I was some towns away from home, could not really remember which one.
I had just finished in the toilet, a public one, was washing my hands, then I suddenly realized what I had been reading on the toilet door had relevance. It was not what was written, but who wrote it. I recognized the hand writing, it was familiar, Teront’s.
It was typical public toilet literature, be the same anywhere in the world. A written edition of some erotic act, but its provenance Teront surprised.
Teront was a success, the ladies his strength, he was well liked.
There was clarity in his writing, it was convincing, he knew his subject it was familiar. But why not elaborate on another daily drill, perhaps the sound of munching cornflakes? Perhaps it was a wish to educate, it was certainly good guidance, but for whatever reason Teront became a scribe.
The population does not deplete, replacements for the departed arrive i.e. there are births. Life for most commences in bed, boy and girl, double or queen size, for some it is the back seat of a car. But wherever or whenever it does not matter, the outcome is the same, a desire, want, need satisfied till next time and of course conception might occur. This of course is the evolutionary intention, which for most is the received wisdom.
But wherever or what, sex goes on, most partake, if they didn’t some of us would not be here. This ubiquity, this widespread participation will contain those who have the urge to write, perhaps they have no progeny it will be their only record, but why in public toilets, there are blogs, magazines where all else is ancillary and why not the publication of a book?
There are probably experts on this subject, this compulsion to write or more specifically its location. There may be printed matter, books, perhaps there are even conferences where sages gather and the mystery might be uncovered why so many carry pens. The need to poo brings the chance to write. The subject of course is on the minds of many.
But enough of my preamble, the relevance was not what or where, but who was its creator, was it Teront?
I dashed back in and in a flash had snapped it, the camera on my handy mobile phone, versatile equipment.
I had recognized the hand writing, but at leisure I sought further confirmation. Teront was a friend of many years, there had been occasional correspondence, some had been retained I matched the handwriting, there was no doubt Teront filled the space. But there was a further connection, the reading in the toilet had commenced with the outline of a bird, the barn yard rooster. This too was familiar, I remembered it from somewhere on a blog.
The handwriting was confirmed, the need became to find the bird, the icon on the blog.
The search, home reached, the discovery, the rooster the beauty in the flock. I had seen it, but had read no further, I’d probably expected a dissertation on the origins of eggs, a tome of technicalities, too much a burden for my mind, it would have swamped.
But now I read which previously I’d fled from. It was thus.
Teront had a Maiden Aunt. The lady kept a few chickens and a rooster. The hens were rotated, the old out followed by young replacements. Fresh screwing for the rooster the Aunt had confided. The new ones did lay more eggs, being nubile was not their only benefit. Probably the remembrance of youth propelled the Maiden Aunt. She may have dithered, which one should she choose she may have seen the altar as nothing but a trap. For whatever reason she saw the rooster got the breaks.
There were sometimes graphics in his blogs. There were chess problems, white to play, mate in four moves. They were always on a human bottom, a female’s.
Teront had been a lady killer. He was liked, that was more than true, the smile on the face of who was with him was the confirmation it was always there. He had something, invisible perhaps, envied definitely, perhaps he’s got a bigger you know what, was the sometimes sour comment. But the technical question might be asked ‘How would it fit?’ Size was not the explanation. Whatever it was he had something most of us would wish for. But I must stop. My effusive chatter must cease, a torrent of words about nothing will merely drive the reader to another book.
So I return to the tangible and of course Teront, his graphics and the chess. The legs of the subject were parted. The figures on the left cheek of the bottom were slightly different to the right. The impression was conveyed that the arm was stretched out, it had further to reach. There was a further conclusion that an art expert would reach, the painter would have done some guessing, but would also have relied on a mirror. A mirror fixed upon the ceiling above a bed. Was this the explanation? The reason may I say for Teront’s success, but no, if this was so there would not have been a bedroom in the land without the attachment to the ceiling, a requirement inserted in the building code, the logic all on an equal footing or in this case no horizontal disadvantage. There might even have been a slogan promoting the idea.
‘Equal enjoyment for all during exercise in bed.’
But enough of adornments for the boudoir, the trysting place and back to something about which I know nothing, art and to something of which I know a little Teront.
Chess was a strength, he was good, a mind that could perceive patterns. The doodlings revealed an aptitude for drawing, but in this instance they were a digression, a memento for the lady, a record of those happy moments spent in bed with Teront.
Enough of the graphics and now Teront.
Teront disappeared. I do not mean in the sense of a missing person. He was seen around, but in a different guise. He ceased to be in social circulation. He took up residence with a lady. Plural no, singular. No one knew his companion she just appeared, arrived with Teront. There had been other disappearances, Teront would vanish for a while, then return, but this time it was not alone. There was gossip, rumours, perhaps the lady was the reason for his absences. This was to remain a mystery with possible resolution. Teront and I were friends and I did not wish the friendship to be damaged by intrusive questions and so the matter rested.
Teront and the lady would not be seen, the grass in his garden would be uncut, hedges untrimmed, weeds would dominate and take control, windows would become dirty and unwashed. Then sudden frantic activity would overwhelm the chaos, Teront and the lady would appear, implements for tidying and cleaning would be used, drastic and decisive was the urge, the worrisome blot would become like all the other gardens in the street, unrecognizable.
And as suddenly as this activity would start, it would cease.
For some time it puzzled, then an explanation. There was a four weekly cycle.
I did some guessing. The horizontal slog, replaced briefly by energies employed in the vertical position, then back to parallel with the ground.
So Teront was for the moment packaged. I decided to dig into his blogs.
He’d talked briefly of a relation, an Uncle I think, of a tragedy, a car accident that had changed the unfortunate’s life.
This brief synopsis was to tie in with what followed it was so unusual the blog could only be Teront’s.
I had little idea of what I was to find, what was revealed was tragic. My curiosity became a scourge. Teront carried the disappointment and now it was my turn to share.
Anonymity must be preserved and so I call the Uncle M.
M was successful. Money derived from hard work and the right decisions.
He ran his own business. He was a fair and an honest employer and this extended to all his dealings, life at home was the same. Happily married with four children. Most would say he had it all and his conduct was such that it deserved to be so.
Then the police arrived. They were grave. Was something wrong? He mused.
A car accident. His wife and four children all killed. The blog contained few details. Hit head on by an overtaking car. Nothing remained of the other vehicle but scattered metal, the sole occupant had walked away unscathed.
Nothing else was said.
It was too much. What was there for M? How would he cope?
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But worse awaited. His eyesight went, he could not see, he was blind.
He sold his business. He had many worries, but lack of money was not one.
There was no self pity, M was brave, but sometimes he envied the less well off their money worries.
I recoiled from what I read, but what followed was no better.
M and his wife had meshed between the sheets. They were in sync. They had taken compatibility to a level reached by few. The frequency and what they did, there were tremors in the bed such was the harmony. What waste, I thought why was this to happen? These feelings were reinforced by what I saw around me. The disappointing efforts of many in the boudoir, the futility of double beds whose only use was sleep.
This was Teront’s blog. Did this explain his withdrawal from the world?
Did the disappointment hurt? It must. He had needs and thus the lady. Patience can uncover the arcane. Were his absences a search? Did this explain the lady?
I put Teront aside, after what I had read it was too much to say packaged.
The blog continued.
M had much energy it’s use had been diverse and evenly spread. But he changed, a response to what had happened, the coping mechanism, the hanging on to sanity. The family man disappeared, the bedroom tremors became turmoil.
But these energies sought reciprocation. There was a sifting and a sieving, then came the young lady.
There’d been no measurement of looks, M could not see, so no energy was expended. But on the scale of good to unrateable she was a medium.
For the sake of anonymity Teront had called the young lady by the Greek symbol for the letter Alpha, the beginning.
In M’s house plumbing worked, water pressure constant, fluctuating temperatures did not plague, vigilance was not needed in the shower the shout was never heard ‘Turn the f ing tap off.’ This was a new experience for Alpha. Showers had been an adventure, it seemed if anyone flushed a toilet anywhere in the street freezing cold water would spray and shock. Pub closing time became a definite no no for ablutions. There was a showering schedule. The best time to wash.
In M’s house all this went. It took Alpha time to adjust, so ingrained, so totally stamped in was the habit.
I continued with Teront’s blog, but I was mystified by the details of the plumbing. I have précised much of what was written on the subject, some was too technical to follow. But how could this have any relevance to the accident and what followed.
The blog continued. M could not see, but he could feel and he could smell, but odours were abolished by his plumbing. Alpha showered frequently, her body was whiff free.
M saw a space when they made love, it was not enough to feel, he had to smell.
And so in his methodical and practical way he sought to solve the problem.
He planned a trip, a holiday in the desert. Water would be scarce and showering difficult. And so they went and M’s desires were sated.
This tale of doom contained some salvage. I knew of desert holidays, there popularity perplexed. Why journey in the fire and heat and scarcity of water. Then the explanation, the resolution to the puzzle, the file was closed.
I could relax posters for desert holidays would raise no further questions. Their appeal was now explained.
The blog was not quite finished.
Smell became an unexpected worry, Teront could think of little else, the silent pursuer would not go, nothing could shake it. His nights became a kaleidoscope of dreams for odourless perfume.
There were suggestions, cures, remedies, walking the most common, it was calming, therapeutic, but there was an omission, this was not the exit, no refuge from the toils.
Others would be walking many with a dog, there’d always be the reminder, the endless sniffing, the interest in ‘you know what,’ the smells left by other dogs.
Teront faced an uncertain future, but a gradual change came.
First his Uncle's eyesight returned, there was a concomitant reduction of visits to the desert and finally cessation.
Teront's worries about smells shrank, diminished and disappeared, but there was another breakout. Teront hadn't yielded completely to conformity.
There was a spate of graffiti on public statues. Chess problems adorned their posteriors. No one knew who did it, but two plus two equalled Teront.
Teront joined an art school. It was I believe an attempt to improve his capabilities with brush and paint and even yes the spray can. There was a coincidental cessation of the graffiti. It ceased, toute de suit, immediately.
I think some of his doodlings were uncovered in the rubbish, chess problems in unusual settings, sometimes on human bodies. Some questions may have been asked, Teront would have seen the possibilty of the graffiti being linked to him, thus it ceased.
Teront then became normal. I mean his behaviour became like most of those around him. One wife, X number of children and a mortgage.
A gap came in my life, an empty space, then I realised it was Teront. We were still friends, but I missed the Teront that had been, the old Teront. There had been excitement in his actions, but they were finished, I just wish there could be another Teront, the missing Teront, but alas that cannot be.
The Search for the Father