I Am the Messenger

And we leave it at that.

It doesn't change the fact that I'm still holding the Ace of Diamonds in my hands, wondering.

Call someone, I tell myself.

The phone beats me to it. It rings. Maybe this is the answer I've been waiting for.

I pick it up and shove it to my ear. It hurts, but I listen hard. Unfortunately, it's my mother.

"Ed?"

I'd know that voice anywhere. That, and this woman shouts into the phone, every time, without fail.

"Yeah, hi, love."

"Don't 'Yeah, hi, love' me, you little bastard." Great. "Did you forget something today?"

I think about it, trying to remember. No thoughts or memories arrive. All I can see is the card as I turn it in my hands. "I can't think of anything."

"Typical!" She's getting a bit ropable now. Aggravated, to say the least. "You were s'posed to pick up that coffee table for me from KC Furniture, Ed." The words are spat through the phone line. They're loud and wet in my ear. "Y' big dickhead." She's lovely, isn't she?

As I've alluded to earlier, my mother really has quite a swearing habit on her. She swears all day every day, whether she's happy, sad, indifferent, everything. She blames it on my brother, Tommy, and me, of course. She says we used to swear our heads off when we were kids, playing soccer in the backyard.

"I gave up trying to stop you," she always tells me. "So I figured if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

If I can go through a conversation with her without being called a wanker or dickhead at least once, I'm in front. The worst thing about it is the sheer emphasis she swears with. Whenever she calls me something like that, she spits it from her mouth, practically hurling it at me.

She's still going at me now, even though I'm not listening.

I tune back in.

"...and what should I do tomorrow when Mrs. Faulkner turns up for morning tea, Ed? Should I just get her to put her mug on the floor?"

"Just blame me, Ma."

"Too bloody right I will," she snaps. "I'll just tell her that Dickhead Ed forgot to pick up my coffee table."

Dickhead Ed.

I hate it when she calls me that.

"No worries, Ma."

She goes on for quite a while longer, but again I focus on the Ace of Diamonds. It sparkles in my hand.

I touch it.

Hold it.

I smile.

Into it.

There's an aura to this card, and it's been given to me. Not to Dickhead Ed. To me--the real Ed Kennedy. The future Ed Kennedy. No longer simply a cabdriving hopeless case.

What will I do with it?

Who will I be?