Breathers
How can the color pink have so many goddamn shades? Deep pink, fandango, folly French rose. Weller’s tired eyes stared at the tattered enamel paint chart in his hands, as he realized in an instant that debating this question sucked. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe he was being too harsh.
Why the chart had twenty-four shades instead of twenty-three was an important question to be saved for a Friday night. Too be debated on, researched, given its moment in the sun. Except it was 4.30 on a Tuesday morning, and he doubted that he could wait.
‘“No idea,’” he told himself, as he pinned the paint chart onto the wall, then opened the top draw of a cabinet and slid out five different colored enamel pots of paint. He stared at his selection, yellow, red, blue, black, and green. Not a shade of pink anywhere. Or canary yellow or dove grey. Just five colors to paint the image that was constantly changing in his head.
Weller grabbed the red enamel pot then turned his wheelchair on its axis, and pushed his chair down the hall. Or the grand lobby as he liked to call it. Or road to somewhere else. And one full turn of the wheelchair later, that road came to a sudden end.
He was now in the bathroom. A simple basin, toilet and regrettably splintered mirror, that reminded him of a tiny capsule apartment he’d once seen in Hong Kong. Functional and nothing more. Not a place to hang out, and engulf yourself in the morning paper, browse the sports pages, or check your stocks. He grabbed a sliver tube of toothpaste on top of the basin and put it on his lap, then looked up and caught his harrowing reflection in the mirror’s fractured glass.
He was thirty-five, slowly greying. His heavy beard swallowed his jaws, leaving a small gap for his mouth to push out words and shove in food. Functional and nothing more. But the man in the mirror didn’t care, as the image staring back at him was just a reflection of where he was.
A titanium Navcom bunker buried deep beneath the surface. Bomb proof. Shock proof. Storm proof. A safe haven if things go wrong. And in 2085, Weller’s world had turned to shit. Literally.
He slid off his chair onto the toilet, a flat clean surface with a small round chute, then heard the familiar sound of the bathroom monitor beep from against the wall. Daily routine meant he didn’t need to look at the red cross-hairs on the monitors screen, as he already knew what it was showing thanks to the camera inside the chute: a high-definition viewpoint of his anus, that curiously reminded him of a rotten prune.
“Alignment unsuccessful,”
A computerized voice echoed from above. H-U-B, as Navcom called it, was Weller’s eye in the sky. A verbal extension of the bunker’s mainframe that helped to keep him alive. Weller complied and wriggled his buttocks left.
‘“Alignment unsuccessful.’”
Weller rolled his eyes. As much as he used to enjoy this game, today he was not in the mood.
‘“Alignment unsuccessful.’”
Weller slid his buttocks right.
‘“Alignment unsuccessful.’” Then Weller snapped. ‘“Fine, I’ll look.’”
He turned to the monitor, and gently slid his buttocks over the chute, until the cross-hairs turned green over his anus like a glowing X marks the spot.
‘“Alignment complete.’”
Weller emptied his bowels, and listened to the fecal collection tube beneath the chute radiate his deposit into liquid on the other end. Routine continued as he pressed a button above his head, and a rush of vacuumed air filled the chute, cleaned his anus and cleared the air. Functional and nothing more. He mulled the phrase in his mind, as if doing his business in a bucket would’ve given his argument more weight.
But right now he was leaving. He grabbed the handrail to stand, and a sudden groan from inside his stomach made him realize he was wrong.
‘“Oh man,’” Weller said. His stomach rumbled. This wasn’t good. And in the blink of an eye he was seated back down over the chute.
‘“Alignment unsuccessful.’”
He stared at the red cross-hairs on the screen. His stomach ached, and then he panicked. ‘“No, no, no … go green, go green!’”
But he ran out of time to adjust his aim, as his bowels unceremoniously evacuated whatever was left into the chute. Silence. And then the silence lingered. He listened for a change, but nothing came to make him nervous, as he gently slid his buttocks back off the chute.
WHOOSH!
And then it happened. The chute erupted from below and spat out a geyser of dark brown spray like a giant sneeze onto the walls. And all over Weller. Brown spray dripped from his eyebrows, then ran down his neck, to join forces with his light grey overalls that were now splattered with putrid flecks. And all he could do was to state the obvious. And change his overalls.
“Shit”.