I’ve not been that healthy this week. Hence the delay in this post. I might even write this story again with a clearer mind. I wonder what the world would be like if we all allowed ourselves to lose control more often.
As of this week, I'll be a little less regimented with my posting. I’ll still push out two or three short stories a month. But I’ve reached a point where I want to spend more time on my next novel. And with a job and everything else that comes with adulthood, I am running out of time.
Buy my debut novel today! Search ‘Love, Loss & the View from My Window’ on your local Amazon marketplace. P.S. You can read the blurb at the bottom of this post).
UK - HERE
NL - HERE
I’ve never taken to wearing ties. What you might gain in respect, you lose tenfold in comfort. And don’t get me started on the time. If you wear a tie five days a week, you’ll get efficient; you might even acquire the ability to tie a Windsor knot on the move, with a piece of buttered toast hanging from your front teeth and your keys pressed awkwardly between pinky and palm. But even at that lofty level of proficiency, the seconds tick by. First comes the selection, the thought of which colour or pattern is most appropriate. Then, the choice of knot, that admittedly, in my case, is an easy choice directed by a threadbare library of options. The Atlantic, Capsule and Cape have never seemed worth the additional loops. Finally, you have the practicality of tying. The totality adds up to a couple of minutes. But two minutes five days a week for forty-eight weeks a year. That’s four hundred and eighty minutes or eight hours. Essentially, an entire day's work looping pieces of silk around themselves. And for what? Fashion? That can’t be; fashion, for all its frills and falsehoods, is an exercise in freedom. It doesn’t require anything so particular. You might argue that it is a symbol of respect. But when was the last time you saw someone wearing a tie and concluded they were respectable because of the cloth hanging from their neck? If you ask me, which you can’t because I’m not there with you, ties are required for one reason. Control. They are the leash that keeps bright men and women in line. And the noose that eradicates those who step out of it. So you understand. I hate wearing ties.
Perhaps in an alternative universe, one where I wasn’t raised so strictly, one where I was allowed to let loose now and then, I would be okay with wearing ties. I might have survived a few more years of nodding my head and falling in line. You might think that’s nothing to aspire to. But in this world, if you can keep your neck tilting forward - at least until you’re in a position to be nodded at and lined up behind - you’ll go places. And that’s not just my assumption, it’s fact. Look around you. Even those rare few that aren’t necessarily Yes Men are still balancing delicately on the line. They are just a little more tactful about the whole business. But most of us, myself included, nod along to maintain the equilibrium.
And again, there’s nothing wrong with it per se. The world would be a frightful place if we all deferred our self-control. No one wants to read the rule book, but shredding it to pieces is preposterous. Even wild animals have some order.
Sometimes though, that voice in your head grows more confident and you surrender to its charm. The tie comes off, the buttons loosen, and you jump into that muddy puddle with both feet. Once you’ve done that, you go a step further. Because losing control is a thrill. Once you realise it’s almost impossible to turn the ship around. The only way of stopping yourself is a head-on collision with something weightier or sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
“Where are you going?” Phil always asks me. But to be fair to him, he is sitting right by the door. He asks everyone.
“Just getting some air.”
“It’s stuffy in here, eh.”
“Like a sauna,” I say with my hand tightly gripping the clammy door handle.
“Going to Eastly’s?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll come down in a bit.”
“Sure.”
That whole week was a scorcher, and given I have to wear a suit and tie, it is as close to unbearable as you’ll get. Compounding the heat is the pressure.
There are plenty of things more intense than corporate life. But I haven’t done anything else, so I can’t make an honest comparison. That week was particularly awful; a product launch, a looming assessment, and dangling on the perpetually moving horizon, the orange root vegetable of promotion.
Eastly’s is a little metal trailer fitted out as a café on wheels. It’s one of the only places nearby where you can get a decent coffee, and it’s conveniently positioned at the gates of Western Park. Just beyond the ornate iron gates is a playground. In the mornings, it’s quiet, but after four o’clock a continuous chorus of screams and shrieks floats in the air as toddlers play under the resigned eyes of their parents and nannies. I don’t make a habit of watching them, but the loudest screams usually demand a flinch. One afternoon, I saw a girl no older than five, push a boy around the same age over the side of the slide. His little body thumbed against the bark floor, and the adults sat on the benches gasped in unison. He got up, dusted himself off like nothing had happened and proceeded to chase the girl who had pushed him. She was the one who shrieked. First, in triumph at her wicked success, then out of fear as she ran.
Today, seven kids are climbing the rope tower, racing to the top. Three adults, presumably guardians of one sort or another, huddle around a phone, oohing and awing at something.
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of days,” Danny says, leaning over his aluminium counter.
“Uh? Yeah, I’ve been busier than usual.” I say.
“It’s a shame to be locked up all day in that office,” he looks up, scaling the glass tower behind me.
“I know,” I say and take a look myself. If I stare at it long enough, I can pinpoint the exact window I sit next to. The glass reflects the sky, and I can see dark clouds eating up the blue.
“There’s a storm coming,” Danny says.
“I’ll better be quick then.”
“The usual?”
“Yes, please.”
There’s another scream as I prop myself against the open iron gates to wait. This time it’s a woman, not a girl. I turn over my shoulder and see the guardians desperately rounding up their flocks. Less than fifty metres from me, heavy raindrops begin pounding the climbing frame and gravel path.
“That was quick,” Danny says, more to himself than to me. A drop finds its way between my neck and collar. Summer storms like this often pass in minutes, occasionally, it’s even quicker. I look up at the glass tower as I move under Danny’s outstretched hatch door. Each pane of glass is grey, although the sky behind the building remains a light shade of blue. Umbrellas begin to pop open in all directions; those who haven’t got one handy flee for cover or fashion protection from their jackets, backpacks and, in one instance, a newspaper. I follow today's news as it bobs up and down in a crowd. Within five seconds, it begins to sag with saturation.
“You can come in here if you want,” Danny says, placing a paper cup on the counter. My shoes are a little wet, and the bottom of my trousers are getting the worst of the splashback, but it’s nothing a couple of minutes in the sun won’t dry.
“It’s alright. Storms like this usually pass in a few minutes.”
“Suit yourself.” He says and starts rummaging under his counter for something.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out with my free hand. It’s the boss. It’s late. I’m late. By now, the path leading to the park is a steady beige stream, carving the foundations of a riverbed into the loose gravel. The road between me and the office is already flooded; whirlpools are swirling around the struggling drains. Under every awning, a group of strangers huddle together. I open the text
Why are you standing at Eastly’s? We have a meeting in five minutes. Don’t be late.
My tie feels tighter around my neck. I can see him; he’s tinted grey from the stormy reflection, but there's no doubt in my mind. Twenty-second floor, the window five in from the right. He’s waving.
There’s another scream, this one so joyful that it pierces through the drumming above my head. One of the kids has made a run for it, leaving the rest of his peers and his bemused caretakers languishing under an oak tree with a few runners and an elderly couple wiping the lenses of their cameras. Before long, he's not only jumping in the stream flowing down the path, he's sitting in it, tilting his head skywards, seemingly drinking in the heavy droplets falling from the grey clouds.
Three minutes.
I look up at the window again. He’s no longer waving, but his movement is too subtle to make out at this distance and through the heavy rain. I turn around to look at Danny, he’s busy rearranging boxes - utilising the pause in his day. He has always been an efficient man. The group of strangers huddling under the awning is thinning as they jump into well-timed taxis.
Another scream. The boy’s evading the outstretched arms coming to scoop him up. He’s giddy with his success.
I feel another text demanding attention. I don’t have to look out the window to feel the eyes burning through me. But the last vibration has inched me over the edge, and my will to nod and wear my tie shatters as it hits the floor. As quickly as it fell, it washes away. I suppose you can’t expect much else in a storm like this. My index finger tugs at the Windsor knot pressing against my throat, and my tie slithers to the floor.
The voice in my head is more convincing than usual, and I can’t stop my feet from carrying me out into the open sky. I doubt if a minute passes before I’m drenched. My phone splashes into the pine-coloured stream before I realise I’ve dropped it.
“Francis!” Danny calls. But I’m enjoying the cool rain to bother with a conversation. “Francis, what are you doing?”
Another scream. No, a chorus. The kids are charging straight towards me; I’ve inspired the whole pack.
“Francis!” Danny shouts again. I glance over my shoulder and see him with his hands in the air. What are you doing?” He mouths at me. I’m not sure. I shrug and start running into the park, away from the kids.
Buy my debut novel today! Search ‘Love, Loss & the View from My Window’ on your local Amazon marketplace.
UK - HERE
NL - HERE
Blurb
A young man, torn apart by grief, struggles to forget his past and find his way into adulthood. Living close by, an elderly lady battles her deteriorating mind, trying to hold on to her memories. Serendipity and the elements pull them together in a café trapped in time. Their peculiar relationship blossoms, helping one come to terms with life and love and the other with death and loss.
'Love, Loss & the View from My Window' is Luke's debut novel. This strange and sombre tale was inspired by his experiences with dementia and shame. Luke watched both of his grandmothers suffer from various types of dementia. He was perplexed by the lack of understanding modern medicine can provide. While growing up, he dealt with shame in its various forms. These two factors have been brought together in this book to question the illusion of a 'normal' brain and to celebrate our ability to succeed in light of our shortfalls.