THE DISAPPOINTING MENTOR pt.1

‘What goes around comes around,’ said the man standing next to a roundabout.
‘Right you are, Malcolm,’ said the younger man standing further away from the roundabout, nearer to the swings.
It wasn’t hard to agree with Malcolm, who was wise. The younger man, Stefan, always agreed with him; he was his mentor and friend. But not out of blind trust—Stefan could see the veracity of Malcolm’s words from the way he delivered them. A good example of his unique delivery had just happened, Stefan realised. The carefully arranged proximity between Malcolm and the roundabout had provided the perfect visual analogy for the words he uttered. Words that, issued from lesser mouths, would sound clichéd. From Malcolm, with the aid of a visual prop, they were pearls of wisdom resonating with profound truth and universal significance.
‘Shall we depart, Stefan?’ Malcolm asked.
Stefan enthusiastically nodded, ‘Yes, let’s. But where to?’
Malcolm smiled, raising a hand in a gesture that was halfway between dispensing a benediction and offering supplication. ‘We’re off to join a flatulent man.’
Stefan frowned, finding, as he always did, Malcolm’s cryptic statements unfathomable. He shrugged and quickly fell into step alongside his friend, who was an impenetrable mystery to him. The two men set off purposefully, yet at a relaxed pace.
Ten minutes later, Malcolm abruptly halted to say, ‘Let’s take the bus.’
‘Er, okay,’ Stefan hesitated, knowing Malcolm seldom carried cash. Meaning he’d have to pay for their fares, as usual.
‘We need a number 2A,’ Malcolm said. ‘There’s a stop just across the road.’ Ignoring Stefan, he set off in that direction.
Fortuitously, the bus arrived soon after they reached the bus stop. ‘All things come to those who wait, Stefan.’
They sat together quietly as the bus set off. Malcolm looked out of the window serenely.
Eventually, Stefan asked: ‘Which stop do we want?’
‘Next one,’ said Malcolm calmly, standing up.
They got off the bus outside the main entrance to the town’s park. Leading the way, Malcolm strode along the tree-lined path that led to a fountain. Further ahead, there was a cafeteria and public toilets. On either side of the path were wooden benches, on some of which elderly couples sat, others afforded young parents with their kids some rest. Deeper into the park, they became aware of how busy it was. A group of large women, pushing buggies, vied for space with numerous dog walkers—in both directions. There were plenty of sporting types of individuals, too; holding or bouncing balls of all descriptions.
‘Shit!’ Stefan exclaimed. Malcolm gave him a quizzical look. ‘A pigeon’s just shat on me.’
‘Oh, it’s supposed to be lucky, I believe.’
Stefan didn’t feel lucky, running his hands through his hair and brushing his clothes. But they were nearing the toilets by the cafeteria, which Stefan decided to clean himself up in.
Malcolm said, ‘I’ll wait outside.’
‘Let’s have a cup of tea,’ he said as soon as Stefan was finished.
I suppose I’ll have to pay for that, too, Stefan thought—immediately feeling guilty for it. He knew that spiritual people were usually poor, nonmaterialists: spiritually rich, materially poor.
The cafeteria was busy so they ended up sharing a table with a man of advanced years.
‘Course I don’t mind,’ the man had said, proffering with his hand and belching. ‘Be my guests, gents. Oops! Pardon me.’
Stefan sat down grimacing as suspect odours from the man assailed his nostrils. This had to be the ‘flatulent man’ to whom Malcolm had referred, which was impressive, Stefan grudgingly acknowledged. As well as constantly burping and breaking wind, the man turned out to be a lonely natter box. With selfish neediness, the man, who was called Colin, capitalised for the next twenty-five minutes on his new audience. Regaling them with an autobiographical diatribe that was as poorly structured and rambling in its presentation as it was boring in its substance. But like most people who are emotional needy, Colin was impervious to all emotional signals from other people. It did not, because it could not, occur to him that anyone else might find him less interesting than he found himself. It is an impossible concept for one who’s totally self-obsessed. With the Colins’ of the world, it’s not arrogance, they don’t even think about other people enough to favourably compare themselves with them. It’s a form of mental illness, a delusional mind-set, brought on by their isolation. It’s like they are overcompensating for the sad reality of their insignificant existences by assuming a ‘psychic security blanket’ of complete self-absorption/fascination.
When they eventually stood up to leave, Malcolm had warmly shook Colin’s hand, while Stefan seethed with extreme irritation.
‘My God!’ he said, outside the café. ‘What a chronic bore. Did you get a whiff of his farts, Malcolm? They were lethal.’
‘He was kind enough to offer us seats. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to use the café.’ Malcolm said.
‘We’d have been better off. Why didn’t you hurry up and finish your tea so we could have cut loose?’
‘You’ve missed the point, Stefan.’
‘Which is?’
‘He was kind, yes. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I suppose so. So what?’
Stefan recognised that ulterior motives are often well-served behind acts of kindness. It seemed to him Colin had got more out of his ‘kind’ gesture than they had.
‘Colin is the embodiment of the sentiment: it’s an ill wind that blows no good.’
You’re kidding, thought Stefan, conscious for the first time of doubting Malcolm.
They walked out of the park and stood outside the gates.
‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Stefan. It’s been a long day.’
‘Oh,’ Stefan faltered, ‘okay, then.’
He walked away headed for his home, feeling as if he’d been dismissed.

The following day, Malcolm wanted to return to the park.
‘What for?’ Stefan asked.
‘You’ll see.’
‘I’m not up for another dose of that fartbag, Colin!’
‘He’s not the reason why we’re going.’
‘We’re going?’ Stefan was already following Malcolm. ‘I suppose you want to take the bus?’ he said, already patting his pockets for the change that would inevitably be needed.
‘No, not today. Let’s walk.’
The park was less busy when they arrived. Walking up the main path, they saw fewer people sat on the benches and fewer pedestrians. Dogs barked somewhere in the distance. A breeze rustled the branches of trees on either side.
‘Look, Stefan!’ Malcolm pointed at an impressive apple tree, rustling in the wind. Some fruit fell from a couple of branches to the grassy ground. ‘The apple does not fall far from the tree.’
It’s true, thought Stefan. But he felt like a bit of a sap.

That night, Stefan stayed up late writing a story called ‘The Apple that Did Fall far From the Tree’ on his laptop. When he’d finished writing, he printed the story off and read it through. He was surprised to find he’d written nearly 1, 500 words; and, he wasn’t used to writing fiction. The story involved a man who planted an apple tree on the edge of a cliff, so when it bore fruit some apples fell directly over the clifftop. Stefan contrived for one of these apples to roll further away from the bottom of the cliff and into the sea. The tide took it out to a small boat that was passing. A member of the crew saw it bobbing about and grabbed it; and, thinking to eat it later put it in his pocket where he forgot about it. The apple was rotten when, weeks later, he arrived in Australia, thousands of miles away from its starting point. It could have been better-written, Stefan realised, but overall he felt satisfied with his efforts. He sealed the story inside an envelope and, the following morning he posted it, anonymously, to Malcolm. That night, he slept extremely soundly, waking in the morning feeling smug and refreshed.
When he saw Malcolm later in the same day, he acted as he always did. Not that he regretted sending the story, far from it. But he had no desire to identify himself as the author; in fact, the secretive nature of what he’d done gave him an excited feeling inside. He wondered what Malcolm would make of it when the story arrived in the post. The idea amused him and increased his internal frisson.
‘Is there anywhere in particular you fancy going?’ Malcolm asked.
‘I’ll follow you,’ Stefan shrugged—it immediately crossed his mind that he’d made an unconsciously submissive response. No wonder Malcolm always took the lead; he might as well be an obedient puppy on the end of it!
As they passed Caffeine Heaven, the town’s trendiest coffee bar, they were assailed with its pungent coffee odours and the high-volume babble of customers seated outside. A woman shrieked having scalded herself pouring her coffee over her white blouse. The men around her table tried not to be seen looking at her ample cleavage as she dabbed away at herself with a napkin.
‘Is everything alright, madam?’ Asked a waiter who’d suddenly appeared with a tea towel and a concerned expression.
‘Yes, yes,’ the woman waved him away. ‘Just a silly accident.’
The waiter hesitated, accidents led to lawsuits he’d been trained to think. ‘If you’re sure you’re okay. You might want to get your chest looked at.’
The woman’s chest was indeed bright red, as were the men’s faces furtively watching the shape of her breasts within the soaked blouse.
‘Honestly, there’s no need. No need at all.’ More embarrassed than hurt, the woman wanted all the attention that was now upon her to cease.
‘Very well, madam.’ The waiter scuttled off with an obsequious bow, breaking wind in the process. This caused the equally embarrassed male companions of the woman to laugh raucously; partly with mirth, and to dispel their own discomfort.
‘He might have left me the tea towel,’ the woman grumbled.
Three of her friends leapt up at once. One of them said: ‘I’ll get it!’
‘Don’t bother, he’s coming back.’
‘I’m so sorry, madam. The manager wants you to know there is no charge for you and your friends today.’ The waiter said, dabbing away at the table with a cloth. His face frozen in an expression of abject contrition.
‘Oh, well…’ The woman was disarmed, she half-smiled.
‘That’s a result, Mo,’ said one of her friends.
‘Fair enough, no harm done.’ Was echoed by the others.
Walking on, Malcolm turned to Stefan to say, ‘There’s many a slip between cup and lip, eh?’
Stefan wasn’t surprised. But how was he to react? Would it appear out of character, to Malcolm, if he kept silent? He wondered. Although uncertain, he just nodded and they walked on.
A little further on, they drew alongside the solicitors: ‘Grasp, Gloat and Gullet’, whose sign boasted, ‘Specialists in Legalised Forms of Revenge.’ It was an imposing, some would say an intimidating, three-storey-building with the business façade on the ground floor made up of a row of black-glossed, cobbles set in cement above and frosted glass below, with the names and their slogan hand painted in an old-fashioned font and silver paint. Heavy oak, double doors with highly polished brass handles hang to the right of the windows. Both men noticed the FLAT TO LET sign outside, which referred to the flat upstairs above the business.
Mischievously motivated, Stefan turned to Malcolm. ‘You know the expression: no man is above the law, don’t you?’
‘Ye-ees…’ Caught off-guard, Malcolm hesitated.
‘Well, it won’t be true if some bloke rents that upstairs flat!’ He laughed loudly, falling into step with now quiet Malcolm.
Outside the solicitors, a man driving an expensive car pulled up alongside the only available parking space.
‘He’ll be lucky!’ Malcolm shook his head.
The space truly looked impossibly small. But as Stefan shared Malcolm’s doubt, the driver casually swung his car into reverse and, apparently effortlessly, in one smooth, fluid manoeuvre parked perfectly.
‘Wow!’ Stefan exclaimed and Malcolm gasped.
The driver swung his car door open and emerged from his vehicle with such an air of haughty superiority, looking down his nose at the pedestrians watching him, like Stefan and Malcolm. A few individuals had stopped and admiringly witnessed the man’s skilful parking, but his obnoxious manner getting out of his car was so tangible and repellent; their previously respectful glances turned to scowls of derision and they hurried on their way. Alighting on the pavement without looking where he was going, the driver clicked his remote car alarm/locking system, and promptly stepped in a pile of runny dog shit.
Malcolm looked at Stefan; they both raised their eyebrows. Walking away, he said: ‘Pride comes before a fall!’
Stefan knew the arrogant man hadn’t heard what Malcolm had softly said—maybe it was just for his benefit, he thought.
They continued walking for another ten minutes or so, in silence, before Malcolm cleared his throat and began mumbling something about something he’d just remembered needing his attention.
‘Well, er, I’ll see you soon, Stefan.’
‘Okay. Probably tomorrow.’ Stefan nodded as Malcolm scuttled away.

That night, Stefan, dressed in black overalls and wearing a balaclava and gloves, snuck over to Malcolm’s house. Malcolm lived in a respectable neighbourhood and it was dead quiet when Stefan got there at about one o’clock in the morning. He’d have to be quieter than a mouse so as not to disturb Malcolm or his bourgeois neighbours; it was a good job he’d rattled the aerosol spray can thoroughly in the car beforehand. He’d parked a couple of streets away and arrived on foot, pulling the gloves and balaclava on at the last minute in case anyone saw him. But save for a cat sitting on a garden wall blinking at him, he’d not encountered a soul. After a last look round to make absolutely sure no one was around he set to work, spraying in foot-high, red letters the following phrase on Malcolm’s front wall, windows and door: PRIDE DOES COME BEFORE A FALL… UNLESS IT’S A PRIDE OF LIONS!

The next day, Stefan was woken by his mobile phone ringing—he’d forgotten to put it on silent—it was Malcolm! Still remembering the glorious dream the call had interrupted, Stefan took his time before answering. He’d dreamed that he was a Roman Emperor who’d had Malcolm fed to a pride of lions in an ancient arena filled with thousands of people baying for blood. He and the crowd had revelled in the gory gorging of the lions on hapless Malcolm’s hysterical form.
‘Hello? Malcolm, what is it, mate?’ It was only half-past seven, Stefan registered.
‘Stefan! I can’t believe it, someone’s vandalised my house!’ Malcolm sounded distraught.
‘Uh? You what?’ Stefan, wide awake, feigned the tiredness in his voice. Did Malcolm suspect it was him? He somehow doubted it but couldn’t tell.
‘My house! Some bastard’s daubed a weird slogan over the outside.’
‘Oh, dear…’ Surely Malcolm did not suspect him. Why would he? ‘Er, what are you going to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
What do you want me to do about it? Stefan thought, but said, ‘Have you called the police?’
‘No, do you think I should?’
Stefan hesitated, running through his mind the possibility that he might have left evidence that could incriminate him. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘Can you come over?’
‘What for?’ Stefan didn’t mean to sound anxious.
‘I could do with your company,’ Malcolm, too preoccupied to notice Stefan’s manner, whined. ‘It’ll be a job and a half cleaning the graffiti off. I don’t even know what to use, do you?’
‘Er, no. Depends what it is. Look it up online.’
‘Good idea. What time can you come round?’
‘Give me a couple of hours.’
‘A couple?’ Malcolm sounded plaintive.
With resentment towards Malcolm’s neediness smouldering in his chest, Stefan glanced at the time before answering.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ Then, abruptly he hung up.

TO BE CONTINUED...