Listening to Arthur’s story, I found myself strangely drawn to him. He seemed like a nice individual and rather than creeped out, it made me feel comfortable to know that I had been sharing my home with him for so long. “How long have you been here… in the ceiling?”
“About 30 years.”
The shock knocked me backward and I began to cough until sprays of blood coloured the wall beside me.
“Good god, man! Are you alright?” asked Arthur before sipping once more at his tea.
“I’ll be fine,” I replied, having grown accustomed to my own decay. “How can you live in a ceiling for 30 years?” My composure was coming back but my throat burned like hell.
“Would you like to come on up and have a look?”
“Yes, I believe I would.”
I had to borrow a ladder from the Stotson’s, which filled Rhonda with an odd glee. I’d never been in my ceiling before — never really saw the point. For most of us, especially those dwelling in apartment blocks, the ceiling is just something that separates you from the apartment above.
I followed Arthur’s slow ascent of the ladder, paying attention to the rigidity of his joints. He still had a dainty grip on his cup of tea, which he sipped from every few rungs. I had to give his bony arse a little push to help him into the ceiling.
As I emerged into Arthur’s cramped home, my mouth fell in astonishment. The available height couldn’t have been more than two feet, but what he’d done within the confines of his environment was a marvel. An ornate carpet stretched out beneath us. A series of low wattage lamps peppered the space with delicate light the colour of which reminded me of an old map. A wall of bookcases, three shelves high, were crammed with leather bound monographs about the nature of subtlety. Plump, dignified cushions artistically mapped the ground.
“Follow me to the tea area,” said Arthur. I watched as he rolled, cup of tea in tow, toward a wooden chest. The way he rolled was amazing. It was as if he were compelled by an invisible momentum. I adopted an army crawl that stole my breath like a noose.
“Join me for a cup of Earl Grey,” he said when we arrived at the chest.
We were both rolled on our sides, our heads on a cushion, facing each other like late-night lovers. The tea he handed me smelled and looked like dishwater and tasted far worse. I couldn’t bring myself to appear rude and spit it out, nor could I bring myself to swallow the foul brew so I instead, I dribbled it down my chin.
“How is it?” asked Arthur.
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a tea man.”
“Normally, sir, I’d slap someone for speaking ill of the Earl, but as I am an unpaid lodger residing in your domicile, I’ll let it pass. Tell me… what’s with the blood you were coughing before? It looked quite unpleasant.”
I gulped down a mouthful of rotten Earl Grey spit and felt the burn in my throat intensify. “I’m not well. I have cancer.” My responses had become so workman-like
Arthur’s eyes began to well with creamy tears. “Oh dear. That’s no good at all. Wait here would you.”
He rolled toward a small cabinet and fondled about inside for a while. He returned with a photo in hand, which he passed to me. A strikingly unattractive woman with a pinprick mouth stared vacantly. “Who’s this?”
“That’s my Beef,” replied Arthur, wiping at the encroaching tears. “From what I understand, she died of cancer some 15 years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What sort of cancer did she have?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. Every single one. She was a rich, cancerous gumbo.”
I didn’t have the energy to question the validity of Arthur’s claim. It didn’t mater. Watching this old man gently weep tugged at my heart and made me think of my mother. Would this be her in a few years? Trapped within her bed, pining after her son. It was a painful thought. A thought I wanted to vanquish.
“Would you like something to eat?” asked Arthur, his eyes now drier than day old cake.
“Yeah, that would actually be nice.”
Once again he rolled away and when he returned it was with several squares of carpet sample under his arm. “Take your pick,” he implored.
I absentmindedly reached for a square of shag, which seemed to make Arthur happy. He settled for a red square of flatweave and gnawed on it like a weaning baby. “You eat carpet?” I asked.
He finished his mouthful before responding. “It’s a surprisingly nourishing culinary delight. Who would assume that something so delightfully tasty could nourish one’s body so? You’re going to eat yours, I hope? Someone in your condition should eat.”
His face was full of anticipatory earnestness and so, not wishing to disappoint, I nibbled on the corner, wishing like hell that I wasn’t about to swallow.
“Is this all you eat?”
“It’s my primary food source, yes. Occasionally a wayward moth or millipede will venture into my domain. I make quick work of those little blighters,” he said with a rub of his stomach and a purple-tongued lick of his lips.
7.
I’d been running my impending meeting with Fiona over and over in my head since leaving Arthur’s ‘house’. What could she possibly have to offer that improved my situation? She was a mere end of life counselor, nothing more. Why the hell did I need counseling anyway? It seemed to me the ones most in need are those the dying leave behind. Mum’s the one who’d need to pick up my post-life pieces. Would Fiona be there for her? I couldn’t shake the damaging image of my mother, trapped on her bed, no one coming to her aide. Her big arm wasting away. Her face turning sallow and dry. My stomach responded poorly to the image, twisting itself so tight I thought I’d never breathe again. I felt the presence of my tumours, like they were inflating, growing larger with each passing second, consuming me. I just wanted my mum to be okay. She didn’t deserve this. But then again… who truly deserves tragedy?
I was feeling far too grim to drive to the meeting so I caught the bus. Somehow the sick and diseased are always drawn to the bus. I didn’t feel out of place among my fellow commuters. Some of them made me feel downright healthy. A man with tubing jutting from his throat sat beside me. Pink sludge would occasionally spit from the tube and glop down his already heavily stained shirt. He glanced at me with apologetic, pupil-devoid eyes. The sludge smelled like a teenage boy’s bedroom and I wanted to run, but everywhere I looked were more wretched souls. And old lady with a bird impaled in the side of her face sat sobbing in the adjacent seat. The poor bird kicked its legs slightly, suggesting life was too cruel to let it die. The lady whimpered pathetically with each kick, letting those around her know the bird was eating the inside of her face. A child in front coughed broken glass into his brother’s sleeping face. A naked lady pressed her bleeding breasts against a window, screaming about ‘the burning’. I plugged my ears with freezing fingers and willed the journey to end. This bus was a travelling circus of hopelessness and I was just another attraction.