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Love Me Tender/An Ungrateful Bastard
ian@dimensionflip.freeserve.co.uk | | | | | |
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They had been corresponding for three months when she sent him the hand.
A pretty blue box arrived one day, with a ribbon and a tag bearing the
words
"just for you".
An unusual gift. There were a couple of people he exchanged tapes with
by
mail, and a woman in Torquay who liked him to send her his soiled
underwear.
At first, this too had seemed a little strange but as she would always
enclose an expensive pair of designer briefs by return of post he decided
not to complain.
This, however, was something new. What was the custom, he pondered, when
somebody sent you a dismembered body part? A simple thankyou would not
suffice. He placed the outstretched palm on his kitchen table and hoped
it
wouldn't smell too much when he got back from work.
That night, he telephoned her.
"Hi"
"Hi....how are you?"
"Me? Oh, I'm great. I just wanted to say -"
"Did you get it then?"
"Yes, and it-"
"And what have you done with it?"
"Well, its on my kitchen table at the moment. I was wondering-"
"Kitchen table? Look, I went to great lenghts to get you that hand. If
you
don't want it just say so."
"No, no its wonderful. I-"
"Put it in the refrigerator immediately or it will lose all its flavour"
"Flavour?....."
"Yes, best eaten with mustard, I find. Lightly roasted."
"Oh...erm...thanks"
"Phone me back when you've done it."
In it went, between the Kit-e-Kat and the carrot juice. He didn't call
her
back that night, though he knew she'd be angry after all the trouble she
had
gone to.
The next morning, a curt message on his machine - "I presume from the
fact
that you didn't call me back that you were swallowed by the
refrigerator."
She sounded upset. As if she had been crying....He didn't like to think
of
her in such a state. Sitting at the computer that day, he found his job
as
a data-inputter to be a little less absorbing than usual. His mind
drifted
back to her suppressed choke on the telephone.
He had to make it up to her, but how? He didn't know of any outlets for
body parts. As far as he was aware, not even the most fashionable
supermarkets held such a line.
He found that he couldn't go straight home...to those bare walls, the
answering machine and the hand in the fridge, silently accusing him, a
once-living monument to his ungrateful behaviour. Time for a walk, to
clear
the brain cells. He came to a rest in a small public house on the
outskirts
of town. He hadn't been here before, but it seemed nice, and as he sat
and
nibbled thoughtfully on his roasted peanuts a man came to sit with him.
He smiled absently and continued to stare out of the window, but the man
seemed to want to talk:
"Excuse me..." He had a heavy Eastern European accent.
"Hello? Can I help you?"
"Excuse me sir. But you looked like you wanted to buy a foot."
"A foot?"
"Shhh..." the man hissed "Everybody will want one....Now, you want?"
It seemed like a good idea, so he handed the man twenty pounds and stated
his preferences - a left foot, perhaps a size 8 - nothing ostentatious,
but
he wasn't going to skimp.
The man came back half an hour later with a "No Frills" bag and dumped it
on
the table in front of him.
"thankyou"
The man seemed to be lingering
"I really appreciate this"
Still, he stood there.
"Is there anything else?"
The man leaned forward across the table and grabbed hold of his collars
with
an alarming force
"Tip...you ungrateful bastard"
"Oh...sorry". He thought about explaining that he wasn't used to such
dealings, but it didn't seem like a good enough excuse. He smiled weakly
and handed the man a fiver.
The man looked at it, disgustedly, for a second and then left the pub.
The bag should be moved. He put in underneath his coat and finished his
pint of Guinness. Before he left, he sneaked a look inside.
Perhaps not a size 8. A 6 at best, and a little yellowed around the
toes.
But it was better than nothing. Inisde the bag was a letter. He put it
in
his pocket, to read later.
On the way home, a roll of shiny paper and a gift box were procured from
an
expensive department store. They didn't have any ribbon but he didn't
think
she would mind. The bag got jostled a little on the bus but when he got
the
item out and unwrapped it, it seemed to be perfectly fine. He covered
the
yellowed toes up cunningly with a tube of body glitter he'd procured from
Superdrug the previous week and was satisfied, all in all, with his
offering.
He ran to the post office on his lunch break and queued amongst the
people
waiting for their pensions. He barely had time to stop at SpudULike on
the
way back and had to chomp his potato at his desk though he knew they
didn't
like it. Still, it would be worth it to hear her voice.
That night, no messages. A little disappointed, he went to bed early and
put the radio on to cover his disquiet.
The next morning....nothing. He was starting to worry. What if it had
gone
to the wrong address? A yellowing size 6 complete with Sapphire Suprise
Sparkles was not something that everybody appreciated receiving in the
mail.
Even worse, what if she'd got it and didn't like it? Perhaps he should
have
asked for a 10.
He trembled slightly as he unlocked his door that night. Had she...?
Had
she?
No, it seemed she had not. No messages, only a letter from his Torquay
friend, enclosing a pair of Armanis with the message "where are you? I'm
missing our exchanges. Please write". He put the letter to one side and
went to watch Emmerdale.
Another day at work. He couldn't concentrate on "numbers of invoices
processed March-July 1999" at all. His supervisor told him his attitude
needed to improve. But his concentration refused to stay with him,
straying
into the post box and through the mail system. Perhaps sending a foot
was
deemed a little cheap. Not very stylish. And that glitter - he could at
least have used an expensive brand. He hoped she didn't think he was
tacky.
Dejected, he slumped home to find - a parcel! On his front doorstep!
Two parcels, to be precise. One was large. The other was in a small,
flat,
green box. he opened the large box first....a teddy bear! How
wonderful.
he played for a second with the little neck-tie and then tore apart the
other package.
A small round dish...in it floated a couple of objects in a puddle of
brown
liquid. A note attached read "Loved the present, thank you. Although
was
not able to eat the sparkly blue parts. Enjoy the enclosed. Best
braised
and served with a nice salad."
He looked in the fridge. Not a huge number of vegetables inside, but he
could always pop to the greengrocers. The hand had been a little crunchy
in
parts but in general, well worth the effort. He put the oven on to
pre-heat
and took a walk up the road, wondering how he could possibly thank her
for
this present.
On returning, he saw the perfect gift. A small statuette of Elvis in the
window of PoundCity. He remembered her once telling him how much she
enjoyed "Love Me Tender". He wrapped it up with a bow and card, but it
didn't seem enough. He left it on the table and considered how it could
be
improved.
It seemed that fortune smiled. The following night, the railway station
was
deserted. The man lay at the foot of a long flight of steps, his neck
apparently broken. He reeked of alcohol and didn't appear to have a
pulse.
The perfect opportunity...he wouldn't be too greedy. Removing the pen
knife
from his backpack he gently sawed off the left ear and delicately gouged
out
the right eye.
And then the left eye...may as well make it a pair. The man gasped a
little
at this, but it seemed that he would be dead soon so there wasn't any
real
cause for concern. A couple of seconds later he went back for the other
ear. Two pairs. Neat.
He wrote "They belong together" on the gift tag and sent them off in
separate boxes.
This time, the response was immediate.
"They're wonderful! Thankyou. I needed some new accessories. Eyes!
Wherever did you get them? Nobody ever sent me eyes before!"
No mention of the ears, then. Oh well. It was enough to know that part
of
the gift had impressed her. He imagined her ears, small and brown,
partially hidden under locks of peroxide hair. Dangling from the lobe of
each, a perfect oval, to the suprise and admiration of all her
acquaintances.
Another letter from Torquay. He didn't open it. He re-read her letter,
and
found himself dwelling on a certain phrase..."Nobody ever sent me eyes
before" - so she'd done this before. He wasn't the first? Somehow, he
didn't like the thought of that.
The next morning, a small brown box. It contained two badges: "Don't
worry, be happy" and "I (heart) Mickey". Another note.
"LOVED the Elvis. Looks wonderful by the pond with the gnomes. Hope the
enclosed is okay. It was all I could get. Something more exciting to
follow soon...promise!"
This time, the parcel was soft and malleable. He squeezed it a little
before tearing off the paper eagerly.
A buttock? It seemed a little uninspired. What was he supposed to do
with
it?
"Best stewed, with carrots and rosemary", apparently. Didn't sound too
exciting. He put it on the side whilst he finished his pot noodle and
reflected...
She seemed a little..distant, this time. Elvis in the garden? It meant
he
could be closer to the squirrels but it still seemed inappropriate. And
he
didn't remember ever expressing a love for Mickey Mouse. He felt a
little
deflated as he conducted his journey to work, and had to throw himself
into
"complaints received April-May 1999" with gusto, so that the full
disappointment would not manifest itself.
No messages that night. The buttock on the side smelt a little.
Saturday morning...he stayed in bed late and only rose when the doorbell
went at midday.
"Sign here, please" A long, pink box. He thanked the delivery boy and
took
it inside together with the rose-scented letter from Torquay.
This time, he let it stand for a few minutes. Opened the letter from his
other penfriend first. The usual drivel - "When can you come down to see
me? Why are you so quiet? " etc. He threw it away without looking at
the
underwear and tore open the box.
No note, no trinkets, no tag. Just the box. And its contents. He
fought
the phlegm as it rose and went to sit down for a whhile. This was going
too
far. Surely she didn't expect that he'd...?
It seemed she did. He had to stop this, straight away. He grabbed an
orange felt-tip and began to scrawl:
"Must cease exhanges. Am shocked, and appalled. You should seek help"
He put the letter in a brown envelope and attached it to the box she had
sent. Gingerly, he picked up the severed member and its two..accessories
and dumped it back in its container. He sent it off in the mail, same
day
delivery.
That night, he felt uneasy. He tried not to close his eyes for as long
as
possible - every time he did so he saw a small Eastern European man,
limping
slightly and gazing at him with disgust. A disgust he shared. When he
finally got to sleep, it was dawn. Sunday morning turned its back on
him,
and he dreamed.
He awoke at dusk. Somebody was at the door. Somebody in a tall black
hat
and suite, without a smile. The man nodded, without speaking and
indicated
a packing- case left on the driveway, before crawling off in his long
box-shaped car.
He opened the letter first. "Am writing to you from police cell.
Presume
arrest at your instigation. No more exchanges. Hope enclosed is of
interest. You ungrateful bastard. "
He dragged the trunk inside. It was full of small packages. Neatly
arranged, intricately wrapped boxes, cones, spheres - all shapes and
colours
and inside... a hand, another hand - a pair, neat.
An arm, another buttock, teeth, tongue, eyes. 10 fingers, each packaged
separately. And another note "I believe you used to swap tapes with this
lady"
Oh..god...how had she known? He believed he'd mentioned their cessation
in
communication since he'd been sent an Eric Clapton tape...but even Eric
Clapton didn't deserve this.
Where had she found her?
The questions were purposeless. He put the pieces in his magi-mix, one
by
one, and poured them onto the magnolias. He buried the bony bits in the
cemetry accross the road and switched on "Celebrity Squares", hoping to
empty his mind.
It didn't work. He thought of the hand, how nice it had been to receive
it
and the excitement he had felt as he packaged the foot. It was a shame
she'd had to spoil everything.
Thinking of his first parcel reminded him of something. He fumbled in
his
coat pocket and extracted the letter the man in the pub had given him
with
the foot. It was slightly crumpled, and it smelt of sweat.
The paper was blank, except for a single sentence:
"WARNING: Do not cover item in blue glitter and post to unknown woman"
The full horror of his actions threw itself upon him. It seemed that all
of
this was his fault. Oh...why, oh why did he never read the operating
instructions before-hand?
It was just like the time he'd accidentally garrotted Aunty Beryl with
his
Talking Commando Action Man.
He decided not to think about it any more. He went and poured himself a
nice cup of tea, digging in the bin for the letter from Torquay. He read
it, sat down and started his reply:
"Dear Mum. Sorry not to have written for so long. Not enough time on my
hands. Love the Armanis. Hope the enclosed is of interest...
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