Mr. White

Mr. White has no problems.

He’s a bit annoying like that.

He knows just when to leave things when things are at their best; he never tinkers. He walks along the boulevard and whistles an indistinct tune: out of key, but why should that matter? Mr. White just whistles to amuse himself.

In front of Mr. White’s eyes the boulevard stretches out: endlessly. It’s summer and the jasmine’s in bloom. The sky is cloudless. The temperature a perfect 26°C. Everyone seems to be sedated and refrains from making any noise. No children crying; no street vendors shouting their wares to the innocent people passing by; no cars honking their horns; no insects stinging; no daft music loudly coming out of stores; honestly, not a cloud in the sky, honestly. Nothing in the world hinders Mr. White on this perfect day on his perfect walk.

Of late, all his walks have been perfect. Mr. White now just expects them to be so and is rarely disappointed.

Mr. White wasn’t always this happy. Indeed, Mr. White had never been all that lucky. It’s just that, one day, he decided he’d had enough. That’s what he tells people. It’s not at all that hard, he then says. It just takes some dedication. A true wonder he’d never thought of that before, nor, apparently, did the people around him. One day he just. had. enough.

Mr. White doesn’t play fair.

He’s a bit annoying like that.

He used to, until he didn’t.

Mr. White is on anti-depressants and a bunch of pain medication. Most of the time he tops them of with a nice bottle of bubblies or single malt whisky, before going out and seeing what the world is like like that. It’s f***ing brilliant, that’s what it is like like that, Mr. White then smiles to himself.

Mr. White has no problems. Mr. White has no problems at all.