A
very wise man once said, “You have to have a dream so you can get up in the morning.
Without a dream, you always get up whenever hunger strikes, and after that's satisfied,
you feel like lying back down.”
On
most days, that was the rule for this scrawny old butler. Jobless for tax
purposes, but unofficially employed by a pitiful but goodhearted man, able to
spare a basement room and a few bucks off his pension. The events surrounding their
first encounter and the spark of an unlikely friendship are still unclear, but
all agreed there was no harm done to either of them. “An unimaginable symbiosis,”
said an impartial scientist.
In
recent times, this strange man refused to incur the astronomical expenses of
his treatment and spend the money instead in a desperate attempt to achieve the
bohemian wonderland he had missed in his youth. He had no children or close
relatives: all that was his was his only. Such a realization brought him much
pleasure in a multitude of forms: drugs, alcohol, books, records, and sweets.
The butler felt divided about this, and he grew more and more apprehensive as
days went by.
On
this morning when he got up, dreamless and hungry, and started up the stairs.
He felt more than ever before that time was about to run out. He felt the house
was awfully quiet (he had learned how to interpret subtle signals) and
concluded the worst. He felt a strange persistent chill throughout the night –
perhaps that had been why. He slowly walked through the ominous rooms, taking
mental pictures of all the tiny things he had grown fond of: the chess board,
the tea cups, the dusty books, and tapes in which lived some of his favourite
heroes, such as Chance the gardener and Mr. Stevens. He discretely appropriated
a few objects that were of special value to him.
He
packed and left, with a conviction that dismissed the need for evidence, and
without notifying anyone else. He wanted no suspicion of neglect on his part,
in virtue of his position. In fact, he felt his share of guilt for substandard attention
to his master, but full attention would have prolonged the man's suffering at
best – precisely the opposite of what he desired. Perhaps he had done him a
favour, but the interpretations of the law are often a brutal challenge for a simple-minded
old man.
He
wandered about and in the afternoon he found himself in a bingo parlour –
perhaps to strike another friendship, or borrow a stranger's ears for an
overdue confession. He was soon taken away from his grief when from his mouth came
the first victorious cry. Providence's way to make up for bad luck, he thought.
From that day on, he would have a dream to get him up in the morning: he would
have his own butler. He would gamble here and there, and against all odds he
would rise to the top of the world.
His
old master, upon arriving at home, soon took notice of the unusual state of
things. He made his way down the stairs to the basement and, having found it
empty, he raised an eyebrow and let out a mystified moan. He was in no mood for
deliberating. He cut himself a big slice of a chocolate cake, and had it for
dinner, along with a bottle of whiskey and a few cigarettes for dessert. He
resented having to do it all himself, especially after a long day out.
In
the evening, the butler, troubled greatly by a greasy burger and a cup of coke
which hit him harder than liquor, headed straight to the only place he knew
where to go. He broke into tears when he saw the man standing there, more alive
than ever before. Vituperations were hurled at him, but were precisely what
brought him a smile. The next morning he refused to get out of bed, and his
master brought him breakfast on a tray.
//Scott Moraes, writer
//Graphics by Desiree Wallace
//Scott Moraes, writer
//Graphics by Desiree Wallace
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