“You’ve got ninety-nine problems, Mr Jay-Zed?” muttered Art Raymond, as he stared at his own jaded face in the shaving mirror. Background music emanated from a Bluetooth speaker stuck to the tiled wall.
“That’s nothing; I support Darlington FC, pal. That’s your ninety-nine problems and then some. More like eighteen hundred and eighty-three problems.”
Art tried to hold the razor close to his face but his hand shook violently. Art stared at his feet, focused on his breathing and tried to steady himself.
“Course, that’s just that tip of it. Bad choice of football club, that’s one thing. No woman, no job, living above my parent’s garage, a touch of schizophrenia, an ulcer the size of a rugby ball, no right foot, and all my so-called mates have abandoned me.”
This time the blunted razor touched his cheek but Art sensed another wobble and pulled it away. He swished the razor in the sink as though this would help.
“If there was some kind of proportional, erm, let’s say a weighted ranking system for problems, well, mine would be in the thousands.”
Imitating Jonny Rotten, Art stared at the mirror, clutching a microphone razor and snarled. “Nooooo future. Nooooo future. Nooooo future for me. I mean it, man.”
Perhaps the unshaven look wasn’t so bad Art decided, and placed the razor down and unplugged the sink. The draining water gurgled as the last remnants sucked down the plughole.
Addressing the mirror again, Art continued, “All this thanks to an annoying daily habit of supping from 2-litre bottles of supermarket own-brand cider. Oh, that and heroin. Definitely the heroin. Leader of a political party material, ain’t I? Well, if I had a full head of hair and most of my own teeth, then maybe.
“Listen, I ain’t comparing myself to Jay-Zed. I can’t. I’m not from the hood. Firth Moor don’t even compare. I haven’t faced racial stereotyping all my life, I had an okay upbringing. I just messed up bad and there doesn’t seem any way to climb out of this. I quite like Beyoncé, mind.”
A sudden urge to scratch an itch on his phantom foot disrupted his introspection for a moment. With a shoe on his prosthesis, this physical disability was hidden. If only the emotional disabilities could be so well covered, Art considered.
Art took one more glance at the mirror, adjusted his tie and said to his reflection, “Good luck, you messed up idiot. You’re gonna need it even more than The Quakers do.”
On his way to the door Art stopped to pick up his keys and stuffed his notes in to his back pocket. He had no idea why he’d been chosen to speak to a delegation of politicians about addiction. It was not even as if Art was free of his dependence.
As the door creaked closed, Art stopped and pulled the notes out again and scanned the first line: ‘They say talking about your problems is one way to reduce them…’ Art was hooked on this being true.
Maybe ninety-nine was an achievable number; It’s good to have goals.
I found this forgotten short story whilst tidying up my digital writing folders. It was written in 2019 and duly sent away to a short story website, and it would appear that it fell through the cracks as the website in the website's submission process. Oh well. Anyway here it is.
