The Company – 7

As soon as Turd saw the old man, his instinct of custody also brightened up. He wobbled like a penguin, excited by whatever distorted prospects he envisioned in his mind. Reasonable for once, he was in agreement with me, although being his cautious self he just and grudgingly recognized that maybe we could be of assistance on this occasion if we decided that that was necessary.

“What do you mean if it’s necessary, you moron,” I said, utterly surprised by the shortcomings in perception from my associate. “Are you unaware of the idiocy he hauls to such a degree that it’s even difficult to comprehend how he is still able to manage the process of respiration, which to him must be the most intricate endeavor?”

“Don’t mock me with your words, CrazyEye,” he said, and I must admit that rightly so, since I will frequently do exactly that, because I find that a good dose of verbal prepotency raises me away from the infamy in which I usually trudge, and such distancing myself from it all brings me tranquility, makes me feel safe, “or I’ll stamp one of my presents on your face. I can perfectly see he’s a dummy, thank you very much, I don’t understand why you need to come with all your chatty-chat when there’s not much to talk about, really, he’s half dead already, in the streets by himself he’d crawled for just a question of days.”

“Hours, I’d say.”

“Hours, yes, maybe just hours, so someone needs to take care of him,” Turd said. I nodded, making my agreement as obvious as possible, and he added, “where did you find him?”

“In my park.”

“In your park?” the mocking Turd asked.

“Yes,” I answered, knowing too well where he was heading to.

“Is your territory, CrazyEye,” he laughed at me. “Everything there is in CrazyEye’s park,” the shitty head started to sing, bouncing from one feet to another, mocking me, “everything there is in CrazyEye’s park, both the good and the bad, all of it belongs to CrazyEye. That’s your song. How many times have you sang it to me? Eh? Eh? So, the old thing was in your park, consequently he’s all yours.”

“I know, but…”

“Yes, yes, don’t you worry. Aren’t we comrades? Of course we are. I’ll help you, don’t you worry,” he said with a sardonic intonation and a final snort. “Besides,” he continued, “I have a lot of spare time over here, I can take care of him. But…” Turd raised an eyebrow and became dead serious, “you haven’t told me his name yet. You’ve already asked him, I assume?”

Turd was overly obsessed with the business of names. It must have been because of being marked himself with the ignominy of his name that he was so sensitive on the matter, so sensitized to it, so losing hours after hours meditating about names and all the undercurrents that emerged from each particular naming event. So much was he absorbed by the colors and shapes of given names that he had become a crafter of them. A forger of names. An unrecognized artist in my opinion. And any time Turd created a new name, even though one could imagine that there was a fire of rancor burning in him that could spark a desire to behave hatefully as an answer to the offense committed by his parents, he never fostered nor accepted any nominal injustice, no matter how small. Against such injustices he would rebel, sometimes brandishing the most displeasing weapons, not precisely prophylactic ones, as when he would go into a church during a baptism and rant against any Dick, against any Seaman, against any Reason, starting with a subdued mumble, becoming more and more infuriated with the responsible parties, finally screaming and fighting until he was kicked out.

In quite a contradictory manner, he didn’t accept any adulterations, distortions or changes to the name that one had received. He was very adamant on this issue. His position was that we had to be strict. If something or someone (no distinction had to be made according to Turd) is given a name, whatever it is, that name must be retained inexcusably, accepting any consequences, one has the ethical obligation to do so, to wear that name as an ornate crown and not as a shredded kleenex stuck in the corner of a pocket. That’s where Turd’s ardent refusal to renounce to his own name emanated from. He also argued that as important as embracing the name you had been given was giving as quickly as possible a name to any thing or being that lacked one. For me he invented the name CrazyEye as soon as he learned that I had abdicated from my old and business-like name, something Turd will never forgive me for, although he should understand that I had to kill some particular ties. All his treasures he also baptized. In fact, there was nothing that being unnamed and falling into his hands remained nameless for more than a second.

“He doesn’t talk too much,” I said to my comrade Turd.

“Well, we need to find out at once what’s his name,” he said, contorting his fat face to produce a distressed grimace. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything?”

“Not about his name, no.”

“What did he say, then?”

“Well, we were in our way to here and out of the blue he told me his story. Actually, he repeated the whole thing five times, I think. And that’s the only time he said anything, like a dam suddenly opened and all his misadventures came bursting out, then suddenly the dam was shut down again. That story must be the only thing that moves him. It’s kind of short in words, but certainly cruel. You must want to know about it, I bet.”

“Yes, of course,” he said while opening his legs and putting his hands on his hips, one of his pompous stances, “maybe we can figure something out about his name.” He was now so impatient that I purposely elongated my silence, to see him wiggle with enraged anticipation, his short legs tap dancing as if his shoes were burning up. “Come on, spit it out,” he yelled.

“The story revolves mostly around his daughter. He refers to her as ‘The Bitch from Hell’. It turns out that one day she was fed up with him, she said that she had had enough with her own children, she had changed more than enough diapers and dealt with all the other shit, she wasn’t going to return to that part of her life, nor was she going  to pay most of her money to a nursing home for someone who was worthless and good for nothing, someone who the only thing that he could expect to get from life was a quick death. So the daughter, aka the bitch from Hell, her brain upholstered with such ideas, took her father to my park, ordered him to sit down on a bench, and left towards her job without any remorse, leaving our friend here behind her for ever.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s basically it.”

“The bitch from Hell…” Turd said while musing. “The bitch from Hell…”

“Yes,” I said.

“My daughter didn’t seem the type,” said the old man in a sudden burst of inspiration, right away falling again in his well of mutism.

Turd ignored the old man, those words could have been a dog complaining in the distance for all that he cared. He assumed his serious face. “So, we don’t know his name, now,” he said. There he came again, obsessively pensive, stroking his chin in a plotting manner. “The first thing we need to do is to give him a name, that’s for sure,  he cannot just go around without a name to make him human,” he insisted, starting to annoy me with his tedious agenda. “What do you think about OldThrown?”

I didn’t say anything and scratched my tummy instead. OldThrown complained about his daughter again.

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