He stopped in the doorway, fearful of entering. Early sixties, tall and broad, dressed in a heavy great coat over a smart suit and shiny black shoes. He brushed the dazzle from his eyes and inched forward into the shop.
It all looked so delicate, so precious, so perilously balanced on the tiered glass shelves.
“Can I help you?” A woman’s voice.
Pretty, mid twenties, dressed in a plain blouse and knee length skirt, she stood in front of the counter. Behind the counter stood a thin, angular man, arms folded across his chest, coolly weighing up the prospective customer, sneer barely disguised.
“I want to buy a vase. It’s for my wife... I’ve left it to the last minute, as usual.”
“Everything we have is on display,” the man behind the counter said, sweeping a finger in front of him.
The young woman tutted. She took the old man by the elbow, carefully leading him on a circuit of the shop, pointing out thin stemmed crystal, twisted metal and stark ceramic vases every few feet.
They arrived back at the counter.
“Did you see anything you think she’d like?” she asked.
“It’s all very nice, but I was hoping for something more colourful. Something, brighter?”
“There’s a pound store-”
The girl interrupted the man behind the counter. “I think we might have something in the back.”
“We certainly-”
“The old stock that was here when he took over,” she reminded him. She vanished into the back and returned with a brightly coloured pottery vase.
The old man’s face lit up. “Oh that looks perfect. She loves bright things. How much is that?”
“Forty pounds!” the man behind the counter said.
She shot a glance over at him. “It’s old stock. You’re doing us a favour by taking it off our hands. No charge. Special offer, today only.” She smiled at the old gentleman.
The thin man reached out to pull the vase from the girl’s hands. “At least let me wrap it up. Christ knows, I don’t want anyone seeing you leave here with that.”
As the old man was about to leave, the wrapped vase in a carrier bag in his hand, he turned and said, “Thank you. Thank you, both, very much. I was ever so afraid I’d left it too late, but I promised her I wouldn’t let them put her in a plain old urn.”
Monday, December 7, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Twenty Seven and One Quarter Inches.
On that particular night I was closer than ever to giving up my volunteer job at the homeless shelter.It was hot out, hotter inside and the smell of stewed vegetables combined with the sweat and alcohol fumes coming from the clientèle had my stomach turning somersaults.
My initial enthusiasm and romantic notions had long since abandoned me, nudged off the sofa by the fat-assed dichotomy of monotony on the one hand, and the constant threat of violence on the other. We have no truck with the gallant knights of the road, those picaresque rogues with their tall tales and hearts of gold. They do not exist. Instead we deal daily with the psychotic, the miserable, those who have slipped through the cracks and those who use the cracks for cover. The drug addicts, the delusional, those who hear the whispering and those who whisper.
It's not much fun.
Ben "Lost Dog" Burling is one of the quiet ones and reputedly harmless. Scarecrow hair, scrawny body buried under multiple layers of patched clothing, his boots are as scuffed and worn as his grimy, tanned face. He approached the line, a plate in one shivering hand, a twist of trailing string wrapped around the other.
"Still no sign of your dog, then?" I joked, just as I'd joked with him every Tuesday for the last two months. The frayed end of the piece of string hung limp from his hand, quivering slightly as his decrepit body shook.
He mumbled something in reply. I reached out for the piece of string. "Why not give me that to look after while you get some grub in you."
He snatched the string away, the plate slipped from his other hand, smashing on the floor. "No!" he screamed. "I mustn't let go or the world will get away. Where will we go?"
The supervisor, Gloria, pushed past me, waving her arms to keep everyone away from the broken shards of plate. The glance she assaulted me with told me squarely who she blamed for this calamity.
But there was worse to come as from the line Doug Catterly decided he had to help me. He was one of the worst of the creeps, fawning and obsequious, bubbling enthusiasm that swiftly turned to frustration and rage. He'd taken it into his head to help me with the recalcitrant Burling, grabbed the old man by the scruff of his jackets as he tugged and pulled at the string wrapped round the old man's hand.
Gloria looked at them, tutting as though they were children, but I could see old Ben's fingers squashed together as the string tightened on them. I rushed to his aid, grabbed at Catterly's arm and instantly remembered the warning from my first day's training. Never touch anyone. The results can be unpredictable. Spectacularly so.
Catterly had the strangest look on his face now. I dropped his arm and pointedly turned away, helping old Ben up from where he had fallen. The piece of string was no longer in his hand and there were tears in his eyes.
I turned to Doug and said, "Give him back his string. He's only an old man."
Catterly shook his head. "I must not let go or the world will get away."
Confused, I turned to look at old Ben, staring at his reflection in a darkened window, hands on his hair, on his beard, looking at himself as if for the first time in decades.
My initial enthusiasm and romantic notions had long since abandoned me, nudged off the sofa by the fat-assed dichotomy of monotony on the one hand, and the constant threat of violence on the other. We have no truck with the gallant knights of the road, those picaresque rogues with their tall tales and hearts of gold. They do not exist. Instead we deal daily with the psychotic, the miserable, those who have slipped through the cracks and those who use the cracks for cover. The drug addicts, the delusional, those who hear the whispering and those who whisper.
It's not much fun.
Ben "Lost Dog" Burling is one of the quiet ones and reputedly harmless. Scarecrow hair, scrawny body buried under multiple layers of patched clothing, his boots are as scuffed and worn as his grimy, tanned face. He approached the line, a plate in one shivering hand, a twist of trailing string wrapped around the other.
"Still no sign of your dog, then?" I joked, just as I'd joked with him every Tuesday for the last two months. The frayed end of the piece of string hung limp from his hand, quivering slightly as his decrepit body shook.
He mumbled something in reply. I reached out for the piece of string. "Why not give me that to look after while you get some grub in you."
He snatched the string away, the plate slipped from his other hand, smashing on the floor. "No!" he screamed. "I mustn't let go or the world will get away. Where will we go?"
The supervisor, Gloria, pushed past me, waving her arms to keep everyone away from the broken shards of plate. The glance she assaulted me with told me squarely who she blamed for this calamity.
But there was worse to come as from the line Doug Catterly decided he had to help me. He was one of the worst of the creeps, fawning and obsequious, bubbling enthusiasm that swiftly turned to frustration and rage. He'd taken it into his head to help me with the recalcitrant Burling, grabbed the old man by the scruff of his jackets as he tugged and pulled at the string wrapped round the old man's hand.
Gloria looked at them, tutting as though they were children, but I could see old Ben's fingers squashed together as the string tightened on them. I rushed to his aid, grabbed at Catterly's arm and instantly remembered the warning from my first day's training. Never touch anyone. The results can be unpredictable. Spectacularly so.
Catterly had the strangest look on his face now. I dropped his arm and pointedly turned away, helping old Ben up from where he had fallen. The piece of string was no longer in his hand and there were tears in his eyes.
I turned to Doug and said, "Give him back his string. He's only an old man."
Catterly shook his head. "I must not let go or the world will get away."
Confused, I turned to look at old Ben, staring at his reflection in a darkened window, hands on his hair, on his beard, looking at himself as if for the first time in decades.
Loopy
I was in the park buying an ice cream when he approached me.
"Excuse me, my good man, might I interest you in an aeronautical display?"
He was in his seventies at least, a little stick of a man, dressed in an over-sized world war two RAF uniform, complete with leather skullcap and goggles. A white silk scarf, wrapped around his neck, completed the ensemble.
I didn't say anything at first, craning to look behind him. He could see what was troubling me.
"They won't let me have a plane any more. Not since the incident with the Germans."
"You were in the war?" I asked.
"No..." he said. "What do you say? A ten minute aeronautical display. Only five pounds!"
I looked through the change I'd received after buying my ice cream. "I'll give you a quid."
"I used to get a thousand pounds a performance you know," he said.
"You used to have a plane," I retorted.
"Very well," he said in a dejected tone. "But you get five minutes and no loop the loop."
"Agreed!"
He began by running a hundred yards back and forth in front of me, humming engine noises, with his hands on an imaginary joystick, the left occasionally working the throttle. Then he was twisting off to the right in a lazy turn that gradually became a graceful figure of eight.
And so it went on, with him at one point rolling on his side along the ground, before leaping back to his feet, looking very spry for a man of his age, and running two hundred yards directly away from me, turning and running back at me as fast as he could manage. Before he barreled into me he stopped, hunkered down, wrapping his arms around his legs before throwing himself backwards, ankles over head. Once again he leaped back to his feet, then sauntered casually back over to me.
He pulled his monocle out, winked at me, then replaced it. "I threw in that last loop for free."
I fished the one pound coin out of my pocket and placed it onto his outstretched palm. He wrapped his fingers about it, placed his fist to his forehead in a salute, then stashed the coin in his puffy trousers.
"Well, young man, what did you think?"
I wasn't sure what I thought, but what I said was, "I've never seen anything like it. Can I offer a suggestion?"
"Of course you can, young sir. I value customer feedback."
"When you're running around like that you should stick your arms out, like they were wings."
"Wings?" he exclaimed, his monocle popping out. "My dear boy, I wouldn't wish to appear foolish."
"Excuse me, my good man, might I interest you in an aeronautical display?"
He was in his seventies at least, a little stick of a man, dressed in an over-sized world war two RAF uniform, complete with leather skullcap and goggles. A white silk scarf, wrapped around his neck, completed the ensemble.
I didn't say anything at first, craning to look behind him. He could see what was troubling me.
"They won't let me have a plane any more. Not since the incident with the Germans."
"You were in the war?" I asked.
"No..." he said. "What do you say? A ten minute aeronautical display. Only five pounds!"
I looked through the change I'd received after buying my ice cream. "I'll give you a quid."
"I used to get a thousand pounds a performance you know," he said.
"You used to have a plane," I retorted.
"Very well," he said in a dejected tone. "But you get five minutes and no loop the loop."
"Agreed!"
He began by running a hundred yards back and forth in front of me, humming engine noises, with his hands on an imaginary joystick, the left occasionally working the throttle. Then he was twisting off to the right in a lazy turn that gradually became a graceful figure of eight.
And so it went on, with him at one point rolling on his side along the ground, before leaping back to his feet, looking very spry for a man of his age, and running two hundred yards directly away from me, turning and running back at me as fast as he could manage. Before he barreled into me he stopped, hunkered down, wrapping his arms around his legs before throwing himself backwards, ankles over head. Once again he leaped back to his feet, then sauntered casually back over to me.
He pulled his monocle out, winked at me, then replaced it. "I threw in that last loop for free."
I fished the one pound coin out of my pocket and placed it onto his outstretched palm. He wrapped his fingers about it, placed his fist to his forehead in a salute, then stashed the coin in his puffy trousers.
"Well, young man, what did you think?"
I wasn't sure what I thought, but what I said was, "I've never seen anything like it. Can I offer a suggestion?"
"Of course you can, young sir. I value customer feedback."
"When you're running around like that you should stick your arms out, like they were wings."
"Wings?" he exclaimed, his monocle popping out. "My dear boy, I wouldn't wish to appear foolish."
Friday, November 27, 2009
Divine Rage
Peter huddled down close to Gabriel so he could whisper without being overheard.
"Still in a bad mood then?"
The heavens roiled with thick black cloud, sundered by the bright flash of lightning, sky ringing to the din of crashing thunder.
"A bit." Gabriel confirmed.
"Drama queen." St. Peter said. "Creates the entire universe in six days, and he's making this much of a fuss about fifty thousand words in a month."
"Still in a bad mood then?"
The heavens roiled with thick black cloud, sundered by the bright flash of lightning, sky ringing to the din of crashing thunder.
"A bit." Gabriel confirmed.
"Drama queen." St. Peter said. "Creates the entire universe in six days, and he's making this much of a fuss about fifty thousand words in a month."
Friday, November 20, 2009
Heart's Desire
As the great swell of music slowly died away, he looked up into her face, eyes bright and full of hope.
An orchestra this time.
"Well, dearest?" he asked. "Only say you will be my bride and I will give you your heart's desire."
She pulled her hand from out of his. "Never," she said. "Never, never, never."
His face fell, and he brushed away tears from his eyes before they had the chance to roll down his cheeks. He stood. Looked down at her where she sat, his mouth opening a crack but he had no more to say. Head hanging he trudged from the room, turned in the doorway and said, "I will return tomorrow, dearest one." Then he left, letting the door fall shut behind him.
She went to the window and looked out across the land, the rolling green fields, the dark forests, the great swelling river that ran through it all, originating in the mysterious great mountains far in the distance. A vast world of adventure that she had yet to sample.
She looked at the door the prince had used to exit the room and thought, yet again, of her heart's truest desire.
The key that would open that damn lock.
An orchestra this time.
"Well, dearest?" he asked. "Only say you will be my bride and I will give you your heart's desire."
She pulled her hand from out of his. "Never," she said. "Never, never, never."
His face fell, and he brushed away tears from his eyes before they had the chance to roll down his cheeks. He stood. Looked down at her where she sat, his mouth opening a crack but he had no more to say. Head hanging he trudged from the room, turned in the doorway and said, "I will return tomorrow, dearest one." Then he left, letting the door fall shut behind him.
She went to the window and looked out across the land, the rolling green fields, the dark forests, the great swelling river that ran through it all, originating in the mysterious great mountains far in the distance. A vast world of adventure that she had yet to sample.
She looked at the door the prince had used to exit the room and thought, yet again, of her heart's truest desire.
The key that would open that damn lock.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Paydirt
A job's a job and I needed some way to help pay my bills but I had imagined myself waiting tables or working in a bar. Just a regular part time job until I could pick up more hours at the factory. Then Kelly's cousin called at the house and handed me a name and an address, told me to get down here fast and don't bother with looking fancy.
I spent ten minutes trudging across perfectly manicured grass as the last of the light was going, desperate to find my contact before it got too dark to see my way. There was a shack with a light on so I knocked at the door and took the gruff response as permission to enter.
When I pushed the door open I was greeted with the sight of a grizzled old guy lighting his pipe with a guttering match. He was the sort of geezer you expect to see leaning over fences handing out ominous advice to unwary teens in some schlock horror movie.
"I'm-" I started.
"You my replacement?" he asked.
"I've-"
"Cheating me out of my pension is what he's doing." The old guy sucked at his pipe noisily. "Drunk, my ass! You need something to keep the cold out of your bones."
"I'm looking for Mister Barnes..."
The old boy stood up, pulled his coat on, his pipe clamped between his teeth so when he spoke to me it was through gritted teeth. "He's out back." He jerked his head in the general direction, and then pushed past me as he left.
I heard a truck fire up as I went back of his shed. Stuck in the newly turned dirt of a fresh grave was the shovel I expected I'd be using as the town's new gravedigger. Mr Barnes was nowhere to be seen.
I spent ten minutes trudging across perfectly manicured grass as the last of the light was going, desperate to find my contact before it got too dark to see my way. There was a shack with a light on so I knocked at the door and took the gruff response as permission to enter.
When I pushed the door open I was greeted with the sight of a grizzled old guy lighting his pipe with a guttering match. He was the sort of geezer you expect to see leaning over fences handing out ominous advice to unwary teens in some schlock horror movie.
"I'm-" I started.
"You my replacement?" he asked.
"I've-"
"Cheating me out of my pension is what he's doing." The old guy sucked at his pipe noisily. "Drunk, my ass! You need something to keep the cold out of your bones."
"I'm looking for Mister Barnes..."
The old boy stood up, pulled his coat on, his pipe clamped between his teeth so when he spoke to me it was through gritted teeth. "He's out back." He jerked his head in the general direction, and then pushed past me as he left.
I heard a truck fire up as I went back of his shed. Stuck in the newly turned dirt of a fresh grave was the shovel I expected I'd be using as the town's new gravedigger. Mr Barnes was nowhere to be seen.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Engelbert Says...
He stared at her small hand wrapped in his, knuckles white and high-lighting fine blue veins, fingers wrapped tight about his own, and he remembered how they'd met.
Such an unexpected find. He remembered how they'd immediately clicked, as if they'd known each other for decades, as though getting to know her was part new and part recalling her moods, her body and the secrets she kept hidden from everybody else.
But things were different, circumstances had changed. He had changed, though she had somehow remained the same. There was no kind way to end this, he had to let go.
When he did, she didn't stop screaming until she hit the rocks, far below.
Such an unexpected find. He remembered how they'd immediately clicked, as if they'd known each other for decades, as though getting to know her was part new and part recalling her moods, her body and the secrets she kept hidden from everybody else.
But things were different, circumstances had changed. He had changed, though she had somehow remained the same. There was no kind way to end this, he had to let go.
When he did, she didn't stop screaming until she hit the rocks, far below.
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