Threesome
“Christopher Walken, Kuala Lumpur, 3.14159,” Murray whispered to himself, his eyes scrunched tightly against the morning light. A triumphant smile split his face. “Another day and I’ve still got all my marbles.” It was his secret memory check, which he always gets right, a minute before Philomena rolls in with breakfast.
Christopher Walken is his favourite actor (“it was just CRAzy!”), Kuala Lumpur is the capital of Malaysia but sounds like a nobleman from The Mikado, and 3.14159 is, of course, pi. That’s stopping it at 5 places after the decimal. Pi goes on and on forever, just like he was planning to do.
Three things: a person, a place, and a number. Murray thought it was much better than the doctors’ questions: “What day is it?” “Please draw a picture of a clock.” Who cares what day it is when every day is the same? Why did clocks have to be drawn as round as sunfish? He drew floppy clocks like Dali did, thin tongues hanging down from dresser drawers.
His mind wandered. Lots of things come in threes: the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost; the Three Musketeers; the Three Stooges. Who’s there? just Me, Myself and I.
Murray heard Philomena busying herself in the kitchen unit, humming softly as she assembled his breakfast on a tray. Soon her syrupy voice would call out:
“Good morning, Murray!” He smiled. If she weren’t a robot, it would be fun to ask her if she had a sister.