Walton Bruniski was sitting in his thick, comfy, pig-skin easy chair when he felt a single tear well up at the corner of his eye and like a piece of clear glass, it broke into two pieces when he attempted to wipe it away. One fragment cut his eye lid slightly and the other fell to the floor where it broke into a thousand shards; the broken tear drop's reflection, revealing the sad countenance of a broken man.
Walton or Wally, as his closest friends called him, was an art collector and as he looked around the large living room, his eyes taking in each delicate brush stroke, every colour imaginable and distinct, precise nuance of the paintings, which were tastefully hung on the walls, he felt like crying more than a single drop even if each sharp tear cut his face to ribbons. However, he was tired of feeling depressed and knew that even if he did have a really good cry, just let the sobs wrack his ribs until they cracked, he wouldn't feel any better - feeling worse was a given. Walton Bruniski had hit bottom and whether he would ever climb out of the hole he'd selfishly dug; he had absolutely no idea.
Wally was a self-made man; not one of the silver-spoon variety. Up to a few months before, he'd had a successful business; it was on the small size but more than moderately successful. He owned several new cars, a motorcycle and a sailboat and of course the very expensive art collection, all of which was housed on his two-acre estate, which was located at the edge of a busy city. However, like many people during the early 80's, he'd been over-financed, over-budgeted and over-confident and with interest rates climbing faster than the space shuttle on its way to the moon, Walton Bruniski lost everything; he was more than just broke; he owed hundreds of thousands of dollars. He didn't regret losing all the money, extravagant toys or even the valuable art collection; they were just accumulated baggage - no - no regrets there - not until his wife and kids left him only moments before the single tear had broken in two pieces at the corner of his eye did he realize that he'd lost the most important and most valued objects in his life.
Stumbling and swaying over to the well-stocked liquor cabinet, an intoxicated Wally unscrewed the top off another bottle of Crown Royal and poured himself a triple shot of whiskey. He looked like hell; he hadn't shaved, showered, combed his hair or even changed his clothes in almost a week since his family had left. As he swirled the amber reddish liquid around, sunlight streaming through the window, made the booze look like a bonfire burning inside the glass. Lifting the glass to his lips, he looked at his reflection in the ornate mirror hanging next to the liquor cabinet and said, "Walton, you look like shit." Then looking at the glass of whiskey he held in his slightly trembling hand he continued, "You're the reason I'm in this sad, decrepit state, that I lost every fucking thing I own."
Lifting the glass high, glaring into the mirror with bloodshot eyes he said, "Here's to you; the seducer of my mind and soul. Without your continual guidance my ego inflating friend - yes - thanks to you - I put all my energies into accumulating valuable objects du art, a fine mansion and several well-endowed mistresses (can you believe my wife was disenchanted about that - after all, in quite a few other countries, men have several wives)." He hiccupped and continued, his anger building into a rage, "Where were we? Ah, yes. My seductress, my one true mistress - this one is for you!" And, upon saying that, he threw the glass of whiskey at the mirror, shattering it into hundreds of pieces that glittered like jewels all over the dark hardwood floor.
Slurring his words, through a maze of expensive one-of-a-kind furniture, picking up the phone along the way Wally sloshed clumsily into his easy-chair. Smiling to himself, the first one he'd had it seemed in years, he punched in several numbers on the telephone, then holding it to his ear he said, "Hello. This is Mr. Waldo, er, Walton Bruniski and I believe, I still have an account at your store. I'd like you to deliver 500 gallons of flat black acrylic paint to my residence - ah - on second thought - let's make it shiny black; your finest enamel will do nicely. And, if you could deliver the paint today, it would be much appreciated."
Wally then climbed, or perhaps staggered up, would be a more apt description, the circular staircase leading to the second level where the master bedroom was located. Upon arriving, he entered the en suite bathroom. Looking at the disheveled appearance of a broken man in the mirror, a reddish-brown dot where the blood had clotted at the corner of his eye, he began humming to himself when he turned on the gold-plated hot water tap and placed the big rubber plug in the jetted, round bathtub. He enjoyed hot baths more than showers and liked it when his skin turned lobster-red. As the water plunged into the tub, he reached for his razor and ran his thumb along the edge of the long sharp blade and watched in amazement when some blood trickled out. Sticking his thumb in his mouth, he sucked on it like a baby for a few moments and then held his hand up over his head to help halt the flow. After adding some cold water until the tub of water was the desired temperature, Mr. Wally Burniski placed the sharp razor and the fluffy brush with a bowl full of shaving cream near its edge. Chucking his soiled clothes in a heap on the marble floor, he climbed into the tub and gingerly eased himself into the hot water.
Lying in the tub up to his neck, only his head exposed in the hot water, Wally looked up through the rising steam at the ceiling where a mural depicting two cherubs flying amongst the clouds could be seen It had been a birthday gift for his wife; she loved cherubs and had quite an ornament collection of them throughout the house. As he breathed in the hot steam through his nose, he sighed deeply when he smelled the alcohol leaving his whiskey sodden body. Beginning to finally relax; his mind, drifting like the fresh bar of Ivory soap floating around the tub, to a place of contentment; his worries were absorbed and lifted away as lightly as the steam.
How long he'd been soaking in the full length bathtub, he didn't know, but the water was still very hot when his pink, wrinkly hand came out of the water and reached for the long, sharp razor lying near the edge of the tub...to be continued.
FACEBOOK COMMENTS:
Cheryl B: Love reading your short stories Len ....must have plenty of time for writing in New Brunswick. Guess winters are a bit harsher than Nanaimo?
Len Sherman: I'm glad you're enjoying the stories and at -20 degrees, the snow dang near up to my crotch in places, I do have more time on my hands, which is great, because I'll soon be busy again.
Brandi S: Last night, I caught up on your blog.. I don't seem to be getting an automatic response when you post on there. REALLY enjoyed reading it and especially liked the ones that were about the track.. and the picture of your dad too.
Len Sherman: Apparently you do receive an update on the Blog but it goes to the Gmail buzz spot or some other place or another. However, I could send you the connection via email if you like. I'm glad you're enjoying the tales about my racetrack days - although some of them are bitter-sweet, they are still very colourful and wonderful memories to me - will write a few more stories about those days later on.
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