IN STUMP
by
Patrick Regan
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Chapter One available below.
IN STUMP
1
“Assembling the Parts.”
(from the Book)
Lights on first, then all the rest. It’s my house, I’m entitled. Water drips from on high into a stream that gurgles down a rocky channel and disappears in ferny tunnels. Thick green leaves, wet with dew, close the paths. I brush them aside to clear a way. Big boulders carved by wind and rain, here I brought them, placed one here, one there, hollowed out to fit the body resting. I touch the rock, warm and dry. Miracle of the air, passage right and fitting. Here they shall sit, relaxing. Much on my mind now but here’s the place to shift it. Peace I need and quiet too, but monkey switch I threw so no chance unless I go back. Conner be bothered, on I press through vines and creepers, other hangy bits, the rocky wall, the ropes. I sit in a canoe and row awhile. My mind starts its wander then and I think on how it used to be. I get out of the canoe and cycle back home. Push the lever this way and we go uphill, it is a struggle. Pull lever the other road and we reach the top and can coast freewheeling down the bank. See there the cottage at the foot, there the white sheets on the line, the chickens in the yard, the sun that’s setting on another perfect day and here’s the wife running out to greet us, arms outstretched, ready to catch. Just as if. Packerdaft. Now I’m off the bike and running, burning rubber ‘neath me feet. I hear the monkeys scream, glimpse a flash of parrot squawking past and flying way up high into the leaves. I lift my head and follow the rainbow trail until I lose it in the canopy. I catch a patch of starry night peeping through a skylight in the roof.
I wander down the pond. Stripped and sinking into warmy water. Flowers float by and I swim to the waves. Surf City here I come. Look at me, I’m having fun. Fun. Fun it is what them two over there are having so much of they never even noticed me swim in. Lights on, waves splash and monkey scream and they so far in each other, so absorbed, they dunner notice. I spot them straight off, beyond the beach, through the trees, in among the gleaming metal bars. On benches laid out for another purpose I catch the tell-tale movement, the pumping action. I see the bouncy bum. Cross it makes me, the sight of this, here in the world which I created, made with my own hands, sweat of my own brow. A dreamy green spot for all our recreation but only at the times allotted. Them’s the rules, I made them and only I’m allowed break them for that is only right and proper. This is mine to do with what I see fit, for who decided where the rock shall sit, who set aside the place for climbing, who bought the bikes, the weights, the trampolines? It was my idea the canoes and the joggy machines. There I signed the main pool to be dug and there the one for teenytots, and it was me decided where the refreshment area be situated. I selected tapes of jungle sounds to fill the air from speakers that surround, all cunningly hidden from the sight of them as wants dream away and pretend they’re off in Africa on holiday. I named this place, I chose facilities, I set the profit margin, I dole the favours, I control the flow of water, fire and air, so I have the right to decide when fun's to be had and what nature that fun takes.
Still they’re at it, while I play naked in the surf. My job is to watch them till they’ve had enough and flop down smoking, and that neither is permitted, safety hazard to boot. I watch them rise and saunter hand in hand down the path. I creep out onto the sand and follow them, crawling through the undergrowth, my undergrowth mind. They stop by a vendybox and make their selection. I hide in the trees. I see their faces and now I know them. I make my way back with the stealth of a jungle cat to where I left me clothes. I dress and return to "Tarzan's Eaterie"©. The vendybox is shaking, choccies mix the savoury snax all to fizz, madder then ever me now. I do the stampy shout. They quit the action and go red. I point them to the corner, round the back of the poinciana, there the door to escape the fire. Push bar to open. I give them a final glimpse of the flaming red flowers then kick them out into the cold, dark night. I watch them walk across the car park, naked and wailing their lot. I shut the door, push past the poinciana, survey the damage done to vendybox. Down its side runs a rivulet of slime. Slime. They'll never work for me again. They're out now, out for good. In Stump.
(“In Stump” was first published by the Inverted Tree Press in 1991. Copyright: Patrick Regan 1991.)
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