Fit for purpose. October 21, 2009

Alfred was 23 when he first realized that he was special. In the extraordinary sense, rather than that retarded sense. Damn the P.C. I say, why be politically correct when you can get to the point. Anyway, Alfred was 23 when luck tipped its cap. Alfred found that he was able to talk to objects. He could have conversations, honest to the goodness two way exchanges of sentences, with lamps, mugs and even with more obscure objects, such as doorstops and ornamental bookends.

When Alfred learnt he could do this, he was (as one might expect) more than slightly worried that he was losing his mind. It was a chat with a teacup that settled the argument for him. He was told that ‘Life is tough for those with real gifts’. Sound advice, Alfred thought. Far beyond a teacup, Alfred mused. So far ahead, in fact, that Alfred quite forgot his fear in a moment of unfurling enlightenment. And this was the moment that Alfred learnt that this gift was merely another aspect of his life. Like the miracle of self-propelled locomotion, fast as stubby legs could carry him – or the sense of sight, nearsighted as he was. In any case, from these two impressions you have a clear understanding that Alfred felt entitled to have at least one special gift. For a boy born with so few talents, the ability to talk to objects was far and away enough by way of compensation.

At first it was just Teacup that he could hear properly. All the other objects that had spoken before were like whispers, or a sudden scream. Both sounds unintelligible and terrifying. No, it was Teacup that settled him into the life of talking to objects.

Teacup told Alfred many things, before introducing him to the myriad other objects in the kitchen. Some of his earliest friends were Kettle, Pan and Rolling Pin. Rollin’, as he liked to be known, was a wonderful character. Alfred would often roll him over the linoleum floor for shits and giggles, while Kettle whistled a merry tune and Pan sat by with an air of purpose.

One thing that all people should know about objects is that they are most eager to be used. In fact, antiques are the unhappiest of all creatures. They moan, constantly, and after some years of moaning they simply give up on words and scream and wail. Not long later they are silent as space.

Another thing that all people should know is that objects are deeply opposed to superfluousness. They will lord over any surplus, and therefore unused, crockery. They will hurl abuse at the cups that, through no fault of their own, are simply not picked out to have tea or coffee poured into their eager mouths. ‘Survival of the most useful.’ That’s how Teacup explained it.

The last thing that should be said, before we continue, is that objects are extremely prejudice to those from ‘another room’. To them a kettle has no place in a bathroom and a loo-brush, no place in a kitchen. Where objects do make an ‘unhealthy’ transition they are mocked, jeered at and made to feel ridiculous. The exception is for objects that make frequent trips, the so-called ‘Tourist Class’ of object. Such as plates, cups and bowls that might enter the living room. Books (a snobby race of object) and cordless telephones; which might end up in any room whatever. For the most part objects are resigned to staying in the room that best suits them. And that life goes on suiting them until the landfill.

Alfred’s education on the politics of being an object made him something of a champion of the house from day one. He would ensure that objects were replaced in their respective rooms. He would rotate the cups to ensure each had a fair turn. He even ensured that there was a spare bulb standing by when a lamp went out, lest they feel purposelessness for a second. In short, he was a hero and was treated with a great deal of respect. ‘There goes our Alfred.’ They’d say. ‘Isn’t he a fine fellow, well he could very be a lamp if ever I saw a shining example.’

Of course, it was also in our boy Alfred’s best interest to be helpful. Imagine a single person shouting for your attention. Now think of the effect of a room-full of people. Now picture a house-full. Each separate voice, seeking fulfillment of their own agenda. It was enough to send pains shooting out from his temples. Enough to make his eyes throb in their sockets. It was maddening. So, at least with the house in order, they would stick to the business of whispering gossip to one another and not hounding our Alfred for help.

Now, Alfred’s mother (Doris) wasn’t in receipt of Alfred’s gift and his Father was long since buried. As such, Alfred kept his talent to himself for fear of being experimented on, or worse – simply pointed out in the street by children. Of course, often he’d slip. He’d mistakenly address an object as Sir or Madam, if he bumped into them by accident. He’d even become suspiciously insistent that his mother replaced certain items in their respective rooms.

The dear old woman; in her cardigan – tiny, bird-like talons for fingers. That totem to days; resplendently adorned with faux-diamond jewelry – disrespected by her own son. The poor crone; in her pink slippers – throat crocking a protest at such maltreatment. In her own home! Her own son! Can you imagine it, the good-natured Alfred, his father’s son, working up to shouting at a weak, weathered, widow. And simply for bringing the washing-up bowl into the living room in order that she could soak her swollen feet. Well, it’s disrespectful isn’t it?

Alfred’s Mother was soon trained to leave things as they were ‘meant to be.’ Alfred went back to being the hero of the house. He spoke freely to the objects, not caring if his mother overheard.

It was about this time that Doris took to shaking and weeping. For days she would just sit there, Alfred tending to her with meals and assisting her to the bathroom. All the while Alfred kept the object’s taunts to himself, so as not to shock her with their insults.

‘No longer fit for purpose, that one.’ Pot said. Rollin’ was of the same opinion. ‘She’s as good as landfill-bound, far as I can see.’ Said Teacup. Alfred said nothing; he just went about keeping things in order.

Not long later there was an incident. It happened whilst Alfred and his mother took tea in the living room. They were talking happily on the wonderful outlook for the afternoon and if they shouldn’t sit in the garden. ‘You’d do as well to treat her to euthanasia.’ Said Bible abruptly.

It was at this point where Alfred could no longer hold back. ‘How dare you!’ He screamed before picking up Bible and hurling him across the room.

‘Sir, you forget yourself. Desist!’ The other books shouted together.
He didn’t hear the smash. He didn’t register anything until a plate said the word that marked the crime. ‘Murderer!’ One long word that screeched out into the silence and ended in a guttural sobbing.

Alfred’s mother had dropped a cup. In the fright that overtook her, in the moment of panic caused by her son’s outburst, she’d opened her fingers and the cup tumbled through the air. A young thing, it didn’t have time to cry out before it shattered into innumerable pieces.

Only last week Alfred had been talking to that little cup about starting a drinking vessel choir. The newest member of The Cupboard Crew now lay in fragments. All he can do was get a brush and try his best to keep as much together as can be. Lest he be buried at the landfill in that dreaded state; ‘incomplete’.

‘You can’t let her get away with it Alfred, she’ll do us all in!’ Teacup pleaded. ‘She must be stopped!’

‘My mother made a slip, it happens. Please, try stay calm!’

‘You let it happen, you should have given her a sippy cup you twat!’ Teacup screeched.

‘What do you want? I can’t undo things!’

‘We want retribution! We want an eye for an eye. We want her ‘incomplete’!’

‘You want me to kill my mother!?’

‘Yes, it is that simple – if you want a happy life you’ll get rid of her. It’s an act of prevention. You don’t want us to die, do you?’

‘Of course not! But—’

‘But nothing! You must, you’re the only one fit for the purpose!’

Much as Alfred did protest, in the end he made up his mind. As we all would, we’d brain our kin to silence an army of voices. He took his mother upstairs to the bathroom, forced her head into the wide open mouth of the bathtub and therein bashed her brains out with Rollin’. Shards of her skull splintering off. Great lumps of brain making a glutinously bloody bid for the floor.

All the mess artfully kept in the belly of the tub. She slumped down inside, lifeless. Alfred climbed in on top of her and, after drawing the shower curtain closed, he ensured that her body was entirely dead. Just as that cup had fallen to a place where repair was impossible. The solid thuds, slowly changed to a sucking, splattering sound. And then it was over.

Alfred took off his clothes and left them on top of his mother’s corpse. He then dismounted her and walked to the kitchen to replace Rollin’. Then he took himself to the bedroom to have a lie down.

Next morning Alfred awoke his first thought being that he’d had a messed up dream. Even before the alarm clock tried to engage him in a discussion about recent sports news, he knew he had no such luck. He didn’t even try to go into the bathroom. Just walked on by and on downstairs to get some breakfast and a cup of tea.

Things got back to normal pretty quickly for our Alfred, in the sense that he wasn’t too harassed by the objects. Teacup was happy not to be ‘next on the hit-list’ as he put it. Bathtub was happy to be full. Rollin’ insisted that he not be cleaned, as he liked his new colour immensely – it seemed to Rollin’ as if he was made of rosewood.

In the end however, it was pretty clear that things could not remain in this tranquil, ordered state. Doris was starting to smell. She smelt worse than anything Alfred had smelt. Each time he went to the toilet he had to endure her rank odor. Even the smell of his own excrement would have been more pleasing, but it was under a fat layer of decay.

At the end of that week the doorbell rings, twice. Alfred dresses in a gown and wanders downstairs, greeting objects as he walks past them.

‘Open up, its the police!’ Said the Constable (Stewie). He was outside with two other blue fellows, which could be made out through the warped glass of the front door. Alfred tightened the rope on his gown and walked over to open the door.

The Constable was shown into the kitchen by Alfred, who then set about making tea. They were there for routine follow up to a report of a large infestation of flies seen coating Alfred’s bathroom window.

So that is the story of Alfred. The poor boy’s in an asylum now. They were set to leave with the story that a bird had simply gotten into the bathroom through the window and died. They were actually in the hallway. The other two officers milling about outside. The Constable tipped his cup back and downed the last dregs of tea and then handed Alfred the cup. There was a moment of fumbling, as he tried to take the cup and it dropped.

In the end it took all three men to restrain him and they didn’t stop there. Two held him down whilst the Constable checked the bathroom and came back white as a sheet. They gave him a right good beating to boot.

Anyway, now his only friend is his first – Teacup.

We join Teacup in search for a new purpose.

‘Alfred, I could be a keepsake cup. Do you have any foreign coins, or a lone battery? Tell you what; pull out all your teeth and give them to me, I’ll look after them for you!’