by KUBOA
***
The decision was reckless. Frank never drank during the week. Every evening he returned home from his job making envelopes so he could cook for Audrey. Upon leaving the envelope factory that night, he had descended the factory stairwell and recalled with every step how much he had given to make Audrey’s life so very special. There were sixty-two steps in that stairwell, and Frank remembered a display and grand show of affection for each. From the crimson roses placed upon the eiderdown, stem and petal fashioned into her name, to the impromptu trip to Rome so she could see the Vatican, a place she revered as much as life itself. Even the smaller gestures, like how he scraped the dead skin from her heel and cut her toenails every Sunday evening; or how he always opened the door and offered the only chair on the bus, even though his gout would be playing up. Thirty years of marriage, a model husband, never once straying. Sixty-two steps later, Frank decided to get drunk.
From the envelope factory to his home, Frank passed two shops, a Caribbean fast food take away called Jamaican-Me Hungry and a hairdressers called Curl Up And Dye. He took great interest in their names, and once explained to Audrey, albeit too poetically for her, that the boundary of comedy remains feral with the pun. Every Friday he purchased haddock and chips from a chippy called The Codfather, and spent each Saturday morning picking out ripe tomatoes from a fruit and veg shop called Melon Cauli. His shoes were from R. Soles, and all the roses used to sprinkle on the bed as a romantic gesture to Audrey were from a flower shop called Florist Gump. Names became a big thing whenever Frank chose to do anything, which is why that night he felt there would be no better place to drink than in the public house named, Nobody Inn.
A lofty and uncluttered looking man stood behind the bar cleaning a glass, his figure casting a shadow on the wall that resembled more of a tree than the human frame. A widow’s peak pointed towards a Neanderthal brow. Basin eyes held no reflection of light, and from a soft, almost feminine mouth, deep ravines ran through chin and cheek like pillow marks. When the barman saw Frank enter, he began pouring a beer.
“It’s Frank, right?” said the barman placing the full pint on the bar.
Frank looked to see if he was still wearing his nametag shaped into a little envelope, but it was safely tucked away in his pocket
“Do we know each other?”
The barman smiled, “Less than we will when you’ve finished that drink.”
Frank looked at the pint and settled into one of the seats at the bar. He took a hit and placed it back onto a beer mat.
“Cold,” said Frank wiping his mouth.
“German.”
Frank was a man hushed by discomfort. Despite the fact that only inches separated his brain from his vocal chords, the distance might as well have been in miles when thrust into polite conversation. He was, by his own admission, a man who chose silence over noise. When he was nine years old, his father bought him a replica Tommy gun and Frank spent the day taking it to pieces so to remove the trigger mechanism that made the gun noise. The neighbours saw him tiptoeing around his back garden later that afternoon with gun in hand, mouth wide open as though screaming, yet mute as a fish. He met Audrey in a library. She shushed him when he dropped an anniversary edition of the Guinness Book of Records. He knew then he was going to marry her. They complemented each other in ways that would puzzle many. They had both owned goldfish that shared the same name, Marcel, after the famous French mime artist. Neither Frank nor Audrey owned a TV. They read. Frank was keen on grand human achievements and extremes of the natural world. Audrey preferred anything with no sex in and lots of misery. In the winter months, Frank walked home from the envelope factory and marvelled at the colour of his skin under the sodium street lamps. Audrey’s favourite colour: orange. Both spent, unbeknownst to the other, the first fall of autumn kicking the dying leaves just to hear them shush their reproach. On the odd occasion when they had sex, Audrey never made a sound. At weekends, they spent every Sunday morning oiling the bedsprings. Audrey did not sneeze loudly, but squeaked, and enjoyed the sound of a bath running. Frank liked being submerged in water, the world muted beyond, which is why Frank took the job at the envelope factory. Cutting paper and applying glue to the edge of each tiny envelope is laborious but satisfying a job for one wishing to block the world out. His office was only as big as a toilet stall, enough space for him, a table and chair. On the wall opposite was a small slot where paper was dispatched. Frank took this paper, folded it accordingly and applied the glue to its lip. He never knew where the paper came from and never thought to ask.
“There are usually more people here,” said the barman. “Doesn’t really get lively in here till after nine. Just last night we had, well, it must have been about six people in all. I was rushed off my feet. But I like it when it’s like this. Quiet.”
Frank nodded.
“You work at the envelope factory, right?” asked the barman.
“How’d you know that?”
“I’m stalking you. Only joking. I see you pass here every night. Sometimes I’m outside, sweeping the pavement when you pass and I once clocked your name tag. You can also smell the polyvinyl alcohol and dextrin on your coat. Figured you either work at a glue factory, or the envelope factory down the road.”
“You’re like a regular Sherlock Holmes.”
“Not really. I used to work at a place where they made stamps. The same glue they use on envelopes is the same for stamps. You don’t forget a smell like that.”
“Still, it’s very impressive.”
“What’s really going to melt your head is that I know why you came in tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Audrey, right?”
Frank sank into his seat, brow buckling under the weight of confusion.
“I’ll level with you,” said the barman. “I never worked at a stamp factory, and no, I never saw your name tag. I know all these details because it’s in my interest to help you.”
“Why do you think I need help?”
“It’s a little past six on a Wednesday night and you’ve entered a pub in your work clothes. It didn’t bother you that no one was in here. Generally speaking, any person willing to sit in a pub alone means they’re desperate to stay away from someplace, or someone.”
“I could be meeting someone here.”
“Come on, Frank. You’re here because Audrey won’t fuck you anymore.”
Frank got up from his seat and began to back out towards the door.
“Look, Mr…I don’t know what kind of place this is, or what planet you’re from, but I don’t care too much for your tongue.”
“Sit back down, Frank. I’m here to help you. You need to see this as an opportunity. Not many people get chances like this.”
“Chances?”
“Consider me like the genie. You know that story, right?”
Frank nodded.
“Well, like the genie I can grant you a wish, Frank. Anything you want.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Not at all. But here’s the thing: the wish can only help improve the reason why you came in here to begin with. For example, you could, if you wanted, wish for a lot of money, but only if what brought you in here was debt. You could wish for the health of your child, if you came in here because you were depressed after you found out they are dying. You understand? Now, because you’re not getting any at home, may I make a suggestion? Perhaps your wish might involve another woman. Like a nymphomaniac, but a classy one.”
“No, no, no. I could never cheat on my wife.”
“It wouldn’t technically be cheating. She would only exist to you. No one else would see her.”
“Still, it wouldn’t be right.”
Frank walked back over to the bar and sat down. He took another drink and wiped his lips o
n his sleeve.
“The thing is,” said Frank, almost bending towards the barman as if wanting no one else in the pub to hear. “I still love her.”
The barman gazed at Frank for a moment before replying, “That’s sweet, Frank. She’s giving you nothing and you still love her. Not many men would be so accommodating.”
“I think things would be great if only Audrey was a little more…”
“Horny?”
“Yes.”
“Then that can be your wish, Frank.”
Frank’s eyed widened.
“You can do that?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Frank lowered his head, a veil of apprehension etching more lines into his eyes and forehead.
“What is it, Frank?”
“Could you…”
“What?”
“Nah. Horny is fine.”
“No tell me. Remember, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You can’t have any regrets.”
“Well, would it be possible, at all, to make her… slimmer? Not too slim, but you know, more…”
“Amazonian?”
“Do they have…?”
Frank cupped his hands and held them about 12 inches from his chest.
“Hell yeah.”
“Amazonian you say?”
“Is that it?”
“Yes. So, what happens now?”
“Tomorrow, after work, you come back here with a picture of Audrey. A recent one. You’ll take that into the back room over there.”
The barman pointed to a door that said: Restricted – Staff only.
“You’ll place the picture on the far back wall. When you do, make your wish. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Frank finished his drink. He walked home and thought about what had happened in the pub, and while dubious that a simple barman could grant him a wish, there was a part of Frank that wished it was true.
The next evening Frank returned to the pub, which again was empty. The barman was waiting at the bar with a cool beer. Frank walked over, reached into his top pocket, and pulled out a picture of Audrey that he took when they went to Clacton-on-Sea a few months ago. The humidity from the train journey had caused her fine blonde hair to frizz, and the cool ocean wind had puffed it up turning it wispy and translucent in places. The sunlight blanched her skin, and the once youthful eyes had gained more rings than an aged oak tree. When the barman held the picture in front of him his expression took on a mix of repulsion and pity. He handed it back to Frank and walked him towards the restricted door.
“Remember,” said the barman, hand poised over the door handle, “place it on the wall furthest away. As you attach it, make your wish.”
“Wait. What do I use to attach the picture to the wall?”
“To your right there’s a small table when you enter. You’ll find a nail and a hammer on it.”
The barman turned the handle and opened the door.
The door’s hinges cried out like a stomach undergoing the pangs of hunger, and the breath of something nearing extinction floated out of the darkened room and up each of Frank’s nostrils. Frank hesitated at the door’s threshold, and if not for the gentle push by the barman, he may never have crossed its divide so willingly. The room was very large, much larger than Frank assumed it would be from the outside. The only light came from three exposed bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The walls either side of him were decorated with photographs of faces, hundreds of them, all pinned to the wall by nails. Frank found the table with the hammer and nail and picked them up as he was told. He walked towards the far wall, guided by a runway of sallow conical light. The back wall was far bigger than the two sidewalls. Much higher, too. Dimensionally, it did not fit within the room. The flanking walls were at least half the height of the back wall, yet the ceiling adjoined all three. Frank assumed it was an optical illusion created by the light. Or that the barman had created a kind of narrowing corridor effect like you see in funhouses. Frank walked over and knelt down before the wall. With hammer in hand, he placed the picture of Audrey against the brick, positioned the nail, and drove it through her head. In his mind, he said, Amazonian horny wife. Amazonian horny wife.