(A Story Without a Beginning or an End)
“Come on, Fildehn, you old blockhead, work, you bastard, come on now! You lanky twenty-year-old! Slave away, you scoundrel! Slave or I’ll toss you onto the junk heap!”
With those tender words, Clive made one last effort not to completely lose his temper.
Sten stared at Clive with a bewildered look, utterly confused as to whom such a loving speech was addressed.
Noticing Sten’s confusion, the furious Clive decided to ease his suffering and headed over to explain.
He stomped over to the old “Panasonic,” which had fallen silent a minute ago, and smashed the “stop” button on the tape recorder.
“Well, Fildehn, pretending you didn’t hear me again?
Mark my words — if you don’t stop another tape yourself, I’m tearing you down for parts and turning your carcass into a mailbox!”
And at last, Sten caught on.
Fildehn swallowed a new tape with a mournful whirr, and a few seconds later, something spilled out of the speaker — something no sane person could possibly call music.
Clive’s eyes turned yellow, his face went grey, and his T-shirt adopted a color that no one could name.
Now even Sten — even Sten — could guess: Clive was in a full-blown rage.
“Scumbag!” Clive roared. “You filthy wretch!
You dried-up herring! Your so-called ‘laser recording’ sounds like an aria from some Soviet junk heap!
You idiot! You want to end up as pigeon feed?!”
Fildehn went on strike.
Clive closed his eyes and collapsed backward.
He crashed down so heavily that the air itself shuddered, half-expecting it would soon be filled with pieces of shattered Clive.
But instead, the deep armchair caught him gently.
For about three minutes, Clive lay there motionless, eyes tightly shut.
Sten began to worry: maybe his friend had actually died.
Visions of fake-rose wreaths floated before his eyes…
And then Clive stirred — and gave a faint sigh.
“I’m just… tired of fighting him,” Clive mumbled, worn out.
“He knows I need him like air itself. He knows I’m just venting my anger on him — but I can’t really do anything to him.”
“Then just buy a new one!” Sten blurted out, struck by sudden inspiration.
“I did!” Clive shouted — and immediately heard faint guitar notes, a few shy sharps trembling out of the speakers.
“I did,” he repeated more quietly.
“But the worst part is, after a little tantrum, Fildehn always plays again.
And all the others — the Nicks, the Yomis, and the Yohns — none of them get along with me.
My temper, my rage — it drives them nuts.
Only Fildehn understands.
Only Fildehn puts up with me.”
“Yeah…” Sten sighed with sympathy.
“My dad had a telephone once. Everything was peachy, but one day, he got angry and slammed the receiver down.
Well, that was it.
The Tel got offended — completely shut down when Dad came near.
We bought new phones… but every time we brought a new one into the house, it would sync up with the old Tel.
Same problem. Every time.”
Meanwhile, silent all this while, Fildehn suddenly coughed, sputtered, and finally began producing the music everyone had been waiting for.
“Keep working, Fildehn, keep working,” Clive whispered, exhausted.
“I’ll clean your playback head with alcohol tonight…”