Sean Crawely brings a close to his alliteration trilogy.
Directorship, Dinner and Diarrhoea
By Sean Crawley
Director Debbie laid him off alright. Right there on the spot. How dare he demand a lunch break, daily!
Dennis O’Reilly was a free man now. With a redundancy, and his ability at this stage of the working life to claim government assistance with no mutual obligation and a tasty slice of his superannuation, he could live comfortably until his mother died and left him her estate. He’d worked this all out in the semi consciousness of the last six months.
“Delicious,” he said to himself seven times over an early dinner for one in the French restaurant he’d denied himself for so long now. Charles Aznavour sang. Striped topped waitresses with High School French bought Escargot, French onion soup, Kronenbourg 1664, frog legs, red wine, Coquilles Saint-Jacques, Pan-seared Foie Gras, Coque a Vin, red wine, Steak Tartare, Boeuf Bourguignon, Bouillabaisse, Gratin dauphinois, Souffle, red wine – clichéd as all fuck.
“Do you want a dinner mint with your coffee, sir? S’il vous plaît?”
Dennis was not a round man, not at all. He was tall and thin and people would solve the mystery of his colossal consumption by citing hollow legs.
“Do you have brandy?” he asked.
“Daniel Bouju Royal Grande Champagne Cognac?”
“Delightful. Bring a bottle.”
Daylight saving daylight disappearing. Director Debbie a distant memory. Buried under a dinner to be reckoned with. A celebration of freedom. The cognac was good. The debit card bought it and the food and a tip for the casual staff. Dennis was sated.
Driving home with lipids, glucose and alcohol all tipping the recommended scales of public health and safety, Dennis pulled over to view the dam. It’s capacity was impressive, it just needed rain. It had never been 100%, the engineers and meteorlogists conferred biannually. Humans and nature at odds again. The fossils of hominid ancestors and primates show the links all the way back to tree shrews, a truth we constantly deny. We are different, we are not animals. A dollar bird croaks in the dying light of a Wednesday to remember.
Dennis’s stomach rumbled. Was it a dodgy scallop? Did that tasty little sucker’s filtration of the damaged ocean devously deliver dioxin to Dennis’s descending colon. There was no way he could make it home to the privacy of his own water closet. Dennis needed to defecate, now. No denying this call of nature. It bubbled and groaned and shifted and pushed.
Diarrhoea did what diarrhoea does. It explosively exited as though something in Dennis had been punctured or torn beyond repair. Relief was immediate and delectable. Only blind pimples, ingrown hairs and deeply embedded ticks can offer such secret pleasures. An outdoor dunny dump in a dam catchment area. Life was holding all sorts of promise for Dennis, the unemployed menace.