Frictionless: I

A short story

Le sentiment de vitesse, Salvador Dalí (1931)

Alan Fripp put his affairs in order as he made his preparations to leave the Bristol Record Office at precisely 6:00 P.M., as he had done for the past three years, six months, and seventeen days. He sent off a last e-mail—a report summarising what he had done for the day—and sorted his files into the various cabinets beneath his desk. The cabinets were organised chronologically, and he placed the files in a folder appropriately titled April, 2007. The clock struck six. He took with him an umbrella: a Swaine, given to him as a gift from his mother, navy blue with golden trimmings. Before stepping out, he nestled his pillbox, filled with fourteen different medicaments, into his coat pocket—three multivitamins, paracetamol, ibuprofen, sleeping pills, and ramipril. He slipped out through a side door, although not before saying his customary goodbyes to his colleagues: 'Same faces tomorrow, I imagine.'

The egress gave way to a pleasant view of the River Avon, although Fripp always reminded himself that this particular portion of the river was an entirely artificial one, having been constructed in the early 1800s. His route home was the usual one, and he made a mental note of the time on his watch: 6:02 P.M. His father's wake was due to be held at the Cathedral at eight, and he had been planning for it these past two weeks. It had been set at such a time in order for minimal disruption to Fripp's duties at work. Veering left, he headed straight through the winding, interlocking paths of Hotwells.

Having made the journey to his ground-floor tenement in Clifton numerous times, Fripp was not a stranger to encountering the unexpected. He had once been accosted by two homeless people between Merchants and Clifton Down, only escaping due to the timely intervention of a parking steward. Treading the same intersection, he noted the predominance of what he, at first, took for children; but, upon closer inspection, he came to realise that they were adults, bow-legged as if compressed by gravity. As he continued to walk home, he couldn't help but notice that they were growing shorter still. He paused for a short while, placing his hand on his temple. Deliberating for a bit, he took it as a sign of his new, fortified diet working—the advertisement did suggest an improved constitution and increased height as effects—and continued on his stroll home.

Fripp took in the weather, a veritable chessboard of dark, rainy clouds interspersed with bright sunspots. Raising his umbrella up and down, he marched past Clifton Down, taking in the view of the bridge that clipped the horizon. He noticed the peculiar spelling of a sign opposite him that marked the road he stood on: PMBRK RD. The missing letters lay strewn across the street and appeared to be moving with snail-like trepidation. Fripp assumed that the material from which the letters were made must be some frictionless substance. He remarked that this was not unique to this particular road: his present station afforded him a panoramic view of various nooks and winds, and he even saw a letter hop off a street sign, landing gracefully on the road as a pigeon to a nest. Fripp placed his hand on his temple again: needless to say, he knew that letters couldn't possibly jump, but upon musing for a short while, he eventually chalked it up to council maintenance. With a pen and Moleskine journal kept in his breast pocket, he made a note to complain to his local authority.

He turned right and went down the steps to the door of his ground-floor residence. His key, kept in his right pocket, unlocked the door with a familiar click, and he left his umbrella on the carrier he kept directly adjacent to the entrance. He entered his flat, taking comfort in the normalcy that pervaded the space. Another glance at his watch: 6:35 P.M. The commute had taken him eight minutes longer than normal. He would have to jog at a brisk pace in order to arrive at his father's wake on time.

Fripp made for the bathroom, his coat left on the flat's hanger. A flick of the light flooded the room in fluorescent white. A mirror was perched above the sink, and he stared at himself, surveying his lower third. With a razor fetched from a plastic compartment, he went over his face in detail, excising any hair which had risen above its station. He then washed his face, drying it with a peach-white towel kept on the bathroom railing. He threw the towel in the laundry, replacing it with one of the same make. His eyes met his reflection in the looking glass, the mirror revealing a red pallor forming around his cheeks. Fripp inhaled: a count of four; he held his breath; a count of seven. He then exhaled; a count of eight. He repeated this four times, not taking his gaze off the mirror. He had, somewhat begrudgingly, added the breathing technique to his daily routine after his biannual doctor's appointment. “Three times, whenever you're stressed,” she had said.

A quick glance at his watch before exiting the flat: 7:02 P.M.