Graeme Gibson - Communion

That was an unusual morning; but the question of tempo is automatic. The problem is to press firmly and rhythmically on his chest while keeping the nostrils closed and holding the cigarette in his mouth at the same time. None of these things can be neglected for a moment. For example, if she doesn’t maintain a constant pattern of pressure on his chest, then she’ll never regulate his breathing . . . however, if in concentrating on this she forgets the nostrils, if air seeps into his head in any way except through the mouth, then he’ll simply breathe without smoking at all. Finally, even if she manages both, but doesn’t keep the cigarette holder firmly in his mouth, if she lets go even for an instant, then his jaws part, his lips slacken, open like an old man’s, and the cigarette falls onto the pillow and rolls down to where the throat meets his shoulder.

Perhaps it sounds more difficult than it is, and it’s true that at first she’d longed for another hand, two extra fingers even, just to snip the nostrils shut. She’d begun to wonder, to plan even, to see if perhaps there was some sort of equipment, a machine . . . A clothespin, for example, placed carefully on the nose, it seemed an excellent idea, almost like two extra fingers, perhaps the clothespin would do. But he was offended, he’d groaned and thrashed about, his arm had swept up and thrown the clothespin against the wall.

That had been a disappointment. Leaning to enclose his nose securely in the crotch of her thumb and index finger, her hand extending down so the tip of that same thumb and finger can steady the holder in his mouth; she remembers the sense of failure. Yet at the same time she’d never fully despaired, never seriously, and that’s something after all; not once has she really considered giving up . . . What’s more, her perseverance ultimately produced the technique she’s using now and it works well too: her right hand, placed as it is, successfully looks after the nose and the mouth (both of them) and leaves her left hand free to lean upon his chest, impose this healthy rhythm on his breath.

Leaning her weight, pressing and counting, “a thousand and one” with grey smoke issuing from his mouth . . . briefly she holds . . . then “a thousand and two”, withdrawing she sees the fire as his lungs are filled. And so it goes. She fights him resolutely, pressing again (“a thousand and one”), she feels the slobber from his mouth, she pauses . . . and withdraws.

The next cigarette is ready in her mouth as, poised, she forces his lungs empty, and then with amazing speed her left hand grabs the holder and brings the glowing butt to light the new one; at the same time, her thumb and index finger have pinched his mouth shut and that’s important, so he can’t breathe and break the cycle. Ashes fly as she ejects the butt into the ashtray, exchanges the empty holder for the cigarette in her mouth, firmly inserts the latter into the former and, letting go of his lips, jams the holder back into his mouth. He gasps, she lurches to maintain the interrupted tempo, “a thousand and one” and they’ve hardly missed a stroke . . .

It’s going very smoothly this morning.

Soon she stops the regulating pressure, stops the counting and relaxes somewhat back on the chair: she smiles, an imperceptible smile on her large face and hears again the birds, a car in the street, the day outside and sees the lines about his eyes, his mouth in rhythm now and knows the worst is over, that soon he’ll be awake.

Keys, in hand and ready, cautious he leans his face to the glass and peers inside: it looks clear enough but he can’t be sure, it’s nowhere to be seen and that’s ominous; it’s not on the counter by the cash register, nor crouched as it is some mornings on the door leading to the back rooms. Where is it then? Methodically he searches as best he can; because of the relative darkness inside, the street’s reflection on the glass and so forth, it isn’t easy . . . he concentrates though, shading the glass he stares into gloomy corners, he even crouches to improve the angle; kneeling on the sidewalk, he tries to see if it’s above the door. It doesn’t seem to be but he can’t be sure so turning the key, carefully bracing his shoulder he inches the door open . . . pausing to listen . . . but he can’t hear it. All the usual sounds, the morning sounds: snuffling and groaning, breathing and sighing, all this and more; the brush of bodies, and madness of the talking birds, the chains and the scampering claws in metal wheels. But no Sammy, where is he? Door open a bit more until there’s almost enough room to sneak through, it’s looking good. Pausing to listen, then whipping it open and lunging inside, slamming the door just as he drops with a shriek from the transom, a chattering howl, the cunning bugger was there all the time! Pounding his fists on the door too late, face of a woodcut devil, then leaping to the counter he turns to stare; his angry shrunken face for a moment, and then he’s gone.

Felix trembling inside because of the shock. Even though he was expecting some such assault, even though he’s been through it, or something like it, morning after morning now, ever since taking the job, he still finds the shrieking accusation, the wizened face, the snarl profoundly disturbing, far too personal in fact. As if it’s his fault, when he’s only the employee, nothing more than an employee and yet every morning the stupid bugger comes at him like this, pinches up its nasty face in rage, charges about like a madman and rushes off into the other room.

Glancing to see that the cage is open, that the monkey will be able to get in alright, he picks up several supermarket bags and strides into the back room. Along the length of the room there are three aisles between the cages, and in these cages (depending on their size, whether they’re on the first or second level) there are dogs and cats, a raccoon or two, a skunk, sometimes tangled creatures that he doesn’t quite recognize, and in the corner of the room, in the highest cage, there’s an owl.

Now, with Felix pausing inside the door, with Sammy’s violent anger, all the animals that can stand are on their feet, they press against the wire or cower back, they snarl or howl, they chatter and moan amongst themselves as he starts down the aisle. The monkey’s hiding somewhere, but that’s alright, he knows! Felix blows into the bag, squeezing the mouth shut as he draws another breath, blowing again with the paper stretching, the wrinkles vanishing as it fills with air. Down one aisle like this and up the next with still no sign of Sammy, he must be somewhere poised, but he hears alright and soon he’ll make his move. Relentless pursuit in the growing excitement of caged animals and blowing out he turns the third corner, at the end of the second aisle, and then the fourth, the last and sees him, yes! he shouts, Ho-Hoh! And rubs the bag against his chest in warning, the monkey screams up onto the cages out of sight and scrabbles away as Felix smashes his hand against the bag. Mercifully it works, on the first try too, it explodes and more than fifty animals panic.

Blowing mightily on the second bag, Felix moves to cut Sammy off at the door because it won’t do to let him out there yet, he’s not ready, he’s not desperate enough for his cage, he might think so, he might even get into it but he won’t appreciate it. Not yet. He’ll complain all morning.

Dogs cringe away from his legs and howl as he passes. He rustles the paper while gathering air for another blow, preparing himself; not a motion wasted or a moment lost, momentum is the watchword here, for Sammy thinks he’s hiding but Felix sees him, yes he does, he sees him over there beside the owl and creeping up behind him bursts the bag! It retreats in growing confusion and fear, he follows with the third bag in his hand, the monkey bounds for the door and still he follows, he’s gasping now, he’s dizzy with Sammy retreating as the bag begins to stretch, retreating from the room and into his cage. Very good. But Felix won’t relent, not yet; he stalks to the door to make sure, he pauses, he rubs the bag against his chest and Sammy whimpers; very good, there’s no need to break it now, no need at all. He can walk to the cage and say “Hello Sammy”, he can reach inside and stroke the skeletal body, he can say “Morning baby”. Scratching under the chin, seeing skull beneath the hair and stroking its head: “Do you want some breakfast Sammy? that’s what you want, you want some breakfast.”