Unconfirmed Reports

Around five in the morning Old Toad was woken by birds. Pretty, noisy little fuckers. Their idiotic twittering spoke eloquently of earthly innocence… but also gullibility, our sleepwalking into total destruction, our ignorant and ignoble descent. The descent of man, thought Old Toad, and crammed his hand anxiously between his legs. He drifted back into sleep…

Now it was nine o’clock, and the day had started without him. When he realised he was once again awake, he got up quickly and stumbled out into the light. Old Toad was warty and weary, but he still found within himself a stubborn hunger for the new day. He ate breakfast with gusto, jamming cereal into the gap between his cracked and hideous lips.

Toad contemplated the day that lay before him. He spread out the hours of endeavour, failure and pointlessness before his mind’s eye. He pored over them, and relished the repetitiveness of it all. Like yesterday, he could spend the day digging a hole. Or perhaps he could go shopping, and spend hours devising some vile and spicy stew. He would enjoy that.

He could already see the evening approaching. Of course it was distant yet, but it was hovering already - flashes of tiredness and defeat flickering in the peripheries of Toad’s vision. For him, going to sleep had always been a sort of giving up, accepting that nothing more could be done, or that to do more would be futile. Going to sleep was his everyday reminder that everything comes to an end.

Toad smoked his first cigarette of the day. It was tasteless and despicable… he stubbed it out when it was only half-way done. Under clear cold water, he scrubbed the night-filth from his hoary old limbs, and decided that he should indeed go to the shops. All was just waiting, just filling time and waiting for the end. We are all just waiting for the end, thought Toad. Prisoners blindfolded against the wall.

Walking down the street was easy in the morning. Morning streets were spacious, workers already working, children learning, the truly old and infirm all tucked away in their cots. The streets were there just for the likes of Old Toad. Easy streets. He jived a little as he made his way along the pavement.

Old Toad always looked at the rubbish when he walked down the street. The most interesting things were the things people discarded. Streets were full of two types of things: things that were supposed to be there, and things that had just been left there by lazy and ignorant people. It was these latter things that were far more interesting. Used condoms - fascinating, a story in every rubber; and also a life extinguished before God could even have his devious way with it. Small plastic bags - which of them had been used to carry drugs? Wrappers from gum, chocolate and chips - oh I’ve never seen that brand before, thought Toad. Sometimes he would stop and poke at something he saw on the ground; usually this was because he couldn’t recognise what it was, and these were the most fascinating things, until they revealed their identities and melted back into the normal rubbish of the streets.

Of course, there were a few people around, even in the quiet late morning. Toad lived in a quiet town, where most people only travelled in the safety of their cars - walking out of one building, getting into a car, then staying in that until they reached the next building. So the pavements were ghostly, empty… in this town it would not be so hard to murder someone in the street, since there was hardly ever anyone around. But still, there were a few. With these few people, Old Toad made furtive eye contact as he walked. With so few people in the streets, passing someone was a special event, a ripple of energy and anxiety. When there were only two people on the pavement, this meant that there was always the possibility - or the risk - of human connection. Even for a moment. And this could be quite disturbing for those who only wanted to give up, to go to sleep…

Now Toad found himself passing a modish young man. Sunglasses helped everybody concerned to pretend it was not happening. But still, the young man managed a weak smile, and a mumbled something. Old Toad issued his creaky old grin, a little condescending perhaps, but honest enough.

More bits of rubbish. A cool breeze rustled through the branches.

Next a young lady. Old Toad waited, studied the ground, almost whistled to himself. Then at the last moment he pounced, delivering a sharp moment of eye contact, an enigmatic half-smile. The young woman just looked straight ahead though. Still, Old Toad could be patient. Of course these foolish girls couldn’t see the wisdom, the experience he had to offer.

He got back to the serious business of looking at things, and trying to decide why he was going to the shops. Did he really need anything? Possibly not. But then if he decided not to buy anything, inevitably later in the day he would come to regret it, when he realised that all he needed was an apple, or some milk, or a bottle of liquor.

Old Toad rustled in his pockets. Amazing that this society was gullible enough to support him - putting money in his pockets, when all he could think about was their destruction. The wonders of modern technology eh? Food and money enough for everybody - well, not everybody, but for plenty of us… those others in other places would still have to starve. Imagine their shock and wonder, to learn that an old parasite like Toad could be given money to buy liquor, and strawberries, and… eggs. Ha ha!

He got to the shop: Greeks. Strange, warty people. When they talked they always sounded like they were praying to some forgotten, forgetful God. Wrinkly skin, the old Greeks. Good olives though.

At the back of the shop was a meat counter, and here there was an old woman crying. Toad shamelessly approached, curiosity and some buried sense of compassion vying for his motivation. On the outside, of course, he pretended that he just wanted to buy some meat. He stared through the cold glass at the rows of animal slices, listening to the murmuring of the woman as she recounted her woes to the fat guy behind the counter. Perhaps he was her nephew, or grandson? The meat was shiny and red, with slick thick layers of fat that would help thicken up the sauce in a stew. Pointless pieces of green plastic, supposed to look like vegetation, had been placed between one row of meat and another. The woman kept recounting her woes, though she was slowing down now, her voice growing softer, the fat guy growing impatient and telling her that it was alright. The smell of disinfectant wrestled with the smell of fresh blood. The old woman was wearing a black dress and headscarf; she was from another country, another century…

Hundreds of mysterious, colourful packages. Old Toad left the woman behind, where she seemed to have gone quiet now in the back corner of the shop. He could feel the fat guy looking at him, wondering why he didn’t buy any meat. Well, that was because he didn’t really want any. So what did he need? Toad was drawn to some products that were titled only in Greek - or perhaps Bulgarian. The closed tins and packets could be rotten fish, or almond paste, or the pickled leaves of some tasteless mountainside plant. He gathered up a few of these, determined to extend his culinary boundaries. Even if the result were inedible, there would be satisfaction in using these cheap and unnamable ingredients.

Old Toad took his time at the counter. He liked to pay slowly, counting out his change exactly and meticulously placing the items in a series of plastic and paper bags which he would pull from his pockets. He liked to do these things slowly, because everyone else always seemed to want to do them fast.

Now Toad was out in the street, this time with bags of shopping. He couldn’t go home already - he’d barely left the house. Going home already would leave him hours and hours yet to get through. He thought of the thick musty curtains back at his house, the quiet implacable darkness of the livingroom. No, he didn’t want to go there, not yet.

Toad sat down on a bench with his shopping, and started to play a little game. It was called, “what am I going to do with myself now?” It was a game Toad played often, running a series of scenarios through his head, and dismissing each with equal disappointment. Eventually he would exhaust all the scenarios he could think of, and then end up deciding that one already dismissed was in fact marginally acceptable. He thought about whether he might call on some friend. Well, he had to admit to himself that he didn’t really have any friends, but there were a few people who he would see now and then. However, when he really thought about it, he didn’t exactly like spending time with any of them. And they certainly didn’t enjoy his company - the fact that none of them ever called him was sufficient evidence for this. So he wouldn’t bother calling on any of his “friends” until the day when he felt truly desperate.

So if not people - what? Perhaps a good long walk… perhaps he could even go swimming? No, not warm enough for that - and walking? A bit boring really. Beside which he couldn’t be fucked anyway. Toad felt that he was definitely going to need people for entertainment. He didn’t want to necessarily have to talk to them, or “connect” with them, but without any humanity at all he would be left with the emptiness of his own thoughts. Anything would be better than that.

Toad dragged himself back past the shops, and around into the street behind, where there was a park. Indeed, there were some children here, shouting or playing or whatever boisterous thing it was. Toad made a careful appraisal of the available benches, and chose one with half sun, half shade, convenient for mindlessly watching the children, but not too obviously establishing himself as their audience. Nonetheless, when he sat down the children immediately started looking at him. Maybe they thought he was a perv, or some sort of kiddyfiddler. Damn children these days, he thought, so full of it all before they’ve even had time to realise how screwed we really are. But he kept sitting there anyway, watching the children, and soon their pathetic attention spans let him slip back into the shade.

They were playing some game that involved hitting each other and shouting. There was a boy and two girls - one of the girls seemed to be the sister of the boy, but soon she started crying after he hit her quite hard in the eye, and she ran off home. The remaining two children kept laughing and shouting, the boy chasing the girl and hitting her, after which she would hit him back. Mixed with their viciousness, however, was a playfulness, a curiosity. She wanted him to hit her, and he clearly waited for her to hit him back. He held her by the wrists, and she giggled nervously while he babbled some nonsense at her.

Old Toad felt a chill breeze, and rubbed his scaly forearms for warmth. He couldn’t work out why the children weren’t at school – they obviously weren’t sick, and although they were quite feral, they weren’t feral enough to be from the sort of families where school is just another alien concept linked to law and authority. Whatever the reason, however, Toad didn’t think they should be in school. No, they would learn much more here at the park, alone and vulnerable, molesting each other. Those were the kind of lessons that had to be learnt, sooner or later. Maybe the sooner the better, eh?

Toad felt a flush of revulsion at his own reasoning. He got up and left the park.

Once again, Toad was wandering with nothing to do. He felt a bit bad now, after the dubious show those filthy kids had put on for him. He felt a bit… a bit seedy. This was not good. These were the kind of feelings that were liable to make Toad want to fix up his life, become a model citizen, and all that sort of tripe. Really, he was rather sick of being a useless old perv, and deep in his reptilian heart, there was still a pulsing desire to be part of things, to be respected, or at least accepted. Dammit, he might as well give it a go.

So Old Toad decided to go to the job centre.

The nearest job centre was in the next town along. Toad put out $2.80 - a ridiculous, inflated fare - just to catch a bus there. He sat halfway down the empty bus, staring out the window. Everybody else was in their cars, or at work, or on drugs, or dying in the hospitals. The bus driver was another ethnic: Indian, or maybe Afghan, Toad thought. It must have been excruciatingly boring, driving an empty bus between towns all day. Still, he’s probably got 12 children that need feeding, thought Toad. He’s probably quite bloody happy with his $15 an hour for driving a bus around.

The job centre was in a larger town centre, with a big supermarket, and a few ragged types hanging around. Everything here was inside a big indoor mall, a mid-90s construction that was hospital-like in its utter blandness and sterility. Not to mention the unmistakable whiff of death. After the massive supermarket, and some depressing “fashion” outlets, Toad reached the slightly more down-at-heal end of the mall, where the job centre was to be found. Further on, at the back exit of the mall, a tacky pub - the type where you could bet on the greyhounds while you drink - was within sniffing distance.

The bus ride and the shopping centre had drained most of Toad’s hope and resolve, but nonetheless he stalked through the doors of the job centre. He was greeted by a wave of total indifference. The woman behind the reception counter didn’t look up from her telephone. The bums on the computers kept staring at the screens. Toad moved towards the counter. The receptionist kept talking, and kept not looking at him. Did he really look that hopeless? Was he nothing more than a lost cause, not worth bothering with? Well even if he was, he was going to give this a go, just to waste their time, if nothing else.

She kept on talking for a while longer. Kept on not looking up at him. You fucking bitch, thought Toad. He cleared his phlegmy throat with a hideous wheeze.

A few more seconds passed. Pointless waiting.

“You fucking bitch,” croaked Old Toad, and walked away from the counter. The receptionist looked up, as he turned his back, and she frowned at him grimly.

Toad walked over to a notice board, where job opportunities were posted. Cursing the woman had given him back some of his resolve - definitely a good move, he thought. Now they would see that he meant business. The most common notices on the board were those reading “CLEANER, PART TIME”, “KITCHEN HAND (TRAINEESHIP)” and “ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT”. Toad did not think that he could be any of these. He saw himself more as a mechanic of some sort, or perhaps one of those people who write advertisements. Most advertisements were so totally witless… Toad was sure he could be totally witless better than that lot. There was, however, one job notice for a “SIGN WRITER”. Perhaps that would be a way in to advertising? He could start by just putting his own spin on signs that he had to paint, and then work up from there to fully-fledged campaigns of publicity. Toad scribbled down the number, then found the telephone they had installed so that all the dole-bludgers could call up after all the jobs they wouldn’t get. But Toad had a way about him - he was sure of that.

Toad hesitated, with his hand on the telephone receiver. He had a bad feeling about this. Whenever he had tried applying for a job in the past, he just got disappointed. This is a bit tough, he thought.

“Hello, J.C. Decaux,” said a voice on the other end.

Old Toad explained, in most eloquent terms, the he was calling about the job advertised for a “Sign Writer”.

“Will you hold?” said the voice - saying, not asking.

Toad held.

“Hello, this is Tony,” said another voice.

Toad reprised his speech.

“And do you have any sign-writing experience?” asked Tony.

“Of course,” lied Toad. “I’ve worked for 16 years for Ealing and Associates. I’m their… well, I suppose I’m the manager really.”

“Right. Ah, I haven’t heard of them,” said Toby, brusquely.

“No? Well, that’s probably because the head office is in Jakarta.”

Was that a good idea? Sign-writing companies based in Jakarta? It didn’t seem to be, because Tony had started talking again:

“Well, Mr - sorry, I didn’t catch your name - this is more of a junior role, really. We’d be looking for a new graduate probably.”

“In fact I’d be quite happy…” Toad started to reply, but Tony broke in, saying, “We’ll call you back, thanks.”

And the line went dead.

Toad wasn’t sure if he’d given either of them his phone number. Actually, he wasn’t sure if his phone was still working, it was so long since he’d received any call on it.

He left the job centre, proudly ignoring the woman at the counter. Who knows, he might be looking forward to a new job as a Sign Writer, for all she knew. As he walked away through the weird, insistent light of the shopping mall, he felt he’d made a good go of things today. He was going to be getting a job soon, he told himself.

Standing at the bus-stop, he realised he was hungry. All of a sudden he felt exhausted, too, and sat down on the bench to wait. He stared into the corner of the little bus-stand, and observed the ancient grey relics of chewing gum - unnoticed ornaments that had themselves become part of the public furniture. Hundreds of years from now, geologists would dig up these strange objects, and ask themselves what they meant. Toad knew that he wasn’t going to get the job as a Sign Writer.

As he walked back home, up the old lane where he had lived for years, Old Toad felt that things had slipped a little lower.