Neurotica Read online

I struggle to extinguish the flame. It has burned for too long, and my eyes and fingers ache from turning the pages in front of me. I must press down on the book and the table, so the waves can't carry it all away. Only the chair I'm sitting on is truly secure. Luckily, I'm not wearing anything of value. I'm soaked to the skin. I picked a poor place to relax and read. Just then, the chain around my leg grows taut. She's climbing up from the ocean depths, using me as an anchor. I've waited on shore just long enough for the lava to become stylish furniture for onlookers. They're in the hot seat now. All of this is none of their business. But then I'm the one airing his laundry in public. I've never felt so clean, as the ocean crashes against me. Holding my breath, I lose sight of my pen and notes. The chair and desk float up to the surface. No doubt, the spectators will fight over these souvenirs, as they wash ashore. The chain prevents me from joining the furniture. Otherwise, as I wash ashore, one of the spectators might be tempted to take me home as well. Together with the chair and desk, I'd make a good companion piece for anyone's den or study, providing, of course, that I was fed, and dusted, on a regular basis.

  She is still pulling herself up from the depths. It is impossible to tell, however, whether she is pulling herself up or I am being pulled down. I lose some stability with each tug on the chain. I have even more trouble trying to extinguish the flame now. The candle floats and bobs in the current. My hands are sluggish in the deep, salty water. Fish gather around, but not with the hopes of collecting some furniture. Swimming up beside me now, she takes the candle in her hand. I can barely see her in the darkness of the ocean depths. Licking the tips of her fingers, she extinguishes the flame. All light is gone.

  Suddenly, we are bound together and swirling round and round at the county fair. This is our favourite ride for drying off our clothes, although it often makes me nauseous. The onlookers are below us. They've got my chair and desk. One sits and reads my notes, stopping only to squeeze the water out of them. One of them doodles absent-mindedly. They look good with my furniture. I'm jealous, I must admit.

  “Don't bother with them,” she kisses me lightly on the forehead.

  “But my notes, and my schedule,” I argue, “in the hands of complete strangers!”

  “Don't let it distract you,” she laughs, “just enjoy the ride!”

  The ride is making me dizzy, as usual. So often we've done this - too often. Why can't we just lay side by side in the sun to dry off? Or why bother wearing heavy wool clothing at all? Round and round we go. It costs us both £ 1.25 a piece. It probably would have cost the same to have our clothes dried at the launderette, but not if we put our clothes in together. I'm quickly becoming bored with the monotony of this routine. I try to convince a passer-by to throw me a book. It's difficult, spinning round and round on adjacent rides, for two people to exchange books. He finally throws one that I can catch. All the rest have fallen to the onlookers below. No doubt, they are seated at my desk, enjoying each one. I look at my book: 'An Existentialist's Guide to Housekeeping with a Pictorial History of the Tea Pot and Notes on the Taxonomy of Molluscs'.

  “Damn,” I cry, “I read this one last week!”

  “Are you into the books again?” she starts, holding me tighter still.

  “Of course not,” I lie, “I only wanted to humour the fellow who kept tossing them my way.”

  Like a lion, winter falls upon us. She becomes silent; that look is in my eyes, more in the left eye than right, because a good quantity of snow has obscured my vision during the ride. We both know that this nonsense must stop. We're too mature, and it's too cold for such games. So we both decide on it; our paths will be determined separately. Leaving things up to fate, we step off the ride and win an ocean cruise for two.

  The cruise is an enjoyable experience - like we were never apart - aside from the fact that we are once again bound together by various types of rope, a family portrait, and various ornaments from the kitchen, all of which I am forced to carry in my backpack. We soon accept a different view of things than other passengers. We don't expect it, or plan for it, but I suppose that it's inevitable. Through some lack of foresight on the crew's behalf, we aren't booked into a cabin proper, but are kept tied together beneath the boat. It is a glass bottom boat, so all the passengers can gather in the main ballroom and watch our every expression. Sleep is impossible, but we look so clean, as the water rushes past us and the boat roars along. At cocktail hour, all we see is the bottom of patented leather shoes, the spikes of high-heeled shoes, billowing dresses, and the odd cigarette butt falling from some drunkard.

  I recognize some of the guests; to my surprise, they are the typical onlookers. They bring my table and chair out onto the dance floor and insist on remaining there for a better view. Much to my chagrin, I notice wads of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of my desk. What a nuisance they are. Everyone is forced to dance around them. One of the onlookers, busy at my desk, suddenly leaps up and demands that everyone remain quiet so that he can finish reading my diary. Regardless, the passengers spend most of their time dancing; they're all sick and tired of watching us, surging in the water below the boat. We've become commonplace to them. Only the elderly janitor pays any real attention to us.

  He is a kind man, who waits for all the passengers to leave so he can mop the ballroom. In the meantime, he is making sure that the glass separating us from all the festivities above is devoid of any smudges or smears that would interfere with our view. When there is a lull in the dancing, he lays newspapers out on the floor, so we can catch up on current events. Feeling playful, he does a comedic tap dance routine, directly above us, with his mop becoming his willing partner. The sound of his shoes on the glass is barely audible to us, because of the water rushing around us, but we swear that he seems to be communicating with us. If this is the case, we have no real idea what he is trying to tell us, although it is obvious that he is, at best, a mediocre dancer.

  We know no other lifestyle, admittedly. Vacations like this do help somewhat. We return home feeling cleaner than ever. We go through a lot of wool clothes, though; they always shrink. A perfect fit is always hard to find; you're rather limited when you're being dragged through the ocean.

  Leafing through volumes and volumes, the vacation photos appear like pressed leaves. Each of them a piece of time, connected to one another by branches, all nourished by the same system of roots. Some fall out of place, only to be received somewhere else. With age, they might disappear forever. We spend many afternoons in the living room, flipping through memories. The current, always persistent, insists that the pages keep turning. Smiling, gazing down at the captured moments, she gets kelp stuck in her hair. How beautiful she is, kelp or not. Recollection is our main recreation, I suppose. Television offers little relief; reception is poor; the passing of a whale overhead interferes with both television and radio reception. But the place is clean, especially the kitchen, although cooking is a chore. We have great difficulty keeping the pilot light going. Needless to say, we eat a lot of salads. They always taste too salty; we both agree on that.

  Life in the depths is difficult, but I am anchored there, we both are. With great effort, I return to the shore to work, but lazy sunbathers take undue notice as soon as they see me pop out of the water with my desk, chair, candles, books, and notes. I've always hated undue attention. It won't be long before she's pulling at my chain again anyway. But I don't mind; she has a way with candles.

  A Call to Duty