Paul KAVANAGH
Paul Kavanagh wished he lived in a Frank Lloyd Wright house on Lake Michigan—but he doesn't. He once lived in Canterbury—now he is lost in Indiana. Paul Kavanagh is happy. His wife is happy. His Cat Stevie is happy.
FAILURE OF THE COMMON MAN
Without warning he had climbed out of the bed and with incivility turned on the light. The light disturbed her equanimity. The light blinded her. The light. She could not believe how rude he was. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and felt compelled to call him an idiot. He had straw in his mouth. He was a true village idiot. She was more perplexed than exasperated when he returned with a hammer in his hand. He was as daft as a brush. This opprobrium would not sail by with impunity; she would crucify him in the morning. Of all the things he had done, this one took the biscuit. She knew he was not sleepwalking; he was just acting the goat. Only he would think of doing DIY at this time. She felt pugnacious, she wanted to slap him, she wanted to go back to sleep. He stood there fatuously before her with the hammer in his hand. DIY was not his thing. What could he do? No, what could he really do? He didn’t even have his slippers on. His feet would be dirty. He would soil the sheets. He never washed the sheets. He couldn’t. Before she could forbid him entrance to the bed he smashed in her head. The hammer was incongruously jutting from the lacuna in her cranium.Mr. Hughes went down stairs, switched on the television and slept on the settee. Three more had been killed. Blown to smithereens! In the morning he sipped a cup of coffee and watched the news. Cream and sugar. Lots of sugar. They had tortured them with electric shocks and feral dogs. After this he phoned his wife’s work place and informed them that she had gone to stay at her mother’s home. The mother was dying of cancer. The cancer was everywhere. Her mother smelt bad. Rotting from the inside. Smoking is truly bad for you. It was a sad time. Three hours it would take his wife to fly from Indiana to Florida. She would fly out of Gary. Yes, Gary now did flights to Florida; it was a cozy airport. Gary wasn’t that bad. Every city is the same on the inside. It was less hassle than going to O’Hare. After work he phoned her book club and informed them that his wife would no longer be apart of the group. He phoned the softball team, the volleyball team and the Wednesday lunch club. He proscribed the obscenity they shared. The book club was always reading pornography. In the shower Mr. Hughes shaved, washed and conditioned his hair, masturbated, and washed under his armpits.
Back in the bedroom the hammer was no longer incongruous, it was now a mundane appendage. The blood had coagulated, flaked and dispersed. The serenity upon her countenance pleased him. If it weren’t for work he would have kept her company. After work he enjoyed Wendy’s and refilled on diet coke for the ride home. For some reason he had forgot to fill the cup up with ice. It wasn’t like him. The drink would be tepid by the time he got home. It would take him an hour. It was rush hour. He thought about filling up the tank, but the price of gas went up for the weekend and with the war the price had doubled.
Mr. Hughes watched a rerun of the Brady Bunch. He laughed. He laughed loudly. He laughed obstreperously. He undid his tie. He undid his tie. He undid his tie coquettishly. He consumed pork chops. The pork chops she had purchased from Wal-Mart. He drank three and a half cups of coffee. The coffee was saccharine. The equanimity was disturbed by a phone call. It was a wrong number. A wrong number. He left the house and picked up her prescription. The lady was affable. He thought about asking her to go out with him for a drink. He would next time, he told himself assertively. On the way home he had Dairy Queen. He dexterously drove and consumed simultaneously.
The room was in darkness. She was obfuscated. He closed the door and undressed on the landing. He left the clothes desultorily behind him on the carpet. In the shower Mr. Hughes lathered, washed and conditioned his hair, masturbated, and washed under his armpits. Mr. Hughes went down stairs, switched on the television and slept on the settee. To see the screen he had to move. To see the screen he had to lift up his arm. With his hand he pushed onerously to the side the plates and empty cups. Four more had been killed. Blown to smithereens! They had tortured them with electric shocks and feral dogs. The equanimity of his slumber was disturbed by a phone call. It was a wrong number. A wrong number. He drank two and a half cups of coffee. He was bored so he went to Dairy Queen. He dexterously drove and consumed simultaneously. The night looked no different. Though, the Press said the President had been mendacious. The lawn would need cutting; he would do it at the weekend, before the game.
He unlocked his car when suddenly it dawned upon him that he had not taken a shower. He berated himself. Ephemeral. He had lost track of time. A hurricane was sweeping through Florida. Winds up to a hundred and fifty. Hundred and fifty.
After work Mr. Hughes enjoyed Taco Bell and refilled on coke for the ride home. He could not believe he didn’t get Diet. Weight was a problem. Problem. Obesity was a plague. The outside is so different. But inside. Rotting. All cities are the same on the inside. The same streets. The same shops. Taco Bell. Wal-Mart. Coke. Diet. Ice. It would take him an hour. It was rush hour. Hour. He thought about filling up the tank, but the price of gas went up for the weekend and with the war the price had doubled. Doubled. On the way home he had Dairy Queen. He dexterously drove and consumed simultaneously. The Evening looked no different. He closed the front door and undressed on the stairs. He left the clothes desultorily behind him on the stairs. In the shower Mr. Hughes lathered, washed and conditioned his hair, masturbated, and washed under his armpits. Mr. Hughes went down stairs, switched on the television. He was perplexed as to what he should do next. Should he take her out of the house and bury her? That would be a long, strenuous job and Mr. Hughes was not one for a long strenuous job. Would the dogs, birds and other wildlife devour the carrion, leaving no her for the police? Police never came this way, so it was possible for the dogs, birds and other wildlife to devour the carrion before the police would be at the scene. He knew he would get away Scot-free. The papers, if she was found, which was hardly, would say she fell, or hung himself, or that she died of food poison. The glutton! Nobody cared. Weight was a problem. Problem. Obesity was a plague. The outside is so different. But inside. Rotting. All cities are the same on the inside. The same streets. The same shops. Taco Bell. Wal-Mart. Coke. Diet. Ice. It would take him an hour.
But an hour. He could not comprehend the commotion that murder spawned, for her limp body was in complete tranquility. And this tranquility to him was a good thing. A good thing. There was a dignity to her body, which there was not in life, she was not weeping, micturating loudly with the door open, begging for dollars, in the act of defecation, scraping the muck from her begrimed carcass, consuming and defecating. The body was not screaming murder and there would be no vengeance. She was now just a lump of flesh, water, blood, sinews and bones. If there had been a soul, it was long gone. Long gone. Only the law of gravity held the body down. There was no omniscient God now in attendance delivering judgment upon Mr. Hughes and no omnipotent voice shrieking like the thunder proclaiming him Guilty. Who could say it was an opprobrious and shameful act? Nobody! With her being no more all was silence. Silence. A calmness never known before, never been realized, it was alien and slightly incongruous. Was God too busy with all the other killings that were taking place at that precise moment? Gary wasn’t that bad. Every city is the same on the inside. The outside is so different. But inside. Rotting. All cities are the same on the inside. The same streets. The same shops. Taco Bell. Wal-Mart. Coke. Diet. For surely somebody else had just been killed simultaneously to her. The city. Was She not worth the effort? Had God more important people to deal with? But wasn’t God ubiquitous? That’s what they had told him, we were all God’s children. This was making manifest her importance. Her importance. She was ostensibly considered insubstantial to all and sundry. But still shouldn’t his inner voice, the presumably good voice begin screaming out to him now? Shouldn’t it be condemning him for the act he had committed? Shouldn’t it be belittling him? Proclaiming that his life was over? This was not genocide, a dirty pogrom or a hell fire apocalypse, he thought, it was a clean and uncomplicated act.
After the game Mr. Hughes buried her in the back garden. It took him less than an hour. Her boss called and apologized, he had to let her go. He would fill the job the next day. In degrees her name was forgotten. How’s you wife doing? Became, weren’t you once married?
One morning Mr. Hughes unlocked the car door and realized that he had forgot to dress. He was late for work that day. The boss was fine, just politely asked him to be more careful. The lady at the proscription desk went out with him one night. She got completely drunk and embarrassed him. They made love on the carpet in the front room and he went home slightly disappointed. Though, he would more than likely take her out again. All the same on the inside. The outside is so different. But inside. Rotting. On the way home he had Dairy Queen. He dexterously drove and consumed simultaneously. He closed the front door and undressed in the front room while watching the television. He left the clothes desultorily behind him on the carpet. In the shower Mr. Hughes lathered, washed and conditioned his hair, masturbated, and washed under his armpits. Mr. Hughes went downstairs, switched on the television and slept on the settee.