***
Do you feel sorry for him? He was hurt so badly, and he never understood why. And you look at what he has become. A fine character in himself, but when compared to the boy he was; still, and stagnant, and dull. Could a man like that ever change back into the boy he was? This is the last thing I will show you, by the end, you will know my John.
John stood in his lounge room. The receiver of the phone was hanging off the desk. His mouth was wide open. A voice spoke at the other end of the line.
‘Hello? Hello? John, are you there?’
His sister finally got exasperated.
‘John Verry, you pick up this phone at once.’ His hand came down and he picked up the receiver, placing it next to his ear.
‘Are you there?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘Well, will you come and pick me up from the airport?’
‘Well, Mary, I don’t know, I am very busy at the moment. Couldn’t you get a taxi?’
‘What do you mean you’re busy? What can you be doing? You never leave the house and you are always ahead in everything anyway. Come on John, I haven’t seen you for ages, and I am only down for two days on this conference.’
‘Well, I want to see you too, it’s just that…’
‘It’s just what, John? You’re being silly. Just pick me up from the arrivals lounge at 7pm on Friday. Don’t be late.’
She hung up. John didn’t. He didn’t put the phone on the hook for a very long time. He didn’t do anything for a very long time. Finally the call of nature broke his train of thought, and he walked off to the toilet, phone unnoticed. When he came back, he started to walk around the house, getting ready for dinner. It wasn’t until he placed his kettle in the fridge that he managed to get his attention back on track. What’s wrong John?
‘Oh, it’s you. I don’t know. I just don’t want to go to the airport.’
Why?
He didn’t know, but it wasn’t home, so it wasn’t good.
What’s wrong with not home?
John liked his life. He liked getting up every morning for the news. He didn’t want that to change. He liked knowing exactly what his body did.
But don’t you remember when you thought you could fly?
But he couldn’t, not ever, not really. He was just being childish.
You ran, remember.
No he didn’t, he never made it, his feet never left the ground quite quickly enough. He was just never good enough.
But you could be. The airport, all those people.
Yes, people. John knew about people.
‘Where were you last time?’
John turned away from the author, and walked towards the kitchen door. Beyond was a garden that he never looked at. It had grown weeds, spreading and multiplying, fractals dancing in nature. John looked out, and saw the small maths equations that formed life. The giant trees were choked by the vines that grew up around them. The chest high grasses rustled in the early evening. Small creatures ran through them, causing waves above their heads. The mosquitos hung around the kitchen door, buzzing and whinging, as the murky brown light seeped away. John opened the door and looked out on the chaos of the outside world.
John, what are you thinking? What are you about to do?
John didn’t answer her. He just kept looking out. At some stage a cat must have died in the garden, hidden within the tangle. The smell hung around the back door, trying to find cracks to seep into. John didn’t notice. He had started to sway slightly.
John, this isn’t the end. This isn’t what I wanted to happen.
John turned back to face the author.
‘That, my dear, might be part of the problem. I was never yours anyway. You lost me the day you locked me in a room.’
Buffy could see it just before it happened, but couldn’t yell out any warning. John turned from her and tripped on the cracked doorstep. And he lost himself. It started with a stamp of the foot as he tried to regain balance. Then his hands flew out, his fingers spread out wide. His arm circled wildly as he tried to save himself. As he finally started to fall forwards a smile crept across his face.
‘If only Gene Kelly could see me now.’ He whispered.
Just as the seeded heads started to bend under his weight the wind hit. It had been heard in the distant trees at first, building so no one noticed. A far off car, travelling by on the overpass. But it grew stronger as John had his last conversation. By the time he was saying ‘never’ it had become a helicopter, somewhere above. And as he fell, it swept over the backyard fence and rushed along the grass heads to catch him just in time.
Just before his body lifted off the ground and flew up over the trees, he turned with a smile on his face that crinkled at the edges to meet the tears in his eyes. He looked down on the author that stood in the doorway, staring up at him. He could see her mouth move, but the wind whipped away her words. She grew smaller and then was gone as he floated over the trees. Before him the night sky reflected the millions of glowing lights below. In the distance he could see the dark patches that were mountains. He had always wanted to see the mountains, from above.
John, where are you going? This is not the end, come back!
He turned and waved to me. I remember that much. I watched him disappear over the tall trees brightened by the kitchen door light, and off into the darkness.
I stood in that house for a while, with its lino floored kitchen and seventies cupboards. The house began to cool down, it creaked as it settled into its new position of ‘abandoned’. I walked out of the kitchen, through the TV room, and to the front door. I hung up the phone, which had been softly beeping its engaged signal, and grabbed my hat from the coat stand. All the lights were still on but the sound had gone. It might wait for him to come back, though I hope not, because I don’t think he is coming back, somehow. I walked out of the door, closing it behind me, and out onto the blue lit street. You can see me now, walking off into the distance, the hat pulled down over my eyes, and a large overcoat on. I have my hands in my pockets, just for effect.
***
If you enjoyed this little play with words, why not try something similar yourself? The Five Day Writer’s Retreat by Buffy Greentree will give you the practical tools you need to find time and energy to become a prolific writer. Or visit my blog at www.100firstdrafts.com to see more of my writing.
John Verry Page 4