The Scent of Success

Rick looks up at his environment; a pot full of biros, a stapler, a miniature Henry the hoover a desk with a laptop on it and an office. He's had enough, his tech is malfunctioning again. One look to access the situation, and another as he gets up and leaves.

He bumps his car bumper on a curb before going to a toy shop. They have nothing he wants so he tries another shop. The meat at the butchers is too fatty and the man in the motorshop is not burly enough for his liking. Back in his car, Rick is holding up traffic apologetically, as he puts on Nirvana. Nevermind he decides to drive fast.

In a country lane he is absent-mindedly dodging a barrage of; tractors cultivating sheep; shepherds leading flocks of cows; punk-rock kids with pink mohawks riding on horses; and groups of men in tuxedos pushing Harley Davidsons. He takes the time to look in the mirror, but there's never anybody behind him and he never looks any more handsome. The better you look the more you see.

At a harbour Rick looks at the boats and leaves his car running, he knocks on a window a few times. He wants an ice cream, but the window is glaring from the sunlight so he just stands outside for a while gormlessly. His hair is in his eyes and he is slightly crouched, hiding within a big coat.

He drives to the end of a pier one-handedly and eats a mint ice-cream in a choco-waffle cone. He looks to his left; to his right; straight in front of him and to his right and there is a fifteen foot drop each way. All around him is water, a small cymbal is tingling within Rick's mind. He feels free: but not free like an albatross, not free like a tether-less kite, but free like an impotent man of four years, pulling back his foreskin and pushing forward with triumphant vigour. The cymbal rings like a screaming orgasm within Rick's mind for the rest of his journey.

He's not curious, he's bored as he drives into rich people's expansive driveways. He looks around but what he takes in is negligible. His thirst is the kind that cannot be quenched, he lives an easy life with all the friends. He needs nothing. At a cemetery he waves to a dog-walker, and in a council estate he waves to a black man. When Rick was a little boy his mother used to take him to the airport to wave at aeroplanes.

He goes to the hypermarket to buy some hot-cross-buns and to enjoy the all-day breakfast on a tray. He spends ten minutes comparing scents in the 'Air Freshener' aisle, he decides upon 'Marvellous Magnolia'. As he puts the packet into his basket he see's a group of five female colleagues. He catches their eyes, each one in-turn but makes no gesture of recognition. Heads straight for the 'Toiletries' aisle and picks up two cans of 'Lynx Africa'. After Rick leaves; at the self-service till; barely visible in the garishly lit store; the magnolia scented candle flickers hopefully.

As he walks out Rick farts and chuckles to himself as an older woman walks into the detonated area.