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Four snails and a slug are crawling along the garden wall. The slug sits wedged between the brickwork and the concrete ground. Above him, the four snails are dotted horizontally on the wall. Three of them are positioned above and to the left of the slug, and a monster sits to his right. I wonder whether there's a deadly game of cat and mouse being played out. Played out at a terrifically slow speed. Is the gang of snails going to converge on Mr. Slug and nibble him to death? Perhaps he had his way with Biggie Snail's snail wife, and Biggie called in his snail goons to give Mr. Slug what for. He's a character, Mr. Slug; in fact I can tell he doesn't like formalities. I'm giving him a name. Chuck. I'm rooting for Chuck. Always root for the underdog.
The sun glares down at the scene and is relentless. The birds are nowhere to be seen. I'm on the rum. Dark rum. Cheap, but not the cheapest rum in the store. There was one less expensive brand which was probably pretty rough. It's dark and thick and the way it burns feels good and familiar, like nostalgia and those long gone feelings for somebody, at a certain time, in a certain place. It's a good buzz tinged with regret.
The 'garden' is six foot by six and is mostly concrete with a couple of rectangles of bad, unkempt grass. It's a cheap place to rent though, and these sunny days are good for getting cooked in. The sauce always helps.
After a brief standoff - lasting several minutes - our hero is up and mobile and is about to put into action his escape plan. Underneath the cruel sun I'm urging him to get to cover. Lord knows there's enough weeds in amongst the scrubby grass. Not even a shirt on his back, let alone a shell, poor sod. He's a soldier of fortune. A loose cannon. Unbeholden to the square community, the homeowners who curl themselves up inside their hovels, shaking with fear and paranoia and an unidentified sense of impotent anger, Chuck is different. Sure, they call him a bum. He lives the free life, a zigzag wanderer who has seen the stars and the moon and who vows to blaze a silvery trail to get there someday soon.
He begins to squirm and squish his way toward the greenery. He has a tough row to furrow, old Chuck. The drawbacks to his freedom are obvious. On a daily basis, he weaves his way across footpaths and roads, playing russian roulette with feet and tires and vindictive little children. Last thing he needs is the wrath of a jealous snail husband. The mollusc community probably has its own standards. A hierarchy. Homeowners, such as Biggie and his pals, nearer the top, and no doubt the likes of Chuck are treated with contempt. Outsider. Freak. Even most of the female slugs probably look upon him with disdain, while shacking up with lifeless, shell-bearing blobs. "Because security is a very attractive quality in a gastropod." What they don't realise is that Chuck is an artist, goddamnit! A creator! And he's a lover, not a fighter, and it's his joie de vivre that gets him into scrapes like the current garden wall fiasco.
Chuck has moved a full inch now, an inch nearer green, dewy freedom. Great minds think alike. One of the snails is gesticulating wildly with this feelers - instructing his colleagues to head Chuck off at the pass. Forget it Biggie - you and your goon squad have lost. He's flying now, almost into the grass. Victory! I'll drink to that. I take a slug.
The next day I awake at 5.30am. The pillow is wrapped around my head. I'm crumpled under damp cover and dare not move. Through silent suffering the stillness is perfect. Outside, I hear the sound of the crows, dropping tightly wound up shells onto concrete from the rooftops in preparation for their breakfast. I close my eyes, smile slightly and suffer.
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