Elephant Hunting chapter II, Part I
II
The razor picks up the cream as if it were a tractor on a spring harvest. My former bits of salt and pepper stubble are smoothly swiped off. I rest my head on hands, which I run through my graying hair. I stop when I’m looking eye-to-eye with myself. My brow looked rigid instead of its past fluid composition. Hair graying. Face getting longer with more wrinkles. Jesus Christ, only 46 and I look like I’m a day away from a mortuary slab. My eyes are what struck me the most: the bright blue was replaced by a pastel-grey colour with only a blue tint. Grey. It seemed to define me. Where did it all go wrong? Should I have never gotten married? Or had Paul? Or maybe not even have been born myself. I grab the razor to slide it off the counter into the open drawer. I do a double take. The blade clashes the tile. A revelation: John Morrison stares in the mirror of a nicely dressed bathroom… and his father stares back in a parallel universe. It begins to rain indoors. Fuck. I think I’m still sleeping until I notice my blurred vision. They flow out of my eyes in an ordered row, making a trail that goes from cheek past the chin and ending in the sink. It should feel grand to let all this go… but it doesn’t. I have become Claire; dabbing eye drops on my face. I have become every single tissue-mongering patient whose tears leave marks on my chaise.
…
Linda inhaled with relief. The past two weeks have all been exhales either from holding her breath while scraping the sediments on the ocean floor or due to one of the many earth shattering orgasms that her husband was oh-so-good at helping her reach. And who said marriage makes sex less exciting? Not that she had any experience with getting laid before she had started to see Bobby. Linda had, for most of her adult life, being an abiding member of the Church of Latter Day Saints. Only when she had decided to marry Bobby did the teachings of Joseph Smith feel that much less appealing. Since the honeymoon, she had traded her sweaters for button downs and jeans for skirts. So what if old Morrison looked down at the deepening cleavage line? Purse in hand, she turns the handle on the blue door that disrupts the flow of the grey brick exterior of Morrison’s office. Locked. She begins to search the mess in her purse that consists of bundled up tissues, nail polish and a few post cards that she had neglected to send.
…
My hands pauses at the line between my hair and forehead. They begin the drag down to across my increasingly wrinkled face. I reach inside my coat for the flask. Dad’s old flask. He used to- oh fuck it. Fuck him. Not even worth thinking about. What is worth thinking about is how only a thin, red puddle of liquor is on the bottom of my metal container. I’m so fucking pathetic. I let my hands obscure my eyes one more time as they begin their vertical streak yet again. I see the windshield looking out towards my office door, shadows of my hands, then Linda attempting to open the door. Dressed in different shades of red from head to toe she is looking like a maraschino cherry. I comb my hair in the rear view mirror and leave my car.
“Linda! Great to have you back, dear.”
Door unlocked, we move inside. We both exchange pleasantries briefly. She replies to all my trivial questions regarding her trip. With a final handshake, Linda shuts herself in the glass box. I pause and stare in. The glare from the fluorescent light obscures her face. She does not look back. I leave her for my office.
…
A new kid sits on my couch. Probably around 21 years of age and decent looking too. No tattoos or anything. Just the average type of guy that only goes to coffee shops. He should be cruising right now, instead of laying belly up in a chair. Like a dead fucking fish. I lean in for the handshake.
“Hello, Vincent. I’m doctor Morrison.”
“Hi. Um do you mind if I sit up?”
He changes to a slightly more confident position. He is now eye level with me. Alright. What’s really speaking to me is the way in which he’s nervously tapping his foot. Quick, short taps like a woodpecker penetrating a tree.
“Not at all.”
“So how was your day?”
Silence. I don’t break it. He leans forward and stares at me questioningly. Testing me. I watch the clock go for about thirty seconds before he breaks.
“It was average. Rolled out of bed at six. Ate some breakfast. Smoked a few cigarettes…”
He stops. He’s expecting me to start writing on my clipboard and asking him judgmental questions. I’m not offended at all. If I were positioned in front of some fuck with a higher education then me, I’d give him damn shoulder frostbite. He’s still waiting for me. Give it to me straight, doc, how fucked up am I?
“Hey. Vince. Just so we don’t waste the hour I need to make clear that inhaling is something I really don’t give a shit about.”
He even flinched a little when I said the “sh-word.” Fucking kids swear worst then anyone but can’t stomache when an elder lets one slip. I’ll keep talking.
“Well, of course I’m interested in that kind of stuff. But I’m not gonna judge you for it. Or tell your parents that you’re deprived because you support the Indian behind the counter at Circle-K by picking up some tobacco.”
A smile doesn’t surface but he leans forward, becoming interested. The feet have turned from a woodpecker to slow African tribal rhythms. I hold back a short laugh before standing and start walking towards the window that overlooks the green lawn.
“I’m not about that, Vince. I’m not about prescribing Ritalin and collecting a check. I’m not about saying that this new generation is so damn lazy that they’re wrecking society.”
I open the window.
“Because believe it or not, I was once the leading figure in that said generation. And I wrecked society real good. Just as those before me had done. Except they used rock n roll as their weapon, I used materialism and excess, and now you use a cell phone to kill everything your grandfather has fought for. But you know what? They all smoked cigarettes. Yes, those small sticks of relaxation have kept their continuity since this glorious nation was founded.”
I face him again. Edge of his fucking seat.
“So my response to the fact that you smoke: there’s an open window and a guy that doesn’t give a fuck. Why have you not lit up?”
The drums have silenced. He takes out a thin, white stick and sets the end on fire.
Applause. Applause.
He starts puffing.
“So about your day?”
