Girders
A structure to life. Prelude to thoughts. An essence entwined.
There comes a time when a decision must be made to mend or to endure. To mend would be to endure a strike on the ego. To endure would be a folly to dignity and body. To not choose is a direct dereliction of integrity, and the most honourable.
I did wonder much when a faint sound of metal on something—granite, perhaps — served to be my reminder of an appointment I was due to fulfil with the landlady in an hour. It was her arrogant, inflexible manner in dealing with the quaint troubles of life that made me think so, I am sure of it. How one can be so absolutely unaware of the nuances of life is beyond any frame of comprehension I hold. My mind was rather affably bent upon an old memorandum I had made years, years ago to remind me of the due rent in a previous complex. Such a nice man he was, so accepting, and so kindly!
I digress. The Rent.
In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes.
Egad! An adage, I would have said, had I not lost any of my whimsicality writing about girders for two years. It is honest work, however tiresome. I was, and am, rather good at spotting patterns in language, and thus made it my duty to write up every proverb I had ever heard or fashioned thereafter.
My work as an author was not limited to girders when I was young, but the impudence of time hastened and narrowed my finances to the miserable end. So, I wrote about girders. And found a delighted audience, too, in my former landlord, who then waived off my rent for a month and a half — being pleased with my work, I suppose. He was rather an odd man, coming to that.
…rent. I will get my cheque on the 15th of this month, so I must convince her to wait till the 16th, perhaps even the 17th. After all, I must be allowed to enjoy before she does with what I earn. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t — everything lies upon me, and me alone.
Sound. Who’s at the door at this time of day? People have grown too agreeable in regard to disregarding a person’s solitude these days.
Who is it? What, the rent? Ah, the rent. Listen, woman, I’ll give it to you on the 16th. I said today?… and now I say on the 16th, it does not matter. Who do you think YOU are, trying to intimidate me? Eviction? No, I certainly do NOT want to be evicted. Listen, let me tell you — listen! I can give you half a month’s wor… shut up, you miserable hag. No, I will not stop shouting, I tell you. Stop flailing the pen? I WOULD have stopped flailing the pen if you’d just damned listen to me! There’s no reason to…
There’s no reason to put up with such people as these. They are but midgets in the gears of life, born to serve, and towards this purpose are produced in thousands and millions. I give them only the virtue of replaceability.
I did sometimes wonder if they had other uses, especially their blood, a fluid so commonplace you could mistake it for ink. Blood certainly does a rather good job of drying, I must say. It is reminiscent of girders — a rusty, iron-like smell, startlingly familiar. I suspect the taste to be similar.
After all, life itself is a circle of replaceable blood. My former landlord taught me that — as I would have taught him, had I the chance.
