Putnam Robberson

“Careful, careful. Doubtless I’m a wobbling bottle, but a bottle can fall and break not. I’ll bite another nail and avoid a fresh set of tangents. If the translucent glass figure of my being smashes then I shall only lay there shattered, not dissolved — and certainly not dead. Should I be intact upon this potential drop I shall wait for a fool to pick me up and put me on the shelf. “No! Get your mouth away from me. There’s nothing in me: I’m not new.” And I’ll sit, cosy, upright, peering out, writing my letters however I please, with my resolutions secure and protected, ignorant of that aligned around me on the shelf. I’m an active ornament, a funky rogue rendering no followable trail. Pick up my pooh and see just how fresh it is. Did I go left? Right? Was that little branch snapped by my movements or by a lost but carefree monkey? I am gone. I don’t need to be a ghost. No one is watching me, rather me them. Leave the jungle! Let autopilot fly you out. And you’ll die never connected to your true self, fettered to the influences of your dreadfully similar brethren. And me, I shall be an anonymous bottle, open, empty, devoid of carbonated conventions, filled with delicate insight, — perhaps precious — quiet and groomed with self-respect, adding to the modest flavours of my simple soul, like a relaxed wizard with wisdom and mansuetude swimming through his veins, for man had trampled on the moon, drenched the earth in blood and lost any quasi interpretable translation of love there ever was: how can I be a part of that? I am careless, I am gentle, and I am nothing like you.”

Chapter 1.

“Is my washing complete?”

“I haven’t had chance to to get it done.”

“I asked you especially. I need it. Why do you neglect my needs and fail to water the shrubs of your maternal duties?”

“You’re thirty-eight, Put. If it’s such a problem, figure the washing machine out and do it yourself.”

“I’ve got more important things to be doing than washing dirty old clothes. I’m not a washed-up old maid. And you're my mother, the one who brought me into this world.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow, yes?”

“No, no. It’s fine. I understand. I shall not, to my own detriment, cease to sequester my nugatory needs in the most unexposed woodland of my being, whereinto only I, unable to attend to those needs, can see.”

‘Oh, boy, all you achieve with those words is making your mother seem so dull at times.”

“‘Seem dull’? You are dull at times, mother - and too dull to see.”

“…I’ll do your laundry first thing in the morning, Okay?”

“Okay.”

Entry 5.

Mother is stressing me, or adding to what stress I already have lurking in my wonderful cranium. I do like her. She is not a cold person. Her voice is quite calm though would maybe seem fitting in a somewhat liveable dystopia, but she does care for me, more so than doing my laundry.

And I have thought of my lies. My lies are not dangerous, nor harmful. They’re clever, useful, important, integral… All that I do is in accordance with the fatalistic concatenations over which I have no dictation. I don’t quite know how things will work out, or end up. I don’t want people screaming in my face, I don’t want to be a celebrity. But the genius in me must establish itself, quietly, and to me only. Something must secretly point to me…

That is all for today.

Chapter 2.

[I feel hazy. Why do I feel hazy? My eggs better be done. What time is it? Half-seven. Good. *Yawn* Better get dressed.

[I really do hate this shirt. Agh! Why does she upset my equilibrium?]

“Are my eggs complete, mother?!”

“Serving them now.”

[Good! *Sighs* They better be good. Ahh, the melted butter on that fuck-ing white bread… beautifully scrumptious if I may say so myself. Oh, Put, that’s a gorgeous tie you’re wearing. Oh, thank you. *Smile* But DONT… swear! …This tie is actually quite fancy. Too bad it’s tied around the collar of a near-worthless shirt. And eggs, please, fear me.]

Clyde Robberson wears short-sleeved shirts and squarish, thin, silver-framed glasses — thick sweaters in the winter. His socks are always and only white, his shoes casually formal. He lives with his mother. His head rests low as he walks the streets, while his trousers sit high, leaving, often, his pale ankles exposed.

“You are jesting with me, aren’t you, mother?”

“About what?”

“About what? How could you forget? The cress?”

“We ran out, poppet.”

“So did you not think to get some more?”

“I will, when I next get the groceries.”

“How can I have my eggs with no cress?”

“It’s just for one day. Put.”

“We’ve never once, in the history of our lives, ran out of cress. The same rules don't apply for your medications!”

“We had no cress last week, darling.”

“That’s not the point. The point is I’m wearing a shirt of a brutal design and now my eggs are cressless. Brilliant. So magnificently brilliant!” Clyde rises to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To work.”

“Don’t be silly, you need to eat your eggs first.”

“With no cress? I’d rather starve.”

“Put, dear…”

[Dense women! I feel like loading her fat body with a magazine of curse words… *Sighs* Though I am hungry… Fine, I’ll go back and have them, but not because I’ll enjoy them.]

“See, I knew you’d be hungry. You can’t go to work on an empty stomach.”

“Just be quiet, mother.” *Scoffs eggs*

That day, upon returning back to his mother’s house, Clyde found himself degrading his only parent more than usual in his vexed head.

[Women are only whores and men are only people who love whores. Of course I’m the offspring of the two, but at least I know what I am. No darn cress… And get dressed properly you old baboon. Egg and cress gives me the only modicum of pleasure possible in this repulsive, rotting, futile culture. Agh!! Why is it windy? I despise all wind, especially flatulence… Is there a reason why you’re looking at me you helpless arse? Is it because you don’t have a briefcase? Elevate or putrefy — and no cursing…]

Chapter 3

If one has internal issues, it is probable that they might, and commonly, blame the external world around them for such. One might suppress their personal, inner faults — buzzing with tedium, awaiting proper discernment and thus medication, salvation — and those and that which one sees everyday act as a decoyed target for the repressed and unaddressed energies of the victim.

But what if these deep-rooted problems are so submerged is the psyche of the victim that they are completely undetectable until a point at which they mutate, exercising and expressing themselves in the most queer ways. Maybe after such neglect, deep issues cease to be issues at all, and become tendencies, inclinations, a new source of thought patterns emanating from a spring, active and initiated by virtue of what was never originally exposed…

Entry 6.

‘Mother still insists on harassing me about finding a women. The notion that one can come into your life and understand you is garbage, putrid, rancid, abhorrent, disgusting garbage that hasn’t been thrown away; it lingers in society. The only way one could know me is if they were me, which they’re not, because I am.

‘I fed the birds today - after seeing more drug-addicts, more obvious thieves, more soon-to-be whores. They’ll all be screaming one day. The birds don’t bother me like people do. Like I one day will, they soar high above this hellish land.

‘And I am no hero but I will act heroic. When chaos reigns virtue shines. It is only I who will be armed with virtue, subtly, graciously. If only I had an accomplice - someone who knows all that I do. I have thought about recruiting. It can’t only be me, can it? Someone else must know. And they probably do. But meet we shall not.

‘I’ve found this poem in a very antiquated book. Profoundly it takes my fancy, and I will think about it before I sleep.

“Neglect futile feeling.

Become close to senseless.

Eradicate common morale and remorse. Upset the established order

With nothing but Your lips.

Reveal what lurks in civilised society.

Break fake sanity with nothing but whispers.

Who will the cries call to as I watch the world burn?”

‘Perhaps, to be found, shall I say, an elegant mantra within some intelligent stanza? The author knew!’

Chapter 4

Entry 7. Letter to Scarlett.

Hello my pretty darling. It is me. Your lush, silky lips drip with the only power I think significant.

The time of writing in mere admiration is over. It is worth you knowing.

When the world collapses I will watch you beg me to save you, and I will, and you will thank me. Your life will change: you’ll happily belong to me. One day I’ll show you these letters and your genitals will moisten as you read my words. You will be my dog — and I like dogs better than women. You’ll crawl, you’ll sit — collared of course —, you’ll sleep in a cage, you’ll eat with your mouth from a bowl on the floor and you’ll be my darn pet. There will be nothing else on your mind but me. Your acting days will be long gone, evaporated in the apocalyptic air. And you’ll say: “Putnam Robberson, I thank you.” Strands of your golden locks will decorate my garments and your husky whines will fill my palace as you feel me enter you. You’ll be my good girl, Scarlett, just you wait. Your mouth will water when I am gone doing my work; and that same oral puddle of saliva will mix with my own as you beg me to spit in your mouth. You’ll look up, and plea for me to hurt you the way I know you dream of. Soon, my darling, you’ll be mine.

Clyde wanders the simple street of his small town, consulting himself, analysing all that surrounds him.

[I’ll feed them tomorrow, I’ve got no food anyway… God! Just look. We’ve got peasants with brains more useless than expired salmon, suited citizens with brains a little less rotten from less drug use and less t.v, and leaders, hidden, carrying out the work of the non-existent satan. *Sighs* It’s all typical, necessary… That’s the path this world has followed. Why? Who knows? Bad God. Does he know? Certainly not. I mean, look at him. Just observe this creature, smiling down a cell phone. Technology wont matter a trifle. Who are you? You better find out before you’re swallowed by a society sizzling with red-hot scum… Hmm. Library maybe? No, no. I should watch. *Sighs* Never mind - I’ll get the birds some food.]

The lonesome man strolled into a local convenience store, looking for some food for the birds of the park, with a dark brown briefcase clasped in his left hand.

[Oh my. This shop owner appears as though his brain becomes more like putty by the day. That’s right. I’m buying bird seeds. Is there a problem? Is there even anything behind the glass of your distrait eyes? Hardly.. Oh, you like my shirt, do you?]

“Hello.”

“Hi there. Is that everything?”

“For now.” Clyde removes his wallet and lays a note upon the counter, then takes his change.

“See ya.”

“Good-bye.”

[Told you. Totally mechanical: lost. His skin would have more use than his consciousness… Quite a busy day. I hope there’s lots of birds.]

Soon Clyde is perched on a public bench, tossing half-handfuls of seeds to the gathering birds.

“You like my presence or my presents you peasants?. You feathery fellows know. Although… Do I give you too much credit? You seem to squabble for crumbs — that’s what people do. What would you do if I gave you a gun Mr. Bird? Nothing I hope. Say you could pick it up with your wings… Here have some more you selfish pricks… Agh, I hate cursing. Apologies birdies. You do make queer noises at times — Oh look, a crow. Here dark one! Take some seeds. Are you wiser than the doves? Are you me? A crow amongst doves? No. Doves aren’t people, they’re more precise, less capricious, simpler and sounder, purer… That’s all I’ve got. You’ll get more tomorrow — maybe.”

[Actually I’ll go downtown tomorrow, visit the filthy district. I should check up on it. Make notes. Can’t bring a briefcase though. And must wear a dark shirt and no tie. Mother might enquire why though. And I need money for the bus. What time is it? *Checks watch* I’ll see what her purse offers when I get back. *Gets up*]

“Right you horrible lot, I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter 5

The sole of Putnam’s weathered shoe collides with the floor of the north end of his town as he steps from the bus. Five other people exit the bus and the vehicle drives away. Put stands still.

[First things first, let these… simpletons scurry away.

[I think the air’s got worse. *Sniffs* Right, be back here in an hour. Got my notepad, pen… Good. Anyone watching me?… No. Good.]

Put scrupulously observes through the thick lenses of his glasses, walking, by his means, not too slow but not too fast.

Notes:

‘Just reached the northern sector. The sound of sirens and the smell of decay is ubiquitous here. Even the bricks of the buildings appear to be turning black. This place will be in darkness soon. Already a burger joint stands out like the moon in the night sky and it’s hardly evening.’

Clyde trots on. Daylight softly melts away and the surrounding darkness grows.

Notes:

SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING ME! They know I’m not a part of this place. Should have worn all black!!!’

[Okay, pen, help me out here. Focus. I’m Putnam Robberson. Right.. I know.]

Clyde turns down an alley, out of which lays the T junction of the pavement, waiting for the follower. When they pass he extends his arms and pulls them into the blackness of the alley with all his strength.

“Aghh help!”

[A women?] Clyde holds the tip of his pen to the lady’s throat and speaks.

“Why are you following me?”

“I’m not you crazy fool! Let me go.”

“Don’t play dumb. Tell me. I”m not afraid to hurt you for the sake of my future.”

By now a reasonable amount of fear had been elicited in the dark-skinned lady

“I wern’t, you damn lunatic! I’m going to a friend’s house.”

“To tell them about me, I wager!”

“I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you. I don’t want to know you. Just please let me go.”

“Tell me who asked you to watch me, or I will hurt you.”

“Nobody!.. PLEASE SOMEONE!”

With the hand his pen is in Clyde launches his fist at the women’s frightened face: he absorbs his confidence. The women, whose nose is now bloody, releases herself and runs down the alley, but Clyde stands still, heavily breathing, watching her gallop.

[Shit, gotta get bus… Stop cursing! Cursing is the problem.]

When Clyde enters his home his mother calls to him.

“Dinner’s on the side, honey.” He gives no reply, takes the dinner and marches up to his room. Whilst eating his food he writes, reluctant to talk about the incident.

Entry 8.

‘I feel no less than odium for the governments driving the world into what will evolve into a societal apocalypse. But such is inevitable. I look back to when ambivalence streamed from my nose. I remember the days of thinking I was wrong. There were myriad. But all I have premeditated has come to pass. Citizens belabour one another, chant for tyrants and become more overwhelmingly stupid by the day, their brains skip down a road of senescence: they’ll all be mindless. Only, I wonder, where will the citadel lie? Who’ll be inside? High but hardly protected. So very far from my terrain, my city. No drugs, no killing, no alcohol, no music: I’ll welcome movies and books. If you don’t like it you can always leave the gates and dodge bullets, get raped, and become a junky.

“Unto the women he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorry and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.”

‘And behold, Cain was born. And behold Cain will reign. If only I had faith in such a story. Quite a delightful concept, if one can deem a bringer of false hope as delightful. However with the inquisitive christians I share the same belief: that man was crafted into sin. And the trees and flowers suffer! How horrid. The birds and bees and badgers and bears experience man’s fault, and even suffer the repercussions of man’s “progress”. If I could save you all I would.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~?~~?~~?~~?~~?~~?

‘I did visit the hell today. Without uncertainty it’s yellow and gritty. Dark-skinned people walked everywhere and they all dress in black. One even followed me… It was a women. Whoever sent her knows it was wise to send a female. But how did they know I was there today? Bus driver is probably linked. It doesn’t matter though.

Mother is calm and quiet. Her dinner is cooked well. Her purse is rich currently. But I’ll stay out of the north side forever now. Can’t risk it. I’ve seen its state.’

Chapter 6.

Entry 9. Letter to Scarlett.

‘My dear, I wake up this morning with you dominating my precious mind. I watch your movies over and over - you bring the sperm out of me so soon.

I want to meet the day when I can glare outside at the subfusc city, hear the plethora of cries, turn around and see you sitting contently in your cage. Soon enough, there is only one role you will invest in, and the concomitants of it shall be lodged in your being until the day you pass away. 
 You wont be acting as mine, you’ll be! mine.

I know you’ll sit reading this one day, so I might as well address you in the future. I’m sure the future-me will have given you this letter to occupy your mind when I am gone, so, my pet, when the future-me returns I want the cheeks of your bum to be pressed against the cage. I want your face resting on the floor and your hands in between your legs, the tops of your forearms touching the floor, with your hands holding the cage. That is how I want you presented when I return. If you are not you will suffer. But you know that. I will thrust until my seed oozes from your anus — and you will take care of me. So get ready. I’ll be back soon.’

———————————————————————

“You think it’s him?”

“I don’t know, man. Soon find out though.”

Two uniformed policemen approach and knock on the Robberson’s door.

“Miss Robberson?”

“Yes?”

“Is your son in?”

“Oh, no, he’s at work. Started late today. Why, What’s this all about?” Both officers look at each other, as if to communicate through the expressions of their average faces the wonderfully default question, apt for this circumstance: ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

“… D0...you mind if we come in?”

“No, not at all..”

The two men sit on the puffy couch.

“How long has Clyde been working?’

“Oh, about, seven months. Before that he used to sit in the house all day watching movies and reading. I’ll just put the kettle on.” Claire returns with two cups of coffee and hands them to the officers who, in comparison to herself, seem very young.

“Miss Robberson, what does Clyde tell you about his work?”

“Well, he… says it can be difficult at times. Lots of work. Very busy, but it keeps him active.”

“Do you know his employer?”

“Of course: a construction firm. He’s involved in the early plans of new buildings. He works with resources.” The officers look at each other sombrely.

“Whats the name of the firm?”

“Uhm. He did tell me it. I just can’t remember it. Jaynes maybe.. I’m not sure. It begins with J I think.”

One of the officers takes a deep breath, appropriate for that of someone about to tell someone some somewhat alarming news.

“Miss Robberson. Clyde doesn’t have a job.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he does. Why else would he set his alarm every day at seven a.m if he didn’t have to? That’s not fun, is it?”

“Clyde,” adds the other officer, “walks through town everyday. He sits on park benches, feeds the birds, looks at magazines, sits in the library… Does he have money?”

“With the job he claims he has,” adds the other man, “he certainly wouldn’t be living here.”

“One can do all that business on their lunch break. I don’t understand what you’re saying to me. That Put has been lying to me about his job?”

“Put?”

“Yes. He doesn’t like his name Clyde. He changed it when he was twenty — not legally. Putnam Robberson he wanted to be called. And I’ve called him that ever since.” The men grow more intrigued by the minute. Fragments begand to click in their minds, while they discerned the stark orange pill pots and the inebriation of Put's mother.

“…Can… we have a look at Clyde’s room?”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“You wouldn’t want to legally endanger your son, would you Miss Robberson?”

Incomprehensibly oblivious, Put’s mother replies:

“Well, providing you don’t touch his things. Follow me.” All three head upstairs into Put’s room. Inside it’s seemingly haphazard, a few discs scattered, as are movie-magazines, some torn, books, and scraps of paper, and posters on the wall of Scarlett Johansson.

“Sure has a lot of movies.”

“And books too… Hey check out his crush,” says an officer, pointing to the posters.

“It’s messy because he works all the time. Or as you two gentlemen seem to think, roams the streets all day… I don’t think you should be touching that. That’s his personal belongings.”

“It’s Okay, ma’am, we’re the Law,” answered one of the officers, totally confident that Put’s mother wouldn’t know the official laws of entering a house without a warrant.

“…He’s a very talented writer, Put is. Always using fancy words and making me feel so silly.” Both men barely processed the comment - one flicked through the old diary before swiftly tossing it onto the desk.

“That’s all we need from you today, Miss.” The trio plodded back downstairs and Miss Robberson saw the lawmen out — the two warm coffees sat cooling and untouched.