TINNED WARMTH

by Gordon Chapman

The static undulates on the screen, as if a liquid. He has been

watching it for some time now, clutching the remote control, somehow more entertained than when a show was on.

"Canned laughter," he thinks, "and applause. That'd make all the

difference in the world. You could watch this for hours, it's just as good as . . ." he doesn't finish.

The static bath gives a plasma-like appearance to the room. He turns

the volume up. Way up.

The hissing comes in small bursts, long spiny waves, and is punctuated

with crackles. There are traces of voices beneath the electronic tide, brief attempts of a picture to form, but then the magnetic undertow eliminates them, and the mercuric wash of static prevails again.

5 am.  Most people sleep at this time. He thinks of lunch, this is the

only time that you can have lunch entirely alone. Sardines. It is food that is repellent by nature, it must be eaten alone at 5 am. He eats them without utensils, making loud smacking noises.

The phone doesn't ring during lunch. Not this lunch. He's made sure of

this in a way that leaves no margin for error - taking the phone outside and throwing it over the back fence.

It was the only thing to do, after all, the machine long ago faltered

at imparting useful information, and it degenerated to the point of being a mere bearer of bad tidings and a spearhead for carpet cleaners. The sound of the phone striking the ground, a plastic splintering and single imploring of the bell, made him grin.

He licks the inside of the tin, not missing any of the foul oil the

fish are packed in.

Denmark. Somewhere in Denmark, a middle aged woman cut the head from

this fish and packed it into this can. She lives in a gingerbread house in the countryside. It's probably raining in Denmark, and the woman's daughters will come by this rainy day, and warm themselves on a hearth where Danish wood crackles in a fire. The girls will be wearing aprons and when her husband arrives, giving cheery greetings to all, pleasant cooking smells will fill the house.

They won't eat sardines.

He rubs his hands in front of the television, feeling the warmth of --

a fire.

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Gordon Chapman is a Canadian writer who makes his living as a journalist and communications executive. He has a weakness for motorcycles, good scotch, and fiction. His stories, from very short to novella length, have appeared in a variety of Canadian publications as well as in the U.S.A.