Michael - A short story

DaveNoCheese

So unbeknownst to me, one of my mates is an amazing writer. He recently told us about this and even showed us a short story he wrote. The below is titled Michael and is about a father and his son. Enjoy!

Michael

A quick splash of the icy tap water was all it took to lift Michael from his groggy state. A second, more bitter spray was needed to assure he remained that way, and a third and final slap of the chilled water brought about his senses to the early morning ahead. The alarm clock read seven, but Michael in his anticipated haste had arose earlier than planned at quarter to, his over-angst and excitement the driving factor behind his uneasy nights rest. Carefully lathering his face in shaving foam, he found today of all days the right time to break in his new expensive Gillette razor—tripled bladed, unrivalled close shave and all for the expensive price of 15 pounds; a one-off luxury he thought to himself as he wrestled with the tightly sealed plastic. 15 pounds in his current financial state was far too much to be squandering on such needless items he felt, 15 pounds was half his week’s food bought and paid for if he watched his pennies wisely. Still, today was a special day, and for just one day in the year he figured it was ok to treat himself to something nice.

After no more than a few precise strokes of the blade, the unkempt nest of tangled hair that claimed residence across Michael’s gaunt face for 364 days of the year was no more. In its place was a red skinned, slightly bloodied and almost unrecognisable reflection staring back at him. He glanced upon himself for a moment, gently caressing the sides of his face with caution and bewilderment. He didn’t see it often, but when he did, that well clean-shaving face was enough to show him that his old self was still in there somewhere, still alive and buried beneath a lack of self-pride and frizzy grey hair. ‘Look the part would ya!’ they used to always say to him. He never fully understood it for years. Why the need to look ‘his best’ as they put it, if he felt perfectly fine and comfortable in the tramp-like state he had grown accustomed to over the years. It did little to bother him, so why the need to take such offense?

Still, today if any was a day to clean up to a respectable state. Buried within the confines of his small, rotted mahogany wardrobe was something that seemed largely out of place amongst the filth of his boxed bedroom: a black suit, well cherished, finely cleaned and pressed, and hanging neatly and straight by its lonesome on the right hand side. It was his own father’s suit, and it had become tradition in recent years to be used for only one day of the year, the only day he saw fit to wear such a thing: today. A hurried few moments of clothes swapping later and he was nearing the time to leave. A last minute splash of cheap musky aftershave would be enough to keep him smelling fresh for the day, once again failing to remember the severe burn that was soon to befall his freshly shaven raw face. With a grunt and a displeased squint, he shook off the pain and made for the front door. The clock read half seven. Somehow he was running behind time, but thought little of it as he dashed through the littered mess of his living room, stopping only to grab a small brown bag from Penny’s and a single white envelop resting oddly out of place atop the clutter of his door-side coffee table:

November 16th, 1996

Dear Tommy,

Another year, another birthday. It’s hard to believe you’re turning six already, for the life of me I don’t know where these years have gone. But I do know you haven’t seen me in a long time, and I know it seems to you like I haven’t been there for you, but I am still here. And I’m hoping this year is finally the year I can manage see you on your birthday, fingers crossed and with the help of God I’m praying all goes to plan for us this year. Its been far too long since I’ve seen you, I’m starting to forget what you look like, I hope you’re starting to take notice of all those good looks you got from me anyway, you’ll thank me for them when you’re older! I don’t know how your mother feels this year about me, we don’t see each other that often anymore, but I can’t blame her too much I guess. It’s all very complicated between the two of us, but never you mind about that. We both love you, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about you and miss you. You’re turning six this year and I didn’t really know what to get you for it. Every year gets harder and harder to buy for them they tell me, and I’m starting to see they were right. Was so much easier when a simple teddy bear would do it and you’d be amused for hours, but you’re gone a bit past that stage now I’m guessing. Anyway, I hope you like your present, they’re Penny’s finest in jumpers and it’s going to be a cold winter so I’m told, wouldn’t know much about fashion these days but if they keep you warm then they’ll do the job just fine by me!

Hoping to be with you this year,

Love, Dad

More to follow...

JONJO THE MISER

Yes i think there is a creative writing forum out the back somewhere.

longshanks

Tell him to read Cormac McCarthy and then give up writing

DaveNoCheese

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10:00 am, November 12th of 1998.

Standing idly around the Dublin city streets, a tradition Michael had practised every day for an unfathomable number of years, never felt as bitterly cold as it did this morning. Winter was here once again, and with every passing year as he observed himself grow older in standstill, he found himself more prone to the harsh conditions. Maybe it was just the way of the weather these years, or maybe, as he in part knew to himself, he was growing frailer as the times were beginning to pass him by.

10:00 am, and as usual the so-called on the hour city bus from O’Connell street was its traditional eight minutes later then promised, like it had been last Thursday, like it had been every Thursday for the past four years. And yet, like clockwork it would seem to Michael, it always managed to arrive on the stroke of eight minutes past, nearly oddly precise and scheduled in its delay. At 10:04 he drew a John Major cigarette from his pocket and began to struggle with the lighter. A faint spark, once or twice a quick flash of a flame, but no light. It was no surprise, having been salvaged months ago from the city streets; the lighter owed him little at this stage. A woman stood to his left, a young woman, well prepared for the morning chill with her heavy River Island winter wear, laptop briefcase in one hand, furiously puffing on her morning cigarette with the other. For four years he knew this woman, he would see her nearly every day in the same spot, same time, and accompanied on the same bus. And yet, as they stood side by side morning after morning, he never once asked for her name, nor did she ask his. The stressful clicks of his lighter caught her attention. One after another, time after time, he produced no spark, and began to thrown a shy and embarrassed glance her way.

“Erm, excuse me—” he began, staring politely toward the stick of tobacco between her fingers.
She gave an abrupt shrug and drifted off to face the roadside to her left, scanning the main road as if to seem busy. Her arms folded, she gave another few tugs on her cigarette, before the rising breeze in the air sent chills throughout her statured frame.
“I was just wondering, have you a light?”
She puffed again, three hardy tugs as if smoking for dear life, and with a quick flick, disposed of the butt.
“No…” she told him, making effort out of the smallest of civil glances, and returned her attention to the main road, waited in silence. With a shaky hand, the John Major was returned to Michal’s pocket.

The bus roared into an alarmingly abrupt halt at its stop, perfectly late and yet perfectly on time by its unofficial schedule. The bus driver was another face Michael was quick to recognise, an elderly man named ‘Bernie’ according to his name badge, a man short on sight and clearly too long in the game of public transport. ‘Someday he’ll fully forget to stop altogether, or worse!’ Michael pondered as he queued his place, making colourful observation of Bernie’s far from perfect motor skills. Forgetting a stop would be the least of Bernie’s worries as his own age and health began to take hold over reactions and senses. Retirement wasn’t far off now, the sooner the better many felt.

“Glassnevin…” Michael told him as he approached the seated driver, struggling with the linen of his pocket to assemble the 1.70 required. It took more than a brief moment, and a few would-be passengers voicing their rush, before he managed to assemble the fare from small change and coppers. “Cold morning Bernie!” he stated, as he clutched his ticket. Bernie was yet another face that greeted Michael every Thursday for five years and counting now, and sure enough every week during that time Michael had attempted to force conversation from the man, and without fail, week in and week out, Bernie refused. A slight gawk would be the only thing given away from the man, maybe a brief stare of the eyes before Michael was given how ever much change he was owned, usually very little. Michael would slowly take his seat moments later, a single seat as close to the exit door as possible was what he preferred, before the next patron of the bus hoped on, and the booming sound of Bernie’s voice broke though in frantic conversation and laughter as he greeted his fares, eager for the morning banter, having ignored Michael as if he were a leper. With a roar and a more than unnerving jerk, the bus was quick to motor along its way.

Michael wrestled with the awkwardness of his seat. He sat alone, but on an elevated perch of a chair directly behind Bernie, with little in the way of leg room for a man who’s right knee acted up on the best of days. His knee cap clicked and cracked as he shuffled here and there to give even just a slight bit more blood flow to his joints, a simple release of tension, or even just enough to last him the briefest of trips to Glassnevin. In his hands now after his mornings shop was a clear white plastic bag from Tesco’s, which held a rather larger then necessary box to a plastic model battleship, self-assembled and painted, and for ages eight and older it claimed. Tommy’s 8th birthday was in four days, and this year Michael decided money was no object when it came to the occasion, even if it realistically was. 20 pounds may not have been breaking the bank to many, but for Michael that was an unfortunate realisation. He stared solemnly at the box, taking notice of all its small pieces upon the picture, how complicated it all seemed in his own head, never mind for that of an eight year old boy. And yet, as he sat there with faint thoughts in his mind of assembling it when the time came with Tommy, a repeated voice drew his attention unfortunately back to his awkward bus ordeal.

“Ya, you!” cried a man’s voice, “Ya ****in' deaf or something?!”
A young man stood before Michael; short, stick build and smelling of rotten fags. His Dublin city accent, Nike tracksuit, pull-up socks and foul mouth had all the call signs of a typical lowlife, one Michael would have preferred not to have drawn the attention of. He looked up in startled response.
“I know you don’t I?”
Michael held onto his silence for dear life. With any luck at all, the man would leave, he might get bored and return to his seat, to his own business and let Michael see out the last few minutes of his journey in uncomfortable peace. And yet he knew well that would never be the case.
“Ya I do don’t I? I know well who you are bud! **** you doing riding the bus with the rest of us eh? They not let ya drive the car anymore no?”
No response.

“Think any of us want you on here either? No? We all knowing ****ing well who you are ya miserable bastard, shouldn’t even be allowed walk the ****ing streets never mind sitting down in here all happy out for yourself!”
The abuse continued for the remaining few minutes as the bus stop at Glassnevin slowly began to reveal itself in the distance. Michael felt the tingling singe of hot breath upon his ear: the man had quickly got right into his face; droplets of spit were felt pelting against the side of his cheek as the man continued his verbal assault. Michael has long since managed to drown out his voice into white noise, a silent nameless face before him that somehow he was able to switch off, simply by taking the box of his model ship, and holding it close to him like a loved one. He closed his eyes as he wrapped his fingers tightly around its edges in an embrace. The ‘Stop’ bell dinged it’s more than welcoming chime; the heavy thud of Bernie’s unreliable breaking sent a heavy shudder throughout the bus signalling the final stop. The lowlife stumbled in his stance only to quickly grab the nearest arm rests as he did, noticing Michal quick to spring from his seat and dash toward the exit.

“Ya and stay the **** off will ya! You’re not good enough to walk through the dog ****, ya hear me!”
The creak of the door took a life time to open. One would swear that Bernie, silent throughout the commotion, was taking more than his sweet time to let his passenger out. The doors finally spread, Michael squeezing his narrow frame through as quick as his aching limbs would let him; his carried box delaying him as it momentarily lodged itself within the door. He turned, but not before he was struck upon the back of his head as he came to the concrete pavement. The base of his neck felt warm and sickly—a parting wad of spit from the low life, followed swiftly by a gesture of his middle finger, as Bernie and the city bus continued along its route. Michael stood for a moment alone on the sidewalk, clung to his toy ship, refusing to let go.

November 14th 1998

Dear Tommy

I’m writing this letter for you a little earlier than usual, your birthday isn’t for another two days yet I know. You’re probably thinking at this stage that I’ve forgotten when it is, that I’ve forgotten you. I know it’s been five years now since I’ve seen you but please trust me, I’m thinking of you every single day, praying the day I can finally come see you is soon. This year, I don’t want to promise you I’m going to be there because I feel like I’ve spent years lying to you with promises and no shows. I guess that’s why I’m writing this year’s letter that little bit early, because it’s still two days away and I don’t know yet if I can manage it. I pray I can, I do. It just feels like this year, out of all the other years; I want it more but don’t know if it’s possible. But know that I will do my best to see you this Monday, whether your mother approves of it or not, I will try to do everything in my power. I got you something special this year, it’s a model ship! It’s a fairly big one too so if we can at all, I’d love to give you a hand with it. A hurley was what I had first in mind but I didn’t really know if you played at all. Saying that, I guess I don’t really know what you’d be in to too well. Maybe you won’t like the ship either, but fingers crossed.

Hoping to be with you soon,

Love, Dad

Sharpshooter

JONJO THE MISER wrote: »

Yes i think there is a creative writing forum out the back somewhere.

Sure is.;)

Try here,OP.:pac: