a hit man, but they are probably even harder to find than guns. Probably not even Exchange and Mart has hit men.

  Exchange and Mart. I remember the lingerie.

  I wonder if Gail feels like turning on the man in her life. But she doesn't need a peephole bra to turn me on. She turns me on anyway.

  But then I'm not the man in her life.

  She looks up and smiles across the room at me. "What are you thinking about?" she asks. "You look very thoughtful over there."

  "Oh. Peephole bras. That's all."

  She smiles and says, "Why don't you go and make some coffee?"

  While I am making the coffee, I notice the flowers are still in the sink. I hunt around and find a vase. The flowers look nice. I cut an inch off the bottom of each stem, and I have to shorten a couple of them to make a good arrangement. I take them back into the sitting room, with Gail's coffee.

  "Thankyou," she says. "The flowers look nice. I meant to do them earlier. Put them on the table. I think they'll be best there."

  I'm a little hurt that she had obviously forgotten about the flowers. I think maybe I'll stop on my way in to work tomorrow and buy some more for Julie. I'm sure she'll appreciate them. Better make sure I get in in good time.

  I wonder what sort she would like. Red roses I expect, but perhaps that would be over the top. Too obvious. Maybe something simple like daffodils. But then daffodils aren't very romantic. Carnations perhaps?

  An old Greek man once gave me a carnation. At Easter. Many years ago, in Crete.

  It must have been almost ten years ago. I had walked up the mountain road from the beach. Perhaps three or four miles. Gail was sunbathing on the beach. I left her there, toasting, while I went for a walk. It was a hot day. Gloriously hot, and I came to a little Taverna with four grizzled old Cretan men sitting outside drinking thick, strong, muddy coffee. I stopped for a beer.

  Before I could go inside, I was invited to sit down with the men. I was delighted to accept. I spoke only four words of Greek. They spoke even less English. Between us we had about twenty words of German, so we spoke German.

  They gave me coffee. And we laughed in the sun. None of us understood a word the other was saying, but we laughed. And then one of the men disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with a carnation which he gave me as a gesture of friendship. It is the only time in my life anyone has ever given me flowers.

  Why don't people give flowers to men? Men grow flowers. Men buy flowers for women. Women buy flowers for women. But noone ever gives flowers to men. Why?

  I can hardly remember being happier than I was at that moment. That carnation was one of the nicest gifts I have ever received.

  But the pleasure lasted only about five minutes. A young woman came to join us at the table. I would guess she was the niece or grand daughter of one of the old men. They made a great show of sitting her next to me. From her blushes and the general hilarity they were obviously making gentle fun of her at my expense. I became very conscious of the carnation. Suddenly it was burning a hole in my hand. I didn't know the local customs. Should I keep it or give it to the girl.

  Giving carnations was obviously a sign of friendship, but maybe it would be improper for a stranger to give a flower to a young girl.

  My happiness turned to misery. If I gave her the flower I might be insulting her. If I kept it I might be insulting her even more. If I gave it to her, perhaps we would be engaged. If I kept it
I might be insulting the man who gave it to me. If I gave it away I might be insulting him even worse.

  The old men watched my discomfort. I remembered that these were the same old men that harried the germans during the war. These were tough and proud people. I wished I'd stayed on the beach. I downed my coffee in one gulp. It was almost solid and I could hardly stop from choking. I pushed back my chair and made my farewells. I fled down the mountain with a crumpled carnation in one hand and my throat burning from the coffee.

  I begin to gag on the coffee.

  "What's the matter?" Gail asks as I cough and splutter.

  "Sorry?"

  "What's the matter? You sounded as though you were choking."

  "Oh. It was the coffee. Burning my throat."

  "Mine isn't very hot."

  "Not hot. It was too strong. Had to swallow it all in one go because of the girl."

  "What girl?"

  "Oh. The Greek girl. I didn't want to be engaged. Or shot."

  "I don't follow you, Tom. Is this one of your little fantasies?"

  "Fantasies? No. No it really happened. You were on the beach. So I went on my own. Don`t you remember?"

  I wonder what happened to the carnation? I don't remember dropping it. But I don't remember showing it to Gail either.

  She is sitting with her coffee in her hands. Both hands wrapped round the mug, warming them on the coffee. She smiles at me. "Well my coffee is fine," she says. "Why don't you go and make another one for yourself if that one is too strong?"

  We sit and look at each other for a few seconds. She’s still smiling at me. I think she’s beautiful. "You didn't notice if I was carrying a carnation?" I ask.

  CHAPTER 6

  Listen, this story isn't just about wild animals and dogs. It has pygmies too.

  No, I'm not just making it up. This isn't just thrown together you know. There is real drama happening here. I'm going through a crisis. A midlife crisis. Well a whole life crisis actually. They say a drowning man's whole life passes in front of his eyes as he goes down for the last time. Well I'm a drowning man. I've been drowning my whole life. My life is passing in front of me right now. It won't take long. If you could just hold on for a second or two, I'll be right back with you.

  There, that didn't take long did it? I told you it wasn't much.

  Listen, you can't believe everything you read. I mean, how does anyone know what a drowning man sees when he goes down?

  Look, I promise not to lie to you. There have been too many lies already. Lies hurt people. Worse than bullets.

  During the evening we watch a documentary about pygmies on the TV. We watch them hunting and foodgathering in the forests where they live. They are gentle people in harmony with their local environment. Each tree and plant is the home of a spirit. Each animal is sacred and protected by it's own particular god.

  Did you know that pygmies never kill except for food? They believe that every animal that is killed for food gives it's life willingly to sustain the pygmy. This is a very convenient belief which assuages any guilt that the pygmy might otherwise have from killing a brother of the forest. Convenient for the pygmy, that is. It's not quite so good if you happen to be a wild boar. Even the innocent pygmy cannot help but be tainted by the arrogance of being a man it seems.

  We watch the pygmies cook and eat their food. We watch them playing with their children. We watch them building shelters and smoking their pipes. They all appear to be fit and healthy. They are happy and brown and almost naked except for tiny loincloths. Not a peephole bra in sight.

  I wonder how they entertain themselves. There's no TV or radio here. No books or magazines. No shops. Not even a pack of cards.

  Sex I suppose. Or community singing perhaps.

  These programmes never seem to answer this sort of question. Why not? Doesn't it occur to the film makers that we might want to know these things?

  And something else, what do they use for toilet paper? And how do they manage without nappies for the babies? In my experience babies seem to be able to defeat the tightest multilayer swaddling in terrycloth and plastic, so how do these people manage with nothing? Do their babies come pretrained? Or do they stopper them up somehow? Or perhaps they are incredibly tolerant or maybe they just move more quickly than we do?

  "Watch out Yg, baby Za's got that look on his face again."

  Zzzipp!

  "Only just moved in time then Yg. I think your reflexes aren't what they used to be."

  "Yep. That was a close call. Thanks for the warning. I'll whittle a couple more stoppers in the morning."

  And what turns a pygmy on? I mean if he's surrounded by naked women all day, it can't be the glimpse of a well turned ankle. Or even a hint of a nipple through a silk blouse. Why are these questions never answered? Am I the only one who wonders these things? Am I really different from everybody else? Please don't let me be a weirdo. Please let me be just ordinary, like you.

  Watching the pygmies gives me an idea though. Blow pipes!

  Pygmies don't have guns. They couldn't. No pockets you see to put the bullets in. Well I suppose they could have little bags, but the idea of a pygmy with a handbag just doesn't seem right somehow. Anyway they don't have shops, or money, so even if they did have pockets they couldn't afford guns. So they use blowpipes instead. Big ones, about ten feet long. Funny that, why such little people should invent such a big weapon. You'd think they would have invented something smaller, like a catapult maybe.

  Anyway, it seems they spend years hollowing out long pipes and then they blow little poisoned darts at their prey. Now where do they keep the little darts? Perhaps they do have pockets after all, in those little loin cloths. Yes, I guess that must be it. They don't really have anywhere else.

  I couldn't afford to spend years hollowing out a pipe, of course. Even my Black and Decker wouldn't help much. The drills are too short. But I do have a length of copper tubing in the garage, left over from doing the central heating. It must be at least eight feet long. I'm sure that it would do just as well as a hollowed log. I haven't seen it recently though. I hope it's still there.

  "You haven't noticed if that copper tube is still in the garage, have you?" I ask Gail.

  She is half asleep over her marking. "Sorry," she says, coming to. "Did you say something?"

  "Not about a blowpipe. No," I reply.

  "What about a blowpipe?"

  "Haven't got one, I'm afraid. Why are you asking?"

  "I'm not asking, Tom. It was you asking me about a blowpipe."

  "No. No. I was asking about a copper pipe. In the garage. You must be thinking about the pygmies that we watched earlier."

  "Sometimes I don't follow you at all, Tom. Why are you asking me about a copper pipe?"

  "Oh, no reason. No reason at all. I think I'll just pop out and tidy the garage."

  "But, Tom, it's past eleven o'clock. Why on earth do you want to tidy the garage at this time of night?"

  "Just feel wide awake, I suppose. Been meaning to do it for ages. I'll just pop out and make a start. Won't be long. Just a token really. About five minutes I should think. Then I'll be ready for bed."

  "Well if you must, Tom. But do remember that you are still wearing your suit."

  I find the pipe almost immediately. It seems to have got a bit bent. It must have been propped up in the corner for years, and it has obviously sagged. I pick it up and squint along the length. Yes, quite a pronounced curve. I'll either have to straighten it or, perhaps, aim a bit to one side. I give an experimental blow down the tube. Clouds of dust shoot out the end, and a rather startled spider scuttles out of sight into the corner. Yes, I reckon this will do. Just need to find some darts now.

  When I go back indoors, Gail is tidying away her school books and making ready to go to bed. "Oh Tom!" she says. "You're filthy. I told you not to go out there in your suit. What have you been doing? And how on earth did you manage to get a black ring around your eye and mouth?"

  ***
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  Geoffrey checked the name and address in his diary for the tenth time that evening. He had no need to check. He could remember the details without having to refer to his diary. Everything was going splendidly to plan. He had had qualms at the beginning. Indeed it had taken him a long time to raise the courage to get started, but now that the beginning was begun, so to speak, he had no doubts that he would see it through to the end. In fact it wouldn't be an end at all. More like a beginning. "Yes," he thought to himself. "Think of it as a beginning."

  He put the diary back into his pocket and hummed a small tune to himself as he scanned the TV page of the newspaper to see what he would watch tonight. He glanced at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Yes, he would probably watch for a couple of hours before finally going up to bed.

  ***

  I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling. Gail is already asleep. I tried to cuddle her when she came up to bed, but she went to sleep within minutes of getting in beside me. Just like the previous night. And the one before. And the one before. She didn't resist my cuddles, just sort of accepted them without any kind of reaction at all.

  As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I see the shadow pictures moving on the wall again, synchronised with her breathing. My mind, though, is working on weightier matters than shadow pictures tonight.

  I have my blowpipe, now all I need are the darts. I wonder what I could use. Unlikely to be able to walk into to town and buy anything. Anyway it would attract too much attention.

  "Good morning Sir, and how may I help you?"

  "I was wondering whether you stocked darts?"

  "Would that be for throwing or blowing, Sir?"

  "Oh, blowing, I would think. Yes, definitely the blowing kind."

  "Tipped or untipped, Sir?"

  "Pardon? What's the difference? This is my first time you know. Haven't really got the hang of the jargon yet."

  "That's quite alright, Sir. That's what I'm here for. To help you."

  "And to take the money, of course."

  “Pardon, Sir?”

  “And to take the money. That’s why you’re here as well. It’s the main reason really. No point in helping people if you don’t take the money too. Soon go out of business that way. Yes, I’d certainly say that taking the money was even more important than helping people, wouldn’t you?”

  "Yes, Sir. Of course."

  "In fact taking the money is the most important thing you do I expect."