The very first time I heard Ken’s voice I
felt comforted. The soft vibrations of middle-aged vocal chords suggested a man
who had given up on life, but not on smoking. Smoking, in a way, had become the
one constant in Ken’s life. Smoking and long bus-driver socks.
I liked that.
I smiled and with words dripping in honey
suggested that he help me with my little bureaucratic problem. “Germans,” I
told him, “the Germans are keeping me from my driving dreams.”
The soft wheezing caused by his emphysema
made me think he understood. He understood and he was going to ensure that we
beat the German system together. Just Ken and I.
But I was mistaken. In reality all that
existed behind his two black lungs was an even blacker heart. Ken wasn’t
really interested in helping me or pulling his socks down to a reasonable
height. He just wanted his next cigarette and to him I was nothing more than a
roadblock he’d have to beat his way through.
Oh Ken. It could have been beautiful, Ken.
It wasn’t beautiful, Ken.
Upon hearing my request, Ken’s hoarse voice
turned cold and unpleasant, like a suppository. His brain shuddered and cowered
away from the idea of doing work. Forcing back a gag reflex at the mere thought
of it, he explained that he had no intention of actually doing anything. He
worked for the RTA service centre, he reminded me, and suggested that I ask the
moon for help because that would probably garner better results. Then with one
final wheezing sound he hung up.
Oh Ken. I wish your name was Kevin.