Elmore Collins brings us a tale in which comparison may be the thief of aspiration. This is one we had to solicit after reading his excellent piece in MAN’S WORLD. Check it out!
Enjoy!
Doing Relatively Good
There are worse people, I think, cutting up a line and pouring myself a drink while alone in the study. There are people who can’t last a day dry, people who have no teeth from smoking meth, people who can’t find a vein to inject into. And as I brutally dismiss Sophie when she asks me a simple question about my day, interrupting my alone time in the study, I remind myself that there are men who hit their wives, men who have multiple mistresses, men who torch their homes with children inside.
There are worse employees, I think, arriving forty-five minutes late to the office. There are colleagues of mine who are much stupider, much lazier, much more socially inept. There are people within the organisation who will be let go before I am, I remind myself, back home in the study, cutting up a line and pouring myself a drink. There are coworkers of mine who are utterly useless, their entire professional lives a prolonged bluff.
There are worse bodies, I think, observing mine in the bathroom mirror. There are bodies that are morbidly obese, bodies missing limbs, bodies too frail to stand. As I dry the crease between my gut and my cock, Sophie calling out, telling me to unpack the dishwasher, I’m reminded that I have little use for my body anyway. Drugs eventually kill one’s appetite for more intimate carnal pleasures, I think, cutting up a line and pouring myself a drink in the kitchen. Sophie’s naked body is no longer of any interest to mine.
There are worse writers, I think, typing up drivel in the study. There are writers even more derivative, more pretentious, with even less vitality. The angry white male alcoholic writer will rise again, I think, cutting up a line and pouring myself a drink. It’s only a matter of time. But as I brutally dismiss Sophie when she reminds me of what time I need to be up in the morning, interrupting my alone time in the study, it occurs to me that my writing will likely never be appreciated, not in any meaningful way.
There are worse sons, I think, allowing a call from my mother to go through to voicemail. There are sons who call their mothers a bitch, sons who miss Christmas, some sons who even kill. I will call my mother back tomorrow, I think, arriving forty-five minutes late to the office. You only get one mother, and in time, I will make everything between us fine.
There are worse fathers, I think, arriving home and scurrying into the study. There are fathers who miss the birth of their children, fathers who forget birthdays, fathers who raise their fists. And as Sophie calls out to tell me that my son has soiled himself, interrupting my alone time in the study, I’m reminded that I’m doing more than my father did. I’m doing relatively good.
More from this author:
First Short Story Collection Available on Amazon
MAN’S WORLD Stories:
I needed to read this today, needed to resonate this feeling with another.
Excellent stuff. A dark lyrical meditation representing one of those loops of thought we can get stuck in. The habit of comparison that's so common to adults -- in this case used to justify vice and stagnation.