We don't want to focus on these things too heavily, at least not with the incorrect emphasis; after all, it is the 'little things' which make life shine its most bright, but if we seek to over analyse, we run the risk of obscuring the real lesson. Nor is it wise to remain in a nostalgic mindset for gratuitous periods of time, for it is a natural cause of long-term unhappiness, but nonetheless, some of these tales will bear repeating here, with a disclaimer that they are told from an exaggerated lens with an incredible sense of personal bias in perspective.
Ricky was not having a good day. He was pretty much broke, felt isolated, and all he had left was his miserable 1995 Volvo, which used to have seat belts. He went for a search around the house for any remnants of booze – there had been a party there a couple of nights ago, which he didn't remember that well, except that his girlfriend broke up with him, or something like that – but the quest was increasingly difficult, given that Ricky had already spent the last several days fiendishly consuming what had been left over. He had a collection of 4-litre wine bags, all of them mostly drained, and poured what was left in the seven bags into a gigantic glass, mixing red and white, and topping it off with half of a shot of what he could only presume was really cheap vodka.
This could have been why, honestly, everyone else was avoiding Ricky like the plague. Roger wasn't interested in tennis. Olga wasn't up for coffee. Sammy Calamari had to cancel their jam for “other plans.” Ricky had planned to go through some more contacts in his phone, but then he drank the glass of wines. Halfway, he pondered that he wasn't sure he was in a state to socialise in the first place. Once it was finished, he had forgotten about the issue completely.
Meanwhile, over at the fish store, where Ricky was supposed to begin thirty-five minutes ago, Tucker was getting terribly frantic. He was under slept, nervous, and shaking, and although he always sought to avoid confrontation, he felt that he had no choice but to call up this Ricky fellow and explain that he was not about to cover his shift for him.
…
But I can't come in, dude, okay, Tucker, I'm sorry, man. I forgot to call. I'm so fucking sorry. Shit. Can you please call someone else? Okay? I really can't come in.
Where are you, Ricky? Are you at home?
Yeah.
That's a five minute walk. You tell me this all the time.
Yeah, but, like, between the solicitations of sympathy and rapid consumption of jelly shots, I can't really hold it together right now, bro.
I will bear this in mind the next time we converse.
…
Everyone else agreed that it was a good thing that Ricky lost his job. Nobody liked working with him, because he never took showers. This was another thing nobody liked about him: the inherently awful smell. We theorise that he last took a shower some time in 2006, and employment in the sales of fish is the kind with a lingering, unpleasant scent. We would all stop inviting him to parties, and saying hello when we run into him, or even hanging out with him every so often – but even though we all agree on these things, we have decided that it would not be very nice to say anything about it.
For his twenty-second birthday, we all chipped in and bought him a Stradivarius. You should have seen the look on his face.
