The day I called in sick

The day I called in sick was a day spent outside of time. My beard did not grow. No hairs fell from my head. My house was silent in the absence of the tick-tocking of the clocks. All the numbers disappeared from my wristwatch. Deprived of their usual purpose, the minute hand turned into a compass and pointed north, while the hour hand always pointed in the direction of the nearest washroom.

I travelled northerly that day and wanted not for clean facilities and liquid soap wherever I went. The world, so harsh and cruel at times, seemed to soften and yield to my will. I hungered, and there was food. Thirsted, and there was drink. If I had struck a Faustian bargain with this day, I had come out with the better half of the deal. Instead of losing my soul, I seemed to have regained it.

The day I called in sick stop signs bowed their faces at my approach. Yield signs laughed, embarrassed at themselves and strangely shy in my presence, and waved me on through every intersection.

The day I called in sick I saw Jesus eating lunch at Tasty Tom’s. “Why aren’t you at work?” he asked. “Why aren’t you?” I replied. He shrugged and returned to eating his garlic mushroom burger. There’s something so relaxed about a man who can confidently wear a dress in public.

The day I called in sick the street lamps lit up whenever I walked beneath them. Their eyes twinkled with envy.

The day I called in sick I went golfing, and I hate golfing. On this day, I could do anything, even the things I hate. And surely there is nothing quite so hateable as golfing.

Perhaps it is the groomed landscapes, which remind me not so much of walking through nature but a museum of nature, preserving the real through the fake. When all humanity is confined to 100-storey apartment towers and “green space” refers to the chair under the palm tree in the lobby, there will still be golf courses. When everyone has to wear external mechanical lungs that distil breathable oxygen from the poisoned atmosphere, people will still go out and hit a few rounds. “Apparently, that’s what they called a tree,” a man will casually remark as he readies his shot, pointing to a nearby plastic poplar. “But what does it do?” his partner will ask, adjusting the metal carapace strapped to his back, wheezing in irritation. “Nothing, apparently,” the man replies after he swings. The ball arcs magnificently, its whiteness blazing against the black sky. “The things primitives come up with. Well, even Stonehenge must have seemed practical and useful once upon a time.” The man’s partner squirms uncomfortably as he tries to find his stance at the tee. “God, it’s impossible to play with this thing on my back….”

But beyond that, I’m haunted by visions of hordes of managers and executives descending upon me, golf clubs held aloft, wielding their upper middle class privilege like the truncheon it is. As the nine-irons descend upon my bloodless face, all I hear is the nonsensical chant, “Hole-in-one! Hole-in-one!” The words blur together until they lose all form, becoming an arcane mystical incantation buried beneath my shrieks. Cold-sweat, waking up screaming, blanket wrapped around my leg like a serpent. No, it’s okay. Just a dream. They haven’t found me--not yet, anyway.

The day I called in sick the magpies developed laryngitis. They swooped from tree to tree in agitation, heads bobbing in mute fury as children did mocking imitations of their bird songs.

The day I called in sick I did not have to wait in line anywhere, not once. “Can’t you people see, today is the day I called in sick?” I would declare, and upon ascertaining my vigour, the people would gasp in awe and terror, dispersing like dandelion fuzz scattered to the wind. They intuitively grasped that if I could call in sick in this state of health, then I was surely capable of anything. I became god-like. They understood that I had vaulted out of the realms of mortality into a higher plane of existence that was beyond earthly concerns. I was immortal, if only for a day. Will they believe it years from now when I tell them? On my death-bed, will they laugh when I say I was immortal for a day? Will they scoff? Will the priest roll his eyes? “Hey, how did he get in here?” I’ll say hoarsely, pointing my pale finger at the man in the black cassock, who chomps on a cigar while fiddling with his Groucho moustache. “Yoink!” he’ll shout as he throws a balloon filled with holy water at me and jumps out the window.

The day I called in sick I wrote this.

The day I called in sick absolutely fucking rocked.