Plastic Man

Hello. My name is Bryn. You wouldn’t have heard of me. No-one has heard of me, only Bethan, Morgan, and the Boys. And the ‘powers-that-be’. They’ve heard of me. They like to keep me secret, see, keep me hidden away, so that you don’t find out.

     I was born on the mornin of 21^st of October 1966, near Aberfan, the same day 116 children and 28 adults died, when a colliery spoil tip collapsed onto their homes and a school. My father used to teach at the school, used to. My mother worked in a factory that made plastic toys for children to play with. We had lead soldiers in those days. Mother used to tell me not to put them in my mouth or suck the heads.

     I grew up a good boy, in a town filled with sadness, never thinkin for one moment that lightnin would strike twice. Not that I’m complainin mind. I’ve had a hard life, but a good one, filled with love and compassion.

     Now let’s see, October 1966. That makes me 52. Not that I feel 52. I feel 102 today. Feel like death. I want to die but they won’t let me, see? Say they want me for medical research, like a rat or rhesus monkey.

     Morgan tells me today is a special day, 21^st October 2019. I can’t think why. My minds going, see? The first thing to go was my mind. Morgan tells me Bethan can’t see me today, she’s too busy workin at the school, bringin up our two fine boys. I hope she can see me. I can’t see or speak to her, ever again. I’m blind, see, and dumb. I never used to be. I can smell (just), hear, touch, feel, Morgan in the room with me. 

     She sings to me: ‘Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday, Dear Bryn, Happy Birthday to You. There! Wasn’t that lovely, darlin? Can you smell the candles?’

     I smell the candles burnin. I blink once. Blink once for yes, twice for no, Morgan tells me. I smell their smoke. In the same way that I smell roses on her soft cheeks. She rubs her face against mine, then kisses me.

     ‘No-one’s lookin darlin,’ she says, lowerin her voice a little, ‘Happy Birthday, Bryn’.

     I start to cry, feel the hot tears tricklin down my cheeks. I can’t help it. Morgan is all I have, now Bethan doesn’t visit me anymore with the boys. Perhaps she has another man? Perhaps. We’ve been married 25 years.

     I hear Morgan blow my candles out, one by one, ‘Whew, whew, whew,’ until the smoke fades, like Bethan’s love for me.

     ‘Ah, you’re cryin, stop cryin, Bryn,’ she says. ‘I’m going to wash you now. Like it when I wash you, don’t you?’

     I blink, once. My nostrils are filled with clear neoprene feeding tubes. My mouth is full of a thick, purple, corrugated, flexi-tube that stretches down my throat as far as my windpipe. My arse is connected to a pump. My willy has a rubber tube clamped to it, connected to a polythene bag, hangin off the side of the bed. I can’t breathe, feed, shit, piss, unassisted, see? Not without the tubes and wires, the pumps and pistons, drains and drips.

     Not without Morgan! My life isn’t worth livin without Morgan. Am I really livin now? She lifts the sheet, and I become her big baby, lyin naked on my swadlin bed, waitin for her to wash me.

     Morgan begins by dabbing my cheeks, lips and ears, quickly movin to my neck and chest. She scrubs my armpits, like my mother used to do. She tickles! I want to giggle for Morgan, but can’t, with my tube. I close my eyes, tears rollin down my cheeks, tryin to imagine Bethan makin sweet love to me, but she’s a fadin memory to me now, some other lucky man’s dream. I feel Morgan, washin’ my stomach, my belly.

     ‘I’m goin to do your privates now, darlin’,’ she says, ‘Keep still.’

     Keep still! I blink, once, and feel my body stiffen. I blush. Tense. Stiffen. Blush. I open my eyes, glassed with tears. My eyes cry, for her. I want to say sorry. I smell her rose. She kisses me. I can’t stop cryin. Bethan! Bethan! Bethan!

     ‘It’s alright Bryn, no-one’ lookin darlin.’

     I imagine Morgan, straightening her light blue uniform, thinkin: you get to meet all sorts of sad men in my line of work. And pray she doesn’t think that of me. Pray I mean more than that to her. Morgan is all I have left in the world. I concentrate on Darren, David, he’s only 5. Their faces are blank, my mind, blank. I feel her dab me dry, the clean sheet falls on my chest. I sense her anguish, like cloying emotional glue between us. My heart sinks, my bladder aches.

     ‘I have to go off shift now, Bryn,’ she says.

     I blink furiously, I blink twice.

     ‘I have to take my weekend off, see?’ she says.

     I blink twice, twice, twice.

     ‘To be with my husband and kids, Bryn.’

     I blink away the tears, try to pull my heartstrings together, but can’t.

     ‘Megan will look after you while I’m away.’

     Her rose fades, her scent dispels, my heart bleeds.

     I close my eyes and dream of fish.

     My name is Bryn.

     You wouldn’t have heard of me.

     No-one has heard of me.

     Only Morgan.

    They call me the Plastic Man.  

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