T.O.M. The Obese Man

It was a very normal day, and Tom Gutter had intended it to remain that way for the rest of the day. He had gotten out of bed at noon as usual. He had eaten his late breakfast and early lunch thirty minutes later as usual. And of course, he had already planted his rear end on the couch for another day of TV programmes marathon as usual, when Mrs Gutter squawked at him to get his lazy butt into the car and drive her to the gynaecologist's clinic.

Rumbling, grumbling and growling a few of his choicest swear words, he clicked the remote and made his first attempt to get up from the sofa, but failed dramatically as his legs gave in and his buttocks collapsed back unto the sofa with the force of a small bomb. There was a loud creak followed by the sound of something breaking from inside the sofa, and the middle of the sofa gave way to Tom's bottom. Mrs Gutter sighed and looked out the window to the porch where another broken sofa was waiting for the garbage truck as she made a mental change to her shopping list.

Fifteen minutes later, with much heaving and grunting on both their parts, Tom finally managed to detach himself from the sofa and stand on his feet. Five minutes was the time he took to waddle and plod his way to the front door. Four minutes and fifty seconds was the time he took to get himself through the door frame, with Mrs Gutter attempting to help by running back and forth from the door and ramming her small frame against his colossal figure. Six minutes and forty-three seconds was the time it took for Tom to squash himself into the driver's seat of the car, and his wife to seat herself on the back seat in the corner opposite of Tom. Twenty seconds was the time it took to drive across the road to Doc Daneeka's clinic.

An hour later, Tom and Mrs Gutter were in the waiting area of the clinic. Waiting.

Mrs Gutter bit her nails nervously and kept flicking her eyes to the clock on the wall every few seconds. She would jump with shock everytime the door popped open, and sink back into her nervous stupor when the nurse yelled somebody elses' name.

Tom, on the other hand, was feeling extremely bored. He had tried to kill time by glaring and muttering at the kids who gawked at the sight of his bottom drooping over the two plastic seats he was occupying, but they ended up running back to their mothers in tears. Predictably, he had once again single-handedly cleared the vicinity of everyone but his wife.

Another half hour ticked by. Tom started excavating his nose, flicking his product randomly. Mrs Gutter glared at him as one of it stuck to her skirt.

Finally, just as the clock struck four, the door opened, and the nurse poked her head out to stare at the only remaining people in the waiting area: Tom and Mrs Gutter.

'Mr Gutter, please step inside,' barked the nurse. 'No, not you Mrs Gutter, just your husband.' she added to Mrs Gutter, who had already risen before she finished her sentence.

Mrs Gutter's face fell, and she walked back to her seat like a dejected puppy. Tom, however, was annoyed that he had to go in instead of her. Five minutes later, Mrs Gutter sunk back into her reverie as the nurse closed the door.

The room was painted white, and everything else in the room was either silver or transparent. It was designed to build confidence in those who stepped inside. A beaker of filled syringes stood on the doctor's table, with the label "Sedatives", and a strait jacket lay crumpled on a chair in the corner.

Doc Daneeka blinked at Tom as he waddled from the door to his desk. Tom seated himself in front of the doctor, and glared sullenly at him.

'You are Mr Gutter, I believe? Yes?' began Doc Daneeka inquiringly.

Tom grunted.

Doc Daneeka coughed a few times before continuing.

'I called you in because I have some bad news, and I thought it would be better if it came from you. Yes? No?'

Tom grunted impatiently again.

'Well, geez Doc, just spit it out will ya?' grumbled Tom with a scowl. 'Do you think we ordinary people don't have better things to do with our time than freezing away in your waiting area? Countdown's on Channel 5 in half an hour, for heaven's sake!' he ended with a yell.

'Well, yes yes yes, my apologies, Mr Gutter. I guess I better get to the point then, shall I? Yes, no?' said Doc Daneeka.

Tom glared back in reply.

'Well, how should I put this,' coughed Doc Daneeka. 'The thing is, Mr Gutter, I'm sorry to say that your wife, well, she cannot conceive. Yes.' Doc Daneeka looked at Tom with a pitiful expression.

Tom blinked. 'What?'

Doc Daneeka bit down an impatient sigh. 'She cannot get pregnant. She cannot bear your child. Understand? Yes, no?'

'Oh, is that it?' snorted Tom. 'Well, thanks for wasting my time, doc. I've spent time better counting cornflakes in a box if you ask me.'

Doc Daneeka sighed and shook his head.

'Anyway, break it to her gently, yes? She will not like to hear this. That is why I called you in and not her, yes?'

*

Mrs Gutter jumped as the door opened. She quickly got up and took Tom's hand in both of her own, and fixed him with expectant eyes. Tom thought he detected a hint of desperation in them.

Clearing his throat, Tom wondered how he should rephrase his sentences and words to blunt the effect on his wife. He thought carefully for half a minute before replying.

'Hun,' said Tom tentatively. 'The doc said that you're inconceivable.'

'What?!' squawked Mrs Gutter. A hurt expression appeared in her eyes that Tom couldn't attribute to anything.

'No, wait a minute... Oh yeah, he said you're impregnable.' said Tom confidently.

Shock and surprise hit Tom as his face caught Mrs Gutter's full-armed slap a second later. Shaking his head a couple of times, Tom looked at his wife, and felt his heart tear at the sight of tears on her cheeks.

'Hun... I'm sorry,' said Tom softly as he used a thumb to rub the tears off her cheek. Mrs Gutter pushed his hand away, and turned away from him.

Silently cursing himself, Tom tried to remember the exact words Doc Daneeka used. Come on Tom, think!

'Eureka!' yelped Tom. 'That's it, hun. He said you're unbearable!'

To dearest Aunty Nita

I'm sorry there is so much I did not thank you for,

before you walked through heaven's door.

I'm sorry for all the conversations left unsaid,

and now only my last respects can be paid.

But sorry isn't the only thing I wish to say,

especially when you've always worked hard to make our day.


Thank you, thank you, thank you,

for always serving us something to chew.

You've never failed to make us full,

I realize now, how big I am a fool.


Thank you, thank you, thank you,

for always being part of the crew.

Sunday school, youth or Golden Age,

you have always been there behind the stage.


Thank you, thank you, thank you,

for knowing everyone through and through.

May it be the market, Jusco, or anywhere in town,

you've showed Christ's love everytime you go around.


There is so much more I have to say,

and I can only wish you had a longer stay.

But I know I'll meet you again,

after I've passed on to heaven's domain.

So until the day we leave our earthly dwell,

for now I will say farewell...

Pomplamoose =)

182 days

I've named my blog well.

A total of 182 days have passed since I last posted something on my blog. It has indeed been a long time, that I wondered if should shut my blog down due to the lack of activity on it.

Oh, but I nearly forgot... It is, after all, named Procrastinatus maximus

I never thought I will see daylight again...

I never thought I will see daylight again; it was too much to dream of when you have a cold and heartless jailer such as mine. Its funny how life works at times. I may never set my eyes again on the things of nature, nor ever again feel the tickle of gentle wind upon my cheeks, but very soon I was going to see something better than daylight...

A rough snort emitted from my sleeping husband beside me. I sat up in the coarse wooden bed to better observe him. His body smelled of harsh soap, and his feet retained the dirt collected in the mines he work at. His features were appealing enough to a woman. His eyelids concealed his eyes, the windows to his soul.

The windows into the devil himself.

I was young, and naive. Mama had warned me of men. She said they were as good as animals for all they ever do. All men ever do in life is eat, sleep, defecate, have sex and die, as she once told me with harsh contempt in her voice. I believed her. Its not hard to when your own father abandoned mama and I for a vixen half his age.

Mama did whatever she could to earn a few coins, even if it meant inviting men to her bed. Mama always came out with a haggard look after they left, and then she'd send me off with the few coins the men had paid her to buy some bread at the marketplace.

This was our life for many years, until the day I turned twelve, when he walked through the door of our wooden hut on my birthday.

Mama met him at the door, and demanded to know how much he was going to pay. He named a price which seemed to satisfy her, and she jerked her head towards the room near the back of the hut. They were halfway across the hut, when he pointed at me and asked my price.

Mama's face stiffened visibly. 'You can't have her,' she replied flatly. 'Come.'

'I'm the one paying the gold, woman. Remember?' he sneered as he shook his pouch, coins tinkling within it. 'I will ask you again, how much is she worth?'

I remember mama spinning around with her eyes flashing as she grated back at him, 'Its either me or nothing. Choose!'

He took nothing.

I dearly wish that I had not left the house later that same day to the marketplace, or at least bade mama a proper farewell, for I never saw her again after that day.

I was walking along a lonely stretch of road to the marketplace, when I heard the sound of an approaching horse and buggy. I took no notice of it, and waited for it to pass. Moments later, I felt rough hands on my waist and my feet were lifted off the ground and into the buggy. No amount of screaming and struggling availed any good, and I was taken to a town far away from the place I knew as home.

He brought me to a church, where he paid a priest to marry us against my will. I was bound and gagged in front of the altar, and a coarse metal ring was forced painfully onto my finger as the priest solemnly pronounced us man and wife. My gag was soaked with tears as I cursed him, that damned priest, and most of all, the God that condemned me to this fate. A wild image of mama praying in front of the window with tears pouring down her cheeks flashed through my mind then, but I discarded it ruthlessly. Where was God in all this?!

For years, he'd keep me in his cellar, and that is where I lived. I now know the cellar like the back of my hand. The only time of the day I leave the cellar is at night when he uses me to satisfy his appetite. That is my purpose. That is my only purpose, as he always reminded me with a mocking smile every night.

As I lie in bed now, terror has been part of my feelings for such a long time, that I can't tell if what I'm feeling now is fear, or exhilaration.

Cheap tapestry adorned the whitewashed walls, and dirt from the mines filled the cracks in the wooden floorboards. A chest of drawers stood in the corner. I quietly got out of bed and made my way to it slowly, lest the creaking caused him to wake up.

It was a mercy that he did not realize that I had salvaged through his mining tools in the interval of his toilet earlier in the evening. I stuck my hand beneath the chest of drawers, where I had hidden it in a hurry. I took it out, and gazed at the cylindrical object in wonder.

He had only told me of it once, after the time he used it to take revenge on a fellow miner who had wronged him. Glee filled his face as he described the explosive power of this object, and how it caused the unfortunate fellow's demise.

'Dynamite' is the name he gave to this object, if my memory serves me correctly.

I opened the top drawer, where a candle and a box of matches lay. I took out the matchbox, and looked back to the sleeping figure on the bed, and felt nothing but loathing and hatred for the man who lay snoring there.

I thought longingly of mama, yearning to speak to her one last time, but I knew that was impossible since a long time ago. I bit down on a sigh of regret as I opened the box and took out a single match.

No, I may never see daylight again, but I'm going to see something much better than daylight. I am going to see heaven's light.

A spark of light illuminated the room for a few seconds as the fuse lit. I only wish I could have heard him scream.

*This essay was written by the procrastinator for his English test. Several editions were made to make up for the mistakes he made in his haste when writing it in the exam hall, and he begs pardon if it is deemed to be an unsatisfying read. Constructive criticism is welcomed.

She

She stood at the gates, with a smile on her face as I got out of the car and called. The signs of age were distinct, but not any different from what I remember. Until I entered the house, and felt my heart tear at the sight of a walking stick near the door. It felt like another milestone in her life to me. She never needed a walking stick before this. She always seemed so strong and agile for someone her age.

Sitting me down beside her and cheerfully nattering away about grandaunts and granduncles, I felt another stab when I realised she had difficulty hearing my voice. Another first. I can't remember if tears threatened my eyes, nor could I remember much of the one-sided conversation we had. Only the silent mourning inside of me as I observed her aged features, and the unspoken thought that keeps me awake many nights.

"大妈" (dui ma) is what I call her in the Foochow dialect, as do many of the young ones in my extended family do. She is, after all, my beloved great-grandmother.

Moral 101

A few days ago, I happened to read through a rather interesting blogpost of a friend which deserves mention here.

The topic? Of Gentlemen and Breasts.

No, really.

I'll spare her the shame fame of having her name mentioned here, 'cause I don't know if she'll take offense at this. If you're reading this SL, rest assured I'm not making fun of you =)

No, really.

It was an epic tale of the noble acts of chivalry, thought to be long extinct by this fair maiden. This particular tale spoke of two heroic knights on board the much abhorred Keretapi Tanah Melayu, who sacrificed their thrones to two women.

In the words of this fair maiden herself, "Honestly, that took me by surprise. Cos in all my life, I have never personally witnessed such a noble deed. I mean, we all know what should be done, in principle. But how many of us actually do it?"

So much for the gentlemen part of it. As for the breast part of the title, I'll leave it to the reader's imagination.

Yup, we all know what should be done. We've learned that since the moment we entered primary school. Its just ironic that nearly everything I learned in moral classes for over a decade in my life is the exact opposite of what I learned from lessons by the people of Bolehland.

One thing which amuses me is the thought of how much courage it takes to do what everyone knows everyone should do. Countless times in my life I found myself in situations where I am in the position to offer my seat to someone who needs it more than I do, and countless times I was overtaken by this irrational fear of being seen doing something that should be done. Its not something I'm proud of, but that's what I did.

Its funny how God works sometimes.

I read this post yesterday. I thought about it this morning, before I boarded the dratted train up north. Two hours later, an old woman with wrinkled skin and luggage had boarded the train at the UKM station and stood directly in front of where I was comfortably sitting.