"Wrong Number" follows three intersecting lives over the course of a single dole day in suburban Australia: a stoner riding out an appointment with Centrelink, the dealer mate whose marriage is quietly unravelling, and the erotica writer who's become his secret correspondent. Told in a voice that's equal parts slapstick and bruised, think bong-addled digressions colliding with real grief, it's a story about people improvising a life out of whatever's left to them, and how far a bad day can go before someone finally does something about it.
Wrong Number
A short story, set in London
He lashed out at the bedside clock, as though it were some vicious yet punch-prone alien. His hands and mind fumbled with it; he turned it over: what the hell was this thing, and what was with all the friggin’ beeping?
He couldn’t fathom why anything would make such an awful noise so damn early.
Bloody inconsiderate, he thought.
Some part of him, perhaps his kidneys, gathered whatever resources were available, and established a ramshackle base camp due south of his yellowed pillow. He equipped himself for the long trek to the shower, and with mouth open and eyes closed, set off.
He decided he’d let the sherpas take care of the alarm clock; he felt they were ready for the responsibility.
The warm water hugged him maternally, and made it all better. His brain went through its booting-up process. He had a pulse, and was breathing.
So far, so good.
It ran bladder and bowel status checks before going on a disorganised rant, whistling coyly and knowingly, kicking at the dirt and chattering inanely. He told it to shut up and stop fidgeting; he really wasn’t in the mood.
The water went cold, so he got out, dried off, and shuffled to the kitchen, where he realised his day was ruined. If it weren’t so hot, he’d go back to bed. He knew it was ruined; the empty toaster was more accurate than any hand-picked super-psychic.
He needed his toast cold before he buttered it; he liked the butter to sit on top, quietly, like a solid and non-melting thing. On top of that he would tenderly trowel the Marmite, like an oil slick spread across a seashore. This morning, however, the toaster was as empty as his stomach would remain for at least a fag and a half, while his breakfast cooked and cooled. The alarm heckled him again, cackling at his incompetence.
Useless sherpas, a mind-numbing brain and frozen bread: not a good sign of things to come, not good at all.
He did what he had to do: smoked and waited for his breakfast. And, with little to work with, the narrator was left to his own devices. Unfortunately, said devices were particularly entertaining and time-consuming, and John probably did some interesting stuff unobserved. He may or may not have stubbed a toe at some point, as he seemed to have taken on a limp in the interim. More likely, he was just faking it. He had always thought a limp lent one’s walk a certain dignity, and that an observer might conclude it was the result of a heroic dive onto a live grenade. John was a bit of a moron sometimes.
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