Renegade T.M.

It was a dark and rainy day,
the kind of dark and rainy day where though the sun had risen in the morning as per usual, it then went on to make so little difference that it thought better of it and took the day off; the sort of dark and rainy day when the rain falls so relentlessly that dry things become valuable in themselves; in summary, the type of day that was pretty much the same as every other day in
the dark and rainy city of
Sutton
. It always rained on
Sutton
, so much so, that local folk
law makes the claim that
Sutton
ians
had the umbrella before the wheel. Now this may appear far fetched, but believe me, if you have never had the pleasure
of v
isiting this delightful London suburb
, do yourself a favour and instead dress yourself up in all the wet weather gear you have, run yourself a cold bath
,
and get in. Okay, you ma
y not experience all the rich history the town
has to offer, but then ask yourself whether it is really history that you want when your sitting fully clothed in a cold bath.

About the wet streets, people charged quite purposefully, wielding umbrellas and threatening limited violence. In their rain-pummelled heads they entertain notions of warmth and nice-cups-of-tea, and will let n
othing stand in their wanton way
. From above, these determined individuals and the different coloured umbrellas they carry, look like the closing stages of a military engagement. The prominence of the classic gentleman's umbrella, with its all
-over black appeal, appears
as a supreme army of darkness, which having already routed the enemy, now sweeps the narrow streets, finishing off any light-reflecting stragglers. As it just so happened, one man stood atop a multi-level car park, actually entertaining these altogether dark thoughts. An empty bottle of scotch hung loosely from his hand, and for a man giving the impression of being quite unsteadily drunk, he swayed precariously close to the edge of the building.

“
Army of darnesssh, bah!
”
h
e slurred defiantly at the streets below, swiping the empty bottle as if to strike some imaginary foe.

Now the man was really very drunk, for even if the foe had not been imaginary, the bottle would have never have made contact, escaping the man's hand as it did, only to break over the back of the same man's head. Now the physics involved in a manoeuvre of this sort are really quite extraordinary, for any appeal to conventional terms like potential or kinetic force, velocity, or energy
transf
er
red
, yield very little in the understanding department. Instead, to begin to comprehend such an action, one must use the lesser known booze-fuelled scientific discipline of
“
physsshics
”
. Now, using the simple formula:

X
/
Y=Z
-pi
=R

(Where X is what academic drunks term
“
Intenssshion
”
, Y is
“
alcohol
”
, Z is
“
plaussshibility
”
,
pi
is either
,
steak and kidney, chicken and mushroom, or apple, and R is
“
ressshult
”
.)

It is possible to ascertain that the action did indeed occur, and that its occurrence was somewhere in the region of ridiculous. All of this mental foreplay did not, however, make an appearance in the mind of the man who had just smashed a bottle over his head. What did register was a sharp feeling of pain, followed by an all-encompassing sense of despair. The man slid to the floor and buried his head into his body. The man who was known by other men as Pete Martin.

***

“
Pete!
”

Leaping from building to building with the world cheering below, Pete suddenly paused mid-air
,
and cocked his head to one side as if straining to hear something.

“
Pete!
”

There it was again, someone had said his name, but who could hang suspended in the air between the tallest skyscrapers so as to make themselves heard to him, surely it was impossible.

“
PETE!!!
”

A realisation now dawned on him
, he had never been that good at jumping and could barely remember leaping a
frog let alone a building. He
lost confidence in his superhuman abilities, and as he found himself plummeting towards the city streets below, he woke up.

He
opened his eyes and let the world flood in. Two eyes appeared to be watching him watching them, he then noticed a nose and a mouth and reached the quite
un
-
startling
conclusion that they probably belonged
to a face. It was Sarah, hi
s girlfriend, who had beckoned him down from his mile-high dream, and as she sat over him, he immersed himself in her beauty. Light blue eyes sat comfortably above her bubble nose, and her full red lips wen
t on to complete a look that lurked
agreeably
somewhere between Madonna and Monroe. Blonde curls rolled effortlessly down the sides of her head, each coming to rest most satisfyingly on her petit shoulders. Her skin was a pearly white, the kind of white that never went out without a hat, and held strong, almost zealous opinions when it came to the matter of
the ozone-layer.
Overall, she
came across as a Victorian bombshell, who
m
, removed from her decidedly modest epoch, was now flaunting her membership as one of the beautiful people and living it
up in our decadent decade.
He
could not help but think that life had been good to him, and as her lips opened to reveal her perfect teeth, he imagined the day would be a promising one.

“
Get
up you slob, it's six thirty!
”
s
h
e yelled, only inches from hi
s
face
,
“I
really don't know why I stay with you
!”

Having said this, she smashed a qui
te sizeable cushion into hi
s
confused and
bewildered look, threw aside his duvet, yanked open the curtains, and the
n left the room. Later, as he
managed to compose himself and regain some semblance of a man in charge of his own destiny, he wondered dishearteningly why every morning had to be the same.

Pete made his way downstairs, dressed and marginally ready for the day. Some post was there to greet him by the front door and one envelope stated quite clearly in bold black letters that he was already a winner, so taking this on board, his spirits began to lift. Gathering up the post, he then strode purposefully into the kitchen to find Sarah.

“Morning,” he
said
timidly.

“
Morning
,” she replied emotionlessly
.

Sarah sat at the kitchen table engross
ed in the day's star signs, he
was used to this turn of events and sat himself down opposite her in preparation for the ritualistic opening of the post. Opening the envelope marked winner first, he was slightly put out when he discovered that being a winner these days, in actuality meant that he was one in five thousand that might qualify for a free equine encyclopaedia, that is if he were to take out a horse insurance policy, costing a lot less than he supposedly thought. Now, he did not own a horse, want a horse, or indeed would insure a horse even if he had one, but the encyclopaedia looked important, and for this one reason alone, an entire extra second elapsed before envelope an
d all was thrown determinedly near
the bin. The next letters were a phone bill and a final demand for the same phone bill, and placing them in a neat pile that seemed to denote importance, he made a mental note to pay them later that day. The final letter was a lot more to his liking, and contained an appointment to have a free eye exam. The appointment was in a couple of weeks, and although his eyesight was as good as ever, he was not going to reject this gift horse, so made up his mind, and diary, to go. With the ritual now complete and the gods of junk mail satisfied, he set about making himself some breakfast.

“
Pete
,”
began Sarah.

“
Yes
,”
he replied, placing a slice of bread in the toaster.

“
You're an Aquarian aren't you
?”

“
Yep, I carry water
.” He
did not much care for astrology.

“
Well it says here that you're going to have quite an unusual day
.”

“
Really
,”
he said mockingly, lifting his pitch at the end.

“
Yes really
,”
she responded unflustered.

“
It says here that things are going to go very badly at first, and that because the moon is in alignment with Mars, your energy will juxtapose with..
.”

He
switched off here, and instead felt himself becoming entirely absorbed with the task of buttering his toast. He was going to approach the matter with a two fold strategy, firstly he would whack on a big lump of butter which he would attempt to spread evenly as it melted into the toast, and secondly, he would add extra side cover, wherever the initial spreading had not fully infiltrated the bread. Having completed the buttering, the whole thing would be sliced at its diagonal and then placed playfully on a plate.

“
... a
nd although you'll
have hit rock-bottom, from then
onwards, the sky's the limit
!”

As she
finished her astr
ological prediction, and he
was making his way towards
the
dining table
, he suddenly tripped on something
that really should have been there,
and sent his toast flying. Regaining his balance, his
eyes
locked with the toast as it spun gracefully through the air, everything else became a blur, and as time appeared to slow, he felt his conscious mind fall away.

Sarah cross and the Kiron buildings
---
bill board posters and constant drive
---
Thursday s
quash night and chicken bhuna finish
---
sofa primed and
TV
programmes
---
the Sunday lunch with Monday nudging
---
few nights
of passion and sleepless nights
---
the early start and rat race rat
---
the forever waking and time for bed
---
the loss of self who never dreams.

The toast spun on, butter side up, butter side down, up ,down, up, down.

Things began to get clearer. Pete was a young man in his early twenties just back from travelling around India, youthful and filled with energy, the world was his to take. Now back at college, taking some Mickey Mouse qualification in advertising, wondering what the world was like.

Up, down, up, down.

Pete was a child, the other children teased him for having big ears, but that was okay, life was good. I'm hungry he thought, and began screaming for his Mum.

Up, down.

No thought, comfortable and safe.

The toast landed on the kitche
n floor, butter side down. He
stood still, something strange had just taken place. He had heard of someone's life flashing before them whilst dying, but never whilst observing spinning toast. What should he make of this? He was still alive, he remained in exactly the same kitchen as before, and he could always make more toast.

“
Are you alright
?”
she asked.

“
Yeah
, I think so
,”
he replied
,
“
I'm off to work
.”

With that, he
went to work. Sarah watched as he left, and reaching for the phone, a small smile seemed to grace her lips.