Friday the thirteenth.

Tuesday 31 October 2006.
At 5 o’clock, in the end-of-day hubbub, Graham packed his coffee-mug, wild-life calendar, parker pen and framed photograph of his wife and children when they were all very much younger, into a cardboard box. He had already said the goodbyes he wanted to say. He shut down the computer, took his box and walked to the lift. Graham had been retrenched. He was too old, too white and too techno-phobic for his job.

Thursday 14 February 2008
Graham fed his last fifty rand note into the slot machine. Nothing. Nothing again. And again, nothing. The octopus of his discontent had already spread its tentacles around his bowels, his liver and his spleen. It tightened its grip. Graham walked home, picking a hibiscus flower along the way. His wife was already there, washing last night’s dishes and putting on the supper. He tried to give her the flower, wished her happy valentine’s day and tried to kiss her. She did not take the flower. She said nothing. She turned away.

At first Graham had looked for jobs, but there were none. Well, none that wanted him. Then he had grown his beard and his hair and lost his inclination for being rejected. It was better not to apply for a job than not to be called for an interview. He made little stools and chests and tables and haunted craft markets and furniture shops but he sold hardly anything. Now his labours of hope gathered dust in the garage. Graham planted vegetables. He was inconsistent in watering them and they wilted. The insects ate them. He tried to be a house-husband to his wife. He failed. He could not maintain any interest or endure the mundaneness of it. He could not sustain the routine. Graham began to connive money out of his wife and spend time at the slot machine at his local bar. He knew that his only chance was to win big. He never did.

Graham took the last slivers of his self-respect and moved out. He moved in with his widowed mother and connived money out of her to feed into the slot machine at the cafe down the road. He knew that one day he would win big. He never did.

Thursday 15 May 2008.
Graham’s mother’s priest heard about a job and told Grahams’ mother about it. She cajoled and nagged him into submitting his CV. Then his mother told him that they wanted to see him. He knew it was pity. All pity. He could handle anything but not pity. It tore him apart. He raged and swore, but only in private. In the end, he could not disappoint his mother further and so he went for the interview. It seemed to go well. He felt he might manage the job. He dared think he might get it. His stomach clenched in hope and in fear of the unknown. They said they would get back to him before the end of the month if they were interested.

Saturday 31 May 2008.
No phone call had come and now Graham knew that all was lost. He would never find his way back to contentment and self-respect and hope for the future. It was all over now. Even hope was gone. It was almost midnight and Graham was parked beside the river which raged in the ravine far below. He heard it crashing over distant rocks and the night sky was pale against the flickering city lights and his soul lay battered on the river bed and he wished his body also there.

Graham took off his wedding ring and threw it out of the car window towards the crashing river. It bounced against the edge of the window and fell into his lap. A pang of interest, of life, of something close to hope shuddered through him and he meekly put the ring back on.

Friday 13 June 2008
Graham took the hundred rand his mother’s neighbour gave him for mowing her lawn to the slot machine at the cafe down the road. He knew that he would lose it all but there was nothing else he could do. Feeding money into the machine was the only ritual left to him. The promise of winning was the only god he worshipped. He worshipped his god even though he had lost faith in it. Graham fed the blue note into the machine. His phone rang. It was an unknown number.

“Hello?”
“Hello? Is that Graham Simmons?”
“Yes?”
“This is Dave Anderson from PDR Agencies. I’m glad to inform you that you got the job you applied for last month. That is, if you’re still interested? I’m sorry to get back to you so late but well, you were actually shortlisted at number two and the first incumbent fell through.”
“Yes, I’m definitely interested, thank you very much. When would you like me to start?”
“Well, as soon as possible, Monday if that would suit you?”
“Yes, Monday would be fine.”
As soon as he had hung up, Graham retrieved the hundred rand note from the slot machine and put it in his pocket. Then he phoned his wife.
“Baby?”
“Yes, hello Graham. What is it?”
“Baby, I got a job and I love you and I want to come home and try again. Please just say we can try?”
“Oh love, of course we can...”

Friday the thirteenth. Lucky for some