The Man Who Thought Too Much
By lcole10644
Wed, 15 Sep 2004
- 397 reads
lang="EN-US" style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">Sid
Bartram awoke one fine summer morning feeling distinctly uneasy. He had
no real reason for feeling so. He had enjoyed a relaxing weekend,
mainly sitting in the garden with his wife Maureen and enjoying the
lovely weather. It had been a most disappointing summer so far with
cloudy skies and cold breezes, but over the weekend the temperatures
had soared into the mid eighties, and the Bartrams had seized the
opportunity to add some colour to their callow
complexions.
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Monday morning had
never been Sid's favourite time of the week. The weekend was over, and
he had five days at work hunched in front of his spreadsheets to look
forward to. Yet an odd part of himself normally enjoyed the discomfort
of work. This facet of himself would divide the working day into hours,
minutes and even seconds, working out down to the exact penny how much
he had earned. As the clock on the bottom right-hand corner of his
computer screen switched silently from 8:59 to 9:00, he would
invariably mutter to himself 'And the money comes rolling in.' He would
smile, clasp his hands behind the back of his head, then stretch them
towards the ceiling, enjoying the way his tendons cracked. Then he
would settle down to work, typing busily away and adding to his
spreadsheets, then checking the clock again at 9:30 when he had earned
precisely two pounds eighty seven pence, thanks to the vagaries of
National Insurance contributions and income
tax. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> That's not very much,
you might think. Sid would agree, but he wasn't too bothered. Maureen
was the main bread-earner in the family with her important position in
the city. She had done so well for herself that Sid didn't really have
to work at all. They were childless and neither of them were
particularly extravagant spenders so they were able to live a very
comfortable life. Without his job, however, Sid would have to forego
the pleasure of watching the clock on his PC screen whirr silently
away, and would instead have to sit at home watching television,
without the connection of time and money that kept him going through
the long dull, office
hours. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> He was utterly unable
to cope with stress - that was another reason why he was perfectly
content with such a mundane, badly paid position. All he had to do was
input financial data on his spreadsheets. The phone on his desk rarely
bleeped, and it was only on very unusual occasions that any of the
other people in his office came up to him and talked. Instructions
always seemed to come via e-mail, and although people tried to be
friendly when he first started, they were soon put off by his
monosyllabic answers and his lack of interest in asking any questions
back. These days he remained hunched silently over his desk all day,
apart from allowing himself the luxury of a ten minute break at eleven
to surf the internet (he enjoyed catching up on all the world news on
the BBC site), and then for half and hour at lunchtime he would sit by
the nearby lake, eat the sandwiches he had made that morning, and read
a couple of chapters of the latest Stephen King
novel. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> When his telephone did
ring, he suffered terribly. Its horrible high-pitched electronic bleat
would cut right into him like a knife, quickening his pulse and
bursting out beads of sweat on the palms of his hands. He would try to
ignore it, to focus on his screen, to wipe that infernal noise from his
mind. But the other people in his office would begin looking up from
their work with puzzled expressions on their faces, wondering why this
strange, balding man wasn't answering his phone. Sid would have to
reach across with a trembling hand and lift the handset, clutching it
tightly to the side of his head in case anyone should see how scared he
was. The call would normally be a simple query about the figures he'd
inputted and would be over within a minute. Its brevity failed to make
the experience any less unpleasant
however. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Overall he enjoyed his
work, and he enjoyed the way his mind operated while he was working,
dividing the day into financial segments and making the time pass at a
bearable pace. That was why he was so puzzled by the sense of unease he
felt on this particular Monday morning. It had been a warm night, but
he had slept well nonetheless. The considerable bulk of Maureen laying
next to him and shifted several times, but only dragging him into a
slightly shallower level of sleep and not waking him up entirely. He
looked across at her. She was on her side and facing away from him, the
duvet scrunched tightly around her leaving very little for himself. He
felt a sudden, almost burning sense of disgust as his eyes wandered to
her lank black hair that spread over the pillow like the weed spreading
over their pond. He suddenly found himself taking an irrational dislike
to the way she breathed through her nose when she was sleeping, never
snoring exactly, but rasping and sometimes making odd little clicking
noises that made him wonder whether a cockroach had made its home in
her nasal cavity and was scraping its carapaced limbs together. And he
was suddenly rather glad she was turned away from him. Her breath had
always been foul in the morning, and if he had felt its damp, mouldy
unpleasantness on his face that particular morning, he might well have
erupted into a rage, an extremely rare occurrence for Sid
Bartram. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> For the first time in
many years, he remembered his first sight of Maureen. He usually tried
to avoid thinking about the past, and became absorbed instead in the
present, every second, every penny of the present at that. But the
shapeless bulk sprawled next to him in bed on this particular morning
seemed so far removed from the lithe, happy young woman he had first
glimpsed at the funfair thirty years before, that the comparison made
the past impossible to
forget. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> It had been summer,
late August, and the fair that appeared on the town common once or
twice a year was into its last day. They would begin packing up the
following morning, and within hours the only hints that anything
exciting had stood there at all would be the patches of yellowed grass
where the tents had been pitched and the few scraps of litter that had
been blown into the trees surrounding the open spaces and been
forgotten. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Night had fallen
quickly, as it so often did in late summer, as if to prepare us for the
darker and colder days ahead. Sid had gone to the fair with a couple of
his friends, and they had wandered around aimlessly for a few hours,
trying the odd ride, laughing at how the Ghost Train so completely
failed to scare them, fighting back the urge to puke when they had
tried the Waltzer after one too many doughnuts. style="mso-spacerun: yes">
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Maureen had simply
wandered past him, one face amongst dozens of us. He was pretty sure it
hadn't been love at first sight. The emotion her tanned face had
awakened within him wasn't so much love, as curiosity, a desire simply
to get to know her better and to find out what she did. He had overcome
his usual nerves and began talking to her immediately, influenced by a
vague, gnawing doubt deep within his gut that he might never see her
again. After all, he had never seen her
before. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> She had been reticent
at first, perhaps seeing something of the ridiculous in the tall,
rather scruffy 19-year old who was making the first clumsy attempts at
conversation. But then she must have seen something interesting in his
eyes, perhaps feeling that same curiosity that he felt, because within
two days they had gone on their first date, within two weeks they had
been sleeping together, and within two years they were
married. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Curiosity killed the
cat, thought Sid uneasily to himself, and then wandered where the
thought had come from. Perhaps something had been killed, within both
of them, since those heady days. They had been happy at first, and
their marriage had survived Maureen going off to business college and
then embarking almost immediately on her lucrative career, while he
made a few half-hearted attempts at forging a career for himself. But
something had slowly and almost imperceptibly died in those intervening
years. Sid no longer felt that old shiver of anticipation when he knew
he was about to see Maureen again after an extended absence, the sort
of shiver that made his pulse quicken and the world seem full of
endless possibilities. He felt nothing now, apart from a horrible,
guilt-ridden emptiness that he had never really noticed until now. He
was worried that even this horrible lack of feeling might lead to
something worse, to downright hate for his wife. Perhaps his disgust at
her size, at the sound she made when she breathed through her nose,
perhaps this was the first sign, the first harbinger of impending
hate. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Sid rose from bed, and
was relieved to leave the oppressive atmosphere of the bedroom. He
hoped his shower might scare away some of his night phantoms, but as
the warm water cascaded over him, it seemed to offer only a further
opportunity to dwell on them, to made them bigger and more solid, and
invite them to spend the rest of the day with him. Toweling himself
dry, he padded back into the bedroom to see that Maureen had turned
over, and was now facing the rumpled, Sid Bartram-shaped patch of bed
he had recently relinquished. Nice, he thought to himself. She keeps
her back to me when I'm there, and can only face me when I'm not there
anymore. Bitch. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt">
as if he had actually said the word out loud instead of thinking it. He
can never thought such things about his wife before. Never. What on
earth was happening to him today? class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> lang="EN-US"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> He checked his watch,
and saw there was still half an hour before he had to leave for the
office. Feeling a mixture of guilt and nervous anticipation at what he
was about to do, he dropped his towel and climbed back in beside
Maureen, aware but trying desperately to forgot that his half of the
bed had become a lot smaller than it used to be. He pressed himself
against her, willing sensation in the flaccid and underused object
below his waist, but feeling only that terrible emptiness that he had
woken with. How could he be expected to become aroused, when the once
slender woman next to him looming under the duvet like a hibernating
Brontosaurus was supposed to be the sole object of his
affections? class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Maureen snorted, and a
gust of warm air wafted over his face. Sid smelled rotten eggs and last
night's Chicken Kiev and almost gagged. He jumped out of bed again,
almost tumbling to the ground in his hurry to get dressed, eat, drink,
get the hell out of this awful place and rush to the safety of the
office, where he could immerse himself in his spreadsheets and his
moneymaking seconds, and forget the crazy thoughts that were flying
through his head this
morning. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> When he was about to
leave, he tiptoed back up the stairs, desperate not to wake his wife in
case he might have to (horror of all horrors!) actually converse with
the woman. "Have a nice relaxing day off, love," he whispered, leaning
over and giving her the lightest ever peck on her cheek. He tried not
to breath while he did so, his guilt being slowly replaced by a much
more manageable emotion - amusement. Comedies had been made about this
sort of thing, he said to himself. Couples who'd been married for
thirty years weren't supposed to love each other anymore, they were
supposed to find each other amusing and sickening in equal measure.
Okay, the sickening seemed to be winning hands-down over the amusement
factor at the moment, but that could
change. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> By the time Sid had
walked half a mile to the station, had found his favourite seat on the
train, and was tucking into the UK news in the Daily Telegraph, he was
feeling quite cheerful. Fair enough, his wife had grown into a hideous
fat, lank-haired smelly whale, but perhaps he could simply pretend they
weren't even married anymore. They shared a bed, they ate together, and
that was fine. But it wasn't as if they had sex when they were in bed,
and actually talked when they were sitting at the dining table, was it?
They were just two people that just happened to do some things
together, and it wasn't really necessary for them to like each other,
was it? After all, she probably thought the same about him. His hair
was growing thinner by the day, and the upper half of his body seemed
to be gradually seeping into the lower half, spilling out at the waist
when there wasn't any room left. He hardly cut an attractive figure.
The best way out of the problem was for both of them just to get on
with their lives, to obtain as much enjoyment as possible from their
existence, and to think as little as possible about the other
person. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Sid became absorbed in
the newspaper for a few moments, a faint smile flickering on his lips.
If anyone had been observing him closely, they would have seen the
smile not just fade, but suddenly end as quickly as it had appeared.
Sid's mind had drifted away again, and had traveled back a couple of
stops on his train of thought. My waist is getting rather large, he
said to himself, folding his newspaper and peering down to where his
belly was bulging out into his white shirt. He clenched his stomach
muscles and pulled it in, breathing in so loudly as he did so that the
woman opposite looked sharply at him, alarmed. Perhaps if I keep on
doing that, my stomach muscles will strengthen and prevent everything
from bulging out, he thought. He was vaguely aware that pulling in his
lower stomach simply meant it sagging forward further up, just beneath
his ribcage, but he thought that might look slightly
better. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Contented again, he
opened the Telegraph again and turned again to the article he had been
reading on the situation in the Middle East. All the time he tried to
keep his stomach muscles clenched, but found it took such a conscious
effort that he lost track of the article and found he could make little
sense of it. He breathed out suddenly and loudly, and then looked back
down to see whether his belly was sticking out any less than it was
before. Perhaps it was, just a little, he thought, and breathed in
again, repeating the process. At this rate my stomach will be flat as a
pancake by the time we reach
Euston. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size:
10.0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> He must have cut a
rather ridiculous figure as he stared at himself, because the
aforementioned woman opposite seemed to sink as far back into her seat
as she could get, and to become even more absorbed in her paperback
than she had been before. Sid realized this, and looked up, straight
into her eyes, which stared back at him, briefly and nervously, before
flicking back down to her book. She was young, probably in her early
20s. Her long hair was blonde, but was undoubtedly dyed - he could tell
by the roots showing in her centre parting. style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold">She was wearing a black
pinstriped suit with a skirt bottom and a plain white blouse. The skirt
was quite short and Sid could see her thighs curving up into enticing
darkness. Just a bit different from my Maureen, he thought to himself
and unbelievably felt something stir beneath his waist, which he was
still holding in. After his experience in bed with his wife that
morning, he'd feared the feeling down there had been deadened for good.
He was certain Maureen's size had killed him off in that way, had
rendered him sexless. He had been wrong, and he felt damn pleased with
himself. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He gave up on the Middle East article and
placed the newspaper on his lap to avoid any embarrassment. The woman
appeared to be still reading her book, but Sid wondered if her mind was
on other things. He wondered if she had a boyfriend, and presumed their
recent sex lives had been rather more active than his and Maureen's.
Jesus, even if they'd only had sex once in the last year, they would
still be winning. And all this time, Sid had assumed there's been
something wrong with him. There had been times when Maureen had been up
for it, and she had disrobed before him in a manner she believed to be
alluring but which (and he had only realized this today) he found
merely comical and verging on the alarming once she was naked. Sid had
failed utterly to perform, unable even to entice the merest vestige of
life in his member. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He would have no problems with the woman
opposite, he realized. He was pretty sure she didn't have folds of fat
hanging down just below her armpits that made it look like she had four
breasts. God, he was envious of her boyfriend. Imagine having that
laying next to you at night, imagine your hands reaching down between
those smooth thighs, imagine your tongue darting over her pale, firm
young breasts? class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Sid snapped himself awake, horribly aware
that the newspaper lying on his lap had risen somewhat, and that the
gentleman sitting next to him had moved away slightly. Sid felt his
cheeks burning with shame, and dared not look at the object of his
fantasies sitting opposite. Good God, his mind was running amok! He
seemed to have utterly lost control of what was going on in his head.
His thoughts were normally as well-ordered and disciplined as his work
at the office, but if his mind could be compared to a desk, well?there
would be papers strewn everywhere and probably other, more
incriminating pieces of litter lying around. He tried to focus himself,
to think about the spreadsheets he had to work on that day, and felt
his pulse rate steady and the burning sensation in his cheeks
ease. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> For a few moments, he was more like the Sid
Bartram of the day before, perfectly pleasant and personable, but a
trifle dull. But then he became aware of his stomach again, and
realized that all the time he had been fantasizing about the stranger
opposite, he had been holding his guts in. He breathed out, and then
stared out the window as the train approached London's outskirts and
the green gaps between the houses became fewer and fewer. Sid took
another breath, held in briefly, the breathed out. Then other, and
repeated the process. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Gradually he became oblivious of everything
other than his breathing. Every aspect of his conscious self became
involved in the vital, basic and normally subconscious mechanism of
breathing. Sid thought little of it, and tried to allow his train of
thought to move on to the next station, Spreadsheet Junction perhaps,
or Money Halt. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> But it
wouldn't. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> His mind refused to obey him. His train of
thought seemed stuck on Breathing, and the sound of rushing air in his
lungs as he inhaled and exhaled air reminded him of the hissing of air
released from the brakes of a stopped train. Oh My god, he said to
himself. I have to control my own breathing. It's no longer
subconscious. For the rest of my life, I will be able to think of
nothing else but my breathing, otherwise it will just stop and I will
die. How will I work? How will I be able to concentrate on my
spreadsheets? class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Sid realized there was movement around him
and that the train, like the one in his head, had ground to a halt at
Euston. Zombie-like, he rose stiffly to his feet and followed the
grounds along the station platform, unaware of his legs moving beneath
him, or of slotting his travel pass into the automatic ticket barrier,
and of the machine's grey plastic arms snapping apart to let him
through. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Someone nudged him from behind and he turned
around dreamily, his mind intent on only one thing. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold">"You left your ticket in the machine,"
said a distant voice. "Oi, mister, I said you left your ticket in the
machine!" class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Something was thrust in Sid's face but he
just ignored it, and focused on the rhythmic goings-on in his body -
in, out, in, out, in, out. Got to keep the rhythm up or I'll just die.
I'll just become starved of oxygen and die. I wonder if this has
happened to anyone else. I wonder if I'm the first. They'll want to
examine me. I'll become a subject of worldwide medical
curiosity. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> A slightly more rational side of Sid's mind
attempted to remind him that while he had been pondering his possible
future fame, his conscious mind had forgotten about his breathing and
his subconscious mind had taken over, but Sid dismissed it as
irrelevant and concentrated again on the endless rhythm that was
keeping him alive - in, out, in, out, in,
out. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> His office was only a short walk from
Euston. He liked to take a small detour through a patch of greenery
just outside the station, to enjoy a last taste of fresh air and
freedom before entering the conditioned air and electronic slavery of
the office. He occasionally bought a paper from the Big Issue seller
who seemed to spend his whole life in this tiny park ringed on three
sides by roaring dual carriageways and on the fourth by the grim
station building. Even if he didn't buy a copy, he would always say
hello and sometimes chat briefly about the
weather. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> On this particular Monday however, even
though Sid took his usual detour, he was completely unaware of the tiny
island of grass and soot-stained leaves through which he passed, and
although the Big Issue seller had become so familiar to him that he had
almost begun to consider him a friend, he completely failed to
acknowledge his greeting and strode on into the office building. He
passed one couple who exchanged puzzled glances. The tall,
smart-looking man who had rushed past them had been breathing extremely
heavily. It might be a good idea for him to join a gym or go jogging,
because at the moment he sounded like prime heart attack
material. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Sid, flustered and unsettled, arrived at his
desk some ten minutes before nine. This was perfect. It gave him time
to settle before moneymaking time began. He would normally make himself
a coffee from the communal kitchen and then log onto the Internet to
check his e-mail. The company didn't allow him his own official e-mail
address because even though he had been working there for many years,
he was he was still officially a temp and had to fill out a timesheet
each week. He therefore failed to qualify as a fully-fledged member of
staff and was accordingly denied his own e-mail. He had managed to
circumvent this problem by signing up to one of those internet-based
e-mail companies that you could access wherever you were in the world.
He didn't really have any friends - the guys who'd accompanied him to
the funfair those many years before had long since dismissed him as
boring and ever-so-slightly odd, and he'd become so introverted that he
found it extremely difficult to make new ones. But he'd signed up to a
couple of newsgroups, and enjoyed reading other people's conversations,
especially about politics and world
events. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> This morning he was delighted to see eight
new e-mails, all from his newsgroups. Perhaps if he focused intently on
them, he would forget about his breathing and might just be able to
operate effectively for the rest of the day. There was one particularly
interesting comment that some stranger had written about the situation
in the Middle East, and Sid leant forward so that the PC's screen
filled his entire vision, with the aim of its contents in the same way
filling his entire mind, leaving no space for paranoid thoughts about
breathing, and women's breasts, and how foul his wife was. For a time,
it worked, but then he made the terribly mistake of sipping from his
coffee cup. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He loved the feel of the hot, rich liquid
swilling around his mouth. He swallowed, looking forward to the buzz
he'd receive after several gulps, the caffeine rush that he'd try to
maintain throughout the day by drinking cup after cup. Even though the
coffee was still pretty hot, he swallowed it all down within seconds
and licked his lips, before turning his attention back to the article,
and not thinking about his
breathing. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He swallowed again, just to get the last of
the coffee down his gullet. Perhaps it would increase the caffeine rush
just a little bit. After several seconds Sid noticed that his mouth had
begun filling up with saliva again, so he gathered it all together with
his tongue just behind his front teeth and swallowed again. Within
seconds, he felt the saliva returning, and tried to fight the impulse
to swallow again. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Sid felt his pulse rate rising and a
horrible tight, panicky feeling in his chest. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold">It's just like the breathing. It's just
like the bloody breathing and that bloody woman on the train, and my
bloody wife, and how bloody unhappy I've suddenly realized I really am.
I've become conscious of something I've never been conscious of before.
I'm not normally aware of the act of swallowing. I'm not normally aware
of saliva building up in my mouth, and of me having to swallow to get
rid of it. If I don't think about it, I suppose the saliva doesn't
build up, and I don't have to swallow in the first place. Oh my God, I
don't think I can cope with this any more. I can't cope with spending
the rest of my life having to consciously control my breathing and my
swallowing, having to imagine every woman I see naked, and comparing
them to the horrible sight that is my wife dancing naked in front of
me. I can't stand realizing how everything has gone so bloody
wrong.
class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Sid realized he was on
the verge of tears, and raised a red flag to bring this particular,
desperate train of thought to a screeching halt. He glanced at his PC
clock and saw it was 9:02, and he didn't even have a spreadsheet open
on the screen. One of his managers sat several desks behind in the huge
open-plan office he worked in, and could probably see that he still had
Hotmail, and not Excel, open on his PC. God, he could even get the sack
because of his crazy
thoughts. class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> "Sid?" class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Sid snapped back to full consciousness, to
notice that someone was standing behind him, their right hand leaning
on the flimsy chipboard divider that separated his desk from his
neighbour's. He didn't even know who his neighbour
was. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He looked behind and up, and saw it was his
immediate line manager Mr Davies, a short, rotund and generally
good-tempered Welshman who had always treated Sid decently, despite his
lack of a proper e-mail
address. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> "Alright Sid, had a good
weekend?" class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> "Quiet, but nice," replied Sid, using the
response he always used when his boss asked that question on a Monday
morning. He was aware all the time that Mr Davies was looking down at
him that all the new thoughts that had assailed his mind that morning
were still running around inside there. He could once again consciously
feel the rise and fall of his chest, the train brake-like hiss as his
lungs sucked in and expelled air. He tried to forget his breathing's
endless mechanical repetition, to focus entirely on Mr Davies' words at
the expense of all other thought. But he succeeded in switching his
attention only to his swallowing, and became uncomfortably aware of his
mouth filling up with saliva. He refused to swallow. After all, he
never swallowed when he wasn't aware of all that increased spittle, so
really there should be no need to swallow now. It must look absolutely
ridiculous gathering it all up at the front of your mouth and pursing
your lips together like a whore. People would see him doing it and
laugh. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold">"Have you got plenty to do at the
moment?" asked Mr
Davies. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> "I've still got a couple of spreadsheets to
complete," replied Sid, finding it quite difficult to pronounce some
words as his glands produced more and more saliva. "I should have them
finished by lunchtime, and
then?" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> The unthinkable happened and Mr Davies
interrupted him. "Skipped our breakfast, did we
Sid?" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Sid, not realizing the implications of the
question, smiled. "No, I can some peanut butter on toast, it's always
been?" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> "You're dribbling at the mouth," said Mr
Davies. "I thought perhaps you were hungry. We can't really have
employees of this company drooling at the mouth, can we Sid? You do
know that our customers visit us on a regular basis. It really wouldn't
make a very impressive sight. And you are only on a week-to-week
contract. Your position here is tenuous in the
extreme." class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Mr Davies disappeared back to his desk
somewhere behind Sid. Sid sat silently at his desk, staring into space,
before pursing his lips as he gathered his spit together, and then
swallowing it all down so loudly that he sounded like a frog. His
unseen and unknown neighbour
smaned. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Trying to make his mind a blank, but failing
abysmally as he breathed deeply and pursed his lips all at the same
time, Sid opened his first spreadsheet of the day and began to type in
the figures printed on the mound of paperwork lying on his desk. He
felt his first caffeine rush of the day subsiding, and wished he could
pour himself another cup of coffee. But drinking another cup of coffee
meant loads more swallowing, and that might just make the situation
worse. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He glanced at the clock again. 9:14. He
grimaced, disappointed at the slow passage of time over the past
fourteen minutes, but also at the incredibly fast passage of time over
the past thirty years. On any other Monday, he would have rejoiced in
the fact that he had now earned fourteen pence, but money was now the
furthest thing from his mind. As he worked, he became aware of his
heartbeat. It was so loud it seemed to fill the entire office. He half
expected to see his colleagues looking up from their desks and staring
at him with a mixture of amusement and horror, much the same way as he
had thought about his wife earlier that morning. It was so loud he
looked down at his chest to check whether he could see it pulsing in
and out, in and out, in and out. He couldn't, but he could feel it
nonetheless, and it started him thinking about his breathing again, in,
out, in, out, in, out. Then he pulled his tummy in tightly, hoping to
strengthen those abdominals and get rid of the beer gut he had acquired
over the years. Then he pursed his lips as he sucked all the saliva
together at the front of his mouth and then gulped it down. His
neighbour smaned
again. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He felt his mind straining under the
pressure of having to think about so many things at the same time. He
decided he had to focus on just one of them, otherwise he would go
completely mad, and end up thrashing about and foaming at the mouth in
some lunatic asylum. Jesus, he was foaming at the mouth
already. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> He chose to think about his heart, and that
was undoubtedly the worst decision he had made in his entire life. His
breathing, his swallowing, his stomach, sex, his unhappiness, all faded
into his subconscious, leaving only his heartbeat. It became faster and
louder until it thundered in his ears. It even pulsed in his eyeballs
so that the entire office seemed to throb in rhythm with it, as though
some strange, regular earth tremor was hitting London. He looked down
at his pile of paperwork and attempted to copy some of the figures onto
his last spreadsheet, but his eyesight pulsed so violently that he was
completely unable to
focus. style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Then, just when it seemed it couldn't get
any louder or faster, and if it did, then his head would explode and he
would at last become intimately acquainted with his neighbour in a way
neither of them were unlikely ever to have imagined, it stopped.
Completely. class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> Okay, thought Sid calmly to himself. My
heart has stopped. That's fine. When I stop breathing, I know how to
start again. I just?well, I just think it, and it happens. And when all
that nasty saliva builds up in my mouth, well, I just swallow and it
goes away for a bit. And when life with Maureen gets just a bit too
joyless, and when the sight of her fat lump in bed with me in the
morning sickens me, then all I have to do is leave her. But I never
have. I've never been able to work out how. And I've got absolutely no
bloody idea how to get my heart started again. Do I just think it like
the breathing? I'll try? class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold">
nothing happened, and he ended up dead and slumped over his keyboard,
his forehead depressing the keys and inputting intelligible nothings
into his last
spreadsheet. class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight:
bold"> class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"> The couple that heard him breathing heavily
as he strode past them in the little park just outside Euston Station
would hardly have been surprised to learn that he died of a heart
attack.
- Log in to post comments