My Morning Walk To Work

My Morning Walk to Work
By Stephen A Abell.

Number of Words: 5728



I awoke approximately an hour and a half ago, and commenced my morning routine. I am a great one for routine. If this were video, you would see me tip you a knowing and jovial wink. However, if you looked closely you would not see any sign of humour in my eyes. Having pulled myself free of the damp sheets and quickly rolled them to the foot of the bed, so it may air out, I proceed with what I like to call my three S program – Shit, Shower and Shave – in that order. I cannot abide dirt: I will not have it in my flat and I will not have it on my body. So I excrete my waste first, and when I wash, I pay particular close attention to my anus. Once a month I treat myself to a colonic irrigation and an anal bleaching. If our bodies are temples, they must be clean places of worship. Do you think God would dare to walk on your excrement or breathe deep of its stench?

At breakfast, I devoured the usual bowl of oats mixed with a handful of freshly ground ginger. The oats and grain are good for the heart while the ginger, an anti-inflammatory, helps with my circulation. All washed down with a tepid glass of filtered water.

After I have walked around the flat making sure all the electrical appliances are off and unplugged, except the fridge, and all the doors and windows are tightly closed, I take a final look in the hall mirror to judge my appearance. One should never let their outward persona be one of a scruffy and unkempt nature. I have found people do not fully trust that kind of person. In my line of work, I have to keep a sense of decorum.

I sling my backpack, filled with empty plastic bottles for recycling, onto my back, and that brings me to now. Unlocking the door, I thumb the night latch off, and open the door slowly. When I am certain nobody is lurking around outside, I key in my six-digit security alarm code and close the door, reactivating the latch; always listening closely to the steady high-pitched hum of the armed alarm. Only when the hum stops its incessant cry do I lock the door with the five-lever lock system. With a smile painted on my face, I happily skip down the stairs. I believe more people should smile; even, if like me, they always have to fake it. I find it affects people in different ways. Most smile back, others smile and then look at you with suspicion, while others just give you the suspicion. If they smile, you can usually incorporate yourself, depending on location and situation, into their conversation and / or their life. This I find is the easiest way. The other two that doubt you a little or doubt your sincerity a lot are the hardest, because here a simple smile does not win you a place in their world. It is a little harder to get close to them. I like challenge and more often then not, I choose the ones with suspicious minds.

At the bottom of the staircase, three floors below, I carry on my jaunty step out of the electronically locked main doors and into the community garden. I suppose that it is pretty, if not beautiful, though I am not a horticulturist and cannot see its glamour. To me, it is nothing more than a square of grass, surrounded with trees, shrubs, and garishly coloured flowers. Differing breeds of birds are flittering around the place as somebody, maybe the groundskeeper, has placed bird food on their table and in the numerous seed feeders hanging from the trees. All this seems to accomplish is the covering of the three picnic tables, and a few of the cars parked in the courtyard, being liberally splattered with guano. At least this keeps the groundskeeper in his job, as he is continually cleaning the birds shit off all the tables. Nevertheless, the point of it all eludes me, as I have never seen anybody sitting in this little piece of England, ever.

As I walk out of the courtyard, under the arch; above which my few small rooms are situated, I glance to the left. Not to check on the flow of traffic and the possibility of being run over, as this little intermediary is very quite at most times. No, I look left to see if the new arrival, on our little renovated Hospital grounds, is still parked on the pavement. Now this may just be me, being a pedestrian and probably the last man, over thirty, not owning a car, I cannot see why drivers have taken it upon themselves to park this way. Do they not know, every time they mount the curb they do damage to the chassis, axle, and shock absorbers? When asked, the drivers plead stupidity. I agree fully, they are stupid. If this is the case, how did they pass their driving test? Luckily for the new arrival, I always cross over the road and head right. One day though, I may change my mind.

The sun is shining and I can feel the ultraviolet starting to burn my flesh. I smile happily at the feeling. Am I the only person enjoying the ever-increasing hole in the ozone we have created? It is nice to see all my other neighbours have parked their vehicles in the garages supplied. It makes our little cul-de-sac community look so neat and tidy. At the end of the entrance road, I turn around and make sure my windows are closed. Even though I checked them from inside you never know who could be around, awaiting an opportunity to cause malarkey with malicious intent. Satisfied, I cross back over the road and walk parallel to the busy main thoroughfare, ignoring the noise and speed of the passing traffic.

In front of me, I notice a schoolgirl walking by herself. If she were my daughter, I would not allow that. There are too many uncertain factors in this world we have made; I should know. The news is full of portents of danger, omens of ill will, and signs of depravity. Her blonde hair is in pigtails, braided just above her ears, the left stands higher than the right; both are approximately two and a quarter feet long. In my mind I reach out with my left hand, quickly grasp the left, then the right braid, and sharply pull back, I cast my right hand around her and slowly pull the gleaming, sharp steel blade across her white neck, with enough force to sever the jugular. Below her, ever so, white neck, I can just make out the white and sky blue vertical stripes of her uniform dress. I attended the same school; I know that she must have some intelligence. Her mother should change the washing powder though as I can make out flecks of grey dirt on the collar. Over her dress is the regulation navy blue blazer that falls to her waist. I am shocked to see that the lower part of her dress just covers her bottom. In my memories of school life, the girls were sent home if their knees were visible. If the young lady were to bend over, well I do not like to ponder on such things. On her feet are crisp clean white ankle socks; no dirt visible here, and covering them are slightly scuffed black leather shoes. Again, I wonder what is happening to my country and glance down at my own brogues. They radiate in the sunlight. It only takes a little time to look good. She has reached the road where I will turn up; she looks behind her to check traffic so she can cross. My eyes meet her blue gaze, I smile and nod as I close in. She smiles back and walks over the intersection. In the air, I can smell the soap and deodorant she has used this morning, they are light and fresh; and remind me of summer and tranquil places.

As she crosses the street, I turn left up the narrower, dead end. I like the sound of that … Dead End. I say it aloud to hear the ultimate finality of it issue from my lips and smack the air with its reality. However, this is not an exact truth. The car-strewn road does not end abruptly but kind of peters out. At the end, to the left, it opens onto the overflow car park for the family clinic. I find this a little strange because to the right is the rear entrance to the clinic and the gates permanently stand firmly locked. So people, being the clever little fuckers they are, drive up the main entrance around to the back, mount the curb and drive across the grass to exit through the overflow car parks exit, all to cut out waiting in traffic. People are impatient today. Everything has got to be fast and done immediately. As a pedestrian, I love to see the steam pluming from a driver’s ears as they wait in traffic jams, usually beating madly on the steering wheel or roof. It used to be a nice piece of land, with a few flowers, a lawn, and a small hedge. Now it is nothing but sludge, compacted so hard, it floods. Even the groundskeepers have given up on it. Will the people of England not be happy until they see everything brought to rack and ruin.

Across from me now is the wide entrance to the garages. Parked on either side, at jaunty forty-five degree angles are numerous cars, leaving just enough room for one car to drive through the middle. When I moved into the area, I checked out the garages and was not surprised to see that only four of the seventeen had cars in them. I made some inquiries and learnt that all the garages are leased. We have made people so lackadaisical today they would rather own a garage, being too lazy to go and cancel the agreement, and still park outside their house, because then it is not too far to walk. What is it with the people who have garages joined to their homes? Why are they full of useless objects that cost very little, while the second most expensive thing in their lives sits outside in the elements? Because, it is too much hassle to sort through their crap and throw it away; and because a car is a necessary piece of external bling – even a beat up crappy Ford says something to the outside world. A quote from a movie about Wyatt Earp comes into my head and I agree with the sentiment: If I could, I surely would, “Kill ‘em all.”

To the left of me now is the pub I sometimes frequent. I am not a local but I do mingle well and have learnt some dark secrets here. Being on a small side street, it is overlooked by the town’s partygoers on the weekends, and retains its own identity. When I was in my twenties, I loved to partake of the amber nectar, some would say a little too much. My friends and I would walk into town, stopping in a few pubs on the way. Each of these was different, in their own particular way. Each held a little of their past, and more of their future. More than in any other type of building, I have been in, I find public houses have the most character. It is tangible, it weaves its way into your very body and soul - it is what makes a certain pub your local. A little piece of your essence then stays behind in the plaster and fittings, adding to its history and spirit. Now though, the breweries want to kill them, turn them from watering holes where you can sit and sup your drink, at your own pace, while chatting to friends, into noisy dens on iniquity, who’s only purpose is to make you guzzle the pint in your hand and get the next one in. They do this with loud incessant noise, ridiculously called music. The bass so thick and hard, it actually vibrates in your chest, cutting out all the other ranges, so all you hear is the franticly rhythmic thud of the drum. Forcing your mind to keep time, and you never realise you are downing your pint to the rhythm method. The weekends are the worst. Only now do I realise what waste I created. I was part of the thronging hordes - part of the madness. Thousands, possibly tens of thousands thrown away down my throat, the majority of which, I spewed up later. Even if I did not vomit, what was the point of the evening? Did I meet a girl? Nine times out of ten, no. Did I have fun? Being in the midst of hundreds of people, fighting not to spill my expensive glass of booze, while having people push, shove and elbow past; No. Now I see the waste; why was I so blind. God, I am thankful I broke away from the herd and saw the light. I could not put up with the hassle now. Tolerance is no longer a weakness of mine.

Ah, the Church of the Annunciation. Such a pretty looking building, with its large sandstone bricks, lead roof, and prolific square tower. I always wondered why they tucked it away, up a barely used side street. In the pub, I have heard some strange tales of this place. The latest being the undercover detective that bled out from a sliced open neck, right at this very door, in the priests arms. I remember seeing what was left of the blood trail; someone had cleaned it with bleach, lightening the concrete of the pathway for a few weeks. The policeman had been attacked in the secluded walkway that comes from Marsden Street; he used the last of his life to crawl for help. They never found his attacker, nor did they find the serial killer, he was looking for. Though, after he passed, the killings stopped. I never take that cut-thru now, something is out of kilter with it; it feels tainted. I now take the rear entrance to the family clinic. In the near distance are the sounds of busy traffic, but there is a calming atmosphere to this place.

The clinic stands on the left, while on the right are the walls to the back gardens of the houses on Tennyson Avenue. Over the walls, grow passionflowers, ivy, clematis, and a few other climbers I do not know. Most of the gardens have mature trees towering over their walls. In these trees are the birds. As I walk through this part, I see sparrows, starlings, rooks, crows, all the breeds of tits, and of course the blackbird. The blackbird, once a common sight, is now endangered, and this too is because of man’s laziness and greed. They have uprooted too many hedgerows and trees, for their own purpose; whether to make room for new, poorly built, housing, or because a house owner decides, in their own lazy minds, it is easier to look after a fence rather than hedges. Most of us never give a thought to anything other than ourselves. No wonder there are so many one-parent families. What are we to do about the situation? Nothing, the new Prime Minister wants us to build more houses. It does seem you do not have to be smart to run a country. The moron has forgotten we are a small island and we are quickly running out of land, so where are we to build the new houses? We could always flatten Buckingham Palace; does ‘Liz’ really need all that space? There should be enough for at least five hundred to a thousand properties on that piece of real estate. They could even re-house her in one of them. Strange that we need more housing when the English population is on the decrease. I just wonder which National Trust Park will be the first to sell a part of their land. Remove more toxin reducing greenery, kill more animals, and build more houses for more morons. Now I think that is a good trade.

Wow, look. There goes a chaffinch. I do not call myself a bird watcher and never would I be a twitcher, but I can tell the differences between dunnocks, sparrows, and tree sparrow. I am dismayed that the majority of people cannot. They believe they are too busy with their everyday life – again if they are too busy why is obesity on the increase? That is their excuse for everything, instead of just being truthful and saying, “I just don’t give a fuck.” I can see the busy road at the end of the tree lined entrance. This is my favourite part of the morning, walking through this quiet and partially secluded section of town, with the twittering of birds high above me. Something here quietens my soul; dampens the fire burning inside my heart. In late autumn and winter, you can watch the birds flutter from tree to tree in search of sustenance. On a few occasions, I will sit awhile and watch them dance in the chilly wind. While, as now, not more than five hundred feet away, cars rush past on their way to work.

I have seen a new advert telling us that we have to start now to save our planet; we should all play our part. How many deaf ears there must be out in the world! Most, I hate to say are deaf by choice. The Live Earth concert was a farce. Most of the audience, when asked, only gave a damn about seeing the stars on the stage. Even good old Jonathon Ross stated that nothing would make him give up his large plasma screen television. So the consensus, at the end of the day, was that everybody was for climate change and saving the planet - as long as they did not have to give up their luxuries – sorry, their necessities. Depressed, at the thought, I went for a walk. I do not know what took me into the student housing area, maybe I knew what I was doing. One terraced house stood out more than the rest, because of the amount of rubbish scattered over the front lawn, consisting of mostly beer cans, bottles and pizza boxes. A beautiful blonde girl of no more than nineteen opened the front door. She was half way through asking me, “What the fuck do you want?” When I pushed the bradawl through her right, sky blue, eye and into her brain, she fell, almost instantly, freeing herself from my weapon. Inside the music was thumping out a steady dull beat. As I strode over the lifeless flesh covered sack of bones, closing the door behind me, one of its housemates came through from the kitchen. Why do people in the presence of the strange, absurd, or outright dangerous react by asking a question? No sooner had, “What the fuck?” left his lips than my left hand grabbed one side of his head, while my right drove the metal spike of the tool through his temple on the other, cracking his skull. The music ended and silence followed, upstairs I heard splashing – somebody was in the bathroom. Quickly I ejected the compact disc and inserted one of the myriad of others lying haphazardly around the room. What seemed to be the same headache-making beat pounded from the speakers. From upstairs a female voice called down to her deathly deaf friends, “cool, I love this one.” My gut told me I did not have much time before the bathing belle made her way downstairs, so I quickly disrobed the two flesh sacks and laid them face down, side-by-side on the floor. From outside I retrieved some of the garbage and set about my art. The Budweiser bottles were the easiest to insert into their rectums. By the time, I pushed the third one past their sphincters the muscles were straining in my arms and a warm sweat broke out on my body. Next, I pushed three crushed cans inside the female’s vagina, unfortunately, the torn aluminium cut the flesh and she bled a little – I was a little peeved at this. Lastly, I pushed a couple of Foster’s lager bottles into their mouths, shame I could not risk breaking the glass as it may have alerted the woman upstairs, half the bottle protruded from their mouths. Shortly afterwards I heard the skipping thud-thud of the bathing female as she came down the stairs. The look in her eyes when she saw my work was priceless; I am glad I took her photograph with my mobile telephone camera. I could not let her ask the question that was so prevalent in her soft brown eyes, with a quick upward motion I slammed the spike through the flesh under her chin, through her palate and into her brain. As the new sack fell to the floor, the dressing gown it was wearing fluttered open. Her breasts were nice and firm, they would work well in my art. I was in a quandary; now all my pieces were present, how could I arrange them for the best effect. The fire poker gave me my inspiration. It was not of the kind that hung from a common fire utility tree, which you tend to see everywhere an open fire is present. This stood upright, from a solid steel base. The base was the key. I moved the first two pieces onto the sofa, taking great care not to smash the rectal bottles, one on either side, their hands locked together in the middle. I then moved the poker to an empty bit of carpet in front of the sofa and between the two, then set about on the last piece of my art. After smashing a few beer bottles, I chose two of a similar length. Holding them by the neck, I grabbed the sack of cooling flesh and pushed the jagged glass into one breast, around the circumference of the areola; twisting sharply back and forth to saw through the skin and muscle structure. I repeated the process with her other breast. The new glass nipples looked splendid. Next, I lifted her heavy body upwards and awkwardly sat her on the poker, the handle entering her rectum; facing the other two pieces. This did not turn out how I envisioned it. With no muscles working she nearly slid to down to the base. Shame it was not spot on but I knew I was running out of time; it would have to do. In turn, I lifted the hands and curled them around the bottles necks, which protruded from their mouths. I was done. Studiously, I walked around my work and snapped over twenty pictures of the scene for prosperity. When I got home, I edited them on the computer and posted my work on a photo website. I called it “Momma say’s, “Time for Bottle”.” I cannot believe the amount of praise I have had for it. If only the critics could see the original photograph and not the digital enhanced and altered one, I posted, would they have the same praise for me then. Of course, my work was only half finished at that stage, I like to use more than one media to portray my work and give it that completed feel.

This has become a strange country filled with sheep, happy to be led. The media and the politicians feed us the propaganda and lies; this is what you should look like, this is what you should do, this is what you should think, and these are whom you should be afraid of. Over the years, the government and the banks have pushed us into a money culture, where banks are our new temples, their managers are the new apostles, and money is God. This in return has brought in the “screw you” principle. Take a look at repairs to amenities. A work colleague developed a leak on her washing machine, not sure how to proceed she called out “A Professional”. In what sane world does a little twenty-penny washer and ten minutes work equal a sixty-pound invoice. The cocky bastard even asked for a cup of tea. The job was completed before the tea was brewed. He stayed around and chatted nicely to her while he supped it then presented her with the bill; the nice man even charged her for the washer. I paid a social call on him and gave him the respect he so rightly deserved, in a manner that befitted a person of his ilk. That one I called “Plumber-Plumbed”.

Ah, look there; a robin is sat on the end stone of the wall, and nobody has noticed him and his redbreast. I am a follower of Ferris Bueller’s attitude towards life. He said “Life goes by pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it”.

There are so many beautiful things, all around us, that we take for granted and unconsciously choose to ignore. Like the birds, bees, and butterflies. God, but that is not one of them. Why do women think that protruding underwear is sexy and alluring; especially those cheese string thong things? What is the point of them? When I think of them, all I see is uncontained dirtiness. They cannot stop the after drips of urination or keep the stench ridden stains of the faeces from the crotch of your trousers. Oh yes, believe me that the damp patch on her trouser crotch is not because she is aroused. Just imagine peeling down her trousers, in a bout of passion, seeing the thin strip of material cutting between her perfect arse cheeks, only to be diverted by the smell, and when you look down to see where the pong comes from, you see the skid marks on her trouser crotch. Bet that gets you in the mood.

Would you believe it she is yakking on a mobile phone. I wonder if the person on the other end of the line wants to gouge her eyes out with a rusty knife and cut her unceasing lip-service short. As I leave the little secluded drive, I look around and uncontrollably make a mental note that nearly half of the pedestrians have a telephone to one their ears. Do we live to bore our friends and family with every little titbit and rumour?

Maybe I do not have enough friends to warrant early morning phone calls.

Are they actually on the end of a conversation? For there is a quietness about many of the phone holders. I cannot discern any lip, jaw, or mouth movement from most of them, not even for the obligatory “yes”, “no”, or “ah-uh” answers that are usually required. I turn right, and in the near distance I can make out the outline of the converted house I now work at as an accounts clerk. Coming towards me is a smartly dressed man with a pink shirt, black tie, encased in a natty well-cut double-breasted suit. I do prefer double to single; I think it makes a person look more dignified and ready for business. He has his hand to his ear and I can make out the small metallic object. As I draw up to him I notice his lips are moving, though I strain to make out the words, all I hear is silence. I cannot even hear the other end of the conversation. Does he think it makes him look important, to be on the phone. Makes him look like the big man on the street. Pride goes before a fall, they say. Maybe I should give him a push. I look at my watch while I debate turning around and following this arrogant fool. It is nearly eight thirty; there is no time for such things. Maybe he walks home in an evening: I may wait for him. Even if, like the majority of these walking workers, he has a car parked on the outskirts, maybe an opportunity will arise for me to practise my art. You never know when opportunity knocks. The traffic lights at the junction are on red, and as usual for this time of day, patience is nowhere to be seen, because a car parked, Katie-cornered, across the crossing. As I step out onto the road, I see the oncoming pedestrians weave around the Ford, placing them in harms way, as speeding cars pass closely by. Their drivers blind to the situation. One even blares a horn at a young woman who quickly hangs her head and picks up her pace. Like a wolf scenting its prey, I spot the victim in a heartbeat. She is not for me though. I prefer a tougher challenge. Like the driver in the Ford.

I stop in front of the car and stare directly at the driver, ignoring the unimportant passenger. Though I knew at first glance, she is small set, probably a size ten or twelve, short cut brunette hair with square brown mottled glasses covering her hazel eyes. Depending on the seat she sits on, I believe her to be five-six to five-eight in height. The driver however is wiry, and gaunt. He too has brown hair, though his is close-cropped to his head, a number two if I am right. I cannot make out his eye colour or the mood he may be in as his head is hung low. Possibly, because he is tired of the stares his bad driving has brought him. He is wearing a solid black T-shirt, with no emblems, logos, or names. Large tattoo’s adorn each of his arms. On the right I can make out a descending dragon, the colours are fading so this was done some time ago. However, the crispness of the tribal markings on his left arm are distinct and new. He is a follower of trends. No way did the sheepish wife suggest these markings. His hands hold the wheel in a loose grip allowing me to read the LOVE and HATE tattooed into his fingers. So, I have a tough guy here. As if in reaction to my thought, he raises his head to look at the lights and looks straight into my face of stone. I am blank, uncarved. I allow no emotions to settle, because emotions can tilt the scales. His eyes shift to the right. He is looking at the lights, his fingers tense, he moves slightly altering his balance, and that is all I need to know that the lights are changing. We are locked together now, in an entanglement of stares. I can almost feel the fire of his anger trying to burn into me. However, I am stone. Anger is a weakness and weakness leads to mistakes and inevitably downfall. The horns of the cars behind him strike up in an automotive symphony, crying out with urgency, pleading angrily to move. I am stone. His hand moves to the centre of the wheel and I brace for the sound. I do not blink as his horn engulfs me in deafening waves. In my peripheral vision, I notice the cars on the main section of road are starting to creep forward. The light has changed to red, and red spells danger. The guy in the car slaps both hands down on the wheel in anger and frustration. Then he salutes my tenacity with the middle finger of each hand. I return the compliment with a short bow and I blow a kiss to the insignificant female passenger, smile and turn away. Behind me, I hear the car door slam and I know he is coming. Horns are blaring, blaming the impetuous man for his decision. I carry on walking, my hearing centred on the footfalls behind me. The bradawl is in my pocket and feels good in my hand. I count to five slowly and whirl around with lightning speed. The man is astonished and stumbles backwards, losing his balance; ungainly, he falls to the floor. I offer my hand to help the idiot up from the damp pavement. Instinctually, he reaches out and grabs hold, and I heave him to his feet; knowing full well, what I can expect from him. True to form, he does not disappoint; the punch is fast and nearly connects. Unfortunately, he does not know I have been fighting since I was a child of three and I know what to look for. The signal came from his shoulders, a couple of seconds before the arm and fist came forward, so I was twisting away before it even moved toward me. I snap the hand I was holding downward in a brusque motion, throwing him off balance again. Stepping quickly to his rear I bring his hand up sharply, to his opposite shoulder, making him cry out in surprised pain. My free hand wraps around his neck and I bring my head into his ear and whisper, “Stop now. Or I will break your neck.” The fool keeps jerking for a few seconds, trying to get free. Only stopping, when he feels my fingers around his windpipe tighten. “Are you going to walk away, when I let you go?” He answers with a hoarse affirmative and I release my grip, and gently push him forward.

He turns and looks at me; I imagine he is weighing up his chances of a second round. From his car comes the sound of his impatient passenger pressing the horn. He flips me the bird and marches off, with a called back, “fuck you.”

I walk the last ten paces to my works front door, fish out my keys, ambivalent to the stares of the crowd, which had grown around the tussle.

Inside, I smile and close the door to the outside world and its petty problems.