[Pistachio Nuts, 790 words, Genre: Realistic Fiction]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
There are treats of an acquired taste, the pistachio nut dipped in Tabasco sauce is one for sure. However, if one were to look far enough, one would not find this delicacy on the retinue. Edward was looking around for this among the sortee of food that was being offered. He could not find it anywhere. Damn it! Damn it! Another perfectly good evening ruined by the host not taking into account his particular taste for spiced nuts. It hadn’t been the first time, he could not recall one time in which this particular taste had been accounted for. His night had been ruined, but he wasn’t going to let that affect him. He was going to blend in and join the mix of whichever celebration he happened to find himself him in.
Conversation was fleeting, moments would come and go as he accessed his memories of times gone by. His favourite teachers, those teachers that had caused him pain. It was all rather standard really. As he continued to liquor himself up, his mind became more transparent as he conversed with others letting his tongue loose. Gathering pearls of wisdom and sorting them into their different colours. Wisdom or insanities, he didn’t have the ability anymore to know whether he was making others around him feel uncomfortable or not. He didn’t know exactly what he was trying to achieve either… It was all just a jumbled mess as he delivered his insecurities hand in hand with tales of misfortune and woe, the cans of beer seemed to vanish down his gullet. Others would laugh as he told them these stories, perhaps it was all part of the delivery. If he had addressed the articles of interest without that happy go lucky attitude that he adopted when reciting stories, then perhaps the acceptance wouldn’t be treated as some sort of joke. You can recount the most horrible stories of humanity, but as long as it’s delivered with a smile on your face, others will fob it off as some sort of practical joke.
“What the hell is this pressure to be perfect?” Edward had entered one of his rants, “Has the world completely done a one hundred and eighty back flip on itself and come to the claim that everything is perfect and orderly? I mean what the fuck is that? Are we farkin’ robots or something? Last time I had a look around at the human species we were all fuck-ups and retards, what’s changed in the past year where we think we can all turn around. Nothin’, farkin’ nothing has changed. I still look around and see mistakes everywhere I go. However, the world’s more likely to claim perfection and maintain an illusion of perfection than the admittance of being the fuck-ups we were and are.”
“I think people are just trying to think positively about the situation.” It was an unknown remark, from an unknown source, thrown into the fray to oppose his cynicism.
“Thinking positive is like foregoing all of the mistakes we have learnt from, it’s kind of like forgetting history altogether.”
Another can of beer and another sip of brandy, Edward continued drinking. Trying to gather some sort of impromptu motivation to leave the celebration and get a good night’s sleep. But instead of doing that, he kept on drinking. After a couple more hours he found himself leaning up against the wall listening to someone he had known years back, he wasn’t really able to pay attention to anything that they said, so he decided to say something, “Hey want to hear a dark tale?”
The guy who had been talking to him for some time replied, “Yeah, sure why not? Go ahead, hit me.”
“I remember being told this story by this kid about how they kept a video camera in the bathroom. They were in primary school and they told some other kids to go masturbate in the bathroom.”
“What the fuck?”
“Yeah, it was some paedophile or something. Anyway, they caught footage of all these kids masturbating in the bathroom. I don’t know what they did with that footage, or what else was done to those kids, but they’re all dead now. Through drug addiction or suicide, they’re all dead.”
“Fuckin’ hell. That is dark.”
“They’re dead. They’re all dead.” Edward could not stop himself through his drunken demeanour as he habitually repeated himself, “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”
“I’m going to go over here now.” The guy pointed to the opposite side of the room and walked away. Edward took another sip of brandy from the small bottle in his side pocket. Somebody had left a dark taint on the evening by not providing pistachio nuts and Tabasco sauce.