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| A Decent Man | |
| By Emmuttmax | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 30 May 2008 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
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Love and madness in London.
A Decent Man
Patricia Fleeg believed in love. Her favorite kind of love was romantic love, even though she had not yet experienced it. The bookshelves in her tiny London apartment were filled with books by romantic authors such as Jane Austen, Madeleine Kinchbright, Pauline Munch and others. Celine Dion CDs littered her bedroom, which was plastered with posters featuring lines of Emily Dickenson and Rumi poetry. When Patricia found a man—for it was a man she was in search of—she vowed she would pour love on him daily, and she expected he would do the same to her. Since Patricia arrived in London four years ago from Cornwall, she looked for love in all the wrong (and right), places but it remained elusive. She slept with a few men, but although the sexual thunder those couplings produced was intense and mostly satisfying, they failed to spark the emotional romance she yearned for. She would occasionally say to her girlfriends at work, “Where are all the decent men these days? Most of the ones I meet seem so immature and self-involved. All I want is a decent man with whom to share love.” Her friends would sometimes advise her to lower her standards and settle for a man based on his income or attractiveness, but Patricia would not hear of it; she must have the love of a decent man, or she would have no love at all. In the fourth month of her fourth year in London, Patricia Fleeg met Albert Salt. Albert was a decent man. He was kind and considerate to everyone he encountered, and he was always decently dressed. Albert was 33, and, in middle-class society, had what people considered “a decent job” as the under-assistant editorial writer for the Daily Telegraph. Patricia worked as the executive assistant for Marin Gainstale, a dealer in rare manuscripts, whose office was across the street from the newspaper. On a Tuesday in that fourth month of that fourth year, Patricia was lunching by herself at Mouseberg’s, a popular eatery two blocks north of her office. Albert, who had never dined at Mouseberg’s but had seen it, decided he would patronize the restaurant that day as well. Serendipity occurred. Due to crowded circumstances, Albert endied up sitting at Patricia’s table, and Patricia ended up falling in love with Albert. Albert was equally smitten, and the two made arrangements to meet for dinner later that evening. When she returned to work after lunch, Patricia told her friend Marian, “I have found a decent man.” At half past 4:00, Patricia received a call from Albert informing her he would be delayed for the scheduled time of their dinner. His boss had asked him to write a last-minute op-ed piece about the lack of progress the police had made on the capture of a serial killer who had been dumping the bodies of headless men around London over the last few years. He told her he would not be able to get away until 8:00 p.m. and asked if it would be acceptable if they were to meet at Cheetleep’s Blossom, a Thai restaurant on Robin Street, at 8:30. Patricia readily agreed; it would give her more time to “gild the lily.” At 8:34 that evening, Patricia walked though the red-lacquered door of Cheetleep’s to find Albert Salt waiting for her at a table by a window with a view of the Robin Street antique market. Albert stood and pulled a chair out for her. Once she was settled, Albert produced a single red rose and handed it to Patricia. As she took the proffered flower, he said, “I thought the rose was lovely, but now it appears merely as a weed in the glory of your garden.” Patricia leaned over the table and lightly kissed Albert on the cheek. She smiled and thought, “Yes, this is a very decent man.” As they ate red curry with chicken and bowls of hot-shrimp soup, the couple exchanged bits of biographical information and discussed topics such as “favorite authors,” “favorite music” and movies they had recently seen. When dessert arrived—tapioca ice cream—Albert shifted his demeanor into a more serious mode. “Patricia,” he said, “I know this is terribly bold of me, but I must tell you that I am quite drawn to you, romantically and intellectually.” Patricia’s heart pumped honey, and her mind slow danced to an internal love song. “Oh Albert,” she said, “you are such a decent man, and I must confess to similar feelings towards you. In fact—and I know this may sound silly—I believe I am in love with you.” Like Patricia, Albert had never experienced romantic love before, but at that moment, he discovered its profound impact. He gently took Patricia’s hand in his, looked into her eyes and said, “I would truly love to court you. I want to pursue a deep, committed and lasting relationship with you. I will treat you with respect, tenderness and grant you solitude when you need it. I will never pressure you. I believe I will be a better person with you in my life, and I will never betray you.” These were the words Patricia had long wanted to hear. These were the feelings she had long wanted to feel. As she squeezed Albert’s hand, a small, silver tear formed in the corner of her right eye. She said, “You have already made me a better person. I love you Albert.” “I’m happy, no, I’m absolutely delighted you feel that way Patricia, but in all candor, I must reveal something to you before I can allow our feelings to proceed. I always try to be a decent man, and that requires I be completely honest with you.” Swept up by her feelings, Patricia couldn’t imagine anything Albert had to say would dampen her love, except maybe that he was gay. Even if he was gay, she would still love him, but her romantic ideal included the physical part to be complete. As Albert prepared to divulge his secret, she leaned forward, her chin resting on the palms of her hands. Albert looked tenderly into Patricia’s eyes and said, “I am insane. I know I appear to be fairly normal, and in many ways I am, but there is a kernel of madness lodged next to the hypothalamus in my brain that interferes with the electrical impulses. Consequently, my behavior, at times, might be described as ‘weird.’” “He’s not gay,” thought Patricia, but out loud she said, “Weirdness can be fun. Just what sort of weirdness might I expect from you when the kernel pops?” Albert sighed and began to list his odd behaviours. “Most often, I howl at steam radiators. I think the sound I make resembles that of an American coyote. When the howling begins, I feel the need to dress in a Swiss guard’s uniform. I write letters to Father Christmas on a chalkboard in three-millimeter-sized letters, complaining of dairy stools. Trout will fascinate me, and I will sit for hours caressing their underbellies with my knuckles. I become terrified of clergywomen named Gwyneth and seek refuge from them in garment factories. I lick felt, seek small birds to comfort, cover the second toe on my left foot with jackal bile, and I once taunted a pastry chef for no reason.” “Is that all?” asked Patricia. “I think so,” answered Albert, “but I am insane, so I suppose new ones could crop up. I completely understand if you want to walk out the door and never see me again.” Patricia didn’t hesitate, “No Albert, I prefer to stay here. It was very decent of you to reveal these things to me, but they are unimportant. And, I don’t think you are insane at all.” A relieved Albert kissed her hand, and then asked for the check. After he paid the bill, Patricia asked if he would like to come to her flat for a drink. He accepted. Shortly after stepping into Patricia’s flat, she excused herself to go put on something “more comfortable.” As he waited for her return, Albert looked around the room, nodding approvingly at the sense of style with which she had decorated the place. He decided to surprise her with a drink, so he walked over to the tiny kitchen space and opened the fridge door. An involuntary intake of breath passed his lips as he stared at the fridge’s contents. There were three shelves, each lined with two-liter jars containing shrunken heads the size of cricket balls floating in a clear liquid. “My God,” he exclaimed and felt his knees buckle. He quickly shut the door and turned. Patricia, dressed in a very revealing teddy, stood leaning against the far wall of the living room staring at him. “What,” stammered Albert, “wha...wha…where did those heads come from.” “Those were not very decent men,” said Patricia with a sad smile. “But, but…how….” “I killed them Albert. I killed them then pickled their heads.” “You killed them? Jesus, you must be insane.” “Of course I am Albert. I thought you, of all people, would understand. I can’t help it, and I don’t even have a kernel in my head.” “Jesus Patricia,” Albert moaned. “This is murder. I don’t understand murder. I’m a decent man, and decent men do not condone murder. I am appalled.” Patricia was crestfallen, a great sadness descended upon her. As Albert stood staring at her, she pulled a blowgun out from behind her back and inserted a feathered dart. “No, Albert, you are not a decent man. A decent man would not pass judgment. A decent man would be understanding and kind and overlook small idiosyncrasies.” As Albert Salt turned to rush towards the door, he felt a sting in his neck and pitched forward, crashing into the oak flooring as the life seep out of him. Patricia Fleeg sighed, “Oh Albert, I really thought you were the one. Now, I’m going to have to buy another jar.” (c) 2008
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