Tag Archives: autumn

Change In The Air at The Château de La Reine Blanche by Matt Carlson

Cars sped by on the cobble stoned road. People ran around inside the Rene La Gall Square in their jogging clothes & earphones. Gelledge with slumber in his eyes, similar to having a sleeping bag on his head, walked around & outside of the square. It was chilly early morning: the leaves already carpeting the dirt  but mostly cement floors. His two small off leash dogs sniffed and peed alongside while visiting the row of trees on the outside of the square. Inside the park, two men were holding canon-like devices and blowing leaves and other debris off into a corner. The noise was annoying to say the least.

A woman with large breasts and a large basset hound walked by smiling at the two small white dogs. The three dogs stopped, sniffed butts, each taking a pee, then went away from each other – apparently there wasn’t much to communicate today. The woman wished Gelledge a nice day and walked off – her breasts rising as she did so. Gelledge spoke briefly to a pleasant man in black while their dogs made acquaintance with one another: this time a beige blind Pug.

Back at Le Château, Patches lay in bed half asleep,  knowing that someone would be coming soon to get her up. She had as usual, peed on herself during the night but the huge diaper with double protection absorbed most of it. She didn’t really care about things like that any more. Her brain was on a defensive roll. It kept her from realizing what a horrendous state she was in, constantly keeping her from seeing the hard reality that was.

A few weeks ago she had stated to Gelledge who rented her alcove, “I’m thinking about getting an electric car subscription…” Gelledge had looked at her with mild surprise. “You do realize that you are in a wheel chair and that you can barely use your right hand to stuff food in your mouth, right?” There was a pause. “I don’t wanna break your bubble, but you know that’s impossible right?”

It was brutal perhaps, but with everything in perspective, it was only very honest. Patches was ‘out of her hat’ so to speak and no one was saying anything. She spent her days, from the time getting up until going to bed in conflict with everyone around her. Unfortunately, her mouth& tongue still worked – not very well but enough to piss everyone and the queen of England off, so to speak.

If it wasn’t “Merde, merde, merde,” it was “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” or telling the poor cat  named Bat-cat, “Get down Bat-cat, down, down…,” from where ever the cat was. Or it was “No, Bat-cat, no, no Bat-cat!” and so on. Or she would make phone calls, which sounded always the same: “Phuckett. P-H-U-C-K-E-T-T…my number is….” It was always about an order for something, pills, diapers, clothes… And often times the person on the other line had a hard time understanding what she was saying. During the day as she had nothing to do but eat, go to the toilet and make green stools and piss (she did that a lot) she tried to tell people what to do & constantly. Needless to say, the hired help (mostly paid through the social system) were always leaving. No one could put with her for very long…And in Patches’ mind, all was well. She refused to see her true state of ineptitude on all levels. In her mind she was still designing rocket engines to go into space and the people picking up or cleaning her inert body were secretaries, assistant engineers or associates of the firm.

Brandon, her live in helper was also at the end of his rope. He could hardly speak civil like to her any more; and it was rubbing off in other directions and onto other people. His self imposed 24/7 enclosure in his bedroom was getting to him – that and no girls! Yes, all work and no play was not healthy and the word work wasn’t so easy to define anymore either. He felt like he was always working, but in truth he was unfocused. Nothing was really getting accomplished. Dealing with Patches just made things worse.

And Mahta, the tall, beautiful black as night Camorian had left the fold, or rather had been fired months before. She hadn’t told him about the baby. a little baby Brandon of sorts, named Ahmed jr.

Maybe if he’s known that he’d had a son, life would be very different. Patches yelled from downstairs, “Rob, wil yi tk mo t th tlet pleeze..?” It was hard to decipher what she was asking, but he knew. He waited for the phone to ring, the answering machine to pick up, then finished reading his article before going downstairs.

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