The Other Side of Elsewhere: Lost in Thought by Maikeul Nori

Richard Johnson was in excruciating pain that Sunday – so much so that he almost enjoyed it. The idea of not being dead had always been subtle; it made him uneasy. Invigorated by the ordeal, he folded into himself and fell. He rose only to follow his pain, which led him to a large white building. A woman in blue took his name, the wrong name.

He awoke with no pain but was unsure of his official status. Intuition told him that he was still alive. He was used to that state, and this felt much the same. The antiseptic scent confirmed his location. He was in hospital, not prison – relieved, but still confined. The tubes in his arms held him back like iron bars.

The woman returned. ‘Mr Johnson, I’m sorry to inform you, but according to our records, you died thirty minutes ago.’ Johnson was surprised by the news and thought prison might have been better. She continued, ‘There seems to have been an oversight. Another Johnson came in at the same time. We’re working on the paperwork so you can walk out of here perfectly alive.’

When she left, he unplugged the tubes and buttoned his shirt; they’d had the dignity to not remove his trousers. Leaving without paperwork, he wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive.

Johnson had an altercation with a tree. What was supposed to be a pleasant evening walk had turned violent: Nature has its way.

While sauntering through the park, he breathed in the fresh air, not realising a tree was jealous of his free movement. Or at least, that is how Johnson would later describe it.

The tree had tripped him and caught him with splinters. Johnson fought back and survived with a few minor scars; the tree, a broken limb. Who won, no one could say, but the tree would live much longer.

A humiliated Johnson went home to fetch his axe. He would have justice.

Before the first swing, he wiped the sweat from his brow, opening his wounds. Blood dripped into his eyes, blocking his sight. A broken branch witnessed it all.

The project, abandoned; the resentment was not.

Johnson’s cousin, John Thomas, loved two women; neither had ever existed, and Johnson had never met them.

Johnson and Thomas ate eggs, toast, and pudding while Thomas expressed his woes. The tea was good, the story much less so. Their names were Katty and Katie. Well, those would have been their names had they met. One encounter would have been at a café; the other at a market. He remembered their eyes. One had blueish-grey; the other, greyish-blue. The quagmire came from Thomas being unable to remember which woman was which. For all he knew, they were one and the same. Still, he didn’t want to confuse their names should they by chance meet.

He said he tried a few exercises to spur his memory. Only one was potentially dangerous. He tied a string around his finger a little too tightly. When the finger changed from red to brown, he went to accident and emergency. He left with all his fingers.

Johnson considered the situation carefully, as anyone would. He was jealous that Thomas could love at all. It seemed unforgivably greedy to have so much affection to give. He strongly advised Thomas against going to cafés and markets entirely, at least until the matter was resolved. Their names would thus be inconsequential. Thomas took the advice and stayed home until he forgot their names. They weren’t even memories; he left his home a little bit lighter.

During Thomas’s furlough, Johnson spent most of his days in cafés and markets. He said he was looking for someone but didn’t know how to name her.

Johnson was about to become a sort of shish kebab. They had him strip down and dress in a gown. Merely paper, nothing worthy of a king. They were nonchalant, as though the unfolded napkin could restore the little dignity he had and was about to lose. Johnson’s task was to sleep, which, given his history, would be a trifle difficult. Their job was to invade his body with tubes. Johnson wasn’t really sure who had it worse.

Johnson played his part grandly and woke up, cloudy and unsure. The woman at the window wouldn’t let him drive home. He thought it unfair to be imprisoned like that but didn’t protest. Besides, it wasn’t as though he was going to drive. He didn’t have a licence to operate a vehicle of any kind. She handed him some papers and told him to sit in the waiting area.

Thomas was late to collect Johnson. He needed to borrow a car. Since he also didn’t have a licence, he had to push it. It wasn’t particularly far, about two miles, and it was a small car. However, Thomas had underestimated the subtle changes in elevation that ordinarily appeared flat. It wasn’t a particularly warm day, but his skin dripped under the cloudy sky.

Johnson uncharacteristically greeted Thomas with a gracious hug. The woman at the window pretended not to notice what she was witnessing. Thomas was a bit relieved to see Johnson in such energetic spirits. It would come in useful for the return journey.

Johnson pushed forward on the passenger side, and Thomas on the driver’s so he could navigate the roads; it would have been irresponsible to have Johnson at the wheel in such a state. About halfway, Johnson’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in two days. For some inexplicable reason, he had a craving for Turkish food. He suggested a place a few roads over. Thomas agreed; they left the car on the side of the road and headed for the restaurant.

When they returned, the car was gone. Johnson asked whose car it was. Thomas didn’t know. He said he found it on Cioran Road. Without knowing where the car went, they had no way of returning it properly. After mulling over their choices for a while, they concluded there was nothing to consider.

They walked to Johnson’s place, each wondering if the car would ever find home.

Johnson had always been condiment averse, with degrees of variation. Mayonnaise was the biggest offender, closely followed by mustard, and not just alphabetically. Jams, however, confused him. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enjoy them.

Jams could be a condiment on toast alone, but between two slices of bread, they became an ingredient – clearly safe for consumption. This was an important matter to resolve – one of self-preservation. Depending on how it turned out, he might no longer be condiment averse. Erasing this identity marker would be rather inconvenient, and he really didn’t want to have to eat condiments, especially those that began with m.

He considered all possibilities while preparing breakfast. Using caution, he made two slices of toast. He spread jam on both. The sweet scent of strawberries filled Johnson with suspicion. He quickly sandwiched the toast. He pondered the long-term consequences of his actions. The jury is still out on the matter.

Johnson and Thomas silently sipped tea on the settee, listening to nothing unthinkingly spread. Thomas began as though he were continuing something previously mentioned, ’ … but yes, I am a bit of a retard.’ He looked more directly towards Johnson. ‘Yes, I know I shouldn’t use that word. However, when talking about oneself, I think it is acceptable.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I see retards all the time; I just don’t tell them so.’ He said it as though it were a profound insight into his good nature. It may well have been the case, but Johnson knew little of those sorts of things.

‘As you know, I was in Mexico many years back,’ Thomas continued. Johnson didn’t recall but didn’t interrupt, fearing Thomas would explain more. Thomas, despite always being at home with himself, was usually unsure of where he was. He had lost touch with himself when the women he loved couldn’t find him.

It turned out that Thomas had been kidnapped. They wanted his belongings, so it was technically an extended robbery. Thomas concluded his story, ‘It happened just like that. It wasn’t a big deal, more of an inconvenience. They had guns and could have shot me, but they didn’t, so overall, very nice people.’ Johnson thought about it for a moment and said that they must have been rather upstanding, given the situation.

Thomas agreed and added, ‘They didn’t take very much either, as I usually travel light. However, I was most certainly a retard for not retrieving my passport.’ Johnson sighed deeply, almost feeling Thomas’s despair; they’d killed his journey, creating uncertainty. Johnson left the room and nothing behind.

Johnson felt okay. It was the best okay in a while. He had no urge to deposit biological matter along the road. It was a physical peace that had him forget he had a body. A marked difference to last week’s performance. His uneven gait had regained balance, and he was going to make the most of it.

He was heading east towards the shops when a flamboyant young man earnestly offered a handbill. Before Johnson could say anything, the young man frolicked off to find his next victim. The advert was for a stage presentation at the local theatre. Johnson hadn’t been for a while and was rightly pleased. Curtain at seven.

At around five, he readied himself for the evening. He suppered early and prepared a bath. While relaxing in the water, he relished an evening in dim lighting watching people without getting arrested.

As the hour neared six, Johnson was dressed, ready for a night on the town. The plan was to leave at quarter past, which would give him plenty of time. He sat by the fireplace and listened to the radio. A serial slapper was on the loose, causing panic in the streets. He would find a victim, approach from behind, wind up, and slap the person on the buttocks. Violence of this sort was unheard of in his neighbourhood. Johnson gasped at the idea. Who would want to touch a stranger’s buttocks? A rather unhygienic crime.

Johnson decided to wear his long topcoat to hide the exact location of his backside, figuring if there were no target, there would be nothing to aim for. He was pleased with this clever solution, but only for a moment. He had forgotten to pick up his coat at the cleaners. He didn’t want to go out exposed, so he needed another plan.

Although time was now a bit short, another quick bath would help him think the problem through. It took a few minutes, but Johnson came up with a most wonderful idea. After a rapid dry with the wet towel from earlier, he endeavoured on his task. He collected a large delivery box from the cellar, cut holes for his arms and head, and slipped it on. It was a little too wide, so he couldn’t really bend at the elbow. He tried to sit to think of another solution, but the box wouldn’t allow that, either.

He got lost thinking of a solution. When he noticed the time, it was half seven. His evening was curtains.

Johnson went to an atheists’ meeting. It was Thursday, and he had nothing else to do. Johnson thought the question of God was moot, but the refreshments certainly were not. The audience’s converging voices filled any empty seats. Johnson ate some biscuits. They were shaped like trains and certainly not top-of-the-line, but adequate enough to eat over a serviette. The speaking stage was a bit high. Johnson saw this as a clever move, forcing the audience to look up to the presenter.

The guest speaker called himself a former pastor. He used to preach in the name of God, and now he does so against it. An apostle of apostates. Johnson doubted the ‘former’ part of the pastor’s compound. The man spoke from the pulpit in anecdotes and allegories to emphasise and plead his message for followers to not believe. To truly not believe is to have undoubting faith in faithlessness. At least that was the message Johnson received.

The audience, mostly scientists, nodded along at the appropriate rhetorical moments, as all good parishioners do. A few people coughed. Otherwise, everyone was well behaved. With the energy of a televangelist, the preacher urged them to buy his book, donate, and subscribe to a mailing list for updates on how to give more.

Johnson doubted the success of the evening, as it was easy for him to resist the call for alms. After a sing-along, the devotees were dismissed.

Johnson walked home, satisfied he wasn’t hungry but nutritionally drained.

Johnson hastily made it across campus. As he strode forward, he woke a sleeping cat. Its squinting eyes looked at him as though he owed an apology. Johnson nodded without stopping. The library was hosting a writing club. It would be his first meeting, and he wanted to ensure timeliness. He arrived with two hours to spare.

The stacks provided shelter while he waited. It was the best place to avoid people. And should he run into someone, regulations and the librarian’s authority ensured silence. He chose a book with enough thickness to be considered intelligent. Satisfied with a picture book of birds, he relaxed in the corner. He looked at every word but read every image.

At ten to the hour, the librarian approached Johnson with a smile. ‘The club will start soon. Some of the members are already here.’ She pointed to a table of primary school children. Johnson wasn’t sure what to expect at a writing club, but childminding didn’t register as a possibility. The librarian addressed his concern, ‘Robert will be coming. His parents usually join.’

Johnson turned a radiant shade of radish. He nodded and left without a word. The cat was awake now. Probably still angry, it looked at Johnson and judged.

Johnson was having a hard time walking and put the blame squarely on Thomas. Thomas chattered so much that the air itself thickened with moisture. Even the birds had a hard time flying. Johnson saw a dead robin and secretly suspected that Thomas’s voice was the culprit.

‘She was sixteen at the time.’ Thomas almost emphasised the word time for some reason. He did the same with the next sentence. ‘I was twenty at the time.’ Johnson wasn’t sure of the meaning behind the emphasis, but he let it pass, concerned that Thomas would wag his chin even more.

Thomas mistakenly read Johnson’s face as disagreeable, so he interjected without pause, ‘It was different in the old days. Sixteen-year-olds were much older back then, almost thirty. Haven’t you ever seen an old school photo?’ Johnson did recall having seen one once. People were indeed much older back then.

After his tangent, Thomas continued, ‘However, notwithstanding her age of thirty and sixteen, she maintained a youthful purity.’ Thomas had a glint in his eyes. ‘The biggest obstacle was with her brothers. Well, I assumed they were her brothers. They could have been her pimps. Not that those were mutually exclusive …’

Johnson wasn’t expecting that, but then, he wasn’t really expecting anything at all. He was focusing too much on the air and wondered how many more birds would be sacrificed in the name of Thomas’s stories.

Johnson had a hard time remembering if he had forgotten to think. He contemplated whether he had been only thinking about thinking, or possibly unable to begin thinking. Procrastination of thought, perhaps.

However, he might have completed his thought and simply forgotten the conclusion. After a while, he determined that he needed to think back to remember the subject. Then, it would be easier to remember the conclusion. Thus, he would be able to decisively remember.

He sat for several hours and even tried to pace. But the subject remained at large. It seemed to be two steps ahead of Johnson at every turn. Johnson needed to change tactics, but he wasn’t sure how to approach it. He wrote the order of operations to keep him on target. He remembered the study question, so he was off to a good start.

Johnson knew mind maps were essential for brainstorming a new strategy. They were required for his work. He arranged coloured squares, pins, and string on a board. He dimmed the lights and directed a lamp to aid in concentration. Johnson worked on his pinboard for so long the room was brighter than the lamplight. His body ached. He went to bed. But before he could sleep, he tried to remember what he was trying to do. His mind was blank.

Johnson met Aubrey, a graphic design teacher interested in the deconstruction of visual fields, with a particular focus on ampersands. Johnson had a quiet appreciation for ampersands. He generally thought them pretty and had never considered breaking them down into anything. That would be a bit cruel.

‘But what if they deserved to be destroyed?’ Aubrey suggested. Johnson hadn’t considered that; however, he didn’t really see a case. What crime could they have committed, other than typographical inconveniences from time to time?

To entice more conversation, Johnson ordered another drink and offered one to Aubrey. He refused, holding to his conviction on eradicating ampersands once and for all. He never called Johnson again. But Johnson still saw ampersands around town.

Johnson’s supermarket delivery arrived early and incomplete. Ham and cheese sandwiches are not hard to make, but they do become so in the absence of ham. He contemplated making the sandwich with cheese, lettuce, and cucumbers, perhaps with some onions and seasoning, but it wouldn’t have amounted to a proper sandwich. There was no obvious solution. After considering an egg as a substitute, he decided he’d had enough and took action.

The pavement was wet, but the rain had stopped. He grabbed his umbrella and walked to the corner shop to find the much-needed ingredient. Ten minutes into his walk, Johnson remembered that he had forgotten to put the rubbish into the wheelie bin, but he continued – rubbish in hand. Behind the shop, he tossed his burdens into the skip. Relieved of his duties, he continued with his assignment.

Inside, the shop was oppressively crowded. He tried to imagine everyone naked, as he had once heard that could help tame anxiety. It didn’t. The naked bodies weren’t sure if they were imagined or real. Either way, they remained awfully sweaty. Johnson felt a little ill, wishing they’d put on their clothes. He lost his way in the orgy of bodies. After a jellied tummy slid against him, he escaped to the freedom of the streets.

The journey home commenced. About halfway, the rain began, and Johnson realised he had thrown his umbrella into the skip. He arrived home, wet and hamless. His faith in sandwiches diminished. He ate dry bread with some wine. It was Sunday.

Johnson’s visitor was due to arrive shortly. Sir Harry Anis Pugh Bottoms wished to discuss a new direction in his life. Sir Pugh Bottoms usually rubbed elbows with high society, so Johnson set out his finest china and silver.

The doorbell rang. A delivery agent presented Johnson with a pizza box. ‘Hello, Richard Johnson,’ he said and paused. ‘I’ve just come off shift and have got an extra pizza.’ The agent knew his name, so Johnson let him in. ‘You seem surprised to see me,’ the agent said. ‘Didn’t you receive my message?’

Johnson explained that he’d received a message from Sir Harry Anis Pugh Bottoms. The agent announced that he was, in fact, Pugh Bottoms. Indeed it was; the chin gave him away. Johnson, a bit disappointed, considered fetching paper plates.

It had come to light that a scandal had ensnared Pugh Bottoms and his good name. At an event, instead of using proper utensils, he had instinctively eaten pizza with his hands. Johnson understood the seriousness of Pugh Bottoms’s actions and why he was stripped of his titles. Pugh Bottoms said the gossip turned sinister. He dreamt about becoming a pizza. He was cut, stabbed, and chewed. Johnson said it sounded like a nightmare.

During a pause in the conversation, Johnson picked up a slice of pizza to show solidarity, secretly hoping no one would see him from the street.

Johnson was having another bath; perhaps it was his second or third. But that didn’t matter. The complication had less to do with memory, and much more with time and bath measurement. Granted, memory was never guilt-free; it just wasn’t a factor this time. This was a much more serious issue.

It happened around midnight, as most situations like this do. He had stepped into the bath but couldn’t remember when. He distinctly remembered drying off at five past twelve. He might have had a five per cent bath for the day, but it could have been a twenty-five per cent bath. He was certain that he couldn’t be certain.

For a change, he wasn’t thinking about numbers, only about how to count a fractional bath and how to compensate to make it even. The steam was a futile proof. He thought to refill the bath to make up for the discrepancy, but that would have only multiplied the matter. Johnson watched the water settle, hoping to find a remainder at the bottom to carry over to the next bath. If only he knew when to have it.

Johnson and Thomas were having lunch at a café, as civilised people do. Johnson had ordered chips and cautiously reached for them, unsure whether fingers or fork would be more appropriate.

Thomas was obsessing over traffic signals. He devised a system that involved gravity and pebbles. With a switch operator positioned underground, the pedestrians would push a button to release pebbles onto the operator’s head. They had a practical incentive to press repeatedly to increase the pebble flow. The operator, to prevent headaches and other inconveniences, would be compelled to switch the signal much more quickly.

‘The pebble size would blepo be regulated, of course,’ Thomas said authoritatively while estimating a measure with his thumb. ‘The best part is the cost, almost blepo nothing, as there are near-infinite suitable pebbles at blepo the seaside.’

Johnson wasn’t sold on the idea, but he was interested in Thomas’s words. Well, one word in particular stood out – blepo. Johnson knew Thomas didn’t have Tourette’s, so it was peculiar that he would interject blepo in the middle of his sentences. Johnson didn’t ask why, as he was quick to recall his student days: blepo means ‘to know’ or ‘to see’ in Greek. So, he was certain that Thomas was up to a psychological ploy to sell the idea. A most obvious conclusion. But Johnson maintained his mental acuity. There would be no surrender; he would not fold. He let Thomas babble on for a good thirty minutes, knowing that his words wouldn’t have the intended effect. Johnson, amused and conscious of the mind game, wouldn’t be taken for a fool.

As Thomas outlined the intricate details, Johnson listened carefully. The look on his face slowly turned serious, and he had to admit the project had potential. The sweat beaded on his brow, and he couldn’t help but offer to fund Thomas’s project. However, Johnson was acutely aware that he wasn’t persuaded by Thomas or blepo. That didn’t happen.

Johnson put on his best shirt as he had volunteered to help at the autumn festival and wanted to be smartly dressed for the community. He left the house with a regal disposition until a bug flew in his ear. After flailing around and hitting his head, he was sure the pest had gone. He continued his journey a bit more humbled.

He knew there would be a crowd but was unprepared for what overtook the town square. He tried to escape, but another group was approaching from behind. Trapped. He saw a crack in the wall of people and managed to get to his assigned post – the pumpkin-painting table. Instead of canvas or paper, Johnson saw brushes, pumpkins, paint, and paper plates. Saying the ingredients made Johnson’s lips pop precariously, on the edge of acceptable. As he gained his bearings, a horn blasted a body-penetrating sound to mark the official festival opening. Notwithstanding the jolt, Johnson maintained his position.

The organisers fired paint onto paper plates for the children. It was an inclusive event, so they did the same for adults with the minds of children. Someone painted a pumpkin solid red; it looked like a tomato. Johnson, however, was sure it was still a pumpkin, despite the disguise. Another used all the colours to create a deep, murky grey. Johnson could almost taste it. The colour lingered on his tongue. No one knew how fortunate they were that Johnson couldn’t explain taste.

The evening passed so quickly that it took up the same amount of time as any other.

The people were gone; painted fruit remained. A worn Johnson walked home with a stained shirt. The colour and taste faded from his tongue with every step.

Johnson was earnestly working to include new words into his vocabulary to make the most of his new multi-volume dictionary. He was well into C and had enjoyed the briefing on bestiocracy. While the term had long gone out of use, he was certain that the idea remained. Of course, his study in B started only after achieving an amicable acquaintanceship with A. He didn’t want to skip ahead, fearing he’d miss important plot points. He marked his place at criticaster and went to the café.

Johnson struggled with the decibels seeping in from the next table. He coped just as any other upstanding gentleman would – he eavesdropped. The two women proudly chatted about each of them having little people growing inside them. They didn’t provide much detail. ‘Cacodemonomania’ came to his mind, even if demonic possessions were long out of style.

When he saw the sun making an unscheduled appearance, he left. On his way to the park, he met Harrison Northborne, an artist painting an interpretative townscape. ‘It is a mishmash of all the places I’ve visited,’ he explained. ‘A bit like a collage.’ The last syllable was unpleasantly extended, but Johnson didn’t address the matter. Northborne pointed. ‘I’ve taken the tip of that lamppost there. And I placed it here.’ His finger directed Johnson’s attention to the canvas. Johnson leaned in and squinted. Indeed, the speck of colour was as impressively unornamental as the one on the lamppost. With a forced smile and a nod, Johnson thought ‘calcographer,’ despite Northborne being a painter.

That night, Johnson revisited his reading project. After finishing cyzic, he saw the next page started with E. He sang the entire alphabet song twice to be sure. Indeed, Chapter D was missing. He should have felt despondent or disappointed. Luckily, he had not yet read that far.

Johnson ate pizza with Thomas and Monty, so they naturally discussed yeast. Johnson didn’t mind the subject and had nothing else to talk about. Thomas began by mentioning the temperature and the sugar ratios required for perfect activation. Johnson didn’t really have much of an opinion on the matter but agreed that it was probably important. No one disagreed, so they were able to change the subject.

Thomas and Monty talked about football; Johnson contributed nothing. He concentrated more on being unable to sit where he usually sat. He wasn’t angry about it, only slightly more than uncomfortable. Thomas didn’t notice the distress in the restaurant, at his own table. Monty didn’t say much, so no one could be sure whether he knew. However, because he introduced the idea of leaving, Johnson concluded that he was aware. Johnson quietly thanked him.

They didn’t talk much on the way to the commons. When Johnson noticed a large ampersand on a sign, it reminded him of a conversation he’d recently had. Johnson explained its history; the others feigned interest as though the glyph was watching their every move. Nobody spoke for the rest of the walk.

Johnson was suffering from a minor walking impediment. This was not at all surprising given his predilection for plodding the paths. Today’s situation was different and entirely avoidable. It had come to pass that the rainy season was striving to occupy all four seasons. And sloshing about with soggy feet didn’t have much appeal. The solution was quite simple, or so it would have seemed. Waterproof shoes. But they worked so well, it was to their own detriment.

In dressing for the warm weather, Johnson had decided upon short trousers, just as anyone else would have done. His stride pushed forward with full faith in footwear. The breeze on his shins provided comfort. At the park, the birds were unusually active with birding business, a sign of approaching rain. Johnson wasn’t concerned since his feet were well covered. However, his shirt was not, so he headed home.

Johnson made it just past the cemetery when the rain started. It fell with intent. Johnson’s shoes held back the rain with great effect. However, because he was wearing shorts, the rain had easy access to the shoe collar. Their superior waterproof technology had no drainage; his feet were drowning in the small ponds forming over his toes. At home, he poured his shoes into the sink and drew a bath. As he washed off the rain, he tried to think of another walking solution.

Johnson made several afternoon appointments so he could cancel them to prove his loyalty to Thomas.

Thomas had been loitering about town, yelling at older women with perms. According to him, the perms clouded the women with a sense of entitlement. Thomas was certain he could relieve their condition by scaring away the perm’s power. He shouted with vigour, ‘Perm of entitlement!’ He did so repeatedly as though it were his life’s purpose. He roamed the streets to exorcise more.

The police arrived. Thomas confessed and claimed insanity, but he was told that was crazy. That confession complicated things legally.

Johnson had a bit of experience with judicial matters, so he offered to be a witness for Thomas. Hurdles prevented Johnson from representing him officially – mostly administrative, a touch moral, and certainly gymnastic. Johnson addressed the court and confirmed that Thomas was indeed a trifle mad, but not at all barkingly so by any measure. To prove the case, he mentioned how Thomas even referred to himself as a retard. There was a slight gasp in the court. Johnson’s words didn’t sit well.

The judge passed sentencing. Thomas was released on his own recognisance. Johnson, however, was sentenced to six months for offences of language.

Thomas visited once; he was wearing a perm, his punishment. Johnson feared to say a word.

Johnson was surprised that Thomas loved a woman. He’d loved two before, but this was different. She wasn’t imagined. Her eyes were blue pools glinting in the slightest light. But when she pulled her hair back on Friday, Thomas was sure it was love.

Never had he seen such a beautiful woman. She was delicate, smart, and strong … everything Thomas wasn’t. She was a perfect complement. However, there was one issue. She hated Thomas with a remarkable vehemence.

It didn’t matter. She had the beauty of Aphrodite, veiled in the spirit of Eris, tearing at his heart with resolve. Where the story would end, Johnson did not know. But he was intrigued.

Thomas seemed to have talked for days, but it was barely five minutes. Johnson’s internal clock must’ve been off, or Thomas spoke at a velocity rarely seen in proper society. Maybe both.

Johnson did not doubt the existence of a goddess in carnal form. It had been known to happen. He’d even loved once. But it seemed that Thomas was gratuitously throwing love around with a recklessness better suited to poets.

With considerable hesitation, Johnson went to the closet and drew a white glove. He slapped Thomas with ceremonial vigour to the edge of silliness. Thomas vowed never to love again.

Johnson was talking to Thomas about Amy, an unusual thing as he rarely talked about women or anything else. He said Amy was so remarkably beautiful that, in some way, she was homely, in the old-fashioned sense. She was petite, but had the pull of a sun that could draw any man in. Like many others, Johnson was sucked into her orbit.

Thomas suggested that love problems were always related to women. Johnson agreed but added that it was even more unusual when she chose him as a suitor. They were inseparable. Johnson admitted he could have melted like sugar in water whenever he saw her. Over time, it seemed more like she was in his orbit, but he knew the truth. They went on like that for almost two years, a binary system.

Thomas wasn’t sure what to make of the confession and, for once, said nothing. Johnson admitted that it was a form of love. At one point, she loved him so much that she hated him, and he wished she hated him more.

Johnson’s relationship with lettuce had wilted. He simply couldn’t tolerate the humiliation any more. Lettuce, purchased on Tuesday for sandwiches, was inedible by Friday. Lettuce had misrepresented itself one time too many. It had a natural cheeky disposition and could not be trusted. Vowing to never buy lettuce again, he ceremoniously tossed it to the street where it belonged. Just as he was closing the door, he thought he heard the lettuce yell his name. It turned out to be Thomas.

Thomas sat, his despair unnoticed. Johnson was preoccupied with new sandwich ideas sans lettuce. As he was formulating his conclusion, he noticed the silence. It caused such a ruckus that Johnson lost his train of thought. Thomas had got himself into a bit of difficulty. The inevitability of Thomas. He was in love yet again.

Johnson looked through the words accumulating in the room and said nothing. Thomas explained the mainspring of his ache. Lucy, that was her name, had accepted his proposal for marriage. Without knowing what to do, he’d abandoned her at the café and dashed to Johnson’s place.

Johnson didn’t admonish Thomas for persistently chasing love like a poet. He gestured towards him to not speak. He went into deep thought, but not about Thomas. Instead, he wondered whether he had been too hasty with breaking ties with lettuce.

Johnson’s delivery arrived intact, so he was able to make a proper ham and cheese sandwich. It wasn’t a gorgeous sandwich, but it was ingredient-complete. The cucumbers were fresh, with not a condiment in sight.

The otherwise pleasant afternoon withered when Thomas called unannounced. Proper manners compelled Johnson to offer half of his sandwich. Thomas, however, didn’t hold up to his societal duty of declining. If that weren’t insulting enough, he asked if Johnson had any mayonnaise. Johnson inaudibly gasped and abandoned the other sandwich half.

Thomas prattled on, but the lipsmacking swallowed his words. Johnson shifted and winced with every chew. He loosened his collar. To avoid awkwardness, he excused himself, leaving Thomas to finish in his absence.

In the kitchen, Johnson cooled himself with the chill of the fridge-freezer. He thought about making another sandwich but feared Thomas may help himself to more. He also noticed that the lettuce had turned. Perfectly fine moments ago, now wilted and unworthy.

Johnson returned to Thomas, empty in hand and stomach. He did not address Thomas’s troubles, nor did he understand the lettuce.

Johnson saw Pugh Bottoms exiting the churchyard in his delivery gear. He thought Pugh Bottoms’s deliveries were limited to pizza. Pugh Bottoms addressed Johnson’s quizzical look, ‘The vicar ordered a small cheese.’ Johnson said he didn’t think it sinful, only unusual vicar behaviour. ‘He orders them frequently,’ Pugh Bottoms added as though it were evidence, or perhaps an excuse. He fled the scene to collect another order for delivery. Johnson commenced with his journey.

Thomas had arrived first and decided on outdoor seating, much to Johnson’s discomfort. Tea was an indoor beverage. ‘Lucy will be here shortly,’ Thomas flatly said. Johnson wiped the bench, ignoring Thomas – a punishment for such a poor seating choice. A rather disagreeable scent wafted into their vicinity. Johnson judged the binmen incompetent for stinking the streets. Johnson announced that he would leave at once. As he was about to make good on his threat, a most elegant woman in blue approached their table. Thomas introduced her as Lucy. Absolutely gobsmacked, Johnson involuntarily regained his seat.

Johnson had underestimated Thomas’s ability to find a woman who wilfully wanted his company – least of all one with such physical charm. After a few moments, Johnson noticed that the smell from the streets hadn’t abated. Even more disturbing was that the scent was her exhale. It carried an unmistakable hint of damp sheep. Her incessant flapdoodling made it difficult to breathe.

To make matters worse, Johnson had wrongfully condemned the binmen. He had to stand by his standards; he left the couple and the yeti stink behind. He crossed paths with Pugh Bottoms and confessed his sins.

Johnson was tasked with the complicated mission of buying himself a chicken sandwich. His stomach directed his actions, so it was technically a form of enslavement, should the matter reach the courts.

When taking his order, the person asked, ‘What is a good name for that?’ This was complicated. Johnson considered a number of possibilities but said chicken sandwich was not only a good name for it, but possibly the best.

Moments later, a woman came out of the kitchen with a paper bag, asking for ‘Chicken Sandwich’. That was when Johnson realised he had become Chicken Sandwich by name. Considering his new identity, he wasn’t sure whether it would count as cannibalism.

He abandoned the mission and sat in the shade of the church, wondering if others would still recognise him by his old name. His face started to feel crispy, and he feared he was becoming his namesake, but it turned out to be only the sunshine.

He decided not to go to court to change his name or to confess his other sins. He would just avoid that neighbourhood. He could then remain Johnson, and the people ordering sandwiches wouldn’t even notice he was gone.

Johnson, to become more social in the community, tried his hand at a bring and share. For his share, he considered ham and cheese sandwiches, quartered of course. But the thought of someone putting condiments on them made him uneasy. Cubing the ham and cheese without bread could limit the condiment probability. But he decided to plate foods that naturally repel condiments – fruits, nuts, cheeses, and chocolates.

Pugh Bottoms had been surprised when Johnson accepted the invitation. And now, Johnson followed through. Pugh Bottoms introduced him to a man named Butley. He apparently had been the one who muddied the floor with his shoes. His bulging waistline hindered his ability to see the state of his feet. The woman next to him was Beulah White, a single woman with rosy cheeks and a fine appreciation for wine. Johnson could clearly discern their social status but not their courting status. He didn’t explore the topic.

Another man bit into a cracker and grimaced. His face pulled into a shape that resembled an angry fish, almost suggesting he had been the one bitten. Johnson noticed a man sitting in the corner, an obvious Johnson perch. Johnson didn’t confront the man; he went towards the garden. On passing, Johnson noticed that the man was, in short, quite squat and harmless. He forgave the trespass but still suspected the squatter’s innocence.

The unkempt garden was the perfect place. The crowded vegetable patch of pollinators and pollinatees were his audience. The air reminded him of the cemetery – no one to take offence – but there was a bit of buzz.

The sky eventually turned more pinkish than orange. With a sigh, Johnson went round to the road. It wasn’t a long walk, but he was also suffering from social exhaustion. His dish would wait another day for collection.

Johnson went fishing on a brisk day, hoping not to catch any fish. To ensure his success, he added no hook. Now, this didn’t exclude the possibility of a very large fish eating the weight. But that had never happened before, so he was confident that day would be the same.

It was a social event with Monty and Thomas, so Johnson left them for the other side of the pond. It was quieter there. And silence never asked him for anything.

His first cast was a success; the second, less so. The line got caught in a tree. Johnson had a history with trees and had developed a personal animosity towards them. This was a full escalation in Johnson-Flora tensions.

The tree was provoking a fight, and Johnson was prepared to strike. Multi-tool in hand, he was ready to tear his adversary limb by limb. As he climbed, he relished breaking small twigs. It was a sapbath if not a bloodbath. This was revenge. From that height, he could clearly see Monty and Thomas. He wondered if they were witnessing his bravery in fighting for justice.

Moving across the branch keeping his line hostage, he drew his saw tool with obvious intent. He went for the thinnest parts vigorously. The tree was shaking in its place. But the tree wasn’t going to take this standing still. Just as Johnson was about to finish the cut, the tree shed its branch, sending Johnson into the drink.

While wet and cold, Johnson saw the battle as a draw since he got his weight and line back. He told Monty and Thomas nothing of the incident. And they didn’t ask.

Johnson wasn’t surprised to see Pugh Bottoms standing at the door, but the smart clothes did catch his attention. ‘Hello Johnson, you haven’t collected the serving dish you left at the party.’ Pugh Bottoms sounded different – more austere, almost properly posh. Johnson instinctively called him sir as he leaned in to accept the dish.

Pugh Bottoms went to the sitting room without invitation. He strode purposefully with the unneeded aid of a walking stick. Johnson furrowed his brow, but on the inside, as his facial muscles were incommunicado with the brain.

As he removed his gloves, Pugh Bottoms said, ‘Don’t bother with the tea Johnson; I won’t be staying long.’ Then in a voice of authoritative constipation, he explained that he had been on a trajectory to regain favour with the right people since hosting the party. ‘Reclaiming my previous positions and titles is not impossible,’ he continued. Johnson congratulated him with childlike enthusiasm.

Pugh Bottoms sighed, ‘This is a crucial moment so I must be fully focused on appearances and associations rather than on character.’ He said barely more than that before putting on his gloves and bidding Johnson a good day.

The room was empty, and Johnson still hadn’t had tea. He never did see Pugh Bottoms again.

Johnson’s most notable note had been noted. It was etched on the page, so he was certain it was real. It happened during Johnson and Thomas’s annual country walk, a tradition they found joyless but did nonetheless. To top it, the weather’s ambivalence to their plans consistently led to commentary on the weather being either too warm or cold for that time of year. Such discussions naturally started within the first minute.

This year, after exhausting the weather talk, Thomas was surprisingly quiet. Until he followed with some fiddle-faddle. It might have been related to newts with laryngitis or perhaps the sky’s indecision of choosing a colour, which was technically still weather related. But Johnson was too occupied with pillows and marshmallows.

Of course Johnson wasn’t one to fall into a conspiracy trap. But he did find it curious that they both ended in -llows and were known to be fluffy comforts. They were also mostly equal in terms of nutrition, with marshmallows ever-so-marginally better. The more he thought of the subject, the greater his suspicions grew.

Suddenly, Johnson left in haste to fetch his notes. Thomas had never seen such movement in Johnson. He yelled ahead to query, not knowing that Johnson had just seen the willows.

Johnson was alone and grew more beside himself as he thought about last week’s row. Thomas had insisted that introverts, by their nature, could be unusually loud in their quietness. Johnson, being one himself, proved him wrong by simply remaining silent. Thomas had promised to return after one week to settle the score.

A week later, Johnson donned his raingear, expecting a storm to arrive at any moment. But these squalls have always come from within.

Right on schedule, he remained without a visitor and left to call on Thomas.

It was a sunny day, but his haste prevented him from remembering to remove the raingear. As he walked, the plastic made an annoying crackling noise. But it was muffled slightly by the warmth and the noise of his own thoughts.

As Johnson approached 404 Rue du Grand Fromage, the door swung open so abruptly that it pulled him forward. Thomas smiled and said, ‘What’s on your mind?’

Johnson tipped his rain hat. Sweat pounded into his head. He stormed away and shouted back that Thomas had cheated.

Johnson needed to pack his most essential inessentials, which technically meant everything. But a portmanteau could carry only so much. He reclassified several items as inessential inessentials, making the culling much easier. He considered rolling but settled on packing in rectangles and squares. The corners filled in narrow voids effortlessly as though they were put on earth for that very purpose. Without mulling it over too long, he decided that his wash bag would go in the left pocket, not the right. It felt right on the left, so he didn’t need to reconsider.

The radio shared no breaking news. Johnson confirmed nothing was awry with a glance through the window. He ate eggs, sausage, and toast sans jam. With a packed bag and equally packed stomach, Johnson drew a bath. He was to meet Thomas on the platform for the ten o’clock train.

Johnson enjoyed the birds as he made his way down Station Road. He didn’t know anything about birds and didn’t pretend to understand them. He knew only birds could really know true birdness. Two were arguing on the grass about something, probably food. He thought to separate the birds before the pecking started. But, rather than get involved in bird politics, he continued to the station.

He arrived early, even if it didn’t matter. He had purchased four tickets for a private compartment. The weekend schedule was highly structured with plenty of time between events to ensure nothing would be missed. There would be a theatre evening, of course, to make up for having missed one recently. The fine arts museum’s biology exhibition had suspicious promise.

While on the platform and without warning, an offensive odour caught Johnson’s attention. He looked around for the transgressor to be sure not to place guilt on the wrong party. Then he saw her.

‘Hello Mr Johnson. Thank you for having me,’ Lucy said with heavily aspirated consonants. Her expired breath was overpowering. With the aid of the wall, Johnson was able to remain on his feet. It took a moment, but he noticed Thomas holding her baggage. Thomas mistook Johnson’s silence as consent and declared, ‘See, all is well. Shall we board?’ Thomas’s mind, diseased by love or her breath? Did it matter?

Johnson sat by an open window. The opening was too narrow for meaningful gusts or the much-desired exit. He wanted another bath.

Johnson needed to write an apology. To whom, he wasn’t sure. But that was secondary to the act of writing it. The words flowed at first, but they began to undo themselves line by line until the page became a ledger of corrections and wrongdoings.

He wrote that he was sorry for saying what he had said and that he hadn’t really said it. What he really meant to say was what he hadn’t said, and he had said what he hadn’t meant. Johnson’s words explained everything simply and succinctly.

As he wrote, however, he lost track of the beginning and end. Every sentence referred to another that no longer existed. He moved the conclusion to the beginning, so the beginning would become the middle, and the middle the end. It worked better that way, as letters couldn’t end in the middle. A perpetual expression of regret.

Johnson read the note aloud. The words sounded apologetic enough, even if it wasn’t clear what for. He folded it neatly and sealed it in an envelope without an address. The apology was made, and that was just as good as being received.

Johnson was in a panic. He’d accidentally walked past the sandwich shop and was unsure whether anyone had recognised him. If they had, he was uncertain whether they would report him for false identity. He knew he was Johnson, but they might have known him by a different name due to a procedural error some months ago. He said he would never return to the area. How could he have lost his way! To avoid judgement, he went to the cemetery – the people there, irrelevant.

He looked at Geiger, Tate, and others. Well, not them exactly, but the stones above their bodies. Johnson lay on the floor to size the plots. Nameless birds flew by, showing signs of life, while Geiger and Tate, with names, showed none.

Ampersands had been etched into many of the stones, so Johnson knew they still existed. The late-season sun was hot, driving him into delirium. The shade looked enticing, but it was cast by a tree. Regardless, Johnson approached. He didn’t have the energy or desire to fight, so he waited for the attack. When it didn’t come, he realised the tree wasn’t against him, but then it wasn’t for him either. He found peace knowing that it cared for him in the same way it did for Geiger, Tate, and the stones.

Johnson didn’t know much, but for now, he knew he had a name.