Michael Finnegan

It was three days since he had left. Unable to wait any longer – not even the time it would take to get to the mirror above his sink – he ran a hand over his chin. He could feel something - more than yesterday? he wasn’t sure. He made the short journey to his sink and pushed his face up close to the glass. His heart stopped…
The same fucking amount. Half a centimetre in three days. A fucking joke.
He fell back onto his mattress and began to pull at his chin, trying to coax out some more hair. This hole, this basement, this pit beneath the sidewalk – how’s a man gonna grow in a place like this? These thoughts kept knocking against his head like the water dripping to the floor.
Drip, drip, drip
A man needs daylight, but how the fuck can i go into the daylight looking like this? He pulled a little more at his chin. He lay on his bed and waited for time to pass.
At 3 o’clock the tapping began, just as it had done every other shit-filled, pit-confined, mirror-gazing, damp-watching excuse for a day. Getting out of bed, he picked up a spanner and began to knock on the pipe his side of the wall. This was their love-making – his and the chick’s next door. It was awkward, out of sync and insane. Both knocked away on their own pipe without any awareness of how the other sounded; caught up only in their own noise.
Clunk, clunk, clunk
They fell into a rhythm by accident… and then fell out of it again.
In that repetitive revelry of clunk, clunk, clunk the man began to think back to three days before. It was the only time he’d left that shit hole for as long as he cared to remember – which wasn’t long, after all what was the point in remembering anything?
Three days ago he had again been knocking on the pipe and felt, somehow, that he and the chick had something between them, some kind of harmony, some kind of potential. He lifted up the hatch in his ceiling and climbed out onto the sidewalk. Daylight did to his eyes want a discordant note did to his ears: it fucked with them. His eyes were forced to adjust and things began to emerge. Breaking into a sweat he began to see, hear, feel, taste the world and it stung, stung with an ugly breath against his face as if a horrible beast was exhaling all its fear, hatred and laughter. Yeah, they were laughing at him but those cunts laughed at anything; they laughed at everything so who gave a fuck about them?
Uncaring the man walked to the next hatch along the sidewalk. Raising a bare foot he smacked his heel repeatedly against the discoloured paving slab.
Bang, bang, bang
In a few moments the hatch opened and the chick appeared. Thrusting up the hatch and balancing on a ladder, she remained beneath the level of the sidewalk. Dark rims circled her eyes but the eyes themselves did not want to open for the daylight. She had bruises all over her head and he liked that about her – it felt more honest than other girls faces, a reminder of decay, a pointer to death. There was definitely some potential.
‘You the lady that knocks on the pipe?’ he asked, feeling vertigo as he said so: it was so far from his eyes to the bottom of her pit. She nodded, but kept her eyes closed.
‘Well, I’m the guy who knocks on the pipe’ he said, his head swimming like it was suddenly free to do what it wanted. His thoughts could go anywhere, make him do anything. ‘I have to get a grip’ he told himself.
‘Is that so?’ said the chick, finally. ‘You’re the guy who knocks on the pipes? I can’t see you. Come a little closer, come and let me touch your skin again’ and her mouth broke into a sneer revealing a series of black holes between other prefect teeth. He had no choice but to obey; he had to get closer to the ground. Falling to his knees, his long, uneaten fingernails gripped the sidewalk. The man cocked his head forward and a long painted hand rose out from beneath the sidewalk and touched his face. He could feel it in every part of him and it was beautiful, a moment of harmony like fever or delirium, but shared between two people; a real moment of being, a moment of ecstasy - two people sharing the pulse of one heart, a moment of brilliance, of
The chick withdrew her hand. ‘You’re too soft’ she said with another sneer as she lingered over the words. ‘I’ll tear you to pieces!’ The hatch closed and the chick was gone.
Getting to his feet, the sense of vertigo was gone. He looked around him and touched his chin. She was right, the dogs had gone mad in the daylight and they all wanted some fresh meat; they’d tear him to pieces.
He felt the wind against his chin. The wind would get him first, he realised. Hatred and fear make people shout and scream and it is an ugly and powerful wind that those shouts and screams become…
Clunk, clunk, clunk
He looked down at his hand swinging the spanner again and again against the pipe – his contribution to their love-making. Everything was out of place, the symphony had lost its form, no free jazz here. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ he asked, still swinging the spanner, waiting for time to pass.
Ring, ring, ring
It wasn’t a phone ring, it was a drill, an alarm, a call to obedience and he had no choice but to obey. It had got like that – technology was not outside him any more, it was part of him, another part of that ugly wind that stopped him from growing
Ring, ring, ring
He got up and moved to the mattress where the only piece of technology in his damp dark pit called for an answer. He lifted the receiver
‘Michael?’
The man paused. ‘Yeah, it’s Michael.’
The voice fell quiet and he began to listen to the clicks down the line
Click, click, click
The clicks were broken by a sweet voice: ‘I’m building a house Michael.’
‘That is a sweet voice,’ he said.
‘We all need to survive Michael. The wind is getting stronger.’
Click, click, click
‘When the wind gets stronger it’s harder to survive. You either give your breath to it or you find a way to live against it – like the straight-walking man – like building a house. The sweet voice stopped and it was just the click, click, click. He looked around at the drip, drip, drip – the clunking next door had not begun, it had to be before 3 o’clock
Have you grown a beard yet?’
He rubbed his chin. Half a centimetre in four days.
‘You need to grow it!’ she said with a hint of hysteria, sensing in his silence his failure as a man, as a human, as a person able to live.
The phone fell from his hand and clattered against the floor. He could hear his name being called from one space in the planet, all the way to his pit beneath the sidewalk.
Michael, Michael, Michael
Somehow the vibrations had stayed together through hundreds of miles. This poor man couldn’t hold it together from the sidewalk to the mall. He strolled back to his mirror
Michael, Michael, Michael
but then the clunking on the pipes began again. It was 3 o’clock. This was the mating call and it was awkward, out of sync and insane. Picking up a spanner he moved to the pipe and began knocking on it, both of them without any awareness of how the other sounded; caught up only in their own noise.
Cluck, cluck, clunk
They fell into a rhythm – and then fell out of it again.
And then
a different thought entered his mind.
Throwing the spanner aside, the man gripped the pipe with both hands and knelt on the floor, with head touching the pipe as if in some kind of prayer. He raised his head and sent it back down on the pipe and then again and again and then a pause, a slower, lumbering raise of the head and then down again and again and a pause.
In this process something happened to the man. Maybe it was harmony with the chick next door who, he now knew instinctively, had also been using her head to hit the pipe on her side of the wall.
Clunk, clunk, clunk
Maybe he was knocking all the crap out of his head, maybe he was getting stronger – whatever the reason, whiskers began to grow on his chin… and he didn’t even notice, didn’t even care.
Suddenly he threw himself away from the pipe, his heart pounding, blood running from his brow into the brown hairs on his face, his whole body strangely fulfilled but still electric from this latest session of love-making. With no more thought he began to reach for the hatch in his ceiling.
Ring, ring, ring
The phone rang and it struck his nerves; it wasn’t a phone ring, it was a drill, an alarm, a call to obedience and he had no choice but to obey. It had got like that – technology was a part of him, another part of that ugly wind that stopped him from growing.
Ring, ring, ring
He moved to the mattress on the floor and lifted the receiver.
‘Michael?’
The man paused. ‘Yeah, it’s Michael.’
‘My house has blown away again and the straight-walking man is bent double again. It’s now a hurricane, Michael.’
Click, click, click.
‘You can’t go outside Michael.’
He ran a hand over his chin and finally was aware; he felt all the empowerment of being a fully-bearded man. For a moment he thought nothing, allowing his fingers to rove, to explore this new growth and allow his nerves to transmit this incredible new sensation all the way to a place somewhere in his brain. I can go outside, he realised.
The receiver fell from his hand and he heard his name being called from one space on the planet, all the way to his pit beneath the sidewalk.
Michael, Michael, Michael
He pushed up his hatch and climbed onto the sidewalk. Daylight did to his eyes what a discordant note did to his ears, but there was no wind…
For a moment the world was still and he could breathe…
But the world had cruelly been holding its breath and when it released it, the hurricane came. At the end of the street the man saw a wall of rain and trash heading straight toward him. The newly potted plants outside the grocery store were prized from the ground and thrown into the mix. The man walked on and the hurricane hit him with all its force, yet could not knock him over. Excruciating pain, however, tore through his head like there were needles inside his face - but the man kept going, making progress against the walls of wind until he finally came to the discoloured slab that marked the chick’s home. Raising a bare foot he smacked his heel repeatedly against the hatch.
Bang, bang, bang
In a few moments the hatch opened and the chick appeared. Thrusting up the hatch, she remained beneath the level of the sidewalk. Dark rims circled her eyes but the eyes themselves did not want to open for the daylight. She was beautiful and bruised – this had potential.
‘You’re the lady who bangs the pipes,’ he said.
‘You’re the guy who bangs the pipes,’ she replied. ‘Come closer, let me feel your skin again,’ she said. He had no choice but to obey, vertigo and hurricane were easing his mind from his body and he needed to get closer to the sidewalk. Falling to his knees, his long, uneaten fingernails buried into the sidewalk. The hurricane snapped at his face as he cocked his head forward and a long painted hand rose onto the sidewalk and touched his face. The chick’s hand felt so good that the man didn’t realise what the hurricane had done to him. All he knew was that those needles inside his face had been soothed away and it was beautiful, a moment of harmony like fever or delirium, but shared between two people; a real moment of being, a moment of ecstasy - two people sharing the pulse of one heart, a moment of brilliance, of
The chick withdrew her hand ‘You’re too soft’ she said with a sneer. ‘You need to grow some whiskers on your chin again’ she screeched with a sneer that grew more and more vicious before she finally screamed: ‘The wind blew them in again!’ She shrieked with laughter - and then the chick was gone again.
The man jolted away from the discoloured paving slab in horror as he felt his face, his hand touching his abominable nakedness. The impression of her hand now left a raw wound upon his chin and the hurricane spared him no pain.
Argh! Argh! Argh!
The hurricane aided his return to his pit beneath the sidewalk; carrying him along in its ugly stream. Throwing himself back into the dark hole he staggered around and fell onto his mattress and waited for the hairs to grow again...
It was three days since he had left. Unable to wait any longer – not event he time it would take to get to the mirror above his sink – he ran a hand over his chin. He could feel something – more than yesterday? he wasn’t sure. He made a short journey to his sink and pushed his face up close to the glass. His heart stopped