ful·some
1. offensive to good taste, especially as being excessive; overdone or gross
‘Wow…!’ Cynthia lay back on the slightly rumpled sheets. ‘That was incredible!’
Michael smiled to himself, then turned his gaze to his lover.
‘You were incredible. I was just lucky to be here.’
Cynthia rolled over on her side, closer to him. A lazy finger traced the downwards line of his belly hair.
‘Yes, you were! But, honestly, did you answer one of those ads or something…those email ads, to, you know, get…’
‘Bigger?’ Michael laughed and pushed her hand away.
‘Don’t get funny about it…I just felt…filled. So thank you, Spunk! It was memorable.’
Cynthia slipped off the bed, checked her mobile, began searching for underwear. Michael watched as she dressed.
‘I have to get back to the office. Can you fix up for the mini-bar?’
‘But we didn’t use the…’
Cynthia grabbed a chocolate bar and a tiny bottle of Scotch. She paused at the door, loot in hand.
‘See ya later, big boy!’
Michael checked his rear-view mirror, then pulled out into the traffic. The entrance to the Motel disappeared behind him in a camouflage of used car lots and fried food dispensaries.
As he negotiated the light mid-afternoon traffic Michael’s phone began ringing.
He smiled. ‘That’ll be for you, Spunk!’ Tried to pull the mobile from his trouser pocket. It stuck tight. Too big. Caught awkwardly on the fabric. Stupid bloody smartphone.
Michael looked up. The car in front was racing backward toward him. He slammed on his brakes; his foot pushing the pedal hard against the floor of the driver’s well, willing his car to stop in time.
His heart-beat was slowing down. He sat on the kerb, patting pockets for cigarettes. Three years clean and still his hands didn’t know.
The policeman proffered a packet of Stuyvies. Michael looked up at them for a moment. Shook his head.
‘Nice bit of driving, mate! That car-transporter — what are the odds? One of the cars just dropping off it, right in front of you?! And you didn’t panic, just slowed down till your bumpers kissed, threw your car in reverse, backed up to a halt, no-one hurt, no damage to the vehicles…’
The officer lit a cigarette. Blew out the smoke. Looked at the mobile in Michael’s hand.
‘Like a Bond movie. Lucky you weren’t using that, eh?’
Michael nodded slowly.
He pushed the door open. The house was empty. Hints of the cop’s smoke played with his nostrils. Wished he’d had one, now.
Michael looked at the familiar hallway; glad no-one was home. What a day! He loosened his tie, re-living it, then suddenly froze — oh shit, the mini-bar bill!
He’d forgotten all about it after she’d gone. Showered, dressed, made sure nothing incriminating was left behind. Driven away.
‘Bloody Cynthia!’
Michael sucked in his breath. Don’t say her name at home. He pulled the tie from his neck. Opened the lounge room door.
‘SUR-PRISE!!’
Bright lights, the room ridiculously full of Michael’s laughing family and friends. He felt a sudden pain in his chest. Miriam came up to him, tentative, hopeful.
‘Happy Birthday, darling…Is this okay?’
Michael leaned down and kissed his wife on the cheek.
‘It’s perfect, sweetheart. Thanks.’
‘Really? I know you don’t like a fuss, but it’s a special one, and Michael Jnr…well, it was his idea, actually.’
Miriam beckoned to a shorter, younger version of Michael hovering awkwardly near a light switch on the wall.
‘Mikey J…Come here!’
The boy moved slowly toward them. Michael stared at him, shaking his head.
‘Son.’
Michael Jnr looked up.
‘Dad.’
He and Michael shook hands.
‘So, when did you fly in?’
‘This morning. Came straight from the airport to help Mum with all the prep for your big party…’
The two men glanced around the room. Everywhere, happy smiles and eager conversations.
‘…there was a crash on South Road which held my cab up for a while, but I still had time to organise this!’
Michael followed his son’s pointing hand. A piñata, a gaily decorated pony, hung from the ceiling, twisting slowly.
Michael Jnr laughed. ‘I remembered how much you liked to hit things.’
Michael frowned, but his son had moved away toward the kitchen, shaking his empty glass as the reason.
Mark, his best friend since primary school, was suddenly right next to him. Michael started.
‘You have always liked the horses!’ Mark smiled. Then quietly, in Michael’s ear. ‘So, how are you, mate? You seem a bit sketchy. Everything all right?’
Michael turned to him.
‘I’m fine.’
Mark handed him a brimming glass of champagne. Smirked.
‘That’s great, then. And hey — you can pretend like nothing’s going on, but I know your little secret, you arsehole!’
Michael felt cold drops of spilled wine hit his fingers. He swallowed. How could Mark know?
‘Really?’
‘I’ve seen the latest Fin Review — you’re on top again! You are charmed, sunshine. The rest of us are still licking our wounds from the Great Fucking Cockup, and here’s you, coining it hand over fist.’
‘Oh, that. Sure. I’ve been lucky. Got a great new CEO.’
‘I know — it was in the article. Cynthia Mackenzie. She’s hot!’
Michael stared at his old friend.
‘C’mon. There was a photo. Don’t go all PC on me. I know you’re in a committed relationship. Me, too. But if we weren’t…’
Mark drank deeply, finishing his wine. He winked at Michael.
‘What d’ya reckon’s inside the piñata?’
He splashed water on his face. Focussed on the pale features looking back at him. Some of the water had landed on his hair, plastered it to his forehead. He looked like a drowned rat.
I need to lie down, thought Michael. I feel so…disconnected…from everything in this house. So tired of it all. And the fucking piñata. What was that all about?
Muffled conversation and laughter from the party followed him down the hallway. He pushed open their bedroom door and lay down on the bed. He was tired. So tired he left his shoes on. And he never did that.
He was being prodded.
‘Wake up sleepy-head! It’s piñata time!’
Miriam stood at the end of the bed, a broomstick in her hand. She waved it at him.
‘You can hit it with this!’
‘Here he is!’
‘The Birthday Boy!’
‘C’mon Mike, man up! Smack that pony!’
Michael Jnr had a scarf. It was the blindfold. He approached Michael.
‘Turn around, Dad.’
Michael turned, bending low to help his son. As he did he saw her across the room. Cynthia. What the fuck was she doing here? Oh, Christ! The scarf covered his eyes. The room went black. The pressure of the blindfold increased around his head as Michael Jnr tightened it.
‘Can’t see anything can you, Dad? No cheating now!’
His hands were wrapped around a wooden pole. Of course, the broom. Miriam must be near.
‘Thanks, darling.’
‘My pleasure!’ came Cynthia’s sardonic response. The room erupted in laughter.
‘I can’t see a fucking thing! C’mon…Miriam, Mikey-J, help me out here.’
He almost tripped as he blindly stepped forward. Suddenly he was grabbed, turned, spun around twice or three times. He fell to the ground. More laughter.
‘Get up and hit it!’
The rage in him spilled into his chest like physical pain. He roared. Stood up. Smashed the air blindly, the broom sweeping above his head. He connected with something. Hit out again. A woman screamed and he was hit by falling…things. The piñata — he’d got it open.
Miriam’s voice in his ear.
‘They called me, too. Enjoyed the choccie, did you?’
The broom was wrested from his hands and blows began to rain down on his chest and head. Michael fell to the floor.
The ambo leant back on his haunches, defeated, exhausted from pummelling the prone man’s chest.
‘He’s gone. He’s dead.’
A young policeman turned away, reached for a packet of cigarettes. His female partner shook her head.
‘Those’ll kill ya, you know!’
The cop laughed.
‘Yeah, but not as fast as a run-away car off a transporter. What are the odds?’
He looked at the almost-flattened car they had dragged the dead man from and shook his head. ‘Poor bastard.’
‘Should’na been on his mobile tho, should he? Took the call and it was just some guy chasing up a mini-bar tab for thirteen bucks! Thirteen bucks! Anyway, finish your smoke, we’ve gotta go and tell the wife.’
