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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Copyright 1993 Gordon Chapman
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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.
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