#senecca

[notjussayin]

Thoughts?⁠

⁠

#NotJusSayin⁠

[forsedemain-blog]

Door-to-door

by [indistinct radio static]

   I got fired from my job today. This is how it went:

Him: Customers have been getting in touch saying that we haven’t followed up after collecting cash from them.

Me: I know, Sir. I took the money. My daughter’s fees needed to be paid and the commission you pay me is goat shit.

Him: They haven’t even been logged into the tracker. We have no records of the transactions at all! Where are the invoices?

Me: I threw them into the creek outside my chawl, Sir.

Him: So you mean you don’t have them? This is not done. How did you think you would be able to get away with it?

Me: Well, Sir, I didn’t think at all. I don’t really care about the company’s profits—

Him: I don’t want your excuses. You’re fired. Pack up your things and leave.

Me: Okay, Sir. Bye, Sir.

So I left. I didn’t go home because I’m very afraid of my wife. She is a devil worshipper and performs black magic on everyone who rubs her the wrong way. If I tell her I got fired for stealing, she would murder me on the spot. Because stealing is worse than putting evil curses on people.

I could tell her I got laid off, but my company posts HIRING ads in the newspaper every day. And I can’t stop subscribing to the newspaper. It’s very important to me. You see, every evening after work, I settle down with the Times of India and flip to the Obituaries page.

A door-to-door salesperson meets a lot of people, even now, when the watchmen of most societies chase us away with sticks. I remember each face vividly. The ones that slam their doors on my face, the ones that scream for security, and the ones that try to hit me. (I told my wife about those ones so that she could do her black magic on them.) And I look for those faces in the Obituaries section every day.

Since my newspaper was at home and I didn’t want to go home, I stopped at the newspaper stand and struck up a conversation with the paper seller. I casually picked up a paper and opened it to page 8 while he was looking away.

It took me less than a second to spot one of my old friends. “Subramanian Rajagopalan, so that was his name,” I murmured, looking at the white haired man with soda-bottle spectacles. “He had grumbled that he was not interested before I even said anything… Well, he’s dead now.”

“Hey! What are you doing?” Oops. It was the paper seller. I folded the paper and put it back in its place, hurrying away. I was going to miss being a salesperson. I liked being on the field. I was used to the rejection. I relished it. I was like a shameless dog, butting my nose into people’s business until they gave in and threw me a scrap.

So I walked into a random society. The watchman stopped me. Typical.

“Kidhar jaa raha hai?” (Where do you think you’re going?)

“Arey, mera meeting hai Sahabji ke saath. Woh third floor wale.” (Oh, I have a meeting with the gentleman who lives on the third floor.)

All I had to do was wait. I was used to this – their resilient expressions would soon melt into one of understanding. Oh, sahab told me that his office peon would come by. Ah, he must be here for madamji’s charity work. The resilience in the watchman’s eyes melted away. It was replaced by something soft – like sympathy. “Oh,” he said. “Haan, jaiye. Seedee se left jao. Pehla flat hai.” (Okay, go ahead. It’s the first apartment to the left of the stairs.)

Just another day in the life of deceit and trickery. Usually, once I was through security, I just went to whichever house I wanted until somebody complained and got me thrown out. I was going to do that today, too. Being a DTH cable subscription salesman had its perks. All I needed was a few brochures to be able to trick people into giving me their money.

But I didn’t particularly feel like scamming people today. I was going to go straight to the flat to the left of the stairs on the third floor. I wanted to see what had inspired the watchman’s change in resolve. Of course, I was going to scam him, too. Killing two birds with one stone.

I found the flat. Its door was bare and unadorned. It didn’t have swastikas (the Hindu ones, not the Nazi ones) on the threshold or a “JESUS SAVES” sticker or even a plaque bearing the owner’s name.

I knocked. No response. He had to be home. The watchman wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. So I knocked again, holding my ear to the door. “It’s open,” said a frail, old voice. I pushed it. It was.

The house was very small and very, very dirty. It had a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom. I could smell shit and piss and all sorts of unpleasant things. And it was only after looking around for a few moments that I spotted the most unpleasant thing of all – a gnarled, skinny human sprawled on the couch. He looked like he was going to die any second. “Come closer,” he said. “Sorry for the mess.”

I went closer. Took a chair and sat by his head. “At least wash your dishes. They’re piled up to the ceiling,” I said.

“Oh!” he cried, his eyes watering. “It hurts! Don’t be angry!”

At this point, I was quite irritated. Mostly because he had taken about thirty minutes to speak those three sentences. Also because they made no sense. And also because there was no way a dead man would be interested in subscribing to a DTH cable service. I needed to find a new way to scam him. That’s when he said something that made my ears perk up.

“Don’t hurt me. I have 20,000 in the bank. My cheque book is in the cupboard.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I opened the cupboard and reached through the mess to the very back. People always keep their money in the back. My fingers closed around a promising object and I pulled it out. Bingo.

His name was Arun Gunjan. I was too excited to look at his other details. I pulled out my pen and handed it to him. “Sign it,” I said. And with surprising dexterity for a man of his weakness, he grabbed the pen and shakily signed his name.

I looked at the signature. It was shaky as hell. “I don’t think the bank will accept this,” I said.

He flinched at my words and lifted the pen. I put my bag on his chest to give him a steady surface. He signed it. It was better this time.  “Thank you,” I said. He convulsed in response. What a weirdo. I tore out the cheque and showed myself out. The watchman gave me a knowing glance as I went through the gate. All was well.

I decided to go to the bank and encash the cheque, but then I changed my mind. What if the dying sicko called up the police? I’d go straight to jail. Goddamn, Arun Gunjan. What a terrible name. I wish he would die.

I went into a park and started filling up the cheque. I wrote the amount in words and numbers. I wrote my name. It was a hot day. I reached into my bag for my water bottle and took a long swig. Ahh. Better.

I lost track of time until a police officer tapped on my knee with his baton. “Is there a problem, officer?” I asked.

“What do you mean kyaa hua?” he spat in my face. “You’re drinking in a public park! Get out!”

“It’s water,” I said, lifting the bottle up to him. “See?” I brought it back to my lips and took a swig. Some of it dribbled onto my shirt.

The policeman grabbed my water bottle with one hand and my collar with the other. Before I knew it, I was being dragged outside like a dog. “No need to make a scene!” I said to the police officer. “SHUT UP!” he roared back.

I held my bag to my chest and made a bolt for it. I decided to go home, as I often would while I was on the field. At least there I could sit in my corner alone, while my wife worshipped the devil. I stood on the threshold and peeked through the wire screen door. There she was, facing a wall motionless. Praying.

I stepped inside. She didn’t bother to turn.

“Hello,” I said. She said nothing.

“I’m talking to you,” I said. She was still motionless.

“I have something to tell you…-”

“CAN’T YOU SEE I’M PRAYING?!”

I jumped. Her pupils were completely dilated and her hair was standing up on its ends. She was even starting to look like the devil.

“Never mind,” I said, and went to my corner.

After a while, my daughter walked in. She was smiling to herself, her stupid face lit up with the joy of puppy love. When she saw me, her face fell. She knew that I thought her boyfriend was a piece of shit.

“Still roaming with that boy-girl, are you?” I asked. “That idiot who grows his hair so long. He thinks it covers his face, but I recognize him very well.”

“Papa, please,” said my daughter. She looked uncomfortable.

“No need,” I said, shaking my hand with a frenzied motion. “I see him smoking those hand-rolled cigarettes in the corner…”

“Mummy!” she calls out, her tone desperate. The devil worshipper turned around and looked at me scathingly. “Leave her alone,” she barked. “Eat your lunch and get out.”

“Getting kicked out of my own house,” I grumbled. I walked out of the house without eating lunch. I walked out with nothing but the cheque in my pocket. I had encash it quickly.

While I was walking towards the bank, I felt that sinking ache in my heart. You know, the one that makes you feel despondent and wonder about what you’re doing. I took a step forward and stared at my foot. What a wondrous thing, the human body. How great was god. How great was the devil that my wife worshipped. How great was the hairy boy who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes.

I found myself walking towards the bridge instead. It was a huge bridge that passed over the sea. It was meant for vehicles only, but I was a dog who knew how to nuzzle its way in. I was not man’s best friend. I was not the dog that ever had its day. I was the dog that ate people’s homework. And then I ate them, too.

I slipped in between the rails and onto the tiny ledge outside, dangling my legs over the sea. In between the din of the traffic and the crashing waves, I could barely hear my own thoughts. I hardly even noticed that another guy was sitting next to me, staring at me intently. I looked up and jumped slightly. He didn’t make to steady me. He didn’t even smile. He opened his mouth and formed a single-word question: “Suicide?”

I had not been thinking about suicide. I had a cheque for 20,000 in my pocket. I was good for the time being. But when I looked into the man’s languid, dead eyes, I found myself drawn to the idea. Yes, suicide. I just got fired and my wife is a devil worshipper and my daughter’s boyfriend has long hair to hide his ugly demon face. “Yes,” I replied. “But would you like to buy a DTH cable subscription?”

The man didn’t smile. “I don’t think cable TV works in hell.”

“Hell?” I spat. “I’m an expert in that field. My wife worships the devil, you know. She’s his second-in-command. And my soon-to-be son-in-law is probably the devil himself. He has such long hair. Always covering his face. It’s because he doesn’t want to show me that he’s the devil. He wants to marry my daughter and then spring it on me. I know it.”

“If you’re not afraid of hell, then jump,” said the stranger. “I’m afraid of hell. I’m afraid of this agony not ending. That’s why I’m still sitting here.”

I considered his words for a few moments. “I’m not afraid of the afterlife,” I said. “But I am afraid of the pain. Imagine – me, suffocating, but still struggling to hold on to this bullshit life. It’s a little pathetic.”

“Let’s jump together,” said the man to me. “We’ll hold each other down so that there’s not much of a struggle.”

“That will help me get over my fear,” I said. “But your fear of the afterlife still remains. And I don’t know what I can do to help you with that.”

We sat in silence for a while. It was already very dark. “You should live,” I said to the man. “Avoid the unknown for some more time.”

“And you?” asked the man. I could hardly see his face anymore, but his white shirt was luminescent in the darkness.

“I’ll get a new job,” I shrugged. “Drive taxis, maybe.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Those Uber taxis are getting popular.”

“No, I think I’ll go with a regular black-and-yellow,” I said, grabbing the rail with my hands as I hoisted myself up and back onto the bridge. “More strikes, more holidays, more ch--”

I looked behind me, but the man was not there anymore. There was nowhere he could have gone. Did he jump into the sea? I looked into the murky, thrashing waters, swallowing a lump in my throat. I couldn’t see anything. There was nothing for me to do but go home.

I woke up at 6 the next morning. Punctuality was my biggest virtue. My wife the devil worshipper poured me a cup of tea and handed me the day’s newspaper. I scrambled to Page 8 as I took my first sip. And I promptly spat it all out.

At the centre of the page was a picture of the man on the bridge. And the name underneath it read ARUN GUNJAN. “Kya hero dikh raha hai,” (What a hero he looks like), I said to myself, smiling wryly. “No wonder I couldn’t recognize him at the bridge.”

Before I could finish admiring his pictures, three policemen came barging into my house and put me in handcuffs. “You are under arrest for robbery and murder,” said the burliest of them.

“What robbery? Whose murder?” I asked. “Are you talking about Arun? He’s my great friend! I didn’t murder him!”

Nobody was listening to me. I swung my head around wildly. I looked at my devil-worshipping wife, who was for once not facing the wall. She looked thoughtful, but not like she cared that I was being taken away. I looked at my daughter, groggy from sleep. She was so pretty, she had all my looks. She was chewing her fingernails. Soon she would get married to that horrible, long-haired demon. Neither she nor her mother would meet my eye.

Arun Gunjan’s watchman gave me a water bottle and I emptied it under the bridge that evening and I wore a white shirt and was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and my wife, I loved her, with her long hair covering her double chin but I could see her dilated eyes and they were like watching a DTH cable transmission in hell and the only thing on every channel was the devil himself and he was a dog who ate invoices and threw them into the creek outside his chawl.

[djkevintoronto]

The weather is nice, make plans to come to @fictionclub tonight. #EndOfExams #PlaySaturdays Featuring: @babakahn @celebritydru @blaxzdundaplace @djdoobz @djkiddchris @itsdjslim & MYSELF | Hosted by: @mc.chatterbox & @ameerbofficial #DJ #Toronto #Party #EndOfSchool #Exams #Ryerson #TRSM #RTS #YorkU #GeorgeBrown #UofT #Sheridan #Senecca #OCAD #UOIT #Centennial #Humber #GuelphHumber #Hennessy #GreyGoose #Ciroc #MoreHashtags (at Fiction Club Toronto)

[ereshkigal]

senecca replied to your post: my paper about starplus’s brand identi...

wow i’d like to read it maybe

if you want to read it you can, just let me know!! but it's not like ground breaking work tho

[timelessmulder]

senecca replied to your post:"professor should i start my speech with reciting...

i like your professor

she's pretty rad!! I love her a lot

but i'm not ENTIRELY sure how to combine the two??

i could tell the story then go on to the killer's MO and read one of his letters??? idk 

[fuckyeahthecatempire]

oh, they're all gone :(

Yeah sorry, took a matter of hours for them to all go.

[ereshkigal]

senecca replied to your post: I know I am not okay wit...

what even

basically we shouldn't judge these people for aiding in the rape and eventual death of an 8 year old girl because ~different~culture~

also this person said "i would class india as more of a 'second world'" country and i'm like..............you're going to lecture me about not judging cultures while not understanding how bullshit the first/second/third discourse is?

[sleepyydyke]

I was tagged by quaiabondya

The Rules: 
1) Always Post The Rules
2) Answer the questions the person tagged you in and write 10 new ones
3) Tag 8 new people to the post
4) Let them know you tagged them

What are you currently obsessing over?

Yeah, I'd have to go with Supernatural. Personally, I think it's a work of art.

Spaghetti or ravioli?

Ravioli

Or tortellini?

Ugghhh. Um. Ravioli.

What is the color of your bedroom?

Light green and yellow

Do you know any other languages besides your first?

Passable Spanish (as long as i don't have to speak in the past tense) and I can read and write Latin like a motherfucker.

Do you own a pillow pet? If so, which?

Nope. 

Did you ever have a celebrity you were convinced you'd marry someday?

Oh god yes. Ira Glass. In fact, I'm still pretty sure it could happen. Also, David Tennant.

What is one thing that you will, on principle, NEVER do?

Probably a lot of things. The first that comes to mind is crystal meth.

One food that you're too afraid to eat?

Most kinds of fish. I hate the way it smells. One time my friend Charles convinced me to eat some of his whitefish and it wasn't terrible, but fishier fish terrifies me.

Favorite Disney movie?

Mulan, I guess. Even though it's not nearly as feminist as it purports to be (e.g., Mulan only goes to war to serve the patriarchy, and gettin' the guy ends up being the truest measure of her happiness). Still, I can't deny that soundtrack.

Do you have curtains on your windows?

No. I have the most irritating blinds. They're built into the window and they can't be raised, so whenever I want to look out my window I have to look through slats.

Describe the most embarrassing photo ever taken of you.

There's one from when I was two or three that's hanging on my aunt and uncle's fridge. I'm watering the lawn without any clothes on.

Best book to movie adaptation?

I love One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The book and the movie, although they are extremely different.

Worst book to movie adaptation?

The Hobbit movie is way too fucking long for my taste.

Have you done something extraordinary (definition of extraordinary is up to you)?

In 5th grade I wrote a letter to my parents saying that I got into a fight at school and I actually got my principal to sign it. Then I went home and spent like an hour using my mom's makeup to make it look like I got the shit beat out of me. When my dad got home, I handed him the letter and said, "you should see the other guy." He freaked. I feel like that was pretty extraordinary. 

Last time you played on a playground?

A few weeks ago.

What is the best site on the Internet?

thisisnthappiness.com 

Do you have a definitive worst day of your life?

Yeah. Probably when my grandpa died. I was eight and he had cancer and I was in the room when he died. I think that still has a pretty big influence on who I am now.

Quality about yourself you like the best?

I'm very forgiving.

Quality about yourself you like the least?

I can be really judgmental, even before I meet someone. 

Did you ever have a Webkinz? How many?

I think I had two. Possibly three. One was definitely a unicorn.

Website of your childhood?

homestarrunner.com

Important childhood toy you still have?

Legos. I still use them, too.

Are you a good liar?

Depends on who I'm lying to. Usually, yes.

What's your least favorite school subject? Why?

Latin. It's boring af and way too easy. Plus, the teacher is off her rocker.

Coolest/prettiest/most awe-inspiring thing you've seen in nature?

The Dingle Peninsula in Ireland. There are these sea birds called gannets, and I don't want to bore you but those fuckers are cool as shit.

Coolest/prettiest/most awe-inspiring thing you've ever seen in the human world, either a man-made thing or an action?

Once when my friend and I were walking, she stopped and kissed a bud on a tree. I loved that.

My questions (I'm gonna break the rules and only write three)...

Do you believe in ghosts?

Who is your favorite superhero?

What is your all-time favorite song (not just one you've been jamming out to recently, I mean all-time. One you'll never get tired of)?