A Counselor's inner dialogue

“He’s one of the good ones Jolene,” I said to my wife who was standing over the kettle across the room. She was pouring the hot liquid over the coffee beans which were slowly releasing their fragrant musk around our small 2-bedroom apartment. “Anything to go along with it?”, I asked my wife as she handed me my cup. She sauntered back over to the cupboards and pulled out a pack of lemon biscuits. She plonked herself on the couch besides me. “Well, if he’s so good maybe he would have given you some money instead of just calling you to that stupid ceremony, it was all a publicity stunt anyways. You remember the headlines the next day, humble billionaire honors the man who set him on his way.”

“Now now, maybe it worked out that way, but his heart was in the right place. We had a good conversation aside from the cameras too. He was telling me about the new technology that he would be introducing in his lineup of cars for the coming year.” “Maybe so, but you should have pursued his line of work instead of just advising him about it.” I flicked through the collage I had made, comprising of clippings of former students at the school which I had devoted my life to. There were newspaper clippings, photos, even some “the Facebook” posts which I had printed out.

I sighed; it was pointless showing this to her. She obviously didn’t feel the same as I felt upon seeing my life’s work, and what is a man apart from his life’s work? I shut the leather-bound book and picked it up. “I’m just going down to the stores, you need anything.” “No just bring back something for dinner.” I stored the book and put on my shoes. Off to the woods. I looked at my corpulent wife who once had been the fairest gal at the ball before I exited. I put on my mask, as there had been a wave of a deadly flu going around. It felt weird adorning this thing, yet it also gave me a sense of safety. I waited by the elevator with my hands in my pockets. The lift opened and there was a young couple inside. It seemed like they had been necking just moments ago. I averted my gaze and stood in the corner. When we got to the ground floor, they let me exit first which amused me slightly since most youngsters these days were extremely brash.

It was still raining slightly as it usually does throughout the year in Vancouver. I exited the front door. The air was fresh, and you could hear the ravens squawking from high on above. It was a five-minute walk to the shops. There was a busy road beside them, and the cars whizzed by. I wanted to avoid getting splashed. However, the road leading to the shops was relatively quieter, so I was at ease for the moment. There was a path which lead to a walking trail and a stream, there was a hollow in the woods where I would go sometimes and contemplate things. The stream could be heard doing her job in the distance.

I wasn’t sure if my wife and I would be able to survive on what was left of my savings. As the years had progressed her consumption of food has escalated, and it made up a large part of the monthly budget. It wasn’t entirely her fault I suppose, she didn’t really have any friends and I don’t suppose that I was the best of company. I had always been quiet by nature and though that was one of the qualities she had liked in the beginning, as the years went on, she kept insisting that I share my thoughts and feelings with her.

What did she want me to share? I didn’t want to relive the traumas of my youth. I didn’t want to tell her how my father beat me and my mother. I didn’t want to tell her about the bullying at school. I didn’t want to tell her that I had nearly flung myself from a bridge. I especially didn’t want to tell her about all the dreams foregone and the deep-seated envy I felt at the success of my contemporaries. So, we both put up with each other and that was the way it seemed it would go till one of us kicked the bucket.

I got onto the trail and walked to my hollow; I would go to the shops. She would ask me what took so long and I’d make up some bullshit excuse. The stump where I sat was slick. I wiped it with the sleeve of my raincoat and sat down. Things had changed so fast within a lifetime. Electric cars, mobile phones, gadgets I couldn’t even comprehend. Where were the old timers sitting on the park benches smoking cigarettes with their friends and a bottle of booze in a paper bag. Where were all the clean-shaven faces and the classic clothes, all replaced with teenagers walking around with their asses exposed and the grungiest of beards. I spat on the ground with disgust.

My bile duct was blocked, and my doctor said if I don’t work on my blood pressure and cholesterol, I would kick it in 5 years. I suppressed my laughter, but I think he probably did see a half grin on my face. He didn’t say anything though, good ol’ Dr.Joe. I thought of all my childhood friends, some dead, some as good as, friends on Facebook but scattered all over God’s good earth. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was nearby, all clear. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a packet of camels. Bland packaging, grey as death, inspiring fear.

Cigarettes had been my only true friend, never judging me, always there to give me a hug when I was down. The tree canopy provided some shelter, although large drops fell intermittently. I was careful that they avoid the cig.

I would have made a good writer, I had all the makings of one, short stories published in the local paper when I was a teen. It was one of the only escapes I had as a youth, I could hear my dad shouting at my mom and I tried to drown their voices out with the click-clack-click of my typewriter. I had that too sitting in the den. Maybe I should take it out and try again, what was there to lose now. I quit when I started university, the worst decision I ever made.

As for my career, I did take some pride in the fact that I helped some of those kids who were flunking, bunking or facing the same domestic issues that I had growing up. When one of them went on to do something good in the world, it was as if I had been the one doing so, the collage was a testament to that. The cigarette was coming to an end, the light grey smoke billowing against the dark grey sky. I let the raindrops extinguish it, no more hiding.

I exited the grove and proceeded to the shops. I took a back alley that led to them and hence avoided getting splashed. The young Indians were there minding the store as usual. They always greeted me with a smile. These kids were busting their ass, pulling two jobs and school, just so that they could settle here. It’s a tough world. They all had anglicized names on their tags, and I thought that was one of the biggest crimes. To replace the name of a man and give it your own, who are you, their parents? God? Can’t you learn to say a darn name. I had asked for their real names, and even though I probably didn’t pronounce them perfectly, I think they appreciated that I at least tried.

I put three frozen meals in my cart for the fat ass whore back home who would squeeze me dry before I died in 5 years. There was a stationary shop two blocks down and I headed there. Another old timer was behind the counter there and I knew I was in luck. After pleasantries I said, “I need an ink cartridge for my typewriter.” “Jeez, not many people asking for those anymore. Let me look in the back.” Sure enough he hobbled over after a while clutching a few cartridges. I bought two.

I headed home. When I got in, she was still in front of the tv, eyes glazed. I put the meals on the countertop and went over to the den. Lying in the corner, underneath a cover was my old friend, typey. I removed her from her shroud and shook her from the dust. I told the wife I would eat later and shut the door quietly. I put the sheets into place and inserted the cartridge, everything was done delicately. Now the only question left was what to write. A feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time rose up within my heart. I could write anything, and I had so much to write about.

The first few pages were just me ranting about how shit the world was, and my circumstances and I could feel the bile starting to move up the duct, the lump in my throat was subsiding as the words which I couldn’t speak to another soul flowed out onto the paper. So many suppressed thoughts and emotions. I was an emotional man; I had had to hide it my whole life. My mask was coming free, no more tough guy. Here was the Cioran, Schopenhauer, Kerouac, Dickens even that would illuminate the world with wisdom and insight. I would be the one who would carry on their legacy in showing the world and all its people with their inflated egos that we were nothing, we are not even a drop in the oceans of time and space.

After spewing to the point of exhaustion, I removed the final sheet for the day. I neatly stacked them all up and stapled them. There were some good bits in there, it was the beginning of a new era. There was no window in the room, but I could imagine that the skies had cleared outside and the sun was shining down peacefully on my stump in the wood, the stump that would survive me long after I was gone.