she sits and waves. waves away. waves between
seats. waves to the intersection. waves a long long way. this is of
course where she was asked to wait. where her assistance will be most
greatly appreciated. (and appreciation is acceptance. and acceptance
is ultimately all that could possibly matter.) where for just a few
minutes she will grin her way along the sightline - slice the coo coo
cooing - eventually collide with the camera. the camera black. the camera
held steady, aimed forward, framed and focused.
kabhoomm!
she recoils abruptly. checks her watch,
continues to grin. lips pulled back. hair pulled back. (she'll be back
soon) with feet directed forward, palms resting gently on knees, she
contemplates her position - aware that her presence has been acknowledged.
she sees herself seated. sees the image of herself seated. a mere memory
in relation to that space. an assumption that she exists or will exist
or did once in fact exist. a mark. a trace. a distortion.
and suddenly, while she is waiting, while
she is forgetting to wave, while she is remembering to grin, while she
is holding the image of herself as she shifts slightly to the right,
aligning her arm with the edge of the seat, (there. that's better.)
she feels the cold. if only she had grabbed her coat before racing out
the door.
oooh! a spotted turtledove...ahhh what
a hardy, enterprising creature.
oooh! a spotted turtledove...ahhh what a tasty morsel.
she remembers the restaurant uncle had
taken them to. it was situated in a part of town unfamiliar to her and
which relied on a particularly uppity cliental. in an attempt to fit
in - in an attempt to camouflage their discomfort - they had both borrowed
something to wear. uncle of course wore his black turtle-neck skivvy.
she remembers how once they were seated
with starched white serviettes in laps, they arranged and rearranged
the silver and drank their wine with pinkies aimed skywards. and with
menu in hand, it was the pigeon in mandarin and champagne sauce which
attracted their attention. it was the pigeon they decided to order.
in borrowed clothes they licked their lips
and licked their fingers...lickety lick on tiny delicate bones - but
as their stomachs rumbled with dissatisfaction and they cursed under
their breath, they couldn't wait to leave. couldn't wait to stop for
a burger and chips before heading home.
she dives into her bag and pulls out a
half eaten cheese and tomato sandwich. the clingwrap is a little tattered,
but that's was okay. might as well finish it now, finish it all. the
two birds settle by her feet, coo cooing excitedly. she shakes the image
of delicate bones from her mind. she bends to click and to coo. she
bends to offer crumbled crusts. as a kind of compensation - to make
her feel better - to feel right - she decides to give them each a name.
give them a identity. they deserved it she thought.
as she hears the shutter close she scans
the square and wonders: how many placements could be registered within
the bounds or realm or range or domain of possibility. how many tangos,
how many pigeons, how many cheese and tomato sandwiches, how many clicks,
how many sits, how many shoes, how many waits.
shooo!!!! she checks her watch and regains
her composure. she is facing west and she is beginning to wave. she
is beginning to think enough is enough. she is beginning to wonder just
how much of her assistance is actually required. she follows the line
of the seat to the lamp post to the overhead lines to the front of the
store. she follows the line painted white to the lines of movement.
she follows the line of the building to the place just beneath the windows
to the curves of the name and attempts to rest on the apostrophe - unsure
as to whether there is actually one or not. her eyesight is not as good
as it used to be.
she fiddles with the strap of her bag and
brings her feet together. shiny black shoes with big silver buckles.
she wonders how long they have been there. she hadn't noticed them before.
she compares them to her own worn-down lace-ups and begins to yearn
a new pair. if only i could. if only i would. but she knows she shouldn't.
and she realises how she detests the type of person who habitually identifies
one's shoes with one's personality. yes, she can see a certain truth
or relevance in the procedure. sure. it's just that she wished her shoes
would incite more of a...well...noteworthy reading.
she sits and dreams of patent leather -
of rows and rows of beautiful shoes. dreams of burying herself in the
heart of imelda marcos' fine collection. slipping in manicured toenails
painted crimson - one after another after another. a dance me lady?
a few curls and swirls for my luvley, for my heavenly, for my splendid
peachy-keen girl?
this is of course where she was asked to
wait. where her assistance was supposed to be most greatly appreciated.
where for just a few minutes she would grin her way along the sightline
- slice the coo coo cooing - and eventually collide with the camera.
she checks her watch again and curses out aloud. the face of the body
that wears the shiny black shoes turns sharply towards her - a frown
of disapproval.
bahhh. whatcha lookin at. yer stoopid bloody...yer
stoopid no good...yer stoopid...and pulls herself back.
uh uh. oh no. mustn't. mustn't. mustn't.
and once more, she regains her composure
and checks the alignment of her arm with the edge of the seat. she brings
her feet together. she takes a long deep breath and proceeds to tap
on her lap a little tune with her fingers. softly at first, then, after
a while, more intently. a recognisable habit of hers. an aggravated
impulse.
she remembers her role. she lifts the other
hand and begins to wave. begins to wave and grin. waves to the shop
front, waves across the road. waving and grinning and tapping. she sees
herself, sees the image of herself and is mortified. horrified.
stop! you must stop! and stop she does. with hair pulled back she grabs
the strap of her bag and pulls herself up from the seat.
(indecision. simply can't stand it. simply
won't stand for it. uh uh. oh no. no more. surely enough was enough.)
she is after all, only prepared to go so
far. certainly not prepared to come across as a complete and utter goose.
certainly happy to do her bit. to be a good friend. to be a reliable
assistant. but a choice needs to be made and it needs to be made now.
besides, she thought, it's bloody cold, it's getting late and i've missed
my tenth tram.
camera or no camera. click or no click. and another coburg tram rattles
by.
goodbye to ethel.
goodbye to bert. goodbye to shiny black shoes with big silver buckles.
and ignoring all signs, all guiding lines, she walks with determination
towards the shop.
