Listening to the man who lives above him laugh at evening sitcoms, Paul crafts miniature figurines from scraps of stripped wire and fabric that lay around his darkened apartment.  Concentration suffers slightly as the single dim light bulb shimmies from the uproarious bellows and foot stomping that emanate through original floorboards and joists.  He sets his work down calmly so as not to risk an inadvertent twist.

At the same time, he looks to the ceiling rhetorically, shaking his head at the ignorance of resigning oneself to observing art rather than creating it, knowing someday the observed art will be his.

Upon forcing himself to leave the house to briefly reconnect with society, Paul sits slumped in a leather chair fingering the rim of a coffee cup, slovenly lounging while he stares in an accusatory fashion at more professionally-dressed patrons, inspiring feelings of suspicion, angst, and resentment as their passing glances meet near a hanging lamp.

Normally pre-planned and predictable in his scheduled pursuits and free time, Paul has other jealously-driven things on his mind today like collegial dinner parties with holiday themes and associated activities he might enjoy, as others seem to, if not persistently occupied with building models, both prepackaged and free-form.

He’s currently intent on equipping his efficiency with exact replicas of World War II battleships of no less than 10,000 pieces coupled with ethnic soldiers of his own design.  Considering this eventual achievement and doting on the time and effort it will require, Paul inspects himself to find dabs of clear glue, model paint, and remnants of decals on his sweat pants, wondering why life can’t be assembled and adorned in a similar fashion.

Still unwilling to seek out an external market for some of the non-essential characters and pieces in his private collection, and in need of both sustenance and an alter from which to begrudgingly preach his insular philosophy, Paul has just purchased a shrill whistle, pair of athletic-looking navy dress pants, and off-brand white tennis shoes, determined to one day soon become a licensed volleyball referee.  He’s walking the dogs of rich people from adjacent buildings in the morning to save up enough money for the necessary certification class.

Although he doesn’t conform to standards personally, Paul looks forward to browbeating those he’ll govern into strict adherence of the rules he must enforce from a platform, conveyed through the memorization of innocuous hand signals.  Any form of dissent will be smitten through ominous glances shot forth from blood-shot eyes with bruised bags beneath them.

 

Ducky, immensely huggable, warm, sarcastic, and often reeking of cilantro and his demure wife Fran, who in the right circumstances could, at a moment’s notice succumb to awkward, racy humor, enjoyed evenings in their drafty living room, sitting in separate high-backed plush chairs with worn arms on either side of the space, watching TV, chuckling, and making observational comments concerning the antics of their aging female cat Sabrina, talking about her at times as though she was an only child which was now somewhat true in that all four of their adult children were living away from home.

Of particular amusement to Fran was when Sabrina would royally traipse around the room looking for a place to lay down, often landing on Ducky’s lap where she’d proceed to knead at his crotch with her front paws to make a temporary resting place, while Ducky would playfully cringe and try to dissuade the strange massage by moving his legs in an attempt to unsettle her fragile balance.  Ducky, on the other hand, took immense joy in watching Fran, a cat lover by nature, caress Sabrina with alluring hands, and speak to her in comforting, humanistic tones.

While a unique brand of subtle depression occasionally bubbled to the surface based upon the mutual realization they were getting older and had begun to frequently speak to each other through their pet’s predictable actions, there was also a warm brand of satisfaction that permeated the space.  They’d made it to this point, after all, and had much to be proud of in the palpable legacy that would eventually be left in their stead…happy, successful children, a growing band of adorable grandkids, professional success, a lake home in Minnesota with a large grassy expanse that reached down to the water, refined palates, and a quirky cat who had been an important part of almost all of it, easily reminding them of the many great things leading up to this point just when they needed it most by the knowing look in her eye or a subtle meow that at once lightened Ducky and Fran’s mood.

While it was an odd thing to admit, and now that much of the carnal desire had dissipated from their marriage and into acceptable attrition, one thing that Ducky enjoyed about Sabrina’s aggressive prodding was the faint sensation it sometimes triggered.

“Look there mother…,” he’d say in a lighthearted, self-deprecating tone pointing to the cat as it swatted at his growing bulge in the same way it might a wounded bird, “…I think Sabrina might be breathing a little bit of life back into the old mouse”.  For her part, Fran would respond by turning her head with pursed lips and shaking it from side to side before breaking into a slight but sincere grin.  Ducky’s humor, powers of suggestion, and prowess, after all, were the attributes that first attracted her to him.

Although allergic sensitivity to pet dander necessitated a forced, early dismount away from his chair and onto Fran’s, Ducky’s desire to ogle his wife as she firmly stroked the feline and verbally soothed it had only intensified over the years, now spurring a deep, visceral, emotional response that he had trouble articulating or even coming to terms with.

What would happen, he wondered ashamedly one evening after several beers while still longingly gazing, if he could convince Fran to touch his penis after petting Sabrina, especially if the cat had just given herself a tongue bath.  With his very real allergies combined with his wife’s strong, loving grasp and the irritant enzyme contained in their pet’s saliva, Ducky groggily, lustily envisioned a swollen scratching post emerging from his pants, there for his and Fran’s ultimate pleasure and amusement for as long as they could stand it or until he took a Benadryl and fell fast asleep, whichever came first.  But would that mean that Sabrina, for her part, would be left out of the fun?

Silent for longer than normal, Fran glanced in Ducky’s direction during a commercial break and asked him what he was thinking.  Like his humor and other associated qualities, her forthright demeanor and simple knowing way still enticed him in a way he continued to be amazed by but couldn’t explain.  Coming out of a veritable trance, he sat upright, cleared his throat, and turned to her.  “Oh, noting really, I suppose…” he said candidly.  “I was just wondering how common it is for pets to outlive their owners.”

Ironically but without letting on, this was the exact same question Fran had been pondering for months, especially now that her fetid, almost taxidermied butterfly, though still gravely wounded, was suddenly ready to flutter again to the whimsical amusement of all  creatures, but especially those easily transfixed by boxes and fish-flavored treats.

 

Now that his professional ambitions will never be realized, Paul’s decided to use his middle name ‘Howard’ full-time and become completely goofy.

He’s been leaning in this direction for years based on a strong poetic inclination and his inability to really make an impact at the insurance company where he works.

Khakis, a collection of random ties, and decorum have been thrown out now in favor of purple socks, an unshaven face, wispy hair, worn suspenders, and a tweed blazer with elbow patches.

“With all his corny sneakers and magic tricks, sometimes we expect that he’ll show up tomorrow in one of those striped hats with a propeller atop it that people are strangely drawn to at novelty shops,” says an anonymous coworker hiding in a storage closet towards the back of the office to better stave off detection once Howard arrives.

Thinking of the series of strange noises he’ll make at work today, Howard draws the long tines of his grandma glasses behind his ears, sticks out his tongue, and growls at himself in the mirror to help inspire fleeting confidence.

He’s nicknamed his Dodge Dart ‘The Jalopy’ and recently equipped it with an Ah-Ooo-Gah horn.  Later in the day he’ll speak existentially to colleagues as he offers Zotz, advice on communism, and limerick recommendations.

Heading home to loosely defined organic food, Howard sighs at the thought of never being able to realize these unique talents professionally or weave them into something productive.

He assures himself in the same mirror he growled in earlier that it’s not all about the image, and then slinks into sheets with circus scenes upon them, alone again, drifting quickly into a fitful dream about a subsequent, slightly more fulfilling career making balloon animals.