The Assistant
1
Colin tripped over an empty bottle. A look of disbelief highlighted his deep frown, ‘You’re slipping up Burrell,’ he said to himself. He ran a hand over his receding hairline, cringing as his palm made contact with the oily skin. He scampered through the kitchen, feeling his way through the darkness.
‘Soapsoapsoap,’ he whispered as he grabbed a hold of the tap with one hand and the dishwashing liquid with the other.
An aroma of lemon and honey filled his nostrils; he tilted his head back.
‘I wonder why they would put honey in the stuff,’ he thought, ‘Strange thing, honey in dishwashing liquid. Smells good. The ads must be really good because I bought it. Sucker.’
He stepped to his right and opened the second drawer from the bottom. The cotton hand towel seemed to wrap itself around his hands. Colin’s upper body slanted away from the bin as he opened it with his foot. Then, careful not touch any part of the trash can (and resembling a teenage girl holding up a slit-open frog during a science experiment), he dumped the cloth. He wiped his hands on his trousers and pressed the LIGHT button on his Casio Databank watch. He checked the date and time: 22:09, 02-01-1995.
The light went out, so he pressed the button again, 'Where is that bottle?' The sterilized plastic under his feet in the living room area lit up neon blue, ‘Wow,’ Colin said, ‘My own little ocean.’
Then, as if a laser of some 1980's B-movie, he then pointed the watch in the direction of the brown and orange furniture set piled up in the corner of the room. ‘She doesn’t have the range,’ he said, referring to his watch’s flickering light. He waited for it to go out and took out a crumpled bit of tissue from his corduroys. He found the bottle, picked it up with the tissue paper and placed it in the bin on top of the hand cloth so as to deafen the sound the glass bottle would make on the empty disinfectant spray cans, “There you go. End of the road for you. Over and out. Now you can’t cause me anymore trouble. Stay there with the rest of your brothers and sisters for a while longer because the garbage truck arrives in --” He shook his wrist and gawked at his watch “-- just a sec --” A wide smile revealed perfect front teeth as he laughed at his own joke. The face of the watch lit up again and he punched in the numbers on the calculator keypad, “-- exactly eight-and-a-half hours - which reminds me; I still have a lot to do. Nighty-night now.”
The lid slammed shut and Colin walked towards the window overlooking Detroit River, his one right foot dragging over the plastic.
‘Ontario definitely has more lights than Detroit,’ he said, blinking at the lights shimmering in the reflection of his face, his eyes two empty holes because there was no light in them. He opened the window a little because the alcohol fumes were making him dizzy, ‘You need a whiff of fresh air, Burrell, just enough not to let all those viruses and God-knows-what-else in here.’
2
Colin found a pack of white surgical masks in a sealed plastic container in one of the cupboards under the sink. He washed his hands one more time after removing the lid, and repeated the ritual with the white cloth - this time making sure he covered the empty alcohol bottle in the bin. ‘Sleep tight,’ he said before ripping the plastic wrapper of the masks.
He lit up the room with the familiar blue neon of his watch and strolled down the short passageway, greeting each of the only two framed pictures flanking him on both sides.
‘Evening, Edgar.’ ‘Evening, Colin.’
‘Evening, Sylvia.’ ‘Evening, Colin. And that’s Mrs. Plath to you, you scoundrel!’
At this Colin giggled and shrugged his shoulders, ‘Whatever, your poetry belongs in the gas oven with that pessimistic little head of yours,’ he said in a tone that suggested he couldn’t give a rat’s ass what Mrs. Sylvia Plath had to say. ‘How dare you?!’ she shouted (in Colin’s shrill voice).
‘Edgar, take care of this one; she’s trouble.’ ‘But of course Master Colin.’
‘You will be rewarded.’ ‘But of course Master Colin,’ Edgar A. Poe hissed (in the same voice Colin had used for Mrs. Plath).
‘And keep it down. I don’t want the neighbours in 1315 to get suspicious.’ ‘But of course Master Colin.’
‘Is that all you can say?! You two sure are a team!’ Mrs. S. Plath shouted.
‘But of course Mrs. Plath,’ replied Edgar.
‘Good night now; you two have fun. It’s about time you get to know each other a little better. God knows, you’ve been staring at each other for the last two weeks. Nighty-night.’
Colin felt through his pocket for the last of his tissues and quickly flicked the bathroom switch. He shut the door, and squeezed the piece of tissue around the handle so that he would be able to reuse it. ‘I don’t usually do this. You know you belong in that cesspool,” he said to the tissue and pointed at the toilet. ‘You are very lucky. Enjoy your last moments before the bacteria get you.’
He hooked the elastic bands around his ears and looked at himself in the mirror. His mouth moved up and down under the mask, ‘Hello, handsome.’
He repeated this phrase a few times, each time in a different voice. ‘Hello, handsome.’
With the plastic wrapping of the mask still clutched in one hand, he opened the bathroom cupboard door above the basin and took out a toothbrush holder. He held it away from his face as if it was about to explode, and when it opened with a soft ‘click’, two felt tip pens did a little dance in the basin. Colin’s wheezing playing a waltz. ‘Beautiful, you two,’ he hummed.
He placed the plastic wrapper on the edge of the basin and put the mask on top of it. Then, closing his eyes, he touched the piece of tissue on the door handle and held it up, slowly turning while surveying the bathroom. ‘Pink tissue and brown bathroom tiles. Who would have thought?! Great match. I’ll keep that in mind when I rent my next apartment. Pink and brown. As old Sylvia said earlier, you two sure are a team. She’s always had a way with words.’
Making sure not to get any residue in his lungs (or anywhere on his body), Colin opened the tap and ripped the paper in half, his body in the usual ‘reclining’ position. ‘Die, dirt-gatherer.’
He removed the cap of the black pen and threw it on the floor. The heel of his sneaker came down hard and crushed it. He held the pen with the soggy tissue and lifted his one eyebrow, ‘Concentrate, Burrell. No more tissues left.”
He drew a mouth on the mask; first sketching a light outline, and then colouring the lips with the dry tip of the red. ‘Very good. Looks just like Edgar’s. Now for the nose - not too much, just a bit of shading.’
With the other piece of tissue he took out a plaster, already opened a few hours earlier - and stuck it over the ‘nose’. He closed the cupboard and held the mask up next his face. He didn’t smile. ‘No need for teeth where you’re going tonight, Burrell.’
‘Now for the worst part.’ He put the mask on. His hands shook like a cold tractor as he attached the fake beard and moustache. ‘They’re eating me! They’re eating me alive!’ He scrubbed his hands with a new bar of soap, eyes closed, ‘Thankyouthankyouthankyou, soon, they won’t eat me anymore. Very soon, they’ll be all gone.’
3
With the same wet tissue Colin slammed shut the 1962 Thunderbird Convertible’s passenger door. He waited for the fender to stop squeaking before he lifted his head and looked through the windscreen. He ignored his reflection in the polished black of the hood, and stared at the inside of the garage door as if an apprehensive moviegoer.
His breath was hot under the mask.
With his index and thumb he clipped open the glove compartment lock (plastic-coated, of course) and felt for the can of disinfectant spray. The rearview mirror was first, followed by the window handles, door handles…well; Colin Burrell pretty much sprayed down the whole interior of the car; steering wheel, gearlever, foot pedals and all. He reached for the plastic bag that read ‘Elegant Dry Cleaners’ and pulled a face as he flipped open the plastic container and took out his gloves, ‘My babies,’ he wheezed as he put them on, ‘I should have spoken to the manager at the dry cleaners.’
He shifted over to the driver’s seat and started the car. The remote was unusually heavy in his hand, ‘Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky,’ he said, giving the remote a good dose of disinfectant and looked at himself in the rearview mirror, ‘Hello, handsome,’ he said again. ‘Show them your left side; no one loves a man with a scar over the eye. Show them your left side.’
The garage door yawned and Colin’s T-bird burped into action.
He made a left and pulled onto West Chicago Boulevard.
‘I should have insisted on speaking to the manager at Elegant Dry Cleaners,’ he said again, and slammed the steering wheel.
Earlier that day Colin had taken a walk to Elegant Dry Cleaners on the corner of West and Main - Colin never walked, but on this crisp winter’s morning he had no choice.
The night before he had had dinner with his mother, something he never missed because she would always take him out to the most expensive - and most importantly - the cleanest restaurants in all of Detroit.
“And how is my Ootchie-Bootchie doing? Your eye looks much better.”
“Mother, please don’t call me that. Save your pet names for that rich lawyer husband of yours,” he said and put his gloves on the table.
Mrs. Burrell-Turner held her hand over her heart in shock, fingering the string of pearls that went so well with her Dior dress. “Let me remind you, Colin, that it is my rich lawyer husband who is paying for your therapy and medication. Maybe you should be nicer to him; maybe you should try a little harder. He is a good man.” She was dead calm, a little trick she had learned from Doctor Murphy.
“Can we talk about something else please," Colin said and reached for the menu.
“You brought it up, son.”
“Yes, I did. It’s entirely my fault and I apologize,” he said. His mother could tell he meant it.
“Okay, so what are you having?"
“I can order for myself.”
“Very well.” The intonation on ‘well’ was rising, which meant something was to follow. Colin knew what it was, gave her a hesitant look over the menu and pretended to study it further.
“Doctor Murphy says you haven’t been--”
“I’ve been busy at work. I’m snowed under. I…I…I’m working on four projects at the moment, mother. Besides, I’m sick and tired of the all the medication. I feel like an experiment…an…an…an experiment gone wrong. How would you feel, mother? How would you feel? Living like me? Day in day out. The soap, the gloves, the masks, the fucking…fucking tissues everywhere! Don’t you ever think I get sick of it? And the medication isn’t working, mother. They might as well give me pack of fucking M&M’s.” He put down the menu and waved their waitress over.
Mrs. Burrell-Turner could tell that he wasn’t angry, but there had been anxiety in his voice; and although she’d heard it all before, this kind of desperation sounded if it was at the point of exploding. “Listen to yourself, Colin. You need help. Doctor Murphy is the best in the country, but she can’t help you if you don’t try a little harder. Jesus. And what kind of a question is that - ‘How would I feel?’ Colin, come on. Do you even know what you are saying? We are in this together. Have you ever really wondered how I feel, Colin? I’ve been looking after you for the last thirty-five years. I’ve been through it all: your tantrums, your depression, your anxiety attacks…all the sleepless nights, my own depression... How would I feel? At least I’m coping, Colin. I can see you’re not. You’d better go see Doct--”
“Are you ready to order?” interrupted the waitress.
“No, thank you. We are just leaving,” said Colin and got up, “I’m sorry, it’s not your fault--” He looked at her name plate, “--Lucille. It’s just…Something came up. He placed a shiny $20 bill on his plate.
Lucille stared at the plastic-wrapped bank note, “What is this; some kind of souvenir?” she asked.
“No, Lucille. That is your tip. Now put that in your pocket before I change my mind,” Colin said.
Lucille didn’t. She picked up his white driving gloves and held it up, “Don’t forget these.”
Mrs. Burrell-Turner put her elbow on the table and almost swallowed her whole fist. Colin closed his eyes, screaming silent scarlet murder. ‘Mother is here, Burrell. Don’t lose it, don’t lose it, don’t lose it.’ Swallowing he snatched the gloves from her hand, “You’ve just wasted your family’s meal money for the night, Lucille.”
His mother took a big swig of her wine. “Lucille. I would like the steamed Red Snapper with chilly and garlic please.
“Certainly, Ma’am.” The waitress gave Colin a look of disgust, and brushed past him.
Tears welled up in is eyes.
“Colin?”
“Good night, mother. Dinner next Friday?”
“Doctor Murphy on Monday?”
“Maybe. mother.”
“Nighty-night, Colin."
“Nighty-night, mother.”
***
“Mornin’ and welcome to Elegant Dry Cleaners, can I help you?”
Colin placed his hand over the mask and muttered that he would like to have ‘these pair of gloves cleaned’.
“They look pretty damn clean to me! From over here it smells just like freshly butchered buffalo skin! And whatcha wearin’ that for?!” She pointed at his face, “You one of them strange white folk who think all black people carry some infectious disease or somethin’?” accused the middle-aged woman in a southern accent. A bubble burst and the remnants of her Dentyne Cherry Fresh infested Colin’s collar.
Colin closed his eyes and spoke, his lips trembling with anger, “Could we…I…I mean is it possible if we - you and I - can go outside and talk about this?”
“Now, I ain’t that kinda girl, mister,” she warned, “I’ve learned something in this strange world of ours: You either suck cock, or you don’t. I don’t suck cock.”
Her words burned him like fire, and as much as he didn’t want to, Colin focused on her mouth instead, moving back a few paces in case of bubble burst, “I didn’t mean it that way. Look I need…I have an…allergy and I’m afraid that it is I who carry a weird disease. Please. I need these dry cleaned as soon as possible. I will pick them up this afternoon.” He placed them on the counter and slipped Francine Lucille’s $20 tip.
“Okay, I getcha, white boy. Pick ‘em up at four.”
***
Colin hit the steering wheel again, slowing down as he neared the traffic lights. He turned onto Evergreen and then right on the road to Rouge Park.
‘Definitely some activity here tonight,’ he said cruising past the parked vehicles on his left. ‘Let’s go find Handsome.’
4
Colin parked the Thunderbird between a BMW and a Vespa. Leaning forward, he took out a piece of paper from under the dash board. ‘Blue Frog Software,’ he whispered while running his index finger over the logo.
Two days ago, on Thursday, one of Colin’s worst nightmares came true; he had to use the office toilets. He would usually just get in his car and drive home, but it had been an emergency. ‘Shitshitshit!’ he said, ‘Logout, logout, logout!’
“Everything okay, Mister Burrell?” asked James Anderson, the new kid.
“Okayokayokay.” Colin knew James was staring at him.
“You look pale. You sure every--”
“I’m fine!” shouted Colin, looking away as a stomach cramp caused real distress, “You finished with the graphics for the Barnes Investment Group?” Colin asked. His hand was shaking so much, he struggled to place the cursor over the logout button.
“No, not yet,” replied James, flicking his ginger fringe out of his eyes.
“Well, you’d better get going then. Mister Barnes is one of our bigger clients,” said Colin, silently swearing at the message box that asked if he was sure about logging out. “Yes, man!”
“I’ll get onto it immediately; I thought it was due next Monday.”
“It is. Just get on with it. What if we get two projects tomorrow? I’ll tell you: you’ll never be able to finish the Barnes program and that will be the end of your short career here at Blue Frog Software.” Colin shivered, holding in for dear life. “And while you’re here, Anderson, there is such a thing called personal space. I am sure Mr. Evans took you in and told you about my…condition before he had hired you, right?”
“Yes…I…uh…he…”
“Cut the crap, Anderson. If you ever so much as come within three meters of this piece of shit office space again, I’ll cut off those little bitch tits of yours, you hear me?” Colin paused. “There’s one thing I’m not scared of, Anderson, and that’s blood.”
Anderson seemed paler than Colin; there was something in the way Colin said those words that made his knees weak. James Anderson lowered his head, turned around and disappeared into his piece of shit office cubicle.
Colin tore off two long strands of sticky tape and stuck them to his belt in such a way that they would hang down, flutter behind him, so that they wouldn’t come in contact with his skin. He also grabbed some scrap paper and a new bar of soap. Jogging down the corridor of doom, he wrapped a sheet of paper over his hand and opened the bathroom door.
‘The furthest cubicle is probably less used,’ he reasoned, and stepped inside.
‘Every inch, Colin. Cover every inch.’ Tripling around, He flushed the paper gloves as soon as he spotted a new roll of toilet paper. He taped the sheets of paper down and took off his shoes and pants. ‘You have been generous today, but please God, let there be a hook.’ He turned around and faced the door. ‘Thank you.’ He noticed that he had forgotten to lock the door and slid the metal bolt into place. He put his shoes back on and squatted on the seat.
Colin started to cry as the stench of his own shit crept through the gap between his scar and mask. ‘Shitfuckenshit, shitfuckenshit,' he sobbed, shaking his head. He reached for the toilet roll, removed it wrapped it around his head, covering ‘every inch’. ‘I am the fecal mummy.’ Colin wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked back and forth, ‘I am the fecal mummy.’
Once back at his desk, Colin’s eye caught a piece of paper where James Anderson had stood half an hour ago. He opened his desk drawer and took out a small plastic bag with tweezers inside. The note was written on a piece of Blue Frog Software note paper:
For a ‘gay’ time come to Rouge Park, or phone 081-422-4465.
'Did the little faggot write this down in some subway station shithouse?’ Colin cringed at the thought and copied the rest of the note:
Directions: From Rouge Park parking lot, follow the footpath leading past the big pine. You will see either a sock or an old shoe in one of the bushes on your left. Take a flashlight; it’s dark in there. If it’s a shoe I’m busy. If it’s a sock, flash your light three times. For the best ride of your life!
Colin got out and shut the door with his elbow. He saw the tree to his right and felt for the flashlight in his jacket. ‘I have a feeling it’s going to be a sock.’
5
Colin popped the trunk and lifted a plastic wrapped kitbag over his shoulder. Somebody stumbled out of the bushes behind him.
“Hey, man!” a boy, not older than seventeen or eighteen, shouted. There was a girl by his side; she lifted a half-empty beer bottle to her lips.
Colin heard the bottle mouth kissing her front teeth. He slammed the trunk shut and dabbed at his fake beard, ensuring everything was still in place. He lowered the bag and turned to face them, “Good evening.”
They were both drunk. However, Colin noticed that the girl had one leg between her legs and that one of her breasts had popped out of the side of the skimpy top she was wearing. The boy was definitely trying to hold her up.
“Nice ride, man!” the boy said, “Is that a Thunderbird?! Fuck, Megan, it’s a Convertible!”
With beer bottle in hand, Megan slipped her tit back where it belonged, “Sorry, Mister,” she said, sniffing, and downed the rest of the beer.
Colin pretended that he hadn’t noticed her smeared mascara either, “Yep,” he said, “A 1962. My pride and joy. What are you two doing out so late?” he asked, immediately regretting his inquiry as he noticed the girl looking away in shame.
“That’s none of your fucken’ business, Mister,” the boy said in defense.
“Jason, please. Take me home,” Megan said.
“Shut up, Megan. This fuck bag is looking for trouble,” Jason protested, letting go of her arm; she lost her balance and came down hard on her ass. The boy took a hesitant step forward.
“I apologize; I was just trying to make polite conversation. I don’t want any trouble, okay? This is entirely my fault. You have a sweet ride yourself,” Colin changed the topic, looking over at the Vespa.
“What are you doing here, fuck bag?” Jason persisted, “You’ve come here for a cheap blow job, haven’t you, you fairy faggot. You are here to open your asshole for some stranger’s dick, aren’t you? Or are you going to give him some stick, huh, fuck bag? Now let me tell you something, mister, that ain’t real love. That’s what you call a cheap thrill. Now this here--” he pointed at Megan “--this here…is real love. Fucking some stranger’s mouth isn’t the real thing man!”
“I wasn’t going to--” Colin felt the bile rise in his throat; just the mere thought of…
“Jason, can we go home now? This was a bad idea in the first place,” Megan hiccoughed-burped as she struggled to her feet. She also rolled her eyes at Colin, making it clear that it was definitely not the first time Jason had tried to impress her by trying to pick a fight with some random stranger.
“You shouldn’t be driving,” Colin said, “Wait here for me, I have to meet someone. I’ll take you home after, okay. Say in about fifteen minutes. You can get the bike in the morning. We can lock it around that big pine over there. Have you got a lock?”
Jason couldn’t believe his ears, “You’re fucken insane, man! What are you? Some kind of pedophile, or something? Come, Megan, this guy ain’t even worth the effort.” Jason turned to walk to the BMW, but Megan didn’t move.
Colin sensed something exciting in the air and stood back a little.
“Come, bitch!” Jason grabbed her arm. For the last time. The beer bottle cracked in Jason’s face; he staggered back and slammed his head on Colin’s rear fender.
The Thunderbird squeaked.
“Real love?!” Megan shouted, “Real love?! You just fucked me up the ass in there, you…rotten bastard. And I didn’t want you to! Take your daddy’s car and go home! I’m with fuck bag over here!”
"This little punk is driving the beamer! Hahaha!’ Colin thought.
Still unsteady on her feet, Megan raised the broken bottle again. “I swear, Jason--”
“Enough,” said Colin. “No need for that, Megan. I think he’s learnt his lesson. And I don’t want you to get hurt any further. He pointed at the broken bottle in her hand.
“Come to Uncle Colin.” To his surprise the dropped the bottle and walked over. He opened the passenger door and she got in.
‘It’s always so easy,’ he thought.
“Megan! What--”
“Jason, Listen to me, okay,” Colin said as he closed the door on Megan’s sobs, “You’ve made a mistake tonight; you’ve hurt that poor girl in there. God knows, she might never recover from the physical and emotional scars you’ve engraved. How old is she? Fifteen, sixteen?”
“Not everything is my fault!” Jason interrupted.
Colin held up one-hand-in-white-glove, “I was getting there.” He took out a cotton cloth and threw it at Jason, “You might want to have that looked at; some nasty shit in the air these days.”
Jason sat up a little and held the cloth over the cut on his cheek.
“We all make mistakes, Jason. It’s okay to make mistakes. Megan in there probably led you on. You had a few drinks, had a cuddle in the car and wanted to take things a little further, am I right?”
Jason didn’t answer.
“So you came here, had a few more drinks and then things got out of hand. Simple. It happens all the time.”
“Are you forgiving me? What is this man, some kind of church sermon? Fuck you and Megan and your fucken black Convertible!” Jason said.
“No, Jason. I am not a preacher. I’m just a sinner like you. I’m just telling you that it’s okay to mistakes, but that it is not for me to forgive you. You have to forgive yourself and learn from it, Jason. You have to grow from this experience and face what’s coming to you. She has the right to press charges, you know?”
“Oh, fuck off! Are you judging me?! You don’t even know what happened!” Jason got up and stumbled to his car.
“Please, Jason. Don’t get in the car. I’ll take you home. Listen to an old fuck bag, son. Jason! Jason, please! Don’t!”
The BMW reversed and hit a rock. The engine stalled, started up again, and Jason drove off forgetting to turn on the headlights.
Colin got in the car.
“What are you going to do to me?” asked Megan, looking down at the blood seeping down her legs onto the T-Bird’s soft leather seat.
“I’m going to take you to the hospital, and I am going to wait there with you until the cops arrive and then I’m going to go home,” Colin said, “And don’t worry about it, okay? I’m not scared of blood. Here.” He handed her a clean cloth.
“Thanks.”
Colin looked away.
“I thought you had to meet someone,” she said, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the headrest.
“I am. Just waiting for the dust to settle; Jason pulled away in a spin! I have…an allergy,” Colin said.
“Really?” Megan’s voice sounded distant, “My mom had an allergy as well; grass and dust stuff. She told me that - before they had me - they went to India once and met this Sadhu in the foothills of the Himalayas. Actually, the Sadhu met them,” she paused.
“Go on,” said Colin.
“She said he had hair down to his ass, and he was naked. At first they were a bit weary, but she also said that once you go to India nothing seems strange anymore. Anyway, she and my dad were just walking past when this Sadhu jumped up and looked into her eyes. My dad was stoned, so he just laughed, but my mom said she felt quite frightened at the time. From one look into her eyes, the Sadhu told her exactly what was wrong with her. He said she had created this…this fear herself, and that it had only been part of her imagination.”
“But she did have an allergy?” Colin sounded interested.
“Oh, yeah, but the Sadhu talked to her for a long time. She said my dad went wondering off with the guide to by more marijuana. As soon as they were alone, the Sadhu told her that she had just picked up her allergy in one of her previous lives; that it had merely been an experience that she could let go of whenever she wanted to.”
“I don’t understand,” Colin’s mask was starting to irritate him.
“He said that people aren’t people, really. That we are just awareness; coming and going through time and that it is entirely up to us to select what experiences we want to take with us on this everlasting journey, and which ones not.”
"So you’re saying I can just be cured of my…condition?”
“It worked for my mother. The Sadhu gave her a lemon to eat. Skin and all.” Megan made the shape of a lemon with her two hands, slightly over exaggerating.
“Ugh! And the lemon cured her?” Colin shifted in his seat.
“Nope. The Sadhu asked her to let go; to replace the allergy experience with the taste of a lemon experience. Amazing, isn’t it? It wasn’t the lemon that healed her, just the letting go of the allergy.”
“Well, Megan, that’s one hell of a story. And I sure would like to meet that Sadhu guy. I like stories. Thank you.” Colin checked the time on his Casio. ‘Shit, tomorrow night, then,’ he thought to himself.
“What’s in the bag, Colin? Sorry, can I call you Colin?” Megan asked.
“Of course; I call you Megan, right? Money,” Colin replied.
“You’re not a drug dealer or something?” Megan asked.
“No, Megan. I’m allergic to dust, remember?” Colin said, “Come, let’s get you to a hospital.”
“Colin?”
“Yes, Megan.”
“That’s the most ridiculous mask I have ever seen.”
“Megan, you are so right,” Colin replied and started the car, ripped off the beard and mask and chucked them out. "Just an experience, hey? I like that, Megan. I could live with that, or shall I say, without it!"
The End
