Jun 28, 2006

THE NUMBERIST

The trash can had been empty for almost thirty minutes when the next load came hurtling down the chute - warm and wet, the soft pink colour of mulched carnival treats with grey fibrous chunks mixed in. It flooded down for a good ten seconds, filling the can to its brim. Eric wrapped his arms around the bin - pressing stenching fluids into his shirt - and lifted deeply from his knees, bringing the rim to his mouth. As he drank it down the adulation rushed from the stinking hole above him.

"We love you Numberist," the residents bellowed down. "We would all surely melt without you".

And they would, he supposed, melt that is, if he wasn't there to digest their toxic sludge. To drink down their refuge and swallow their sins.

THE NUMBERIST

Eric's hands are tiny - half the size of a normal man's - and the bites his nails down to their nubs. He shakes hands like a timid child, cold and limp, sweat rising from his palms at even the sight of a stranger. His voice cracks and crumbles as he introduces himself, and he audibly whispers your name after you've said it in an effort not to forget. His breath stinks of a rotting breadbox, rich and yeasty, and warmer than one might expect. His teeth are big white squares that are almost more off-putting than anything else once you juxtapose them against his brittle, tearing lips and heinously acned complexion. His hair (what's left of it) is a greasy rag, placed upon his head, black as the night, and reeking of the many food scraps clinging to his shiny bald pate. He looks like a tiny, winded circus dwarf, breaking under the weight of his own self-doubt.

Keys jangle in the lock and the door swings open.

"You're done for the day Eric, go home and get some sleep".

"It's fine, I'm good for another load or two, I'll be home before midnight".

"I swear Eric, sometimes you act like this is all you have in life".

Eric mumbles under his paint-peeling breath, as Gary takes his seat by the can.