A Day In The Life Of A Plastic Bag.

SYNOPSIS.

Genre----Black-Humour.

Short story. 3000 words.

Plot-- The bizarre and tragic happenings as a discarded plastic bag gets blown around a middle class housing estate and beyond, causing mayhem. First death comes to an old man, innocently working in his garden, to be quickly followed by an irreconcilable marriage split by the neighbours of the old man. There follows two more deaths, a tragic accident in which a person is left paralysed and the end to the prospects of an international golf career as the bag flutters blissfully on.

Narrative.--Personification of a plastic bag. Adult reading, in one continuous text.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A PLASTIC BAG.
By Brian Kelly.

Fred Ruskin put the Tesco plastic carrier bag down beside him, then reached forward to snip off the protruding spruts of the Firethorn bush, which he was training to grow flat against the six feet high, larch lap panelled fence, which his then new neighbour had erected two years previously.
It was ‘Sod’s Law’ of course that decreed that the devil led bag should lift up from the ground and blow away from him just has he was going to place the first cutting into it
He heaved himself back into the upright position and walked the three yards to retrieve the bag. Almost there and about to bend to pick it up was when the wind again gushed and filled the bag, tantalising him and causing him to run and make a wild grabs at thin air, as he tried desperately to catch it. The casual onlooker would have been highly amused to see the cavorting of the old man, just for the sake of catching a plastic bag.
Then, as he unconsciously neared the greenhouse, tragedy struck. His heel came down heavily on the carelessly discarded, prongs-up, garden rake, causing the long wooden handle to rise up behind and strike him a sharp blow to the back of his head. This in turn disorientated him and was the reason that he took the fateful step, leading with his head, straight through the open doorway of the greenhouse, and falling forward, to hit his head on a large upturned earthenware plant pot which having been washed had then been left to dry-out on the fixed metal staging shelf. This in turn caused a temporary unconsciousness, resulting in Fred’s inert body laying face down on the greenhouse floor. Unfortunately Fred’s head went directly into an open, almost empty, bag of John Innes potting compost. Where Fred Ruskin, unconscious but still breathing, had the misfortune to end his days by suffocation, his nose and throat blocked as he breathed in the finely filtered supposedly life enhancing compost.
Fred’s left hand had, during the fall, struck against one of the windowpanes, breaking the glass and cutting his wrist. His wife, having been preparing the vegetables for dinner, had watched through the open window, his efforts at catching the plastic bag and had chuckled to herself. “Silly old fool. Why don’t you let it just blow away, it’s not worth the effort.” She had spoken aloud and then turning away from the window had walked to the other side of the kitchen to turn on the radio. Even though the back door and window were open, the volume of the radio blasting out ‘Ghost Riders In The sky’, was too much for her to hear the sound of breaking glass. She glanced up at the kitchen clock, “I’ll shout Fred in for a cup of tea when Jimmy Young comes on in ten minutes” she said to herself, then blissfully returned to her tasks, completely unaware that her ‘beloved’ husband of forty seven years was breathing his last in his also ‘beloved’ greenhouse.
Later at the inquest the Coroner said that it was a most unfortunate death. A chance in a million.
Û
The plastic bag, ignorant of the disaster it had just caused a once happy family, was lifted ever higher as it twisted and rolled and soared over the garden fence. There, swirling into the lee of the wind it found a patch of relatively calm air and slowly fell to settle onto a large tartan wool blanket, which was spread out on the lawn. On the blanket was to be found the naked figure of Cicely Perkins, 42 years of age. On her second marriage, but still a very independent minded housewife and part time fashion model, who, until coming to live on the estate, had never had the chance or the inclination, to find enough privacy to lay naked and let her very shapely body luxuriate in the thrills and sensuous warmth of all over sun tanning.
She also had a little secret, a secret which she shared with Fred Ruskin, the sixty seven years old man from next door. A year after moving into the house and having the panelled fence erected, for privacy, she had whilst strolling around the garden one day, noticed that in two places knot holes had appeared in the fence. On closer inspection she also found the two, three quarter inch diameter, plugs of wood, which had been pushed from their place in the larch lap boards. They were laying directly under where the holes had appeared. Cicely was not an idiot and quickly deduced that the knot holes must have been pushed through by Fred Ruskin. From that time, she had when sunbathing, started to lay her blanket out closer to the fence and in a position so that she could see the knot holes more clearly. Sure enough she soon detected Fred, thinking that he was unseen, peering through one or other of the holes.
Until then Cicely had sunbathed in her bikini, but the thoughts of teasing and tormenting the nosey old man had led her to at first start to take off her bikini top and lay there topless, then after a few weeks she had one day dared herself, and standing close by the fence where he was watching, had slowly peeled off her bikini pants and then stretched out onto the blanket to reveal her all to Fred. This was the reason that Fred Ruskin gave so much attention to clipping every small wayward sprut which grew off his Firethorn.
This then was another sunny day when Cicely was laying naked and expecting Fred to watch her. She had even occasionally, to try to excite him, slowly and languidly, whilst laying on her back, bent her knees until her heels would be touching her bottom, then let her thighs flop wide apart to reveal the full beauty of her profusion of soft black pubic hairs and the full roundness of the labia lips of her vagina. She speculated on what Fred did when he hurried away after seeing her open herself up to him.
On this particular day she had seen Fred take a peek at her, so she went into what she inwardly called the ‘Full Monty’ mode. She then closed her eyes, but instead of the usual veiled look-out for Fred, she let herself relax completely. It was shortly after this that the plastic bag, having been the cause of the disaster to Fred, lost its air pressure and slowly settled between her thighs.
Cecily, feeling warm and totally relaxed felt herself drifting into an ethereal dream world of sexual fantasy as the handle of the plastic bag slowly and silently fluttered up and down to stroke against and caress her most sensitive sexual parts.
Having married, for the second time, to the rather straight laced assistant bank manager and previously confirmed bachelor, Reginald Perkins, and moved into their present house, Cecily was enjoying her life of almost relative freedom to do as she pleased through the daytime. Reginald was a very conscientious worker and never missed a day off work. This gave Cecily lots of scope for her other activities.
She moaned in the sheer bliss and the ecstasy of her sexual dreaming as the plastic bag continued to work its softness against her.
“Michael, oh Michael please don’t stop. I could let you do it forever my darling.”
The short cut, densely grassed lawn muffled the sound of the approach of the serious faced, tall, lean, ascetic looking man who wore a dark blue ’city’ suit. He was carrying a brown leather attache case in his right hand and a Homburg hat in his left.
Having overheard what she had said he stopped and listened for more as his shadow fell across the naked body of his wife.
“Oh this reminds me of the way you used to do it after we first met at the bank’s annual area dinner and dance. I’d thought that you would never be that gentle with me again Michael.” She was softly cooing her feelings aloud as Reginald Perkins stood transfixed and listening.
“Yesterday afternoon was tremendously exciting in your car, you are so robust in your lovemaking, but sometimes I prefer the gentle touch. This is just adorable, but now you can do it just a wee bit harder.” She dreamily waited for the imagined response and getting no added feelings she let her own right hand move to cover over the imagined hand the Bank Manager, Michael Tonks, her husband’s immediate boss. Her hand touched onto and flattened the plastic bag to trap it between her vagina and her eager fingers. On feeling the unexpected she quickly came out of her pleasant dreamy soliloquy and hastily sitting up, realised that her hand was holding a used Tesco plastic bag. At the same time she also realised that her husband was standing looking down at her nakedness.
She felt more embarrassed to be seen by her husband than if it had been Fred standing over her. Quickly getting to her feet, she pulled the blanket around her body and made a run for the house.
This created enough of a slip stream to lift the plastic bag into a position where it was no longer in the lee of the house and fence. With it then being back into the blustery wind it soared over Laburnam Crescent and away from the ‘he-haw-ing’ of the ambulance as it pulled to a stop at the house of the, very recently, late Fred Ruskin, and away from the screaming row which was taking place in the previously tranquil home of Reginald and Cecily Perkins. Where many accusations of sluttish behaviour and demands for a divorce were being made by Reginald has he rushed to fill a case and return to live with his mother. Forgotten in the furore was the headache, the reason why he had for the very first time in his working life left the bank early to go home to recover in the peace of their matrimonial bed!
Û
The plastic bag continued its erratic flight until again swirling into a relatively windless area it started to slowly descend over a busy roadway. Coming to ground on the pavement just a few yards in front of where Mr. Roy Wood was walking his newly acquired, but already full grown, powerfully built, Doberman Pinscher.
Roy had only had ’Fritz’ for three days. He had seen him the on the public notices on television, where the animal shelter was asking for people to take in stray and abandoned dogs. The story was that its previous owners had been killed in a road accident. It was an unruly dog and not having been kept under control now needed a strong personality to train it into being socially acceptable.
Roy, an ex Police Constable who had recently taken early retirement on the grounds of depression, had seemed the ideal choice to be the new owner. He had wanted a dog to take walking, having no other hobbies, and with his wife working all day he had to fill his new found spare time somehow. He and Fritz had almost reached the plastic bag when an articulated high sided truck passed them at a high speed. The bag was lifted into the air by the turbulence of the speeding truck, which in turn attracted Fritz, who could not resist making a plunging run at the bag. This in turn took the unsuspecting Roy Woods by complete surprise. He was totally unready for the powerful pull caused by the dog, on the strong leather lead, which was over his hand and around his wrist .
Fritz made a vain effort at catching the bag, failing miserably, but succeeded brilliantly at throwing himself and pulling his new master directly into the path of the other articulated truck which was travelling immediately behind the first one.
Both Roy Wood and Fritz were killed outright, whilst the plastic bag unconceredly continued on its merry flight, completely unharmed and oblivious to the mayhem and human tragedy that it was causing.
At the inquest the Coroner stated that it was a very unfortunate accident. A chance in a million.
Û
Blowing away from the road and over a three fields the bag finally came to rest as it snagged in one of Ian Evan’s, Cox’s Pippin, apple trees.
Ian and his wife Glenda were busy souls and even though they ran a thriving business, printing home accident prevention leaflets, from their detached house, they still found time to keep their large gardens in an immaculate state of tidiness and productivity.
Ian and Glenda were standing in the converted bedroom office, discussing the contents of a fax which had just come in, when Ian happened to glance out of the window.
“Look at that bloody plastic bag.” He nearly exploded with what he knew was an irrational uncontrolled rage whenever he saw any waste or untidiness. “I wish people would be a bit more considerate and put their used bags in the rubbish bin.” They continued the conversation, but Ian could not stop glancing out at the plastic bag, which, being held captive was filling with wind pressure and billowing out like a proud ship’s sail.
“Hold on a minute love, I’ve got to go and get that bloody plastic bag down off that apple tree. It’s driving me mad to see it.”
He hurried out to the large brick double garage and took down a ladder from the open lattice roof trusses. Placing it against the tree truck he immediately realised that he had no chance of reaching and unhooking the bag without using a very long pole of some kind. First he tried with the clothes line prop. When this was found to be inadequate, he had to have a rethink.
The three apple trees were very mature, and had been allowed to spread. With the bag firmly attached to one of the outer overhanging branches, he decided that he would have the best chance of unhooking the bag by standing on something directly underneath where it was fluttering.
In what little time that they had left for leisure pursuits Ian and Glenda liked to drive out to the nearby moors and do ‘rough riding’. For this activity they had an old open topped ‘Jeep’. So it was the jeep that Ian drove onto the lawn and parked directly underneath where the offending plastic bag fluttered. Thinking that he would very quickly solve his problem, he left the engine running, whilst he stood on the driver’s seat and tried to reach up to the bag with the clothes prop. Even holding onto the very tip of the prop he was still tantalisingly inches short of his objective. Determined not to fail, he lifted himself as high as he could by stretching onto his tiptoes. He made a swing at the plastic bag, this time actually touching it, but to his chagrin it momentarily resisted him before becoming detached from the tree. This in turn caused a counter re-action from his body and he found himself in an uncontrolled fall forward. One leg went down and his foot landed firmly on the accelerator with the result that the jeep jumped forward and the momentum pushed the top of Ian’s shoulders back against the tubular metal frame that was mounted on the jeep. Just then the jeep rushed under the thin, galvanised wire, clothes drying line and whipped hard under Ian’s neck.
From the time of his falling and causing the vehicle to move, to the time of his neck being whipped back and his spinocerebellar nerve mass being snapped, was less than ten seconds, but Ian Evans would have the rest of his life to sit in his electric mobility chair and reflect on how easily one can be paralysed and incapacitated for life, all because of a hasty decision and being in too much of a rush to rid his garden of a stray plastic bag.
The hospital said that he was lucky to be alive. An accident in a million.

The freed plastic bag then sailed directly over the local, championship standard, golf course, where there just happened to be taking place the final day of a national competition.
Jeremy Nesbitt was top of the leader board on his own course and about to tee off to play the tricky seventeenth. It was vital that he won this competition. Not only would it qualify him for possible selection for a place in the national team, but more pressing, he desperately needed the cash value of the winning position. His mistress had turned out to be a very expensive person to satisfy his sexual desires. She had made reference to her husband knowing about their affair and that he had threatened to expose their relationship to Jeremy’s wife if Jeremy did not give her £20,000 for a new car for her husband.
The tee was surrounded by dense thicket of rhododendrons, even the forward approach to the fairway was invisible, other than the pole which indicated the direct line to the dog-leg around the oak tree.
Jeremy was relaxed and confident as he started his swing. That was when the plastic bag blew across his face. His club struck high on the ball causing it to fly low into the rhododendrons directly in front. It then ‘twanged’ back and fell to rest just in line with the nearest bush, and in a position adjudged by the watching match official to be playable. The resulting eight shots on the seventeenth did not only cost him the match and championship, but dropped him to eleventh place in the close packed final placings.
That evening Jeremy Nesbitt was not to be seen at the presentation dinner. He was found dead the following morning in his car, with a rubber pipe leading from the exhaust, and the errant Tesco plastic bag over his head.
The Head Greenkeeper took the plastic bag to add to the club’s collection of memorabilia. To be exhibited has the bizarre reason that Jeremy Nesbitt never made the England Ryder Cup team.
The Coroner said that deaths caused by people leaving discarded plastic bags around were becoming far to prevalent !
The end.
Copyright Brian Kelly 1st February 2002.