“Are we nearly there?” I eventually asked.
“Be patient, dear. Not long to go now.”
Her use of the word ‘dear’ intoxicated me. Her everything intoxicated me. A bullet shattered a back window, but I remained calm. The golf men didn’t appear to be after anyone but each other. For some reason, this thought consoled me. Being a casualty of another’s fight sat better than being the target.
One of the cardboard houses flipped over and blew onto the road. Fiona gently applied the brake and waited.
“What do we do?”
“We ride it out. The wind usually takes care of it. If not, there’s a lovely group of council workers who’ll remove it.”
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Of course you can. It’s good for the upholstery.”
She was holding a lighter to my mouth before the cigarette was even out of the pack. I bobbed my head toward the flame and sucked my life away.
“You sure like it when I smoke,” I said. I was just filling the silence that existed between us, not really looking for or expecting a conversation to develop.
“Men look astoundingly attractive while smoking. I don’t care what the zeitgeist claims, it is cool to smoke.”
Through the haze I watched as six magpies lifted the cardboard obstruction from our path. In a display of barely controlled coordination, they awkwardly flew away.
“Are they the council workers?” I asked snidely.
“Yes,” she responded without emotion. “There was a lady at your home who claimed to be dead. What’s that about?”
“I hit her in the head with a plate. She just thinks she’s dead.”
“Fair enough…. We’re nearly there. You may want to remove your pants.”
I had already worked my pants halfway down my thighs before I thought to ask why. The thought never evolved into verbalisation. I just sat bereft of pants, feeling the warm leather car seat cling to my arse. The car turned into a driveway and the throat singing was turned off. The absence of sound unnerved me. A man in a sailor uniform and brandishing flags stepped in front of the car and communicated to Fiona in semaphore. She responded with a series of finger movements and he stepped aside. His eyes were glued to mine as we cruised past him.
“Who the hell’s that?” I asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“Every day,” she replied. “Now keep quiet. I’ll tell you when you can talk. There’s a certain protocol that must be followed here.”
I bowed my head and focused on my flaccid penis. It looked how I felt. We were in a garage. It was made of cardboard but still felt like an inescapable prison. Fiona motioned for me to stay seated. She left me alone and vanished through a doorway. I jammed three cigarettes between my lips and sucked them for dear life, willing my anxiety away. I’ve never liked being introduced to new people. Without pants, I could only assume it would be worse. Ash crumbled from the cigarettes and powdered on my legs, which were jittering restlessly.
Fiona opened the passenger door. “Follow me and keep quiet.”
I watched the swivel of her arse as she led the way. Each cheek was a perfect peach I wanted to sink my teeth into. I remembered that I was about to meet new people and stopped my perverted stare. First impressions usually flounder when erections are involved.
We came to a narrow corridor that slanted downward, leading us underground. The ceiling height gradually decreased, forcing us to our hands and knees. I felt like an unprepared spelunker. I could hear the faint hum of heaters pumping stifling warmth into the corridor. It was impossible not to stare at Fiona’s arse. It was inches from my face, begging me to indulge. She crawled confidently forward, saying nothing, just turning her head occasionally to make sure I was following
Fiona’s knuckles wrapped upon a steel door. Thank fuck for that, I thought. My knees were throbbing in pain and I wanted to extend my legs. A bald Asian man greeted Fiona with a wet kiss. A flash of jealousy blinded me and a strange urge to beat the man nearly took control. He helped Fiona to her feet and left me alone.
“This is him?” asked the man, eyeing me up and down.
He was an odd looking sort. Each eye had four pupils that churned like a tumble drier and didn’t blink. His eyebrows were below each eye like little beards.
“This is him,” confirmed Fiona. “Is everyone here?”
The man nodded then slid his fingers into my mouth, prying my lips apart. He was examining my teeth and sniffing my breath like it was wine. “He really doesn’t look like anything special.”
“You’ll see.”
Fiona gave me a reassuring look and took my hand. The Asian man scoffed and left us alone. We entered a small red door marked “specimen”. I gulped a wad of accumulated saliva while pondering what I was walking into.
“You’re going to shine, my dear,” Fiona said to me. “When this is all over, you’ll be venerated by these people. Don’t worry about anything. Just try and relax.”
I nodded, trying my best to feel reassured. She punched a number into a keypad and the door sprung open. I followed her through.
I was standing on a spot-lit stage. The lights burned the outer layer of my eyes away and if it hadn’t been for Fiona’s measured demeanor, I’d have bailed on the whole thing. Before me sat a barely visible crowd of 20 or so people. They were whispering amongst themselves like hissing snakes. I could feel their judgmental stares painting me yellow. Fiona approached a podium and, with a swipe of her hand, hushed the audience.
“Your patience is much appreciated,” she said. “I can assure you that what I have to show you will be worth your time. I’d like to introduce you to Bruce Hammond Miles. Mr. Miles came to my attention a few days ago. An acquaintance of mine, familiar with the particular concerns of our group, presented me with a tumour retrieved from Mr. Miles’ bowel. I will show you the tumour shortly but before I do, I’d like to provide you with some background information.”
What background information could she possibly know about me? I barely even knew anything about myself. I wasn’t interesting enough to have ‘background’. I was intrigued.
“Bruce Hammond Miles. 34 years of age. Born 9th of August, 1976 to Werner and Lucile Miles in Mimbleton, New Dankshire. Marital status of parents: separated. Werner Hemlock Miles was carried away by a falcon when Bruce was 11. He has since remained absent from Bruce’s life. His mother…”
“Show us the fucking tumour!” came an impatient voice from the audience. This was met with applause.
“Very well,” replied Fiona. “The point I was trying to make concerned the mediocrity present in the life of Mr. Miles. It adds credence to my hypothesis that the best diseases originate, more often than not, from broken beginnings.”
She approached a small table draped in red satin. A curtain behind us began to rise, revealing a large screen. With both hands, she dramatically ripped away the satin. My excavated tumour was now on full display. It was housed in a small glass box and still wore the refuse from Fiona’s handbag. My tumour filled the screen behind me and the audience fell silent. I’ve never been good at deciphering silence. They were either in awe of my growth or uninterested.
A man with a totem pole head stood up and slowly clapped. He was joined by someone else in the shadows. The clapping picked up speed as others joined in. Within an hour, the whole crowd was applauding with fervor. It was the most energising experience of my life. I felt like I finally had a purpose, like I was the recipient of a prestigious award.