A FABLE FOR MEN IN THEIR FIFTIES
He placed the calculator back down on the table, took off his glasses and ran his index finger and thumb over his closed eyes into a pinch on the bridge of his nose. He'd spent over two hours calculating his way to eight hundred, thirty-two dollars and fifty-one cents which he owed his home and native land.
Of the two certainties in life, this was by far the worst because you stayed conscious throughout the whole thing, at least death had the comfort of non-existence on the other side. A conclusion too singular for any need of calculations.
He looked at all the slips and scribbles in front of him and with renewed vigour, he set about finding any opportunties to reduce the total. Unfortunately that's when his nose jumped off his face and rolled around in the papers, making a mess of all his labours.
"What are you doing ?! he said through his mouth and a gaping hole in the middle of his face.
"What does it look like I'm doing ? I'm break-dancing. I'm mixing it up. I'm letting my hair down," the nose said in a tiny nasally tone.
He reached down to grab his nose and stick it back on his face, when it bit him hard on his index finger. (Noses have teeth which they clench to our nasal cavities to hold them in place.)
"Ouch !! What was that for ?"
"You don't let yourself relax. Let's just have a little bit of fun, like we used to. Let's pull out some old records and smoke a joint."
"I've got taxes to finish."
"I've got taxes to finish," the nose repeated in a mock sing-songy tone.
And that's when he flung his fight down on his nose and sent it to the hospital.