The Legend of the Pah - 1 (S T Vasectomy Clinic)

 

‘A vasectomy is the best gift a man can give to his wife…..Alistair, Alistair!’

 

‘What?’ He said, without lifting his head. A spread of nails lay before him, the contents of a tall tupperware container tipped onto an open newspaper; nails, nuts, screws, slotted screws, Pozidriv screws, Phillips screws. From within this metallic duvet of bits, a layer of rust dust occasionally rose up into the air, forming an iron taint in the back of his throat as he turned the articles over. 

 

There were fasteners and fixings representing all the decades of the last century, inherited from his father and grandfather, neighbours, junk shops, deconstructed old furniture. Together they formed a valuable collection from which endless projects were possible.

 

Briefly Alistair drifted into a fog of admiration about Henry F Phillips, American designer and architect of the cross-cap screw. If only I could design something, a perfect thing, so simple, something to change the world. It seemed perfectly plausible that this was within his capabilities but he needed space, space and time. I wonder if Henry had a vasectomy, Alistair mused, it seemed very unlikely, he wasn’t sure why but it was thoroughly implausible that Henry Philip’s penis had ever been tampered with.

 

‘It says here..on this website,’ She glared down at her husband crouching on the floor, ‘Simple rules for a happy marriage.’ Raising her voice now so it became annoying and contaminated with the affected tones of both passive and active aggression. ‘A vasectomy is the best gift a man can give to his wife.’

 

‘But you’re…..’

 

‘But I’m what?’

 

‘Nothing, it’s just that you’re getting a bit too old to be...you know.’ Rather than say the word, pregnant, Alistair made a clumsy sort of a C shape with his hand, marking the outline of a large belly in the air space above his own smallish but nevertheless flaccid middle-aged midriff.

 

Lynne threw her hands into the air and exhaled loudly. ‘My grandmother gave birth to Uncle Derrick at forty seven.’

 

‘Uncle Derrick should never have been born. Anyway, you’re nearly forty nine.’

 

‘And? Things have changed, times have changed, women are living longer, having babies later. Can you imagine doing that again at our age? Honestly, why can’t you just do something for me for a change!’ She snapped her laptop shut, slid it under her arm and walked out of the room, turning to shout, ‘And why must you bring all that screwy shit into the lounge when you have a whole workshop to play in!’

 

It was true, Alistair did have an entire garage or his workshop as he called it but it housed an Audi Quattro circa 1989 and many, many plastic containers filled with exciting potentially useful items; computer cables, broken printers, a sack of spanners, a set of Black Adder videos, a tower made from yellowed copies of NME, old hamster cages, the sort with colourful plastic tubing. There simply wasn’t a space upon the floor large enough for the pick and mix screw assortment to be emptied for inspection.

 

Alistair remained puzzled over his wife’s comment. It seemed to be the case that he was always doing things for her. Surely right at that very moment he was working hard, attempting to identify a couple of screws to match a couple more, to tighten a couple of hinges which were loose on the kitchen units. He didn’t care that they were broken, he was fixing them for her. 

 

I must sort all this out, he thought and sighed heavily as the tips of the screw stung the ends of his thick fingers. I must get it organised into smaller boxes, label them according to size, type. It was a thought he’d encountered fifty times or more, in fact he had it every time he emptied the screw box. But there was a phantom which never failed to prevent him from acting on the thought. The phantom was known to him, it regularly stood in his way, in fact it was almost like an old friend now.

 

Lynne sat at the kitchen table scrolling through pictures of houses in France, ornate chateaus going for a song, it was unbelievable how little they were on the market for. This can’t last, she thought as she poured a glass of wine, I must get one of these before they rocket in value, then I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank, but Alistair wouldn’t have the guts to take the plunge. She blinked angry blinks, blinked away tears and then just blinked at the state of things, the state of play. 

 

It appeared to her, from where she was seated, that there was so much clutter everywhere; clutter on the back patio in the form of half empty bags of compost, a broken mower, a rusty rake, a small barbeque with ragwort growing through the grill. Clutter in the kitchen cupboards, jelly moulds, odd shaped cake-tins, Pyrex dishes, ice trays and so many bowls of different sizes, messy and unstackable. 

 

She felt a strong and sudden urge to clear the mess, to throw things away, to sterilise everything on the property with strong chemicals, bleach or even a blow torch. It seemed essential that she should clean up her surroundings, her life, make sure everything was sterile, even Alistair. Something had to give, there could be no more mess or everything would collapse beneath the weight of it all, the consequences would be dire.

 

‘You look….pained,’ Alistair said carefully as he entered the kitchen, making a play of inspecting the bottom of his shoes for dirt and dust. Twisting at the waist so much he lost his balance and had to steady himself on the fridge, unsticking a Minions magnet which held a shopping list. He bent down and re-attached everything in a stalled, inefficient manner, sighing and cursing under his breath.

 

Lynne ignored him, instead focusing on the magical turrets, blue skies, extensive gardens and moats. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze as he pressed himself behind the back of her chair to get to the kettle. Just as he released his grip she grabbed his fingers, clawing into them so that he was unable to release himself. 

 

‘Oh look at the state of your hands, it’s a good thing I’m wearing dark colours, why are you touching me with those dusty, dirty hands. And look at your thumb! It’s so red and swollen, it looks like a…..’

 

‘I caught it in the vice.’

 

‘Why were you using a vice? I thought you were tightening some hinges. Honestly I don’t know why we have those things, it’s not as if you ever make anything of beauty.’

 

‘They were my dads. You know, sometimes when you’ve been on at me, I just like to put my thumb in one of those vices and turn the handle until it throbs and my body screams because it makes me feel better. Want a cup of tea?’

 

‘No thanks, I’ve got wine. Wash your hands before you touch anything but be sure to rinse the dirt from the taps afterwards....Body screams,’ Lynne chuckled and shook her head before necking the final centimetre of wine and swallowing hard. ‘Try giving birth to a massive headed baby.’

 

Back inside the workshop Alistair opened the door of his Audi Quattro. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough space to open it fully but if he was in the right mood and not wearing too many layers of clothing he was able to shimmy into the vehicle. He limbered up, placed his left leg in the footwell, lowered his right knee, side-winded his pelvis and flumped down into the beige leather seat. It felt so good.