Harry Daniel.
The radio crackled with the sound of heavy static as the battered Suzuki Swift chuddered along in the morning traffic. The red paint was faded and scratched all over, the years and weather had taken their toll on the loyal car. The right rear wheel was a spare and had been on long past its recommended limit. The engine grunted as it was put back to work, as the traffic shuffled forward another few feet. London was waking up with the routine traffic jams filling the air with angry honks of horns, blaring radios and the distinct smell of wasted petrol.
Robert sat behind the wheel, suited up and blurry eyed, his head swimming from the events of the previous night. He almost didn’t believe the memories he kept playing over and over in his head. Yet something still stuck nagging at him, almost yelling at him that it was true, that that man, Mr. Iablo had changed his life. He had woken that morning with his head on the floor with his legs flung uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. Robert could not remember falling to sleep, he could barely remember going to bed.
Thinking back now Robert could see Iablo’s grin, strangely more sickening in his memories. He hadn’t seen him leave but he heard the distinctive rattle of his front door, the next thing he knew Robert was awake and stumbling to the bathroom. The man Robert had seen in the mirror was the same one as last night, the one that had been looking for the spark before he had really known what the spark was. Robert had starred for a long time into the man in the mirrors eyes, looking for what had been promised to him. Ten, maybe twenty minutes had passed and nothing had happened. Roberts eyes were looking unhappy and if anything, older.
Whilst the traffic ground to a halt once more Robert had a quick glance into the rear view mirror. Still nothing there. Robert felt humiliated and worse than ever before. Not because nothing had happened but because he believed something could have happened, that things may actually change. A tear rolled down Roberts cheek which he left to fall onto the white collar of his shirt.
The radio continued to crackle and taking his frustration against the world out on the old tape deck player Robert punched the auto seek button several times sending the old technology into a frenzy, trying to play catch-up with its self displaying a flicker of random frequencies on the small screen. Eventually it settled on one station, which was clear and crisp as if in an apology for not being good enough before for Robert.
A soft voice floated out of the speakers. “Happiness is only an interlude between unhappiness.” said the speaker, a rather cheery morning radio show was having a particularly joyful week on people’s opinions on happiness, how we can be happy, what makes us happy and so on. That particular morning (from what Robert could gather between the elongated periods of static) it was why happiness could not be a constant. The talking had stopped again and static filled the frequency, not that Robert was paying much attention any more. He switched of the radio and aside from the honking horns and growl of countless engines the car was silent. The words however echoed for Robert, their meaning feeling all to familiar to him. Perhaps last nights glimpse of hope was the worlds way of giving Robert some form of happiness. “Happiness is only an interlude between unhappiness.” The words rang clear, crisp and consistent in his mind. Robert felt that he was to spend the rest of his life being unhappy, happiness only coming to him in fits of insanity like what he thought had happened last night.
Robert cursed under his breath as the traffic edge forward. How could he have been so foolish as to actually believe what he had seen last night. Had he finally snapped? Robert thought of the possibility, turning it over in his mind. He tried to look at his life from the point of view of one of those psychiatrists he’d seen in poor psychological thriller films. He was, in their professional opinion, a manic depressive who was extremely covert in digressing this emotional flaw to even his closest family members. He lived alone, far from any relatives, had no real friends other than a group of work colleagues that he would chat to if they instigated a conversation which they rarely did, he had no loving partner and mostly kept himself to himself. He also had visions of strange men entering his apartment and offering happiness just by asking them for it. Robert concluded that he would be classed as a recluse manic-depressive male with slight schizophrenia tendencies perhaps sparked or fuelled by an underlying homosexual desire which was never explored.
Robert breathed heavily out of his nose with a slight twitch of a smile creeping in from the left side of his lip; as close as he had ever come to a natural smile and the best laugh he could muster.
“Well done Dr. Simms, another great diagnostic!” Robert said aloud, alone in his car. The traffic rolled forward and Robert was finally able to make his turning only to be stuck in more traffic. He sat thinking for a moment. Maybe he should start seeing someone, maybe not a full blown psychiatrist; he didn’t think he was quite that crazy yet. But maybe a counsellor...? Yes. Or would it be easier if it just all...
Roberts’s train of thought was cut off by a loud, long and overly aggressive beep of a horn from a silver Land Rover behind him. Whilst in a world of his own, the traffic had moved forward a full foot and Robert had failed to move into it; apparently aggravating the owner of the absurdly large vehicle that Robert felt was quite frankly stupid for London roads. Why buy an off-road car if you’re not off road arse-hole. But Robert nonetheless stuck up an apologetic hand in front of the rear-view mirror for the Land Rover owner to see and Robert's car crawled forward 12 inches to take up its new position.
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