Digger

My great-grandfather worked on the Black Gang digging tunnels beneath the river; a big man man whose wife regularly bent pokers over his head when they argued - if you can call his enduring silence one side of an argument, that is. He enjoyed nothing more than his peace and quiet, especially of a Saturday evening, when he would sit by the coal fire, his boots off, a clay pipe in his mouth and the evening paper open for inspection. They lived on the second floor of an East End tenement, and the front door was always open and perhaps it was no suprise that one Saturday a drunk, mistaking the tenement for his own, wandered in, sat down in the other armchair and began loudly demanding his supper. The old lady, wielder of pokers and skilled worker with the frying pan, gave him the 'sling yer 'ook' message, but he still demanded some grub. This carried on, and obviously for too long as far as the Ol Man was concerned. He carefully folded the newspaper, knocked his pipe out on the hearth, got
out of the chair and approached the drunk. He looked him up and down for a moment or two, shook his head more in dismay than despair, and, gathering the interloper's lapels in one big fist, lifted him out of the chair, off his feet and out onto the landing. There, he looked him up and down once more; the corners of his mouth turned down slightly as he estimated the worth of the josser who had obviously not spent the whole day underground. One heave, and he was suspended over the stairwell. The Old Man gave him one last look, straight in the eye, and released his grip. Without waiting for the thud of the man hitting the ground two floors below, he returned to his armchair, stuck the pipe back in his mouth, reopened the paper, and waited for his supper.

Da Coda

The fat man sat hunched over the keyboard, concentrating, struggling to play the piece. Each time he got it wrong he returned to the beginning, determined to play the whole piece, just once, flawlessly.

The metronome stopped its tick-tack-ticking. He stood up, his joints protesting at having been in one position for so long, rewound the metronome, returned to his position and recommenced his practice...

‘If I had only’, he thought to himself for the oh, how many-th time? ‘If I had only… no. Not “I” – if She had only.’ He squinted, concentrated on getting the sequence right, a bead of sweat slugtrailing its way down his nose to fall and land with a fat, silent splash on the keys.

‘Practice makes perfect, practice makes perfect, but She’, he glanced over at the still form of his mother, ‘She “couldn’t stand the noise” – not after one of her special evenings’.

‘But then, every evening was one of your special evenings, wasn’t it?’ This last sentence, spoken aloud, broke his discipline. Losing his place, he had to start the sequence all over again.

‘If I had only… if I had only practiced, I could have been, I should have been… the great Marcus Seasalter, Marcus Seasalter the maestro, maestro Marcus Seasalter, piano virtuoso, if I had only… no. Not “I” – if She had only.’

The metronome stopped its tu-tu-tutting. He went across to it, his joints protesting, rewound it, resumed his position and recommenced.

‘I could have been, I should have been…’

In his imagination he saw himself, white-tailcoating his way across the stage to the grandest of grand pianos, there to take his place and play his signature piece.

‘Couldn’t stand the noise so she locked my piano away, locked it away, and wouldn’t let me play.’ And now, out loud again, ‘But now I have the key, and now I am playing, aren’t I, Mother? And what do you think of my playing?’

He almost smiled as Mother rocked her head in time to the music, almost smiled and then remembered that he had promised himself never to smile for her again.

‘I should have been the great Marcus Seasalter, on stage at the Albert Hall, the whole world at my fingertips, but She couldn’t stand the noise. If only I had practiced, if only She…’

The metronome stopped its pic-pic-picking. He went across to it, his knees cramped with biting pain.

‘If I had only’, he thought to himself for the oh, how many-th time? ‘If I had only… no. Not “I” – if She had only.’ He closed his eyes, visualizing the sequence of notes, determined on getting them right.

‘If She had only…’

Coda: getting no response to their knocks, the police forced the door. From the recesses of the house they heard a muttered mantra. They pushed open the door to the back room, searching for the source of the noise.

The first thing they saw was the woman. No; fairer to say that the first thing they smelled was the woman. She had evidently been dead for a number of days, her flesh mottled green and white like a succulent plant that has remained unwatered too long. In her cupped hands, rigid with rigor mortis, she held the base of a metronome. Its spike had been forced up through the soft underside of her chin into the interior of her skull where its regular to-and-froing kept her head, on its broken neck, bobbing from side-to-side in a parody of musical appreciation. And in the corner…

The fat man sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a keyboard, struggling to play. Each time he got it wrong he returned to the beginning, determined to play the whole piece, just once, flawlessly. As he hit the keys he repeated over and over the notes he played; ‘B, A, D. B, A, D.’

And the mechanism of the ‘Tiny Tots First Tunes Piano’ (“Twelve Real Notes To Set Your Child On The Road To Musical Accomplishment” the box declared, “Contains moving parts. Not suitable for under 18 months. Made in China.”), the mechanism of the toy, sticky with blood, sweat and shreds of man-meat continued bravely to offer a muffled response to the pressure of the tips of his fingers, worn bare of flesh now so that ivory bone clicked on imitation ivory keys: B, A, D; B, A, D…

The Woman Who Looked Like A tree

From every direction, she looked like a tree. She tried to speak, but no-one would hear her. Every day she prayed for deliverance.
And then a handsome woodsman passed by and saw her. He admired her beauty, and caressed her.
“You,” he said, “will make a handsome addition to my household,” and swung his axe.
As she lay dying, she realised; she had never been a woman at all.

Pee-wee's Wrong Time Wragtime

Pee-wee got a position as a jazz musician at a joint called Jumpin’ Joe’s
So he put new strings on his second-hand Fender and dressed in his hep-cat clothes.
He played up a sweat and in between sets he was sat at the bar all alone
When up came a gal with a five o’clock shadow who spoke in baritone.
She said: “Me, oh my, now Pee-wee honey, you caught my eye.
How about some conversation? Can I show you where I’m gonna have my operation?”
And Pee-wee said…
“Now hold on, sister, you look more like a Mister, and I think that’s how you were born.
I’m a one-string virtuoso, and I sure don’t play no horn”
She said “How you gonna fight me, when you weight about ninety, and I weight three-nine-nine?”
Poor little Pee-wee. How come he be in the wrong place, wrong time?

Now Pee-wee walking down a red-light street saw a sign said “We sell books”
He was holdin’ foldin’ in his pocket, so he thought he’d take a look.
Well the stairs were steep and the lights were dim and the customers all wore macs,
And the books were wrapped in plastic, all sitting on the racks.
Then a man with a gun said “I’m from Precint Eightyone.
Let’s go down to the station, tell the District Attorney your explanation.”
And Pee-wee said…
“I collect books by Kurt Vonnegut, I thought that I was gonna get a First Edition.
I was just building a collection, now I’m looking at a stretch and no chance of remission”.
The cop said “Man, you’re in luck, slip me a double sawbuck and I can turn a blind eye to your crime”
Poor little Pee-wee. How come he be in the wrong place, wrong time?

Now Pee-wee met a woman and married her the very same day.
She spent all his money, drank all his booze, stole his car and drove away.
Now he forgot all about her until she turned up knockin’ at the door
With an order from the court for child support for a kid he never seen before.
He said “That kid ain’t mine – you ain’t been around for twelve years and the kid ain’t nine”
She said “For your information, it was a very long gestation’
And Pee-Wee said…
“You can’t collect on me, I had a vasectomy in nineteen-eightyfour.
Don’t blame it on this pistol – I don’t shoot live rounds no more”
She said “You had your fun, I had your kid, now I’ll have your last thin dime”
Poor little Pee-wee, how come he be in the wrong place, wrong time?

Postcard

I wrote my heart's thought on a postcard, and then I wrote your name.
I didn’t sign it or address it, but sent it just the same.
If you find a postcard on your doormat, the message will be clear.
You won’t know that I wish it but still-
“Wish you were here”.