A Million Versions of Right

by Matthew Revert

  * * * * *

  I choose not to shower after I wake up. I’m steeped in Nadia’s scent and I feel safe that way. Nadia returns to sleep on the couch after calling in sick. I’d follow her lead if my position at work wasn’t so vulnerable. I move in for a goodbye kiss, inhaling her morning breath deeply. She smiles warmly at me before drifting back off. I stop to stare at her one last time before leaving for another day of demeaning, disempowering labour.

  I arrive at work dishevelled but on time. It appears my next assignment is a residential wall. We don’t usually get residential assignments and the fact I’ve been handed it has me thinking that I’m getting wound down, faded out. Give Michael the ephemeral shit while the real employees focus on the commercial walls. I fill out the necessary paperwork and head back to the train station.

  My mobile rings half way through the trip. It’s Mr. Hayes.

  “Michael! How are you today?”

  “On my way to the job I was assigned, sir. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”

  “No rush, no rush. Treat yourself to a nice cup of coffee on the way.”

  The smarmy bastard!

  “I personally requested you for this job, Michael.”

  “You did, sir?” I feel like saying, ‘no shit!’

  “Yes I did, Michael. I like you and I would like nothing more than for you to succeed. This residential address is a shoe in!”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “The house I’m sending you to is nearly ninety years old! Those walls have had plenty of time to suck up some emotional waste. You can’t fail. I doubt whether you’ll even have to insult them, just tip your hat. The meter readings will be off the chart!”

  “I’m not wearing a hat sir.”

  “Michael, you really crack me up! I’ll talk to you soon sport. Don’t disappoint me!”

  “I’ll endeavour to do my best s…” He hangs up before I finish the sentence. What a cunt!

  I turn into a small residential street lined with large oak trees that form a canopy of sorts. The whole damn place is doused in shade and sickening happiness. The street itself is quite short and I reach my destination in a matter of minutes despite my amble. On the way I step on a dead bird. I consider this an omen, although I can’t decipher it. The house in question certainly looks as old as Mr. Hayes said it was. I half expect him to be waiting inside with a stopwatch saying, this was a test and you’re late! I wouldn’t put it past the prick. I pass through a decrepit wooden gate that still holds endless charm despite its decay. The front garden is noticeably overgrown, yet it feels deliberate.

  The elderly lady who answers the door smiles warmly before proclaiming, “Astenburger is a wonderful man. Thank you ever so much for coming.”

  Great, who else but an Astenburger nut would pay for this sham service? I keep these thoughts to myself and slide past her fat thighs. The house smells like a holding cell for those about to die. I attempt to enter my ‘professional’ mode, which to my critical ears sounds painfully forced.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Webber, I’m Michael. It’s always a delight to meet Astenburger admirers among the general public.”

  In my head I envision my clone performing a sloppy operation on me. Afterward my family gather to celebrate my transformation into the world’s most pathetic eunuch.

  “My husband and I have been avid followers of Mr. Astenburger for many years now.”

  I nod politely. What else can I do?

  “Which wall will I be working on today, Mrs Webber?”

  She claps her wrinkled hands together joyously. “Follow me! T his way, this way!”

  Mrs Webber has more life and energy at 80 than I’ve ever had. If she dropped into the splits I wouldn’t be surprised. A childish desire to push her over rapes my mind. I slap the thought hard, putting it to rest.

  I follow Mrs Webber through a long hallway into a well lit, sparsely furnished room. She gestures to a large wall and begins to reel off her story while I set up the instrumentation. I pay little attention. It takes on the ambience of muzak.

  “That wall you’re looking at has quite an incredible history. I’ve lived in this very house since the day I was born. My father built this house with his bare hands. Do you have any idea what dedication such an act entails? Of course you don’t! The younger generations are all impatient and lazy – no offence intended. It’s just that you all want things right away – now! You’re all more willing to pay someone else to do the job for you than to do it yourself. That’s all by the by I suppose.

  “My father, god bless him, lost something in that wall. My father was obsessed with limes, had been ever since he was a nipper, or so I’m told. He had a tree out back in his childhood home. He loved that dear tree. He was never happier than when he was harvesting limes. He was involved in a never-ending search for the perfect lime. At least he thought his search would be never-ending. Shortly before the construction of this house began he ventured to the very same lime tree from childhood for one last harvest. Like a gift from god he saw it – the perfect lime! Did he snatch it up? Yes, indeed he did! In the weeks leading up to the construction of this house, he wouldn’t be seen without that lime in his proud, working man’s hands.

  “That’s not even the best part. When I was a little girl he’d tell me that he discovered the perfect way to preserve the lime. He claimed that it would NEVER rot! Can you believe it? Apparently the perfection inherent in that lime imbued him with a complex theoretical capacity. He was able to adapt and execute this preservation method in a matter of days. Something must have happened along the way though – I never did see the lime. My father told me he lost it. Simple as that! I’ve spent my entire life contemplating that lime. You want to hear my theory? Of course you do! I believe that somehow during the construction of that wall, the wall you’re here to test, the lime became trapped.

  I’d bet my bottom dollar that waiting inside that wall is a pristine lime, preserved to perfection! I never did have the heart to tear it down though. If it’s in there, it’ll communicate with us! I’m counting on Astenburger’s methods to make contact with my father’s crowning achievement.”

  I stare up at Mrs Webber, who is still lost inside her vacuous fantasies. I want to be anywhere but here. The instrumentation has been set up and I appear to be sipping from a cup of tea I don’t remember being given. Mrs Webber’s ponderous story largely washed over me but I heard the word limes mentioned on numerous occasions. She seems nice enough, a bit starved for attention perhaps. Sexually speaking I wouldn’t want anything to do with her – I don’t even know why I’m thinking about it. She’s still standing politely just outside of my field of vision. I have to get her out.

  “Sorry Mrs Webber, it’s not permitted for clients to witness the process. I hope you understand.”

  She looks disappointed but she nods warmly and leaves me alone.

  I feel self-conscious about screaming profanity with elderly ears in the adjacent room. My insults come across more as whispered suggestions.

  “Hey flatty. Would you mind giving me a response? I’m about to be fired don’t you know? I’ll rub my cock on you. That’ll get you going, you garden hat.”

  I take a step back. I’m clearly just embarrassing myself. As the day bleeds on I spend more time contemplating the wall than actually insulting it. I visualise it as a manifestation of my employment. It sprouts great wings and flies away like a toaster on a screensaver. My waning motivation concocts images of me attempting to capture the wall with a butterfly net. I get within striking distance, swing the net with all my strength and watch as it shatters upon impact. Shards of twisted metal skewer my body. I retrieve a white, blood stained flag from my pocket and wave it about. I surrender! The wall comes crashing down, the growing shadow darkening my world. Pitch black.

  * * * * *

  I arrive home after another shitful day and find Nadia once more in darkness, the headphones secured to her ears with masking tape. She claims that the headphon
e masturbation is evolving into an obsession. I ask politely if I can spend some time with the headphones to which she begrudgingly agrees. For the next hour I absorb the masturbation cathartically as Nadia watches impatiently. Rather than reclaim the headphones afterward, she throws me against the wall and violently pulls down my jeans. For the first time in months she gives me a blowjob – probably the best blowjob I’ve had in years. It’s as if her life depends on it; as if she’s trying to swallow me whole.

  For inexplicable reasons, Mrs Webber enters my headspace several times throughout. I shake her visage away as best I can. Nadia’s mouth is firmly clamped around me when I ejaculate. After she swallows, she slowly stands up, looking confused. To my bewilderment, Nadia claims that my semen tastes exactly like limejuice. I shrug it off as a psychological distortion on Nadia’s part until she exhumes a lime pip that has mysteriously wedged itself toward the back of her mouth.

  The rest of the night is spent taking turns with the headphones while the other watches. I leave Nadia with the headphones while I make my way wearily to work.

  * * * * *

  “Do we have anything yet?”

  Mrs Webber looks hopeful. She reminds me of a child, a child I was about to disappoint.

  “Sorry Mrs Webber, it will take a couple of days for the preliminary data to be analysed. You’ll receive a full report bearing Astenburger’s insignia.”

  Although it clearly isn’t the answer she’s looking for, the mention of Astenburger’s insignia sets her eyes alight. Mrs Webber ponders the thought for a while and suddenly starts sniffing the air like a hungry cat.

  “You know something, Michael? You smell more strongly of sex than anyone I’ve ever met. I can almost see the sex wafting from you.” How do I respond to a comment like that? I stand dumbfounded for some time.

  “I haven’t showered in a couple of days”

  “It doesn’t offend me any but I’d recommend a basic hygiene regimen. Especially when you consider that you’re representing Astenburger.”

  “I’ll certainly keep that in mind, Mrs Webber.” I make my way hurriedly over to the wall and arrange the instrumentation haphazardly. Mrs Webber voluntarily leaves the room. Once more I have a cup of tea in my hand I don’t remember being given. I stare the wall down confrontationally.

  “I will break you, you fucking son of a bitch! I’ll poke your tits out with a dirty spoon and feed them to your mother. I WILL BREAK YOU!!!”

  This continues for some time before my hoarse voice gives up. I seek Mrs Webber out. I have an uncontrollable urge to ask her a few questions. She’s on the toilet, door wide open. She looks terrified.

  “What are you doing? Get out of here!”

  “I just have a few fucking questions, Mrs Webber.”

  “Are you going to rape me?”

  “NO! I am not going to rape you. I just have some simple questions I need you to answer.”

  “At least allow me my decency.”

  “You get your fucking decency AFTER I’ve asked you the questions.”

  She begins to sob in that inimitable way elderly ladies do.

  “Look, stop crying. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Just ask your questions and leave me be.”

  I get right to the point. “Why do you believe Astenburger’s bullshit theories? What evidence out there suggests that any of this is even remotely true?”

  “More to the point, what are you doing working for Astenburger when you clearly don’t believe in his theories?”

  “It’s a job – people need money – I’M PEOPLE, MRS WEBBER!!!”

  “Are you going to rape me?”

  “NO!!! I’M NOT GOING TO FUCKING RAPE YOU!!!”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? I’ll tell you why the fuck not: because I DON’T rape people. Get that out of your fried mind.”

  “Is it because you find me unattractive? Is that it?”

  “No, it’s because I don’t believe rape will get me anywhere. I have no desire for power over anyone. Plus, let’s be honest, Mrs Webber, you’re old. I don’t make a habit of fucking people more than twice my age.”

  “If I asked you politely, would you rape me?”

  “If you asked me politely it wouldn’t be rape would it!?”

  “Would you consider making love to me? I’m a virgin, Michael. I need love, even if it’s only physical and fleeting.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Webber, there’s no way on earth I could do that.”

  I watch closely as the mood in her cataract-stricken eyes turns cold. I can feel the environmental mood change.

  “How do you think your employer would react when I tell them you harassed me like this? How do you think the Police would react, Michael? You clearly haven’t thought this through.”

  I wince as reality sucker punches me in the gut. The weight of my folly crushes me to dust.

  “How can you be a virgin, Mrs Webber? How does anyone in this day and age stay a virgin? I thought you said you were married?”

  “I’m not of this day and age, Michael. For me, the topic of sex never came up until it was too late. Now, are you going to love me Michael?”

  “There’s a problem that I don’t think you’re considering.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In order for me to ‘make love’ to you, certain physical reactions need to occur that given the circumstances, aren’t probable.”

  “You’re talking about erections aren’t you, Michael?”

  I nod emphatically.

  “Don’t be foolish, you’re more erect than you’ve ever been.”

  I look down at my trouser front and sure enough, my penis is painfully erect. I’m in danger of bursting through my jeans. There isn’t a hint of arousal anywhere in my body, yet physically I’m all ready to go. Perhaps my body is simply trying to save me from myself. Keep me out of harm’s way. I capitulate.

  “Where do you want to do this?”

  “Follow me to the boudoir, Michael.”

  She rises from the toilet without wiping, trousers still at her ankles, and waddles toward the bedroom. I follow.

  * * * * *

  “I need to know that you love me, Nadia. I feel lost and I’m relying on you.”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “I had a horrible day at work. The sort of day I can’t even begin to describe.”

  “I love you more than you’ll ever admit to yourself. I love you so much it causes pain.”

  “Life is horrible pain.”

  “The pain of my love is wonderful.”

  “I need to take the headphones with me to work tomorrow, Nadia.” The look of fear on her eyes drowns my heart.

  “You’ll get them straight back. Please, Nadia, I need them.”

  She paces the room, rubbing her chin with dirty hands. I can already sense that the solution she’s looking for doesn’t exist.

  “You can take them, Michael, I won’t stop you. Please don’t keep them from me. When you’re not here, they’re all I have.”

  I comfort Nadia with everything I have, which admittedly, isn’t much. I stroke her knotted hair and kiss her unwashed neck. She cries into my chest. I feel the warm damp of her tears as they seep into me. I find musical qualities within the crying. As it continues, it strikes me: I haven’t listened to music in days. This is the first time I’ve even thought of it. I spend significant time with the melancholy symphony, willing Nadia’s demons away while ignoring my own. That night we perform acts of unspeakable passion. We can’t stop.

  * * * * *

  I make my way back to Mrs Webber’s. She still appears entranced in post coital bliss. I arrange the usual instrumentation along with the headphones. I ask if she has a portable stereo. She fetches me one immediately.

  “What on earth are you doing, Michael?”

  I ignore the question. I hate her questions. “Can you get me a CD, Mrs Webber?”

  “What CD do you want?”

  “It doesn’t mat
ter. Anything.”

  She spends some time foraging around for a CD that won’t embarrass her. She returns with a pile of five or so. I grab the first one my hand touches, dropping the rest. The plastic clatter elevates Mrs Webber’s anxiety and she takes a cautious step backward. I load the CD roughly, intent on getting the job done. Sleep deprivation retards my coordination and every basic movement becomes a matter of second and third takes. The CD is loaded. I fumble with the headphone jack. On the fifth or sixth attempt I get it plugged in.

  “Michael! What is this? Tell me what it is you’re doing? I could call your supervisor at the drop of a hat.”

  “Shut up or fuck off, Mrs Webber.”

  She takes several more defensive steps backward, finding solace against the adjacent wall. The icons on each stereo button, which indicate the function, have faded with use. I cycle through them all, searching for ‘play’. When I hear that magical sound of the CD whirring into life I pump a fist of internal victory. Holding up the enigmatic headphones against my ears I listen for the masturbation, making sure it isn’t an isolated phenomenon. It isn’t. Wanking fills my headspace instantly. I turn the volume up as far as it will go and press the headphones firmly against the wall.

  “What are you doing now, Michael?”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “When it happens, we’ll both know.”

  An air of excitement buzzes within me as I wait. I have no idea what it is I’m waiting for but I’ll stay here as long as it takes. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I cast my mind to Nadia. She must be pacing the house in a powerful state of insecurity – fuck I love that crazy bitch! She needs the headphones more than me. I feel horrible for depriving her. It’s like scooping a fish from a pond and throwing it on the bank to flop around in agony. It isn’t hard for me to envision Nadia as a helpless fish, drying under the blazing sun. Flopping and flailing in concentric circles as her life ebbs away. I shed a tear which feels like a nail forcing its way through my duct. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I think about my job – I think about all jobs. The lack of purpose chokes me. My bank account remains at a constant level of stifling oppression, willing me to keep going, filling me with fear. How many jobs could be removed from the world without consequence? I’ve never met a single person who does anything worth a damn. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. Sex! This absurd drive, which satisfies for mere moments before we’re compelled to need it again. On more than one occasion I’ve dreamed about tearing my cock off and firing it into hell’s cunt, where it is swallowed and forgotten. My testicles manufacture generations of potential people, all of which die a quick death in a condom or the shower drain. I perform millions of abortions daily and nobody cares. The day my seed grows is the day I owe my sincere apologies to the world…