Milos Harmon, naked, alone, sitting on the couch. He stared aimlessly at the flickering TV screen. Its blue light illuminated the room with haunting shadows that shivered on the walls in the darkened room.
Milos stood up with a small grunt, arching his back and stretching his arms to the ceiling, exposing fully his white naked frame to the TV set and to Ruby, his faithful daschund, who raised her head in curiosity. “So, Roobs, what have we in store today?” Milos spoke almost to himself. He looked at the Mickey Mouse clock that sat on the coffee table amongst a mess of newspaper clippings. “Two thirty two,” mumbled Milos. In the morning or afternoon? He didn’t know.
Raising a bare foot, standing on one leg like a pink, hairy crane, he pushed the on/off button on the TV. Suddenly, the room was enclosed in pitch blackness. “Mmm…” Milos’ voice could be heard in the darkness. “Must be nighttime.”
***
Milos Harmon, critically acclaimed attorney and super-lawyer for the firm Johnson & Harmon & Co., Inc. His office phone, cellular, fax machine, home phone, voice mail, Internet home page, and electronic mail were constantly abuzz 24 hours daily as potential clients eagerly sought his valuable attention. He knew that whenever a phone call came in, it would be more money in the bank. Smiling, he leaned back in his leather office chair, fingers linked behind his head, feet up on the desk. His eyes closed, he hummed quietly to himself.
***
Milos Harmon, with peace of mind and inner harmony, sat on the park bench over by the seashore, admiring the beautiful glimmer of sunshine that stung his eyes. Pigeons, seagulls, and sparrows littered the air all around him, busily polluting the shore. Regardless of this natural bird commode in which he sat, Milos was happy enough to realize that today was St. Valentine’s Day, the day when lovers of the world united in lustful passion and in warm embraces, and of course when dollar signs twinkled madly and sweetly in the eyes of the local florist ringing up yet another sale for a panting, sweating husband at seven o’clock at night, and also the owner of the local cinema selling yet another ticket to the lonely man of the night.
St. Valentine’s Day. Milos loved it. Particularly when he realized that on this very day three years earlier, he had savagely cut out a pig’s heart. This was St. Valentine’s Day to him – the third anniversary of the day his sexy know-it-all wench of a girlfriend ran out of the house screaming when she realized what sat dripping, oozing in Milos’ muddy hands, and that crazed, exhausted look in Milos’ eyes as he offered his bloody Valentine’s Day gift.
***
Milos Harmon walked naked through the pitch-black darkness to the bathroom, his arms crossed, hands buried in his armpits. He was deep in thought, thinking, pondering. Ruby, or “Roobs,” followed him obediently, tail wagging, excited at this rare movement of her master who was now brushing his teeth for the fourth time that day, examining the pores in his nose in the mirror. Ruby sat, staring up at him, hoping for some attention.
After a long, satisfying piss, Milos slowly moved back to his original position in the TV room, muttering to himself. Then he spoke aloud again; “Where’s the fuckin’ lightswitch.” Unfortunately no one was there to respond to his stale inquiry, except Ruby, who of course couldn’t speak English.
The TV suddenly crackled on and the image of Cary Grant soon formed on the screen. Sitting down, Milos studied the images that moved. “Mmm… An Affair to Remember,” he muttered under his breath.
***
The phone rang in Milos’ office on the thirteenth floor of the Johnson & Harmon & Co. building, jarring Milos from a long, uneventful conversation with a client. Excusing himself, Milos picked up the receiver. “Hellos, Milos Harmon speaking.” Muttering under his breath, Milos made a mental note to give his secretary a lecture on the proper method of screening calls. He had made it adamantly clear to her that he wouldn’t be taking calls for the rest of the afternoon. The familiar female voice crackled through the earpiece to Milos’ open ear.
“Hello, Milos. ‘Sme.”
Milos grimaced. “Look, darling, I’m in the middle of a meeting. I’ll see you when I get home, ‘kay?” Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he whispered to his client, now standing and admiring Milos’ array of plaques and awards that graced his walls. “It’s just my woman. I won’t be a minute.” The client nodded.
The female voice crackled again. “I’ll make this quick then, hon. I just wanted to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day, ‘sall. Wait til you see what I’ve got prepared for dinner!”
Milos winced. Fuck. This means roses, chocolates, all that sort of bullshit. Godamned secretary, for crying out loud, what’s it take to remind someone of an important day? Another voice in Milos’ head said as if in response; Well, asshole, why don’t you give her a raise and stop offering her a free popsicle? She ain’t all that hot anyway. Besides, you got your woman back home.
“Milos, hon?” the earpiece whispered.
“Oh, sorry. Hmm… lookin’ forward to it. I’ll see ya tonight. ‘Bye.”
“Love ya.”
“Ya too. ‘Bye now.”
“’Bye.” The clunk of the receiver back on the hook caused the client to turn his head. He grinned, exposing his rotten teeth, courtesy of years and years of not having a dental plan, probably, Milos contemplated. The client spoke in his gruff voice.
“So, Mr. Harmon, whatsit gonna be? Roses for the wife? Chocolates? What?”
Milos grinned impatiently. “She ain’t my wife. Just a girlfriend, is all.”
The client nodded with an ‘Oh, is that a fact?’ look on his face, and sat again in the client chair on the opposite side of Milos’ oaken desk. “So, will it be roses for the girlfriend then?” he spoke again. His accent made him difficult to understand at times.
“The girlfriend. Mmm. Don’t really want to talk about it.” Milos knew he’d have the fight of his life tonight, back home. It was now four fifty two in the afternoon, just over one hour to end of day at the office, according to the brass clock on the wall, and the drive hom would take half an hour. He wouldn’t be home until around six thirty pm, and that was without the roses, the chocolates, the works.
***
Milos looked at his Timex Indiglo, one of those that lights up when you press a button, so you can consult it at night. Three fifty eight pm. Another hour or two of daylight. Perhaps if he sat on the park bench for a couple of hours longer, he’d be able to watch the sun set. Imagine. Three years to that very day when he lost his loyal woman.
***
Milos finished watching the movie at four thirty in the morning. He was still naked. With the light of the TV, he stared at the pile of newspaper clippings on the coffee table. They told tales of blood and mayhem, of lost loves, of madness concerning a man whose mind simply went all wacko one day. Milos swallowed a small lump in his throat. Those were the days of excitement, of spectacle, of mystery.
***
Watching the client with the thick accent leave, Milos stretched back in his office chair. It’s all over today, for now. He could now go home. What he did not particularly look forward to was that half hour of bumper to bumper traffic that eagerly anticipated his entry onto the highway. Milos contemplated his plans. How would he get roses for his girlfriend at 6 o’clock at night? Well, what flower shop would be open this late, and especially not so busy so he wouldn’t have to duke it out with fourteen disorganized men with equally unreliable secretaries, over that last rose, that last bouquet and gesture of love? It never made a whole lot of sense to him, this holiday. He stood up, flattening out his Armani trousers, and put on his Armani jacket. His gold ring glittered.
Of course, Milos thought, as he inched forward on the highway to his home and his waiting girlfriend, who was probably cooking a delicious meal and admiring her new red lingerie that would serve as wrapping paper for the dessert that Milos would most likely be receiving that evening.
A sudden WHONNK! jarred Milos out of his daydream fantasies. “Whatta fuck?” mumbled Milos, looking behind him, looking in his rearview mirrors, looking to his sides, to his front. WHONNK! He shook his head sombrely,. No. It’s just some asshole honking, thinking that by leaning on his car horn, he would somehow magically cause this bumper to bumper traffic to move forward instead of remaining stagnant in time.
Birds flew overhead, silently cherishing this moment when these humans – WHONNK – had to sit there on that highway when they could soar through the air as they pleased. And of course, they would deposit carefully aimed bombs onto the hood of a BMW, through the sunroof of a Mercedes, onto the head of a poor sod driving his prized Mustang convertible. The Mustang driver would then experience the utter humiliation of having paid dearly for winning the argument with a friend regarding whether the roof of the car be left up or down.
An equally, increasingly frustrating time it was for Milos as well, as he soon grew impatient with the – WHONNK – honking of the – WHONNK – mother FUCKing – WHONNK – car that was too horn-happy, and also the – WHONNK – motherFUCKing highway to start moving. He’s gotta get home to his woman, but first he needed some roses, chocolates, anything. Godammit!
Roses. My love’s like a red, red rose, newly sprung in June. Every rose has its thorn, every night has its dawn. Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you. Milos never quite understood this fascination and obsession with a plant, particularly on this Valentine’s Day. He knew his girlfriend loved roses, and it had been his sore misfortune to learn the dire repercussions of not bringing home roses on their anniversary, on her birthday, on yes, Valentine’s Day. Milos rubbed the one-inch jagged scar on his forehead where she had socked him, sharp diamond ring on her finger. If it weren’t for roses – WHONNK – Milos and his woman would have never had a – WHONNK – motherFUCKing fight. God DAMN it, that was IT!
Milos jumped out of his Jaguar, looking around for the culprit with the loaded automatic horn. It would be a sore, sore night for this bastard, Milos thought, as he slammed the – WHONNK – Jaguar’s door.
***
Milos Harmon’s behind was getting a little numb. This park bench wasn’t exactly the most comfortable seat on the planet, but this was a radiant view of the ocean, so visually gratifying that there would be no way that he’d get back into his Buick and cruise his way home. He looked at his watch again. Four fifty eight in the afternoon. Sun’s going down soon now. Milos smiled as he pondered the memory of three years earlier to this day.
***
These newspaper clippings. Milos couldn’t understand his fascination with them. Were they for his enjoyment, for other people’s information, for Ruby’s dog training on the carpet? Milos couldn’t remember, for all he could ponder. His hairy chest riddled over with goose bumps now as he had opened the window to peer down on the fluorescent-illuminated streets from three stories above. It was cold. It was one minute after five in the morning. Ruby jumped onto the couch, and went to sleep.
***
WHONNK! Ah, here’s the cold-cocked, in-dire-need-of-a-lesson motherFUCKer who’s been – WHONNK – wonking on his godamned horn all this time. It was dark though, six thirty two in the evening. Milos’ woman would be pissed. He forgot the roses. He forgot the chocolates. That was however at the back of his mind as he was concentrating on reducing this honking son of a bitch to ground hamburger meat. In fact, this guy was three cars behind him, in a Mack truck, full of what else but -WHONNK – practical joke items such as fake bird shit. Mr. Tricky Dicky’s Practical Jokes, it screamed at Milos from its red emblazoned sign on the side of the truck. Milos marched like a man possessed. Mr. Tricky Dicky, yer goin’ down like the President.
The truck door opened angrily just as Milos reached the vehicle. “Knock it the fuck off with yer honkin’!” Milos growled at the truck, gesturing violently with his index finger, and suddenly regretted it as soon as he saw what stepped out.
A big beard. Even larger hair. Grey steely eyes, shifting like mad. Only three fingers on one hand – the index finger reduced to a grotesque stump. A red handkerchief hanging out of black pants. A knife. Milos backed away like a man exorcised. The sight in front of him would easily cream his ass into spinach.
Today, in the Jaguar, Milos had been thinking. The client with the Austrian accent had said something before he left his office. What was that he said? Milos struggled to remember. Something about a rock… a girlfriend… his girlfriend, Milos remembered. The client had said something about how he knew he had met his true love for life when he gave her a rock and she loved him for it. Milos had grinned and replied with bitter sarcasm; “Yeah… diamonds are rocks, aren’t they?” And the client had replied, “Yes, and a heart can be a suit on a playing card.” Milos didn’t consider it too much at this time. But he understood it now, just as this truck driver slashed him across the cheek with his razor-sharp weapon.
***
Milos Harmon now stood naked again in front of the bathroom mirror. His faithful daschund, Ruby, was lapping water out of the toilet, thirsty as a man in a desert. “Roobs” wasn’t exactly the most sanitary dog in the world, but that didn’t matter too much to Milos. He had other, more pressing thoughts in his tortured mind.
***
The park bench was cold now. Milos was now walking along the water, chucking stones into the deep blue of the ocean. He admired the soft splashes of the water as the rocks struck. Five fifteen in the afternoon. He looked up. The sun was just above the horizon now. The sky looked to be beautiful. Orange. It glimmered off the waves.
***
The world was now a mask of confusion for Milos Harmon. His left cheek was wide open, leaking sticky blood all over his shirt, his Armani suit. His gold ring was now hidden by a soaked handkerchief, applied with pressure to the gaping wound. Milos was now stumbling forward into the darkness of a field away from the highway, looking for something, someone, anything, anyone. He was confused. Frustrated. Frightened.
He tripped over a stick in the middle of the field. His face now soiled in dirt, mixed with his own blood, he pulled himself back up, his cheek throbbing, his brain pulsing. Walking like a wounded soldier in search of liberation, he saw a light in the distance. Mumbling, he lunged towards the light, not realising what to do or say. It was far, far out of his reach, on the horizon. Milos couldn’t figure out, but somehow he had reached it after what seemed like hours of falling, of crawling, reaching, bleeding. There was a pigpen there. And there were pigs. They were oinking at his arrival. Were they hungry? He didn’t know. But he knew that their oinking – whonking – was annoying.
There sat a large knife in the mud, covered in dried blood. Milos looked at it carefully. Confused. Deep in thought. The knife, to kill. It was the farmer’s tool to dispatch whatever pigs would go to the meat market in town. They were delicious. Ham sandwiches. Pork chops. For dinner. Milos wondered if that was what his woman was preparing, or had cooked hours ago back at his place.
Milos grinned widely at the thought, wincing at the sharp pain in his cheek. He took the knife with a bloody, soiled hand, and ran a thumb along its edge. The sudden tingling sensation in his thumb confirmed the knife’s razor-sharpness. He thought again about the pigs at the meat market. They throw away the one part that keeps them alive. Their hearts.
Milos stroked a finger over the old scar on his forehead. Then traced the newly forming one in his cheek. Roses. Diamonds. A rock. A heart. My bloody Valentine. His head throbbing, his eyes gleaming, Milos set to work.
***
Ruby watched her master slowly walk away from the bathroom to the TV room, and followed him. His master sat in his naked frame, head buried in his hands. His body convulsed in long, wrenching sobs. Then, he reached out to the coffee table, slowly fingering the newspaper clippings, and then sweeping them around as if mixing them. A number of crows cawed rudely outside. According to the Mickey Mouse clock, it was now five twenty three in the morning. It was still dark outside.
Milos stood up suddenly, looking like a ghost in the TV light. His eyes were red now, and a stream of tears rolled down his deeply scarred cheek. With more determination this time, he paced back to the bathroom, “Roobs” following in close suit. Milos opened a drawer under the sink, his hands digging into the array of shaving cream, toothpaste tubes, underarm deodorant. Dissatisfied, he charged back into the TV room, to his dresser, with all the determination of a TV detective looking for clues. He dug into the pile of socks, shorts, and undies until his hands grasped onto a familiar, cold, metal object. He pulled it out. It was a gun. Milos had bought it in Seattle on a trip from Vancouver, and with his calm nature convinced the border customs official on duty that day that he wasn’t bringing anything back. Being calm was the furthest thing from his mind now.
Panting, Milos checked the gun. It was loaded as always. He thought of the scene in L.A. Story where Steve Martin’s wife had asked him if bullets go bad like milk. Smiling sadly, Milos stood naked, the cold gun resting sullenly in his hand. He walked back to the couch. “Roobs” jumped up in hopes of getting Milos’ attention. The faithful dog being all too faithful, the master all too inattentive.
Milos sunk back into the couch again, and slowly raised the gun to his face, nozzle pointing at his forehead. Sitting there, feeling stupid and unsatisfied, Milos changed his grip on the gun and pushed the nozzle into the corner of his eye, now wrenched shut. He felt the coldness of the gun against his skin, the hard iron almost sickening against his eyelid. He slowly traced the gun down his cheek, over the scar of an injury he got five years earlier. He couldn’t remember how he got it.
Milos was calm now. His gun was now in a satisfying position, the nozzle now pressed into the soft flesh under his jaw, pointing upwards. He could feel the pressure under his tongue as he pressed harder upwards. His finger was on the trigger. He applied the necessary pressure.
***
Ruby whimpered softly, tail between her legs, as her master lay back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with nary a sound, his arms lying limp at his sides. She nudged her master gently, hoping to get his attention. But her master was inattentive, as always. Under the blood, the Mickey Mouse clock now read five thirty two in the morning.
***
Milos Harmon looked out at the brilliant sunset. He smiled at the squawking seagulls feverishly circling an old man who threw bread crumbs onto the ground. The old man was now on the park bench, with his wife and two young children, his grandchildren. They squealed with delight, chasing the seagulls into the dimming evening air.
Milos looked back at the sunset again. This was a good Valentine’s Day. He enjoyed the view. He had no roses to find, no chocolates to buy, no obligations to keep. Milos thought back to his earliest memories. He couldn’t remember the sky being so radiantly red.