Cheers - It's Sam's Birthday

Sam's Birthday

Sam Laskey sent out twenty-seven invitations, all the names in his
address book, 'RSVP' printed in Italics at the bottom, but nobody
replied and nobody came to his birthday party.
The preparations had taken weeks, every tiny detail meticulously
planned out on lists and lists of lists. He found a web site,
www.partyplanner.com and downloaded useful hints and tips from
socialite movers and shakers. He followed their every word and ordered
their essential party paraphernalia at an introductory 10\% discount
over the net. He made himself a banner, 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM!' out of an
old cotton sheet and a collection of old gloss paints from the shed;
multicoloured and majestic. He bought wines of every hue, beers of
every strength and every spirit available, soft drinks, nibbles, cheese
sticks, dips, vol-au-vents and something strange in breadcrumbs that
looked suitable. Hats, crackers, whistles, party poppers and music -
'Party No Fears 1 &; 2', all delivered via www.partyplanner.com. For
a final touch of finesse he booked a magician from, yes, once again it
was www.partyplanner.com, 'The Great Ebullo, parties, festivals,
weddings and bar mitzvahs'. And still nobody came.
Sam lived in a small, but not tiny, terraced house in a rough yet
respectable corner of town. A classic two-up two-down abode purchased
as new by his parents during the great post-war building programme. Sam
came along a few years later, quite by accident and it was said that
the shock had sent his father to an early grave. His deceased father
provided well for his family, due to pension provision, insurance and
the death of a rich unknown uncle. His widow could now enjoy the
financial security her living husband would never have offered her.
Swings and roundabouts.
Sam shared this space with his mother for forty-five years, she caring
for him, each caring for the other and finally Sam caring for her. They
seldom involved other people in their close-knit life together; it was
a symbiotic relationship that existed not in spite of, but without need
for others.
As their years together passed by, it was clear that Sam's mother was
becoming increasingly infirm; she fell over a few times, forgot things,
kept irregular sleeping patterns, sometimes not sleeping at all, and
then the shaking started. Sam took her to see the Doctor. She was
forty-nine years old when they diagnosed Alzheimer's disease.
Sam was only twenty years old when this devastating black curtain was
drawn around his life, old enough to realise the significance, but too
young to deal with it on his own. At first the doctors took his mother
away from him, believing that some hospital care, treatment and medical
testing might make her more comfortable, if not aid their drug
research. So for the first time in his life Sam was left to fend for
himself.
He tried going out to meet new people, forge friendships, get a life,
but his years of social absence made him awkward and odd in the eyes of
others. They shunned his incompetent attempts to fit in amongst them
and laughed at his amorous attempts. He was neither skilled in
conversation, witty, intelligent or attractive - a face that only a
mother had loved.
Apart from a few short stays in hospital and the final few weeks in the
hospice, Sam was his mother's only carer, trapped watching those
twenty-five years take away his youth and leaving him stranded in the
middle of age. He didn't mind, never gave it any thought, certainly
never knew any different, just living this life, in this routine and
this repetition. So bang! When his mother finally died, buried next to
his father and gone forever, something had died in Sam. And something
had to born to replace it.

So it all began with the birthday party, a harmless way of introducing
Sam to the awaiting world before him. A modest start was made by
turning on his computer, going on-line and typing the words 'birthday
party' followed by a click on the search icon. The machine obliged him
with a host of useless information and a link to www.partyplanner.com.
They had everything and Sam, being alien to any sort of social
interaction, absorbed it all verbatim, without question; he even
learned new words like 'soir?e', 'carousal' and 'lev?e'. He said them
to himself time and time over until they sounded natural, part of his
very own vocabulary. He rehearsed using them in conversation, working
out how best to slip them in like the sophisticated gentleman he
yearned to be.
It all brought such excitement to Sam, who before now knew nothing of
such riches; did real people really live such full and exciting lives?
He, on the other hand, had never been to a real party, only the ones he
and his mother protracted at each others birthday or at Christmas; a
small glass of sherry and the same coloured paper hats refolded and
recycled from years before, a home-made cake with one single candle
blown out quickly and re-lit next birthday - it had been in the family
for years. Although such behaviour would seem at best thrifty and at
worst stingy, these acts were neither, for there was always plenty of
money and never less than an abundance of love and kindness. It was
just their simple and simplistic way of living and loving in their very
own unworldly way.

Sam was not at first concerned when he received no response from the
invitations as apparently, according to www.partyplanner.com, this had
become one of many fashionable foibles now employed by partygoers -
'the chic clique of socialite shakers seldom RSVP,' they wrote in their
guide. He did not panic when no one had arrived by eight-thirty,
although the invitation clearly stated an eight o'clock start, as this
was also 'a peculiarity a la mode' associated with such sophisticated
events. Around nine o'clock he read through the invitation to check the
address and date were correct - they were. He fumbled with his thumbs,
fiddled with his fingers, scratched his head and rearranged the food on
the table - strange breadcrumb things to the back. He changed the CD to
Party No Fears 2, but not even the music could soothe his increasing
anxieties.
At ten he unscrewed a bottle of wine and poured himself a small glass.
As unaccustomed to alcohol as he was, the drink went straight to his
head and momentarily gave him a definite happy feeling. His mood began
to melt into the music, a peculiarly downbeat version of Dean Martin's
Magic Moments, re-recorded by a depressed, drug addled session crooner.
Three minutes of elation flowed through him, his feet tapping, body
almost dancing until the lyrics reminded him of the magician he'd
booked; the magician he'd paid for in advance and that same magician
who couldn't be arsed to turn up. Then the doorbell rang.
Sam rushed out excited that the evening may not be a failure after all
and found a white dove flying through his letterbox. The Great Ebullo
then let himself in without need of Sam's assistance, despite the well
locked door.
'I am The Great Ebullo,' he announced and looking round at the empty
house continued, 'and you are a sad and lonely middle-aged man with no
friends and no family.'
The Great Ebullo was a master of cliche. Every well oiled trait of the
archetypal magician dripped from his presence, from the unplaceable
European accent to the cape and pointy beard.
'You have paid me well,' he said, 'and in return I shall give you this
card. It has a phone number on it, one of our more specialised
departments at www.partyplanner.com. I go now telling you to make that
call. Please tell them I sent you,' he paused collecting his white dove
and placing it unceremoniously in his hat, 'they pay me commission you
see.' In a flash he was gone.
Sam poured another glass of wine and caught his reflection in the
mirror. He looked old, he looked drunk, he looked sad. He was alone,
all alone in a world which had moved on without him, forgotten him on
his fiftieth birthday. No presents, no guests, but he did have a card
of sorts. He placed it on the table next to strange things in
breadcrumbs.
Looking over at the old family carriage clock, Sam noticed it was
almost midnight and the food was becoming stale. He began thinking
about tidying everything away, forgetting the whole non-event and going
to bed, when the doorbell rang again. This time it would not be the
Great Ebullo.

Outside it was raining; raining so hard it scared worms to the
surface. The person stood on the wet side of Sam's front door was
drenched right through, shivering in thin summertime clothing and
ringing on the doorbell. Seemingly alone, for it was hard to be sure
with an all seeing eye given the extreme downpour of rain.

Slightly glazed and much surprised, Sam jumped up and out of the
lounge into the hallway and on toward the front door. Who could it be
so late? As he got closer his nerves began to jangle despite the
courage afforded by alcohol. Moving his normally dextrous digits with
imperfect silence and slight, he was aware of something immense behind
the door. He stopped for a moment, standing there in awe of the
unknown. He had controlled his excitement quite well so far, but now as
he went to actually release the final lock, the doorbell rang again and
the shaking really started. He stopped again, took in a deep breath,
but he couldn't assuage this increasingly odd sensation. Whoever it was
out there they were causing this, they had to be. He had to know who it
was, he had to look through little security window and find out who it
was. He stood up to the door and placed his eye to the small round
looking glass. Nothing at first could be seen out of the misty dark
rain-soaked night and then slowly, slowly, by the faint light of the
street lamps an unmistakable face appeared. The shock sent Sam flying
back, shaking, gasping for breath, his heart beat belting himself from
within. He landed on the floor with a crash.
'Hello!' said the voice from the doorstep. 'Is everything ok in
there?'
Sam couldn't answer, couldn't find a single audible letter, moan or
groan. His heart was a pounding steam train piston now and his head
jerked and twitched with every stroke of the metaphorical metal rod. He
was laid out flat on his back, his head inches from the door and his
feet crumpled at the foot of the stairs. He counted to ten, hoping it
was all a dream and would all fade away, but it didn't. He would have
to get up, he must take one last leap toward the lock, it couldn't be
what he'd just seen. Stuttering out each tormenting breath and reaching
up with all the strength left in him, he tried to get up and open the
door, but there wasn't enough strength, it could never be enough. Sam
was unconscious.

Sam didn't know how long he was unconscious, people never do, he only
knew he was confused, scared and somewhere very unfamiliar. He wasn't
even sure if he remembered what he'd seen. As his eyes opened and began
to register, the surroundings grew out of the blur revealing a clean
white walled room with a large open window and wide, solid, single
door, painted blue. The window allowed a soft comforting breeze to flow
into the room, but all he could see through it was a section of bright
sky, as blue as the door opposite. Sam lay on a bed beneath rough white
cotton sheets tucked tightly around him with his arms held within. His
head tilted upwards at a slight angle on a pillow hard enough to deny
the very name itself - it might as well have been stuffed with
gravel.
Beyond the door Sam heard the shuffle of several feet, getting louder
and louder, nearer and nearer until the door swung wide open. A middle
aged man and an older woman walked in and without acknowledging Sam,
they began a conversation in clipped, clear voices.
'We've got all the certificates for this one,' said the man staring
down at his clipboard. 'As soon as we get back full brain function we
can go ahead. To be honest,' he paused and made a confident,
professional, pragmatic smirk in the directional of his senior
colleague and continued, 'with this one, whatever happens it can only
improve him.'
The woman checked her notes, nodded and made a few scribbles on her
clipboard. 'Yes, his social status is ideal, no family, friends, no
job, no-one to complicate anything. No worries if it goes wrong, but we
don't want to encourage an error. I am a bit concerned about his
condition. Nothing to write home about, eh?' she laughed.
'Yes,' the man responded, 'but nobody at home to write to
anyhow!'
They both laughed and Sam could hear them, but he couldn't seem to
speak or move. The reason for this soon became apparent as the two
placed their clipboards at the end of the bed, stepped forward towards
the patient - one on each side of the bed - and slowly peeled back the
sheet, in exact unison. He saw for the first time that his hands and
feet had been restrained by leather straps and his body, much thinner
than he remembered, was naked with intravenous drips hooked up in three
or four places from head to foot. The needles from his body led to
tubes of differing colours collecting like tributaries and flowing into
a previously unseen piece of equipment, flashing away at the foot of
the bed. He wanted to speak, was desperate to move, but try as he
might, he could say nothing and he could feel absolutely nothing at
all.
They began taking readings with esoteric instruments he'd never seen
before, checked vital signs of body functions only they knew what for
and probed and prodded regions of his currently paraplegic body,
grunting here, acknowledging there and laughing now and then. They
never spoke during these preliminary checks, only smiling or frowning
as their results unfolded. After a few minutes it was over and the
woman picked up her clipboard, took out her favourite pen and signed
her name on the document before her.
'I've signed him in,' she said. 'Any comments?' she passed him the
document to countersign.
'No, no, I think he's a little out of shape and he could do with a
little more prep, but...,' he looked for the words and found them, 'the
money were getting, we can't afford to look after him anymore. No, I'll
sign. It's not as if were bound by the Hippocratic Oath for God's
sake,' and he signed.
As they left the room the man pressed a few buttons on the machine at
the end of the bed, initiating new colours to flow through Sam's drip
feeds, wonderful deep blues and light yellows, crimson reds and what
seemed like black.
They passed two people in white coming in as they left the room, with
the last thing that this Sam ever heard. In a woman's voice it was
said, 'Re-birthing room one, fifteen minutes,' whilst Sam looked out at
the blue sky through the window, regretting something he'd not yet
done.

It wasn't cold on the doorstep, but Christ it was wet. This was
supposed to be summer, so where was all the rain coming from. Inside
bad music played and not loud enough, although as loud as it deserved.
Hit the doorbell, 'ring, ding, dong,' once and once again. Surely
that's shuffling somewhere within. Hit the doorbell, again, 'ring,
ding, ding, ding,' and then, 'ring, ding, dong!' There was definitely
shuffling inside. He knew he must be still alive in there.
Moments later inside, the cough, the spasm, the jerk and the fit,
followed by the fall and intermittent breathing. All as expected. The
last gasp effort to release the door, the final lock, nearly, not quite
and then nothing... He waited until he was sure.
And it was just as Sam had remembered it the first time. He used his
old key to release the door from outside and watched himself sprawl
before himself, again. He went inside past the body, snacked upon
something in breadcrumbs he'd not enjoyed before, picked up the card
with the phone number on it and made the all important phone call, to
www.partyplanner.com. The rain continued to fall.
'Hello, I was given this number by The Great Ebullo. We're going into
a loop in a few moments, so I think we, I mean I, must be ready for
re-birthing again. I thought I'd try the whole life cycle thing one
more time. This last one was much better than the first.' Sam told the
woman on the other end of the phone.
'Certainly, sir,' she said. 'Can I take your name?'
'Yes, my name is Sam Laskey.'
'Very good , sir. Same payment details as last time?'
'Yes, I am good for it,' he replied.
'Very good. We are sending the collectors now.'
Sam Walked out to the hall and collapsed into himself. It was a circle
now, and nothing on Earth could ever change that.
Sam's Birthday

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