Avocado

This is a story I wrote for a unit at Curtin a couple of years back. It's been described variously as "gritty," "austere" and "fucking lame."

The alarm wakes me, my clock radio informing me that it is 7 am, though I find it preferable to measure time based on absence. It is, for example, fifteen years since I had hair. It is five seconds since I last slept. It is an inestimable amount of time since I had a conscience, or for that matter, a satisfying breakfast. The latter, in keeping with my unique form of chronology, is commensurate with the five years since I had a wife. I read once that human remains are the most effective fertiliser known to man. Whilst I have no particular affinity for botany, there is a stretch of roses in my garden, roughly five feet long, wherein the flowers are of much greater stature than those surrounding them.

I get out of bed and prepare for work in the same autonomous fashion that I always do, guided by routine. Upon consumption of my sloppy eggs, I feel fleeting regret at the demise of my wife, before recalling her similarly sloppy lovemaking skills. My regret is assuaged.

I lay out five ties on my bed. Today is Monday - lime green tie day. As with every day, I flirt with the notion of bucking routine and wearing the fuchsia one instead, but to entertain such madness would doubtless plunge the universe as I know it into utter pandemonium. I feel slightly giddy as I fashion the lime green tie into a crisp windsor knot, staring pleadingly at the fuchsia alternative that is reserved for Thursday, lest chaos ensue.

I arrive at work at precisely 8:30. I once arrived at 8:41 and was disconsolate for the rest of the day. I attributed my behaviour to having recently lost a loved one. Very recently, in fact. I vowed that day never to let such trifling matters disrupt routine again.

I walk to my cubicle and sit down in my perpetually uncomfortable swivel chair. There is a screw that protrudes from the seat that leads to immeasurable discomfort throughout the day. Pablo, the office maintenance man, has neglected to remove it despite my ongoing protestations. Pablo is my nemesis, and will be dealt with as soon as I acquire the gelignite that I am currently bidding for on E-bay.

Although I cannot see her, I know that Louise is in the cubicle to my right. I am in love with Louise, who is a widow. Her erstwhile husband was involved in a minor car accident. Upon learning of her bereavement, I made her a photo frame out of his brake cables, in which there now unfortunately resides a picture of him. He mocks me posthumously and I can no longer walk past Louise’s cubicle.

I cannot tell you what I do for a living, because I myself have forgotten. I know that I enter numbers into spreadsheets, categorise orders according to client, sharpen my pencils every hour and receive sexually explicit emails from my colleagues. I am not sure what results my labours yield, although I find a certain measure of gratification in forwarding the emails to Louise, who I think is attracted to me.

I receive a phone call at my desk, distracting me from an engaging game of minesweeper. It is Richard, my boss. He is calling to congratulate me on my work. Apparently I am a stalwart of the company and my contribution to team success is irreplaceable. Richard is a homosexual, and his call makes me uncomfortable. I thank him and hang up.


Sooner than expected, lunch time arrives. Today is international food day. Marie has provided hummus. Thomas, who is exceedingly dim, comments that he likes most foreign food, but can’t stand ‘hamas.’ I quip that as awful as Marie’s cooking may be, it is hardly likely to incinerate any Israeli school buses. Thomas says he isn’t interested in politics, whilst the rest of my colleagues stare blankly at me. They are not intelligent people.

The rest of the day passes without incident, as every day preceding it has, and sure as every subsequent day will. I put on my favourite cd in the car, Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’. My favourite track is the effervescent “You Can Call Me Al,” in which Simon poses the question “Why am I soft in the middle?” before lamenting “The rest of my life is so hard.” I feel that these lyrics, when inverted, aptly summarise the world and my place within it. For were these lyrics to be mine, they would read “Why am I hard in the middle? The rest of my life is so soft.”

I occupy a world mired in the inane. A world of talkback radio, pet psychiatrists and personalised license plates. A world where ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ are deemed more newsworthy than mudslides. Amidst all of this, my inscrutable callousness is of marked contrast with the dispositions of those around me. I am unsure whether it is deliberate recalcitrance or merely an inherent component of my personality that affords me such coldness. I am a razor blade through styrofoam. I am total darkness where there should be incandescence. I am also aware of the futility of self-analysis. I eject the cd and turn on the radio, arriving home to the strains of A-Ha’s “Take on Me.”

After I arrive home, I settle down to watch the evening news with a cup of tea. There is a muffled yelping from under the floorboards where I keep my neighbor’s corgi. Despite my vociferous complaints, Muffin’s owner refused to stop her nocturnal barking frenzies. Her sub-floorboard cacophony is much more tolerable: however, I think I will put a rug over the flooring just for peace of mind.

I retire to my study to pen another love letter to Louise. It has been twenty-four hours since I last wrote her one. As always, I am unable to find the appropriate words to use and veer off on a tangent about my hatred of the asymmetrical part in her hair. The letter is filed, along with the fifteen hundred other aborted attempts.

I am irritated by my inability to capture the essence of my feelings for Louise. I notice that upon the filing of the most recent letter, the cabinet has been filled to its full capacity. Although I am not normally one for such trite sentiment, I feel a strange discomfort at the thought that this may be closure.

I sleep.


I arrive at work at 8.30. I walk to my cubicle, undeterred by the idle chatter of my co-workers. I am faintly aware of Thomas saying good morning, to which I nod to no one in particular.

There is an envelope on my desk. My name is written in immaculate cursive, the flourishes at the end of each letter betraying the enthusiasm of the writer. Next to the letter is a single rose.

I open the envelope slowly, cautious and enthralled in equal measure. Within the envelope is a neatly folded slip of paper and a polaroid photo.

I read the letter first, and it’s succinct yet glorious content renders me delirious.

‘With love, Louise.’

I look down slowly at the photo. In it, Louise is holding Pablo’s severed head whilst blowing a kiss to the camera. She is resplendent.

It is three-hundredths of a second since I realised that the outside is not as soft as I first believed. I am in love.