the flatmate

A Short Story Sequence

I.
He wasn’t all that smart. But – kinda naturally enough when you think about it – he didn’t actually know that. Probably he thought he actually was quite smart. But let me tell you now (which is what I’m doing) he wasn’t. He was kinda thick. Kinda pig-shit thick. But it could be funny. Like that time he tried to make a point as the bills were stacking up. And he was all dramatic as he prioritized. It was all fuck this and cut down on that and stick this. But he was adamant about one thing. We would always pay the Sky bill. That was crucial. Because he had to have his sport. “They can”, he said, holding court, “cut the phone off – for all I care. They can cut off the internet. I don’t give a shit”. And then he wound up for his big finish. “They can even cut the fucking power off. But we are paying the goddamn Sky bill!” And you laughed. Twice. You laughed the first time because you thought it was pretty funny that anyone would think that this was a clever thing to say. And then you realised that he wasn’t being clever. Possibly because he hadn’t ever been clever. And certainly wasn’t about to start. Not on this day anyway. So you laughed for the second time. And you got called a faggot.

II.
He wasn’t all that smart. But that never seemed to stop him. Still, one day, you were sure you saw him stop momentarily; to pick up bits and pieces (little bits and pieces – obviously) of his mind. You see you blew it. You blew his mind. You told him, in an offhand way, that the coke bottle was based on the shape of a woman, the curves. And when you said it you never expected the needle to scratch, the world to grind – momentarily – to a halt on its axis. But that is what happened. You were told to repeat what you said. So you did. And then you were told to explain. You mentioned that the contoured coke bottle was created in around 1915, something like that. And it was said to have been based on the shape of a woman, the curves. You were – for that minute – proclaimed a genius. An actual genius. Then he musta gathered his mind all back up and stitched it back into place – lots of room for it to move, though not a lot of light. Because very promptly after you were called a faggot. But he smiled when he said it this time. A little smirk. Lighthearted. Or some shit like that.

III.
He wasn’t all that smart. But he was working on it. You see he’d started that MegaMemory program off of the late-night TV. A friend had loaned it to him and he was working his way through it. Was gonna be the smartest. And fuck you too! “I’ve done”, he said, “two, or maybe three of the tapes, so far…” and then you suggested that one of the tips around getting smarter and improving or increasing a memory might be to remember the number of tapes you’d worked through on the MegaMemory memory-improving program-thingy. And then he suggested that the best way to not be “a total and complete faggot” was by not being “a total and complete faggot”. And that you had failed in that area. Again.

IV.
He wasn’t all that smart. But he was pretty sure, one day, he’d found the answer. What was the question though? Well – apart from that one – it was a question of how to keep all the remotes in one place. There was a remote control for the TV and one for the VHS player and one for the Sky and one for the stereo. And you’d sometimes have that thing where you sat down with your cup of instant coffee and your cigarette and you just had a few minutes to catch up on the golf or whatever sports was on but just as you were sitting, careful not to spilltoo much of that coffee, you’d be pointing the stereo remote at the TV. Nothing would be happening. It was fucking annoying. But there had to be a fix. And he had it! He had it sussed. He was going to get a piece of wood, about the size of a chopping board – about yay big, say– and he was going to glue each remote on to it. It would be brilliant. Like a control panel. He would be there in his chair and he would be the fucking Captain Kirk of the fucking flat. And you weren’t much help, telling him it was actually a stupid idea and that what would happen when you needed to change the batteries. And he had an answer for that smartarse question too – as you found out. Two in fact. Firstly, you never have to change the fucking batteries. Actually. And secondly, you were still a total faggot. Not a lot was going to get changed. Actually.

V.
He wasn’t all that smart. But that wasn’t going to stop him from having a eureka moment! You see that fucking mouse was just taking the piss. Leaving its shits all along the bench – it had an obvious trail, down behind the TV and along the lino and up to the kitchen bench. So he’d worked out what to do. His automatic-return golf-putting system would come into play. He’d wedge it down behind the TV, blocking the path. The little sensor would be smeared with peanut butter – and it was perfect, so simple: that stooped mouse would come along, lick that peanut butter and then BAM! It’d get a giant fucking jab in the head. And that would be that. It would fuck right off – go somewhere else! You suggested that the mouse might actually lick the peanut butter off and carry on up to the bench to drop its shits, and to nibble at bread and other things. No jab in the head, just a bit of peanut butter on its way – call it a bonus. And then he told you that “we’ll see, dickhead” and so the next morning when you heard him yelling in frustration, a licked-clean automatic-return golf-putting system, a few shits from the mouse on the bench again, you couldn’t help but point out that you had told him so. And you got called a “total faggot”. And wasn’t it just the way – that a total faggot would totally take the side of the mouse. Cheering for him. And that it was no surprise and basically your fault the mouse even existed since it was your only friend.

VI.
He wasn’t all that smart. But he knew how to win. You see, whoever said “fuck up” first would win the argument. Didn’t matter what the argument was – or when, or who it was between. Just whoever said those magic words – you couldn’t come back from “fuck up”. That was so final. “But”, you started to say. “Nah – fuck up!” He fired back so quick. A little smirk in place as he holstered his pistol. You shook your head at the futility of it all. And he laughed and smirked double. “See – you’re a faggot. And I told you to fuck up. I won. I totally won! Who’s the big winner right here eh?” You couldn’t answer that one.

VII.
He wasn’t all that smart. But he was fit. Real fit. Oh, how fit mate? Well real fit – like there was this time right, he went to the gym for one of those tests, and they’re trying to measure his heart rate, see an increase, and he’s on the bike right. And he’s pedalling. And it’s going nowhere. Not a sweat, nothing. Just cool-as. And so you see he goes outside on the stationary bike. That’s right – they plug the cord in and chuck it out through a window and they let him enjoy the cool breeze and just tell him to keep biking. So he lights up a smoke. Nah, true. Just sits there on the bike pedalling and smoking his durry. You believe that? Nah. No way. And even though a few of the others seemed to be nervously chuckling, nodding along, letting him have his dumb story, which he’d obviously concocted on the way home – you had to tell him that it was pretty unlikely a gym would go to that sort of trouble, nor would they ever turn the blind eye to the cigarette. You felt almost as dumb as him when doing this particular round of myth-busting. But you were going to do it anyway. But you were not only a spoilsport. You were a faggot. And, since you’d obviously forgotten, you were told. And then the bogan from the couch – who everyone called ‘Bogan’ – woke up and joined in on the story. He reminded you that there was a famous athlete in the family and so it probably was true And that a cigarette would help increase the heat-rate and that that had been medically proven. And that who were you to disprove it – since you weren’t there. And that the reason you weren’t there was because you would probably have a heart-attack even walking into a gym. And so take that Jabba. And the Bogan also shouted “show us ya front-bum” to the girl who walked past right then and there. Just to prove he had not yet run out of things to say. Or to show that he in fact had. And then the two of them hatched a plan, borrowed your car. Got some beers. And, see, a fresh pack of smokes.

VIII.
He wasn’t all that smart. But back home, and he’d always point over his shoulder as he said this, he was a fucking legend see. Small town. Big fish. The biggest! And the best – of course. Back home everything was better – including other people’s opinion of him, presumably. But you were just that faggot on the couch writing poetry. Scribbling stupid illegibilities and inanities in those stupid cheap maths books you got near the end of each year. And the stupidest time was that time you were still up being a faggot with your dumb words at about 3am and he tried to walk in with some girl from the bar, that time his mrs was away. She’d never know – because you’d never say a fucking thing right? And jesusfuckingchrist it never would have happened like this back home! That thumb angling down back over his shoulder. This time looking just that little bit defeated.

IX.
He wasn’t all that smart. But he was the only one capable of killing that stoopid fucking mouse. Yes, it had evaded him at first – the automatic-return golf-putting system didn’t work. And proper mousetraps were useless. But then he came running into your room one morning, fairly early. Well it was before lunchtime anyway. And he goes, “I’ve done it. I’ve fucking done it. Killed that fuckin’ stoopid mouse!” And he had a bit of bread from the toaster with a mouse stapled to it like roadkill – it turned out he hadn’t so much killed the mouse as put some toast down while the mouse was crawling about in the toaster. But he was claiming this victory. You got up and went to class – at least for the purposes of this story anyway. You returned from class and he was on the phone: “yeah. Fuckin’ killed it. Yep. Fucking slammed it. In the toaster. Yep. Yeah. Yep. Stoopid mouse. Fucking hated him. Yeah. Yep. Yeah, okay. Yeah.  Later, mum”. Then he was off to the bottlestore having borrowed your car. And back with the beers to celebrate. He was the one who had killed that mouse. And he wasn’t some stupid faggot who had just carried on around it ignoring it, pretending it wasn’t there – he had killed it. He had ended its life. Finally. The beers were going down sweet. Later that night you heard him slip a line past his own smug smile; that pissed-up grin just basking in mouse-murder glory. “I fuckin’ hate mieces to pieces”. And he dropped back into the recliner as if the man from the newspaper might be coming around tomorrow to take his photo. The burglar apprehended. The mystery solved. Citizen’s arrest. “I hate mieces to pieces” he said again. Trying to own that line as well as the kill.

X.
He wasn’t all that smart. And he would always make this wincing face – kinda like he’d suddenly been forced to eat up all of the shit he talked. A pained expression, twisted grimace and a quick twitching shake of the head. And the Bogan that lived on the couch would answer the phone with a gruff “yep. Yet. Yep. Yet.” And then he’d just call out, to the Flatmate, he’d have the phone held up high – and he’d go, “it’s your Front-Bum”. And then we’d see that wincing face as he was forced – forced, it always seemed – to talk to his girlfriend. And he’d go all sheepish-almost, “yeah. Yeah…will…gis come down there…I dunno, gis c’m over I spose. Yep. Yep. Okay then”. And for those few seconds you could see he hated – very much – there not being a cordless phone in the flat. Or hated, perhaps even more, there being any sort of phone in the flat at all. And then the Bogan would go, “so, she’s coming over is she? Ya Front-Bum!” And he would go, “yeah. I spose”. And then he’d look over at you, his shield and bulletproof vest suddenly handed back to him, “and what do you want ya faggot?. Go on. Go on! Write it down…”

XI.
He wasn’t all that smart. But that wasn’t going to stop him from delivering a speech everyone would remember. It was The Bogan’s 21st and it was time for a real mate to really step up.  No, really. The guy before him had already spoken – so you see it was his turn. And he wasted no time, apart from a few ums and ahs to warm into it. Then there was the rush of blood and he was off. All about how The Bogan had a discount card for prostitutes and could get 50% off – you know, just the classic stuff you’d want to hear at your 21st, your family and friends gathered. Big family contingent too. “It’s not that he doesn’t love his girlfriend”, one particular zinger started. “He just needs more! So he goes where he can get it for less”. Why weren’t these people laughing? This shit was gold! And anyway it was the truth. Three minutes into the roast people started leaving. Six minutes, and still going, er, strong the body count was doubled. And then more. And more. Twelve minutes in total, and he stepped down, almost punch-drunk with elation. He had nailed it! A little air-jab and that crooked smirk-smile. He had fucking nailed it! Had he what. A couple of days later you mentioned that it was quite something to behold. A bit uncomfortable, had it actually gone how he’d planned? “Of course it had, ya faggot. That was the real story. Straight up. He’ll thank me for that one day”.

XII.

He wasn’t all that smart. But he knew enough to make sure he’d take care of his responsibilities. He got out from bed and announced to his girlfriend – his, er, front-bum (little pet-name for the mrs, she hadn’t ever complained) – “alright, I’m off to lock up the pub”. And that – so it seemed was that. Such dedication. But then, next morning, you found out that he had been sleepwalking actually. From his dream he had announced – out loud – that he was “off to lock up the pub” and then he had walked down the corridor, through the lounge, out the front door – sometime after closing hours, apparently – to where, on the outside furniture he had dropped a large lump of shit from his bum. Remarkably – as we all examined it that next morning – there was no evidence of a struggle. No catastrophe – beyond the shit just sitting there. No mess – as such. A clean break, so to speak. You asked him if he had showered after – and he told you that, how could he. This was his first knowledge of it. He muttered something about you being a faggot. Because – standard. And then you all left it at that. Until after dinner that night he stood up, slightly sheepish, his moves always so telegraphed, and headed down the end of the hall towards the bathroom. You knew what was coming in return but you said it anyway, off to lock up the pub then eh?  And right on cue – as ever, “you off to be a faggot somewhere are you, faggot?” But the wind was out of his sails this time. The candles all blown out. His cake out in the rain. And with that rain, although none of you said it aloud you all figured that shit would be washed off the chair. The pub locked up good and proper now. And this time everybody out.  No stragglers