by Henry Dillon
short story

It had been an unendingly long day for Ralph, just another never ending long day in a line of never ending long days. But that’s probably how he preferred it, what were his options anyway, go home and jerk of to another soft porn movie. At least if he could afford cable he could go home and jack-off to something worthwhile. But he never met a door to door salesman that went home and jerked of to cable, most of them were half dead anyway.

If they got an erection it would probably suck what worthless energy they had left in there beaten bodies. Beaten by the system, beaten by woman, by mothers and fathers, by doors shut in their faces, eyes that peer through keyholes, Roger Rabbit and his golden carrot, another failed revolution, and beaten by the boredom that came in to rape them in their sleep and tried each morning to keep them and molest them in bed. Beaten by the fact that this boredom had a name – living. A friend they were all so sick of, like an odor it clung to them, and Ralph could smell it each morning that he dragged his sorry ass and bedraggled bones into that sorry excuse of a warehouse. Collecting what ever the hell it was that was up for sale to the equally bored public, dictionaries, socks, pens, garbage bags, knives, sauces, peppershakers, love or maybe happiness in a toothpaste tube. God if boredom was a marketable commodity he’d be home jacking of to cable. But the public could smell it too, just never on themselves. Every sod that was in denial had a blocked nose, and even more tightly blocked wallet.These were thoughts that he never shared with his colleagues though, actually he never shared anything with his colleagues except the ride they all took to whatever decrepit suburb was chosen by the Babbitt back at the warehouse to be today’s selling ground.
God please give me the strength not to jump in front of a garbage truck he thought. Not that God existed to him. It would be too easy if he did, someone to blame, someone to forget, someone whose trust you never have to gain, someone to *bleep* over.
“Friendly Street”, the sign read.
-Who the *bleep* would want to live on Friendly Street. He thought to himself. Mothers who don’t even realize they are martyrs to an unnecessary cause. Or nine to fivers that cant wait to get home so they can molest their youngest daughter or mow the lawn, both with equal parental vigor.
- Sounds like paradise. He thought.
But even in paradise it stunk of boredom,

EXTRACT FROM RALPH’S THOUGHTS
God give me the strength not to suffocate on these peoples stench. Maybe I should get myself committed, *bleep* they’ll probably give me the job of going cell to cell to drop of the medication for all the locked up noodles that sit in their padded cells and beat their heads against their knees cause they can’t remember what day it is or cause they can and know they are the punch line to their own worst joke. But there has to be something said for people like me, after they drop the bomb and no-one wants to hang around the front line cause they’re afraid of nuclear waste and the smell of dead body’s. Who do they send in? People like me, people with a thick skin and nasal cavities that are accustomed to the rot. That’s all we’re good for.

And that would be good enough; serving his country in the *bleep* sewers would be fine as long as he could still remember what day it was when he was done, because honestly – right now he sure as hell couldn’t,
Now was Monday or was it Thursday, as long as it wasn’t Sunday. God he hated that day.
- Maybe I should deliver newspapers, at least then I would know what *bleep*en day it is, he reckoned as he clocked the first house he was going to have to hit.
Walking down the path to the door of the house he noticed it was lined with little gnomes on either side, they all seemed to look familiar to him. There was his brother that died and left him when he was 14, or was it 16. There was his dad who never said much other than utter complaint about the weather or the neighbor’s dogs. In fact they were all there his entire god damned family laughing at him as he walked down a path he never really wanted to walk.
A giant bulk of nasal drain that had built up in his throat was expressed from his mouth and sent flying toward a gnome that had the same inhumane posture as that of his recently deceased mother. Missing the gnome the fluid landed on a couple of roses instead. Almost tempted to admire the way in which it dripped slowly from the red petals, he moved on.
Feeling like even more of a failure for not hitting the gnome with his regurgitated spittle he knocked on the door. A middle-aged women with bad skin appeared, through the security gate he could see children’s toys scattered across the floor of what seemed to be a rather messy place of living.
- Hello
- Yes hi. Would you be interested in?
He paused, he coughed, he continued.
- I see you have kids and if.
He paused, he coughed, he continued.
- I’m selling dictionaries at a great price and if I could just get five minutes…
- No thanks we already have a set, sorry.
And the door was closing, another door was closing, and now he had to turn back and walk past the gnomes that each one in its turn would be spitting on him as he passed it by.
- You *bleep*ers, he spurned from under his mustache as his foot kicked of the head of the gnome that looked far too much like his uncle.
An uncle that never said anything unless it was about himself or something nobody else could ever be interested in.
If he had turned around he would have noticed that the head had fallen into a herb garden and in particular had landed on a clump of parsley, his uncles least favorite herb. A perfect little parsley plant that was picked from every couple of days and used to garnish on a brown ceramic plate. A brown ceramic plate that would then be served to a husband that frequently visited his young daughter in her room at night. A visit at night filled with lustful intention. But he spent no more time considering the gnomes or the house he had just been to, he simply walked on.
He walked across the street without looking left or right, secretly hoping to get driven down by a truck or a suicidal worker from the social sector. A disability grant and death seemed both equally appealing to him on this Tuesday morning. If in fact it was a Tuesday morning.
No truck came down the road too meet him and interfere with his time on earth, so instead he was now faced with another house and another goddamn door to knock on.
- Another sad wife but no kids this time, just her regular cleaning duties to keep her company until her husband comes home at five to *bleep* her in her clean and tidy house and give her a sense of belonging and importance to someone or something else other than her vacuum cleaner. He thought.
But if he were to spend time with this woman and befriend her to the point where she confided in him. She would reveal that she and her husband had not had sex in seven years and that sometimes at night when she looked out of her bedroom window she could see the man across the street visiting his daughter in her room after the wife was asleep. Before he was finished knocking he could hear the latch being opened, the door slipped back and the face of a very plain women appeared.
- Hi.
- Good morning, and how are you today? He forced out together with his bad breath.
- I’m fine, and how may I help you. She replied.
- You can’t but maybe I can help you, I have these incredible encyclopedias that we are selling for such a low price…
- No thanks we really don’t need any right now. She said as she the door closed, the final words of her sentence barely audible to Ralph who stood with yet another shut door in front of him. Stood and stared just a little longer than what someone ten years younger would have in that same position. Finally almost expressionless he turned and walked back out the gate he had entered and approached the next house on his route.
A doorbell that seemed to have no end to its kitsch suburbanite melody informed the occupant of his arrival. The occupant being an old man who if Ralph had been able to see through concrete would have just observed picking up the pieces of a window that had been broken the previous night by a suicidal dove.
- Hello.
- Hi I’m selling encyclopedias, a great gift for grandchildren, knowledge the gift that keeps giving you know.
The old man just stood their, his lower jaw rotating as his tongue swiveled and toyed with the false teeth that no denture cream could lock down to his creased gums. With one hand on the doorknob, the other dangling by his side, and his eyes seemingly transfixed on Ralph’s chest he just stood there. With a draft pulling through the open door and the breeze causing a tuft of old man hair to occasionally drag over the wrinkles of his temple and cover his tired eyes - he just stood there.
- Your finger is bleeding old man. Ralph said as he noticed a red pool that had formed on the off-white ceramic floor tiles. If Ralph had been able to see through concrete he would have seen the old man cut his finger on a shattered window pane that was fueling the draft that was now playing with a piece of old man hair in the doorway.
- I said your finger is bleeding old man and it’s going to stain the grouting between the tiles. Ralph’s voice climbing in volume as his sentence progressed.
The old man just stood there, outwardly unaware of the drops of blood that were falling toward the little puddle that had formed next to his left foot. Drop by drop the blood fell while the false teeth went round and round in the old mans craggy oral cavity.
- It’s the tiles in your entrance hall by your front door, and if your blood stains the grouting, then that is the first thing any visitor is going to see. And who the *bleep* wants to walk across the threshold of a door when there’s blood stained tiles on the other side. Ralph’s voice had taken on the quality of a dogmatic principle in charge of an all boys’ school.
More drops of blood tricked from the old mans finger to gather for no particular purpose on the tiles below. More drops of blood fell while the false teeth went round and round, and the old man just stood there.
- Stop *bleep*ing up the tiles old man, the stain is never going to come out and the tiles will have to be replaced, all because you messed your useless retired blood on them. What the *bleep* is your problem you old *bleep*? This is not some *bleep*en old age home where someone else is going to clean up your mess.
Ralph was almost spitting his words out but the old man still paid no attention to him as he stood with his eyes transfixed and his jaw rotating as if it were grinding his tongue into a powder.
- We all have to be a player in the team and you are only thinking about yourself standing there pissing blood over yourself and the floor.
Ralph brought the encyclopedia up to his chest with both hands and pushed it tight under his chin.
- Why do you pretend as if you are the only one that this effects, now it’s your blood that we have to deal with, you are *bleep*en inconsiderate you her me, *bleep*en inconsiderate.
He was no longer reprimanding the old man instead he seemed to be sharing a secret that he was being forced to reveal through clenched teeth and trembling eyes.
And the old man just stood there like a stuffed old scarecrow with a rotating jaw.
Ralph raised the encyclopedia of “M” above him and with a dull thud brought it down onto the head of the old man. Without any resistance the old mans body dropped and with another dull thud his skull met the ceramic tile floor. Nothing moved, no rotating jaw, and the eyes used to deliver a blank stare slowly shut.
Ralph stood at the entrance to the house peering down at the body that lay beyond the threshold. After a few seconds he leant in, grabbed the handle, pulled the door shut and calmly walked out the gate.
The newspapers never did say who found the body, but Ralph suspected that it was probably some bored suburban dweller who would that evening and for many occasions to come have an interesting story to share with his equally bored suburban kin.