I wrote this a couple of years ago and am interested to see what people think.
It's a short story and not really a comedy (!) ...So apologies that it doesn't 100% sit with the theme of the forum. It does touch upon being a writer however.
I now take a vow to post no more comments this thread!!
It’s a cold night. A slight draught twitches irritably at John’s bedroom curtains, before expiring at the head of his empty bed. A chill perpetuates itself on the stained sheets. A clock with exhausted batteries hangs on the magnolia-painted wall, its second hand twitching to and fro in a death spasm. If you were to open the bedroom door, you would be hit by the hot rush of sluggish air pressing against the impervious oak. If you were to trace John’s insomniac footsteps – across the landing, creaking down the stairs… through the hall - you would see him, frozen in the kitchen, where he’s been for the past two hours. But you are not there to save John. Even if you cared, he would push you away with a sneer, or a cruel laugh. He has done so before, with others; now he is able to remain alone, impassive. You probably wouldn’t want to save him. Periodically, his face lights up with the embers of a cigarette. He sucks at death like an infant at the teat. The floor is now decorated with a fine tracery of ash: snowflakes in the dark. Staring out onto his starlit garden, John is crying - not tears of sorrow - the smoke is curling into his eyes. It paints his body, his hair and clothes, and wanders fitfully beyond his consciousness. John flicks the butt into the sink. By the time the dripping tap has extinguished it, he has lit another smoke. Still transfixed by an image he can’t quite see, and still clutching his plastic lighter in a vice-grip, there is the barely perceptible, slow heaving of his ribs as he continues to exhale. The glow inches toward the filter.
***
“I want to be a writer.”
“You can’t be a writer, John. Those people earn no money.”
“Some of them do.”
“Yeah, sure. But you’re not Jewish.”
This seemed to be a non-sequitur, but John was aware of his father’s prejudices. He said it anyway:
“That’s a non-sequitur.”
A pause while his father tried to unravel the meaning of John’s words.
“Gardening’s a fine profession, John. Look at your uncle Stephen. His own house, his own car… he makes a contribution to society.”
“Writing’s a contribution.”
“Yeah, like you kid yourself entering the lottery’s a contribution. You’re in it for your own ends, for hitting the jackpot, for making the hole-in-one. You never get the hole-in-one. You have to keep tapping away.”
Dennis had a wealth of golfing analogies. Not that he ever played golf. It was too redolent of the upper-middle class lack of industrialism that he hated. Perhaps that was why it fascinated him. John forced a laugh; worryingly, it sounded genuine.
“You’re tapping away at me, alright. I don’t want to be a window-cleaner, or a butcher, or a taxi-driver, or…”
That did it. A specific attack on his father’s profession always guaranteed a “conversation” would end in a blazing row. But Dennis just reddened and shuffled into his study. His disapproval was punctuated with the slam of the door. Dennis was getting old, now. The fire in his belly was going out.
“God knows why I came,” muttered John, but he still felt the weight of duty; it certainly didn’t seem fair to see his mother and her new husband without stopping off on the way to check on dad.
Dad had always been very different to mom; John didn’t know how they ever managed to get together, let alone stay together for three years, and conceive two children. Conceive, at least. John thought of Evie and his stomach turned; the empty possibility haunted him. With the faint tinge of disgust that accompanies an unconsciously belittling comparison, John thought of the countless stories he’d started in his time. Maybe a thousand words written for the ghost-story; two thousand for the spy caper he was fond of; a few hundred scribbled down to introduce the Dickensian family saga he’d attempted a few years back. He had a whole filing cabinet full. None aborted, but all coming to nothing. So maybe his father was luckier than he all along; at least he had one child. At least he’d made that choice. John shrugged, dashed off a note of farewell, and closed the front door with the faintest of sighs. He didn’t resolve never to see his father again. It just panned out that way.
***
The best John had was charcoal. Double breasted. It would do. He’d get the appropriately coloured tie on the journey down. He only had ties packed full of Looney Tunes characters – trying too hard to be cheerful. It didn’t work, and John knew it.
“The next thing I know, I’ll be buying a sticker that says: YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE MAD TO WORK HERE – BUT IT HELPS!!” thought John. Or maybe he said it under his breath; it makes no difference. The suit was old and slightly too small, but John viewed himself in the mirror with reserved approval. If he held his burgeoning gut in, he looked ok.
By the time he got to the church it was three o’clock, which meant that he was half an hour late. Acquiring a black tie was more difficult that he had imagined, on a Sunday. The clean cut of the freshly bought fabric contrasted with the shabbiness of his suit. In the blunt winter sun, John realised that the trousers were not a perfect match with the blazer. There was a definite pinstripe to them that was only visible in daylight. He briefly considered trudging back to the station and getting the next train home, but he knew that would be absurd. He determined not to give a damn what anybody thought. He looked a mess and he was late, but he had to see this one through. He didn’t have to make a speech; he’d seen to that the day before.
He hadn’t missed much. There had been a few sentimental songs, according to the cream booklets that sat on every pew, but there were still another fifteen minutes to go. John surprised himself by feeling guilty; here he was, acting as if he had arrived late to see some stupid play. But he knew the finale; he knew that the principal character would not be appearing. So maybe this was worth less then a Blackpool pot-burner where the players need a prompt and the scenery is made from card. He sat at the back and momentarily considered whether or not he should take his coat off; would this encourage the tacit filaments of attention he felt being cast his way? He shrugged off his raincoat, acknowledging his impotence when faced with the Hydra. A seldom-remembered aunt looked round from two rows ahead and smiled at John. He hadn’t sent her a Christmas card for at least ten years. He nodded back, but she’d already shifted her crinoline bulk back around. At least he didn’t miss the last act. John found it hard to believe his father was encased in that cheap timber. The final dead weight was crushing: Dennis had been tapping away, all right. This was no spectacular demise - no bus driver to blame or miserly roof repair that cost all. Dad was an idiot who smoked sixty a day and drank a bottle of vodka a night. John looked up. The mechanism that lowered the coffin gave out an almost imperceptible whining; it was embarrassing. It reminded John of the hissing of a kettle when you’re waiting to make a cup of tea. Then it was over. The utilitarian, comic-book device glided shut, and Dennis was gone.
***
The words stuttered out in an inconstant stream, and they were all wrong. Redundant phrases danced on the periphery of John’s mind and popped like soap bubbles. Poetry: what a joke. His dad wasn’t a poem; there was no epigrammatic capsule of intimacy he could slap on the page. John scored the page with his pen, and started when he realised his pen had run out of ink. He fingered the pack of Marlboros in his pocket and headed to the kitchen.