Valuable Feedback
By Simon Lowe
Ned woke in the night with a mighty thirst. Aunt Cherry’s chicken goujons had been dry and salty and he’d drunk lots of wine. It was a party to celebrate his fortieth, at a country retreat he called “his treat” because he paid for everything and everyone. It was intended as a thank you. He carefully trod downstairs and looked forward to filling his glass, drinking it entirely and filling it again to take back to his bedroom. He had laid in bed for six minutes with his eyes fully open so they could adjust to the dark and he wouldn’t need to switch on any lights. He didn’t want anybody to be disturbed. He was like a mole or a fox, skulking under a night sky. It was a surprise when Ned saw the entire group, all twenty guests, in the giant lounge with the inglenook fireplace. Ned didn’t like inglenooks as a rule, he thought they were a poor economy of space, but actually a room that big “can take it,” thought Ned as he stood in the doorway. His nearest and dearest were speaking from a podium of sturdy apple crates. It was like speaker’s corner in Hyde Park. Ned used to think it was named Hide Park because it was such an effective place to conceal oneself. He saw it written in the newspaper once and couldn’t have been more disappointed.
It turned out Ned’s nearest and dearest were planning his demise. They were, by all accounts, fed up with him. Ned’s parents stood side by side on the apple crates. They explained it wasn’t that Ned ever did anything truly wrong, he was just so grating to be around. He had one of those “unfortunate personalities,” Ned’s mother remarked solemnly, and everybody agreed. There was some distasteful whooping from the back of the room where Ned’s cousins stood holding cans of beer, their buttery faces lit like daffodils.
“Yes, he’s just so yucky, he makes me cringe,” said Ned’s wife.
She was quickly replaced by Ned’s ten-year-old daughter.
“I hate it when he tries to be all nice and friendly, soooo fake.”
Ned’s daughter was wearing the pyjamas Ned spent two hours searching online for, to be sure they were the exact right ones. Looking at her now he wondered if he shouldn’t have gone for the smaller 9-11 years size after all. They hung loosely on her.
Ned’s brother-in-law offered the first practical application to do away with Ned without fear of arrest or repercussions. He suggested they put on a magic show for Ned’s birthday surprise and perform the famous trick where you cut someone in half with a saw. They could convince Ned to lie in a box and then saw him in half and blame it on an innocent magic trick gone tragically wrong. There was a lot of nodding. Ned’s brother-in-law seemed both pleased and relieved by the positive reaction.
“I really like that idea,” said Ned’s older, teenage daughter. “I mean really like it.”
Ned hadn’t seen his daughter so enthused in maybe two years. It was nice that she appeared energised rather than her usual listless, droopy, self. She was motivated by the prospect of change.
Ned felt increasingly parched. He quickly got his water and returned without any spillage or noise despite continuing to be in the dark. He really was like a frog or a badger performing a nightly errand. His nearest and dearest were reflecting on previous failures to get Ned’s existence removed. Apparently, on a romantic holiday to Mallorca to celebrate his tenth wedding anniversary, they all chipped in to hire a hitman who claimed he could make it look like a boating accident. Ned’s wife was ready to sign on the dotted line when the hitman weakened in the reflection of his own moral code and asked why exactly she wanted her husband dead. Ned’s wife explained how grating his personality was, how needy and sensitive he was. Nobody liked talking to him much, everybody avoided him at parties, she said, “He’s always telling me he loves me, like always always, he looks me right in the eye, I LOVE YOU—it feels like a scud missile locking onto my face. I have to run for cover. Honestly, he’s just so nauseating.”
The hitman said he would have to think about whether this was a strong enough reason to conduct the hit given he would need to justify it to himself, morally, in order to live a contented life going forward. In the end he told her it was a close call but it would likely prey on his mind a little too much. He declined and wished her luck.
“You should have shown him a picture,” shouted Ned’s sister from the back of the room.
She was standing with the cousins, drinking from a dented beer can that looked like it had been recovered from a recycling bin and refilled. “If he saw that annoying face, he would have done it for free!”
Everybody laughed.
Ned heard someone say “so true” in a smiling, wistful way that people in their nineties tend to do, given backwards is the only direction they can look.
In many ways, Ned appreciated the feedback. It is good to learn what people really think about you. People talk so much more freely, with candour too, when you are not there. He hadn’t realised he was so frustrating to be around or that there appeared to be something implicit in his nature that caused others to dislike his every gesture. Uncle Graham told Ned’s wife she could have played a recording of Ned’s voice. That might have swayed the hitman too.
“God yes,” said Tim, Ned’s best friend. “So nasally. I remember at school praying for a fire alarm or terrorist attack, anything to shut him up.” Tim drank wine from a complicatedly designed crystal goblet and continued, “He never finishes his sentences with conviction. It’s always bugged me. You get the impression he wants you to nod or give a signal before he finishes saying anything, a thumbs up or something, to confirm he’s not making a fool of himself. And he’ll happily change his mind if he thinks you might disagree.”
This was an especially good observation. Ned was pleased to hear this. It was true, he did lack confidence in every situation. He didn’t like asking for anything. It made him tentative, and Ned could see how this was, as everybody kept saying, very fucking grating. He didn’t know how to be assured like other people, it was a mystery. But he was glad to see his children stepping on the apple crates, fearlessly holding forth, even in a room with so many people. Ned couldn’t imagine having the courage to do such a thing. His daughters expressed their opinions with such ease and confidence, it was delightful for Ned to see, despite the content.
“Like, I really hate how he asks us what we want to do all the time,” said Ned’s younger daughter. “I just think, why can’t you come up with any ideas, why is it up to me, I’m not in charge right? He doesn't seem like a normal adult half the time, you know, like my teachers or mum or Mr. Palmer at football practice, who know what to say.”
“Yes,” said Ned’s eldest daughter, joining her sister. “Totally agree. He is constantly asking me if I’m OK, but he says it so often you just want him to shut up. He’s way too sensitive. I mean, even if I wasn’t OK, I wouldn’t tell him because he’d probably blame himself or want to talk about it for hours rather than just getting whatever it was sorted and moving on.”
Ned’s sister moved forward and gave her nieces a cuddle. A cosy triumvirate spear, aimed at Ned.
“You should have tried growing up with him,” she said. “None of my friends wanted to come over if he was there, they hated his smile. I don’t know, it’s just so annoying how that front tooth is crooked.”
“Yes!” Ned’s nearest and dearest cheered. “That fucking front tooth!”
Well that’s a simple fix, thought Ned, wishing he had brought a notebook with him, despite the total blackness all around. He imagined moles or eagles had incredible abilities to memorize in the dark. I can speak to the dentist and get that sorted no problem. It would be a good start. I guess it is rather off-putting, my crooked tooth, thought Ned. And it’s true, he was often so eager to please his daughters, he didn’t lead or share opinions and ideas of his own, he deferred everything to the point where he was left worthless, an object. A thing you want to kick out of the way because it always seems to be in the way. He could see why his nearest and dearest felt compelled to bring peace into their lives, it was exactly the sort of proactive, taking responsibility, go-get-‘em attitude Ned found so difficult to employ. He listened a little longer before returning to the kitchen for more water. He saw the back door was open and a tiny orange light moved up and down occasionally, stopping to become even brighter.
Ned stepped outside to find his son smoking cannabis in the garden.
“I thought you were at university,” said Ned.
“I came back for your birthday. I’ve literally just got here.”
Ned was pleased his son decided to join the party, even if it was 4am on the final day of a three-day celebration.
“Can I get your take on something son?” asked Ned.
“Sure,” his son responded, widening his hands to show he was fully available to his father in an oddly Christ-like way.
“Me. What’s your take on me?” Ned asked.
“You?” said his son.
“Yes, me.”
“Like from a psychological point of view? Like, what’s my analysis of you?”
“Yes, why not.” Ned replied. “It would be interesting to get your perspective.”
“Well, I think you have either suffered or witnessed suffering, probably in early childhood, and this has shaped you. I think you find life fearful and foreboding. I think you have yet to, despite your age, discover what makes you happy. I think you don’t much like yourself or like to attribute any value to yourself, and you become uncomfortable when others do so.”
“Right,” Ned responded. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“I'll carry on, if you don’t mind.” said his son.
“Please do.”
“I think you are kind and good and whilst it’s a great shame you haven’t allowed yourself to exist fully, you have done a lot for others, for me, for our family, and it’s sad.”
“What is sad?” Ned asked.
“That they are going to kill you for it.”
“Oh you know about that. People don’t like goodness, is that it?” asked Ned.
“It’s impossible to be around,” his son responded, waving his joint in the air as if conducting eternally muted stars. “What can you do with goodness? Expel it. Remove it. That’s all. Goodness is sickly. It’s a poison to most people.”
“I see.” said Ned.
“You should probably leave. I can take care of things here but be quick.”
“I will. But son, what makes you different from most people?” asked Ned. “What allows you to tolerate me?”
Ned’s son opened his jacket to reveal a gun tucked inside his belt.
“Honestly dad, I don’t tolerate you. You really need to leave.”
Simon Lowe is a British writer. His stories have appeared in AMP, STORGY, Firewords, Ponder Review, Visible Ink, Chaleur Magazine, and elsewhere. His new novel, The World is at War, Again, will be published in 2021 (Elsewhen Press). www.simonlowebooks.com