MELVIN'S DOWNFALL [PART ONE OF TWO]

Melvin was an accountant. A quiet man, forgotten by the human race. He was neither liked nor disliked, hated nor loved. No one was interested enough to lavish feelings upon him. Vaguely known even to his closest companions, his presence was like the wallpaper-- always there, never noticed, never demanding-- fulfilling his purpose with quiet amusement.
Melvin was an upright man with rings under his eyes and a moist, unrestrained smile. His ideals were healthy and his life well-rounded. He had never known unhappiness, and perhaps that point ought to make us look closer and question his sanity. After all, at the ripe age of forty-two, it is only an idiot or a simpleton who can find nothing wrong with the world. Melvin, however, could not be labeled as such. Of course he wasn't endowed with a supernatural intellect, but then who is? No, Melvin was neither brilliant nor particularly the opposite. To him everything seemed a never-ending sea of contentment. Everything was always just fine. Ecstasy and passion didn't exist for Melvin. Neither did devastation. There was nothing above or below the everlasting state of "peachy keen.”
It was eight in the morning and the sun shone mildly through the empty streets of the wasteland that Melvin proudly called his hometown. The few people who slunk around the Floridian winter at this time of the morning looked as though they had come out of the ‘70s, with shocked faces and awkward movements in coats and hats that hadn't seen daylight in decades. They were the same people whom he saw every morning. Phantoms who belonged to the cozy atmosphere of the place, wandering aimlessly around the empty lots as though drugged, or sitting on benches by the side of the road, watching the therapeutic flow of the traffic and the pawn shops display their wares. Coles Firearms, Norm's Place, Rick's Picks-- the streets were lined with proof of a booming town. The scenery pleased Melvin. He liked to sit in his car, driving to work and watching the town in its various stages of its morning toilet.
On that particular day, though, he caught sight of something that, although extremely common, nevertheless had a bewildering effect on him. If he had blinked one second earlier than he did or turned his head an inch to the left, he might have missed everything and remained dormant, but he blinked in time and caught sight of that well-rounded figure making its way slowly down the sidewalk. The sun illuminated a great mane of yellow hair that no lion could compete with under which swung a broad end. Very broad. In fact, it was broad enough to lapse over into something disgusting.
He slowed down the car and drove past this creature, eagerly craning his neck out to catch a glimpse of the face. It was a middle-aged woman-- a dim-witted, pale face; bloated and apathetic. A Texan sort of face, thought Melvin. Rough and marked like a battlefield by all the vices of life. He had never been more intrigued by anything. It was strange, even to him. This fascination was based on nothing that he could logically explain to himself. It was as though an entirely different man was enamored with this absurd creature.
At the same time, he was very much aware that he was that man and that there was nothing he could do about the unfortunate circumstances. Questions of love and passion never entered his mind-- it was an inevitable fact that he would have to stop. He pulled over to the side of the road and looked out of his window, wondering how best to handle the situation.
"Morning!" he called out.
She didn't seem to see or hear anything and continued walking in a steady, snail-like pace. Immediately he felt vulgar and revolting, but it was unthinkable to do anything else.
"Good morning, ma'am!"
He rolled along beside her as she stubbornly walked on. It wasn't that she was ignoring him. She simply didn't hear anything.
"Excuse me-- ma'am? Ma'am!"
She stopped and looked over to him with a suddenness that nearly felled him to the ground. Her blue eyes stared blankly at him, seeming to focus with unusual effort.
"Good morning," he said again, blinking hysterically out at the sun.
She didn't answer, and Melvin began to feel awkward.
"You--" he began smiling weakly, "you wouldn't by any chance want to join me for breakfast, would you?"
She frowned deeply at him.
"Well, ok," she said eventually, with a smooth drawl.

There was no conversation until they sat across from each other with a shiny blue table between them, waiting for their food to arrive. She had no impulse to talk and Melvin was, quite frankly, nervous, cradled between self-disgust and thrill.
"I'm Melvin Jones. Or just Melve, for short-- if you want to call me that. Some people like to call me that," he said, fiddling with his fork mercilessly. No one had ever called him Melve, but he never gave up hope that some day maybe someone would.
"That's a nice name."
It looked as though she were constantly witnessing a murder and her words in contrast were high-pitched and meaningless.
"And your name is?"
"Daisy."
"Ah."
After the food arrived, the conversation loosened up somewhat.
"Funny, isn't it-- having breakfast together like this and being complete strangers?" Melvin said.
She grinned at him suddenly. "Yeah, ain't that something?"
"Yes."
He giggled and she followed his lead. Everything she did seemed abrupt and uncalculated. Her sluggish movements would suddenly be interrupted by a compulsive twitch and her deep frown could be replaced by a haunting smile at any moment, sending Melvin into shivers of amazement.
"Daisy, what line of work are you in?"
"What line?"
"--of work. What do you do for a living?"
She frowned as though he had just told an incomprehensible joke. For a long time she just stared, while her eyes were fixed upon Melvin's gold-rimmed glasses, seemingly witnessing untold wonders. Her lips hung open.
"I don't know."
Melvin smiled in embarrassment. Welfare, no doubt. How could he have been such an inconsiderate asshole and asked what she did for a living? He quickly changed the subject and began telling her about birds, being an enthusiastic bird-watcher. He eyed Daisy eagerly as he talked, and whenever he asked her something, he trembled at her response. Her stupidity was adorable. Her vast ignorance that seemed to cover every field, her charming way of misinterpreting his questions, her aimless giggles.
This woman with the pock-marked face, glowing in the morning sun-- this plump, creature with her ignorant, wide rump, the blue eyes staring out uncaring, unknowing and drugged-- had given Melvin a glimpse of paradise. His heart seemed to swell up into a large sore mass, like an inflammation, as he watched her devour her French toast.
"Do you have a phone number that I could have?" he asked boldly as they stood by the cashier.
"Yeah."
Awkward pause. Their shoulders touched for an instance.
"Could I have it?"
Awkward pause.
"Oh, ok."
CLICK HERE TO READ PART TWO OF MELVIN'S DOWNFALL.