'Once In A Lifetime' by Richard Oxenham
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads is four minutes and seventeen seconds long: just enough time for Michael Bowler to question his life.
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. And you may find yourself in another part of the world...
This was the Michael Bowler of the past, the drifter - travelling from country to country, seeking out extremes, fuelled by drugs and a desire to experience different cultures and peoples.
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife and you may ask yourself - well, how did I get here?
Michael had been asking himself that question frequently since turning forty. He knew that the beautiful house had been a gift from his father-in-law and that his beautiful wife attended the gym and spa four times a week, but these were products of the present and he'd lost sight of his youth. His memory seemed unreliable, like he was two separate people; the man before Deborah and the man after.
But Michael didn't blame her. How could he? When they'd got married he'd loved her, it hadn't been some reckless dive into the unknown, he'd pictured his life with her and he'd felt comfortable. But now that was the problem - comfort.
And you may tell yourself; this is not my beautiful house! And you may tell yourself; this is not my beautiful wife!
Michael felt redundant. Deborah was wealthy enough to support the both of them and virtually all their material possessions had been purchased by her family. He worked as an accountant, but it felt like pretence, as if his idyllic life would dissolve unless he earned a respectable amount of money and socialised with the right people.
Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was. Nothing seemed to change since their marriage. Their life was predictable; they would go to bed at the same time every night and read for an hour before turning the lights out. Sometimes Michael would reach over and run his fingers down Deborah's spine. He knew she could feel his touch, his longing, but she would just shiver. They would wake to civility and cereal, hiding behind oversized newspapers.
You may ask yourself, where does that highway go? And you may ask yourself, am I right? Am I wrong? And you may say to yourself, my god! What have I done?
Michael remembered the drifter, the carefree boy who'd manipulated the world. He'd felt immortal, intoxicated by possibilities. He remembers Mathilde - her smell, the way she'd laughed, the sensation of three bottles of wine in his bloodstream, fucking her in a Viennese park at two in the morning. He remembers Paula, her smell, the way she'd laughed, the sensation of three bottles of wine in his bloodstream, fu… Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was.
He was unsure of his memories, they blurred incoherently and he worried that few were real. Letting the days go by, letting the water hold him down.
Michael's earphones were tight to his head and he watched Deborah through the conservatory window. She moved through the garden with grace and poise, but he knew her every move. He could see her path to the Chrysanthemums and the spot where she'd kneel to water them. Letting the days go by, letting the water hold him down.
He watched her kneel and tip the watering-can and he laughed. She heard him from the garden, turned her head and smiled. Letting the days go by, letting the water hold him down.
Michael removed his earphones and dropped his iPod lazily on the couch beside him. He smiled back at her, before lifting the newspaper from the table, blocking his view of the garden and Deborah. Letting the days go by, letting the water hold him down.
- Richard Oxenham
