The Awful Delay

With steaming brown swirling through my innards, I took to the mines with spade and barrow in search of poor man's platinum and a bigger house. Upon arrival (it was morning, you see) I saw a man milling outside the grubby entrance and, naturally, bumped in for a closer look. 'Twas none other than the esteemed silver resident. I was about to greet in my usual reserved way, when I noticed the look of deep and drowsy sorrow 'neath his brow and a rattling jar marked with skull and crossbones in his paw. With my indiscreet inhale he turned his slow eyeballs towards mine and sadly acknowledged me. I looked away. I could not bear it. From my vision of wobbling red plain I spoke.

"What are you a-doing?"
"J'attends le bon moment," he answered dolefully.
"And what are you going to do when it comes?" I asked.
He glanced down at the jar in his hand.
"Ma vie ne fonctionne plus," he said.
"But why? What's happened?"
"Ben ne visite plus mon emplacement."
"Is that all?"
"Non. J'ai cessé de visiter mon emplacement aussi bien."
"What's stopping you from going back to it?"
He wearily looked at my ears and said: "Je n'ai jamais trouvé un chéri."
"You're still young," I reassured.
"Et mon roman est terrible." He handed my a wad of faded manuscript paper and turned away theatrically. Having no other option, I sat upon a comfy rock and poured my eyes out.

Fifteen odd hours later I had finished.
"I liked it," I announced from my comfy rock.
"Menteur !" he screamed.
"No really. I particularly liked Mary's character."
"Soyez silencieux ! Vous ne dites pas la vérité. Je connais parce que Lou Reed a écrit trop de chansons avec les mêmes cordes."
"And his lyrics were awful too," I added.
"Je conviens. Maintenant pouvez-vous comprendre pourquoi je suis sur le point de se tuer ?"
"No. Don't even say such things."
He smiled and opened the jar.
"Au revoir Hugh."
But before he could place the coward's pill on his tongue, I lunged forward and tackled him to the ground. The jar flew out of his hand and bounced down the dry hill. Watching the pills spill out across the red, he began to giggle and cry.
"On me flatte que vous avez essayé de me sauver, mais j'ai déjà pris un avant que vous soyez arrivé." he said as he rose to his feet.
"What?" I cried. "How long have you got left?"
"Environ trois minutes."
"Jesus. Can I do anything?"
"Oui. Améliorez votre français." He began laughing again.
"I'll write something for you on my page," I said firmly.
"Et il coulera comme le fleuve, aucun doute."

Two odd minutes later he fell like a stone.
"Je vous enterrerai dans les mines," I said as I dragged him into the dark.
I perched him up against one of the walls and started to dig.
Gold wasn't forthcoming.
"Il n'est pas aussi facile qu'il regarde," I said.
The hole I was digging became body-size.

I sat atop the mine and took great pleasure in being. Especially over the current scene. I wasn't to be rich, I wasn't to be successful, but I hoped that somewhere down the track I would own an old car and afford the luxury of occasional leisure.

The sunset was setting and I was happy till dark. Wording my tribute for the most of it, the walk home wasn't nearly as arduous and I enjoyed the darkness for once — mainly because there wasn't to be anyone else in it. Occasionally I would falter and feel horrible over the prospect of having to work for my keep, but for the most part I was strangely calm and energised by the silver resident's departure and what I would write for him. I was happy I had known him, and that helped me cope.

As I pushed the wheelbarrow into the shed, I was again struck by the crushing blow the absence of gold brought about. It was still there as I glanced at nothing discernible through the kitchen window with a waiting cup of brown. And it was still there when an imperturbable silence reigned.

And now Monday loomed.