Metaphysics

the visit (a comical sketch)

He took considerable haste in making himself at home by kicking me out of my quarters and taking occupancy for a time until my coursework was to been submitted. I was outraged at this imperial act of savagery, but he insisted that he was only considering my coursework and the looming deadline, by way of denying me access to the devices of distraction, which he believed filled my room and was supposedly keeping me from concentrating on the work at hand.

After some deliberation eventually I settled at the kitchen table, where I found suitable space to work amongst dried gravy spills and breadcrumbs.

I refrained from arguing this absurdity until my coursework was finished, by which time he had filled my room with potato chip crumbs, half eaten pizza crusts, empty soda bottles, and crumpled pages from Consumer Reports and Rolling Stone.

It was at such time that he vacated my quarters and made way to other more comfortable accommodations. After spending nights on the kitchen floor with only my Burberry overcoat to keep London’s evening chill at bay I was thankful to have my room back and avoided any contention concerning the mess, which he carelessly had left behind.

By doing so I disregarded the injustices done and put all aside to make way for a pleasant respite before my dissertation project needed consideration. At the time, little did I know that such a respite was to be fraught with much unnecessary entanglement with the quixotic and metaphysical adventure of my visitor.

My visitor was to take a hotel room in High Holbron, quite near to my school, for the remaining days of his visit. This had a terrible effect on me for I was intensely worried that he would lure my fellow classmates into all night drinking session, but no such thing happened and I was spared the Catholic humiliation that usually accompanies such ordeals, but such would have been a welcomed foray considering what was to actually transpire.

The next few days were to be filled with utter barbarism coupled with farcical leaps of grotesque and wayward explorations of the London nightlife as well as its court system. I could not do even the slightest justice by relating these events to you by way of the written word, for one would need another language for such a feat. I shall only give you a faint whiff of the stench that this man, or shall I say ‘beast’, created by recounting a most abominable moment, which took place while we were in a gritty local restaurant filling our forms that had been emaciated from a day of sight seeing in exploring Chelsea and Westminster.

Seated not so far from us were three most attractive young women from some perhaps eastern European origin, who were engaged in friendly talk amongst themselves. My visitor was certain that they were Latvian, and I did not even venture a guess, for other occupation of the mind were whirling in my head, such as the possible loom of calamity.  An eventual enquiry from the waitress, which we overheard, revealed to us of their Russian origins.

An odd looking chap entered as all enjoyed their respective dining experiences. He briskly made his way in, and to a table very close to ours, and placed himself, seated in a posture exhibiting more comfort than one would imagine is appropriately allowed. He immediately ordered a bottle of scotch, by calling to a passing waitress, who looked on as she rushed by, with a bit of perturbed distress, but still maintaining polite accommodation. The bottle arrived within minutes, and our gentleman of ostentatious character pursued a requeste for three glasses to be brought to him immediately, after which, three scotch glasses were placed before him.

A second request fell into the air from man who had taken seat closest to our table, and it was gestured our way.  I was motionless, though my visitor perked up, looked at my face that issued forth the expression of fear and doom, as preparation for assigned work needed to be executed in the coming day. A still and quiet entered the space, my protest welled up and eventually made way to my lips, in the form of a polite gesture, that contained acknowledgement of this man’s consideration.

My visitor was totally confused, but it only took a few second for things to register in his intellect. He stood up and apologized, stating, that the words I had uttered “had just slipped out”. This was probably not the answer that the man was expecting, for it only increased the anger that was now evidently part of his nature, which was displayed on his face, and by way of his taking a shot, and slaming the glass on the table.

Chaos ignited as the restaurant attendants ran to the front speaking a foreign tongue, with much distress amongst them, and the chef, who was slightly shorter then I, ran to the back of the restaurant with a most fearful expression on his face. As all seemed quiet between the intruder and ourselves, knowledge of this character’s habits were obviously known to the employees of the restaurant. My visitor laughed at all this, deciding a more natural carefree posture then his host had taken.

Our Russian neighbors stood up and looked on with horror, as the gentlemen began shouting an abusive array of statements… “Bloody Yanks don know how da be a man?…”. After a few quizzical moments all who had stopped to look on had resumed to their prior activities, though the thirsty gentlemen just stood dumbfounded as the chef indicated that there needed to be order.  My visitor continued to laugh, looking at the gentlemen as well as me for signs of equal enjoyment, and obviously thought all was a friendly jest, but it soon became apparent that our intruder was attempting to colonize us, and our dining experience, perhaps out of some residual feelings for having lost the war. Perhaps not, for this man, who did look educated in a manner not immediately expressed, did seem eventually to have his way, as the two diners took up his offer and accepted what had become a more gentler demeanor than his initial demand. Though I saw that this may lead to a night of debauchery, I attempted to maintain a composure of sorts.

john  (2002 -) actually taken from a letter to a friend