Lloyd 1.1
African fish-eagle
“Fuck fuck fuck, my foot, I think I’ve broke it!”
“I doubt that. What was it this time!?”
“Nothing”…… he replied whilst rubbing the toe-al area.
The truth was he’d just had a dream about an old lady in a post-office queue, who had grown to eight foot, combusted, then cowered over him like a flaming moth-eaten-canopy-of-death. He’d dropkicked her in her hot face, which was, in reality, a wall.
It was ‘logical’ for a predominately left facing sleeper to take the left side of the bed; this way, if he lashed out, he would kick or punch it instead of her.
“You’re wrecking the house!!…” she insisted. Her name was Jess and she insisted a lot on things.
“…But seeing as your up can you take the bins out, it’s recycling tomorrow…today even”
She frowned as she bunched her hair up in a ponytail. She went to the dresser and pulled out a Stephanie Meyer paperback. Her name was Jess and he had really loved her once.
“What? Its next week isn’t it?”
“It’s fortnightly Lloyd!”
She always addressed him by name when she was being serious.
He got out of bed and limped downstairs, toe screaming. He was sure the recycling had only been done last week, but he couldn’t be bothered to challenge the “J-dog” (he only called her the J-dog in his head) so early in the day.
It hardly seemed worth going back to bed; but dreamy bliss often occurred in list form when he had little awareness of the J-dog being next to him:
A dark room, a lamp on in a corner, a silhouette of a body gracefully floating along a wall, aquiline features with wide blue eyes; full ruby lips and an abundance of glossy auburn hair:
1. Smiling,
2. Caramel skin
3. Turquoise green lingerie;
4. Showering calm
5. Inducing a spiritual phoenix
6. Leaning over one moment and falling back in like a long lost appendage the next —
7. Sexy and exciting
8. Maternal and comforting.
9…and she brought lots of nice food.
10…and she had a good wrist action.
It was freezing outside with sleet and snow. Freakish snowflakes were landing on his dressing gown. His slippers — brown loafers he’d gotten from Jess a couple of Christmas’s ago — let in cola coloured slush as he dragged boxes of recycling to the foot of the driveway.
The couple had a little dog called Yep. A Lhasa apso. The human end of the lead was tied to one of the ringlets in Lloyd’s dressing gown so she wouldn’t stray. Her white fur made her invisible against the snow and she looked at home outdoors despite the chill. He kept playing Jess’s words back in his head; each time placing emphasis on a different part.
You’re wrecking the house
You’re wrecking the house
You’re wrecking the house
You’re wrecking the house
When he got back inside he noticed his pajamas were damp around the ankles and cursed at no one in particular.
Upstairs he felt terrified and had to run back down to make sure slippers and skirting-board were flush, lest he died.
He discarded his pajamas to the floor before slinking back into bed. Jess, sat upright, reading her book, had good posture with very little arching of the lower back.
“Are you going leave them there in a heap!?”
An argument with her over tidiness could last up to eight minutes, he knew, having timed her on three occasions. It would start with clothes lying in heaps and end with him being so angry inside he’d have to go downstairs, count to one hundred, compound the numbers twelve times and start again; doing it over and over until a migraine came.
He put the clothes away, slumped back in bed and let out a submissive sigh that by the look on Jess’ face was a bore.
“Can you turn the light off Jess? I’m up in a couple of hours!”
He wished he’d kicked her instead of the wall.
He woke up again at 7am, made his way to the en-suite for showers and had a quick peek out the window to see if the weather had abated, but no.
There was a solitary figure sat at the bus-stop, slumped; puffer jacket and fag; world weary and fat. Lloyd empathized with the mood and paired his inner emptiness with the man’s plaintive visage.
Dread.
It was late March. Thirtieth-of-the-third.
It was snowing
It would have been his mother’s birthday were she still around. He thanked himself for getting up sharpish because the extra time would give him scope to clear the driveway and not look frantic in front of bus stop onlookers.
Last year a twelve year old had surprised him with a ball of ice at point blank range and almost blinded him.
Better to be up early before those little pricks.
Plus:
1) The shower in the en-suite malfunctioning —
It would trick him by flowing a steady hot pace before he ventured in, promising the world, then it would go mental. The plumbing in the old house his mother bequeathed him was incredibly erratic at this time of year and he often had to fiddle with the dial pre-shower for 15 minutes; toothbrush hanging pointlessly from mouth, dripping bicarbonate bestseller on already wet toenails before a consistent temperature and pressure could be negotiated. If the desired pressure and temperature were met too early…well…it was a bad omen and he’d be forced to start again, lest he died.
2) Standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror ritualistically.
Ten to twenty minutes to inspect upper body parts and head. He wasn’t fat-fat or anything but his gut spilled over the top of the towel more than he would have liked; not a muffin top or anything but he was a shadow of his former self. His unkempt hairy chest and shoulders made him look Homo sapiens, which would have been good if he was a gruff Homo sapiens type of a guy, but he was not. He was more like William Hague.
He was mindful of those magazines Jess read. Cosmo, Heat, Marie Claire and what have you. He’d feel listless but soon make notes of his inadequacies just to rank them and feel some kind of control.
Top five in reverse roman numerical order -
V) Hair (too sparse)
IV) Chest (too saggy)
III) Arse (Too scrawny)
II) Penis (Too small)
I) Stomach (Too pronounced)
The guys in the mags looked like they had been chiseled out of marble; waxed, sanded, painted and airbrushed until they were impossibly perfect. Knowing how futile it would be to consider keeping up with that kind of aesthetic, Lloyd made sure her mags stayed out of eye line whenever pottering around the house on his own.
The counting helped, sometimes.
“2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512, 1024, 2048, 4096”
So what if he had more hair on his upper body than he did on his head these days. The only thing that he could do in terms of redressing the balance would be to get toupees or shave body fuzz and he didn’t see either scenario garnering Jess’s approval.
“2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512, 1024, 2048, 4096”
So what if he was starting to get ‘moobs’ and that his arms looked spindly, like Dr Zeus’s the Grinch.
“2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512, 1024, 2048, 4096”
So what if there were bags under his eyes that made him look like he was in his mid forties even though he was 36. He hoped his dainty nose, deep-set eyes and straight teeth made up for other shortcomings. Jess used to say his smile was the most attractive thing about him even though he didn’t smile enough.
You’re fine Lloyd, You’re fine, You’re fine, You’re fine, You’re fine.
He slowly started maneuvering into work clothes — mindful of his toe — black trousers, black shoes and the horrible pink shirt with a yellow and black striped tie — then he wolfed down a breakfast of shredded wheat with three spoonfuls of sugar.
Three sugars wasn’t good for him according to that Gillian McKeith bird (and she did look like a bird, because he thought of an African fish eagle when he saw her on the idiot box) but he was well acquainted with a strong morning sugar rush and two sugars stopped cutting it years ago.
Yep looked at him — wanted a walk — he didn’t have time. With any luck the wife (He only called her the wife in his head) would take her out later. Otherwise he’d have to clean up dog shit from the back garden because the poor soul wandered out through the cat-flap whenever needs must (The dog and not Jess). He ignored the desperate look on her face and made his way out, grabbing an anorak off the hanger.
Oh yeah, you can my book LLoyd on Amazon for £1.80 GBP or $2.99 USD
An absolute steal. Should be charging more really.
Anyway, Just type ‘Scott Lundrigan’ into the Search Engine… Or ‘Lloyd’.
Cheers.
Bye.
