THE BROKEN TEAR DROP - Part 2

Wally Bruniski raised the extremely sharp razor very close to his face and peered at the long slim reflection of his eyes.  Staring back at him, they looked tired, listless and old, older than his 42 years; the dark brown irises surrounded by a host of red veins; the bags beneath them as saggy as his muscles.  Tilting the razor downward he focused on his pocked reddish nose, then his mouth, which was purplish and very thin; a deep line running from each corner emphasizing his jowls and double-chin.  His face was stubbly; the beginning of a thick black beard, peppered with white hairs.  He didn't need anyone to tell him he looked like hell; he could see that for himself.

Wally sat up in the tub exposing his hairy black chest with a few white hairs fighting for existence and began swishing the thick bristly brush around the bowl of foamy soap, then spreading it on his face and throat.  He chuckled when he thought about the joke he'd heard at one of his favourite drinking establishments, "Real men don't shave; they punch the whiskers through their cheeks and then bite them off."  As the keen long blade slid across his face, under his nose and through the deep cleft of his chin, it made a scraping sound.  As he began carefully shaving his throat, he noticed a vein within the hollow of his collar bone pulsating to the beat of his heart.  As he drew the blade across his large jugular veins and under his chin, he nicked himself; droplets of red blood pooling in the soapy bath water.  How easy he thought, to just slit myself from ear to ear and then just lie back in the tub and watch what's left of my pitiful life drain away.  However, something within, whatever was remaining in his burnt-out troubled mind told him, Not yet!  Once his face was shaven and smooth, he grabbed the floating bar of Ivory soap and began briskly scrubbing the top of his thick hairy head, his hairy chest, under his hairy arms and hairy balls and between his hairy toes.  After he pulled the plug, stood up and rinsed off under the cold shower, he was as squeaky-clean as a new-born babe.  Although he didn't feel brand new; he did feel a whole lot better either.

After looking at his worn out scruffy looking face, Wally didn't dare look in the full-length mirror; he was beginning to feel much better and didn't want to ruin the feeling.  He only checked just below his chin to see if he was still bleeding but just a small clot of hardened blood could be seen.  When he was all dried off, his hair slicked back, he went to his large, walk-in closet and dressed himself in his most expensive suit, white starched shirt, favorite tie and pair of alligator leather shoes.  He tried sucking in his paunchy tummy when he slipped his leather belt through the loops of his pants and began tightening it, but his expanded stomach wouldn't budge.  He whistled as he went downstairs to answer the doorbell - his black paint had arrived.  He told them to place the 20, 5-gallon buckets of paint at the rear of the house near the patio doors leading out to the Olympic-sized swimming pool.

Feeling a little tired from his hot bath, Wally decided to sit down in his easy-chair for awhile and let his body cool off a bit more.  Out of habit, he almost went to the liquor cabinet but caught himself in time.  As he sat relaxing in the chair feeling his body temperature get closer to normal, he thought about the task at hand and why he'd decided to do what needed to be done in his mind.

When Walton Bruniski had began his business with his wife, they were both very happy and working together seemed to be a real treat; at least the perks were great; they'd lock the office door and sometimes make love on the thick shag carpet.  However, Wally wasn't happy with just making a good income; he wanted to be rich; he wanted to retire in the style of a king.  As the business grew, they had two children so his wife stayed home to look after them, which seemed like a good plan.  She was replaced by another employee and soon other employees had joined his firm.  Wally worked like a mad-man; 14 - 16 hours a day and weekends too.  He barely saw his wife and kids and because he was so full of energy, when he quit work for the day, he often went to a night club to drink, dance and play with younger women he met.  At first, his outings were harmless but then he began taking the odd woman to bed; he figured as long as his wife or anyone else didn't know, it didn't really matter since he didn't have any real feelings for them.  As his business rapidly expanded, his friendly banker beaming whenever he walked through the door asking for money to increase his productivity and cash-flow; it was almost at the point where he was spending more time with the banker than his wife and family.  However, eventually all good things reach an end, the bucket of gold at the end of the rainbow is empty; Walton Bruniski, his life chaotic and out of control by his boozing and womanizing and bad business decisions he made; in a rapidly failing economy, he lost everything he had worked for.

As Wally sat in his easy-chair, he looked around at all the beautiful things he'd acquired.  Then taking a deep breath, he strolled through the entire house and wondered where he'd gone so wrong and caromed off the right path into a spiral downhill slide of despair.  When he entered the 4-bay garage and looked at his flashy new cars and motorcycle, he realized they didn't mean a good-God-damn to him.  He wasn't sure where his life was going; he'd finally landed in the bucket of shit at the bottom of the rainbow and couldn't care less.  He had a statement to make; perhaps the last statement he would ever make.  He felt like a well-known accomplished artist as he dragged the air compressor out of the garage, plugged it into an outdoor electrical receptacal by the swimming pool, screwed in the long air hose and attached the spray gun to the end of it. Finally, he hooked up a big 5-gallon container and squeezed the air-gun's trigger; a huge spray of black paint shooting out into the afternoon air.   After tying the air respirator securely to his head, catching a glimpse of himself in the glass patio doors as he entered the house; he looked like a warrior and he liked the way he looked.

Humming to himself, he squeezed the spray gun trigger and began spraying everything in the living room jet black until the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the furniture and everything, I mean everything in the room was completely black.  Looking at the once beautiful, intricate artwork that hung on the walls, he chuckled to himself and said, "I'm an artist too.  Perhaps I'll invite all the people who really count to my first exhibition.  I'll title the paintings, Dark BlackWith Swirls of Light Black, Ebony, Neutral Black No. 231 and Black as My Soul."  He roared with laughter as he went from room to room spraying everything black, even the windows and the light fixtures.

Before going upstairs, he decided to paint the outside of the house too so after he pulled the extension ladder out of the garage and propped it up against the eaves, he sprayed the entire roof and chimneys black too.  After he'd sprayed the outside walls, doors and windows he went out into the yard, looked at his masterpiece and rejoiced with fulfillment - it was as if the weight of the world had suddenly vanished from his shoulders.  He felt so intensely elated, that before he went back into the house to paint the upstairs, he signed his name with big black letters on the pink marble patio.  He hadn't felt this happy in years as he sprayed all the rooms upstairs including the closets and everything in them.  Giggling to himself idiotically he thought the realtor is going to have a fun time showing this place and fuck the bank and its mortgage.

When he finished spraying upstairs, touching up the odd spot he'd missed, he somehow tangled his foot (possibly because the house was now as dark as a tomb) in the air hose and tumbled head-first down the stairs.  He lay at the bottom as still and quiet as a corpse lying on a slab in the morgue.  He couldn't hear the birds singing outside, nor the dripping bathtub faucet he hadn't turned completely off because Walton Bruniski was dead to the world; he had knocked himself out at the bottom of the stairs.

When he came to, the house appeared even darker than when he finished spraying because it was dark outside too.  He had a bit of a headache as he walked out of the house and down the driveway, not bothering to look back, I mean it would be pretty hard to see a black house in the black of night.  His suit was a mess and he suspected everything about him looked that way as well but he didn't care as he unlocked the marina gate and headed down the ramp towards his sailboat.  He knew that a strong possibility of going to jail existed but as he untied the sailboat's mooring lines, shoved it away from the dock, jumped aboard and hoisted the main sail; he figured they would have to find him and the Pacific Ocean was a vast amount of water.

After months had gone by, while basking on a tropical beach with no news from where he once lived, his sailboat bobbing in the turquoise blue sea, Walton Bruniski would have been proud of his artwork.  Because of the times, the plunging economy, through-the-roof interest rates, many people who had experienced the same losses as Wally, painted their houses completely black inside and out - like monuments they speckled the landscape of many cities throughout the country.

FACEBOOK COMMENTS:
  
Paula S:  I hope to read more stories. I really like the humorous chuckle that you can entice to bring about in your writing. My cat and dog always make me laugh and they don't even talk in words. Do you think they think in words? And if they do what they would say would probably give me a chuckle. I'd love to read a story from your perspective of what a dog or cat might have on their mind. I'd like to think that they'd be intelligent and maybe have some kind of power that we dont. (like trusting their intuition, believing that living with love is heaven, or mabye even something more unbelievable like premonitions).
Len Sherman:

I'm really glad that you're enjoying my stories and thanks for the line to get me started on THE BROKEN TEAR DROP.  Cats and dogs - hmmm - I'm sure that they think in some sort of language and most definitely by their actions.  And, the one thing I've noticed a lot about animals that make them similar to us, is that they actually dream.  I've seen many a horse and dog sound asleep, sometimes with their eyes wide open, lying on the ground, their legs moving as if they are running and actually making vocal sounds, as if they were talking in their sleep.  I believe every animal has their own special instincts and are intelligent in their own way - like us, there are smart ones and dumb ones.  I'll have to give a little thought to their "intuition, believing that living with love is heaven" and "premonitions".  Maybe give me another line and a short blurb about it and I'll see what I can come up with - but no promises, it seems like a very tall order.