erithacus' saga: harmonious relations
One evening, when Mary and I were both simultaneously being frisked as we left the warehouse, I watched Mary lift her arms to allow the woman security guard to pat the outside of her breasts in a making-sure-that-no-spoons-for-tunnel-digging-were-being-nicked-from-the-prison-camp-dining-room style search for pilfered Vanguard Fashions bras. Mary caught my gaze and rolled her eyes warehouse roofward to indicate how bothersome this ritual had become.
“Do you want to check my underpants?” I asked.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” answered the woman frisker’s male counterpart Dixon-of-Dock-Greenedly.
“I was asking your opposite number,” I commented jovially nodding at the woman frisker. This gave rise to witchlike cackles from some of the pickers who were scurrying through the exit towards freedom. Mary smiled at me. Better than being ignored I thought.
“Are you catching the bus?” I asked when we were outside. She was usually in a hurry to get home, prepare her son’s tea or go to her evening classes.
“No,” she replied. “Gandalf’s gone to a birthday party. I’ll walk. It’s a nice day.”
“I’ll come with you,” I declared with such determination that I felt the voice was not mine but that of a being inhabiting me.
“But it’s not on your way....” she replied, breaking off, probably to avoid the word “home” or any reference to where I lived. I wondered whether the shed had become a taboo, like cannibalism or incest.
taboo n., adj., & v. (also tabu)
n. (pl. taboos or tabus)
1 a system or the act of setting a person or thing apart as sacred, prohibited, or accursed.
The shed was certainly neither sacred nor prohibited.
“I want to,” I affirmed as if I had been peeking at the self-assertion titles on Mary’s bookshelf.
We left the warehouse and walked in silence through the compound, past another Checkpoint Charlie-like security check at the entrance to the company premises. This one was to stop unwanted visitors from getting in although why they should wish to was incomprehensible.
“Do you want to check my underpants?” I asked.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” answered the woman frisker’s male counterpart Dixon-of-Dock-Greenedly.
“I was asking your opposite number,” I commented jovially nodding at the woman frisker. This gave rise to witchlike cackles from some of the pickers who were scurrying through the exit towards freedom. Mary smiled at me. Better than being ignored I thought.
“Are you catching the bus?” I asked when we were outside. She was usually in a hurry to get home, prepare her son’s tea or go to her evening classes.
“No,” she replied. “Gandalf’s gone to a birthday party. I’ll walk. It’s a nice day.”
“I’ll come with you,” I declared with such determination that I felt the voice was not mine but that of a being inhabiting me.
“But it’s not on your way....” she replied, breaking off, probably to avoid the word “home” or any reference to where I lived. I wondered whether the shed had become a taboo, like cannibalism or incest.
taboo n., adj., & v. (also tabu)
n. (pl. taboos or tabus)
1 a system or the act of setting a person or thing apart as sacred, prohibited, or accursed.
The shed was certainly neither sacred nor prohibited.
“I want to,” I affirmed as if I had been peeking at the self-assertion titles on Mary’s bookshelf.
We left the warehouse and walked in silence through the compound, past another Checkpoint Charlie-like security check at the entrance to the company premises. This one was to stop unwanted visitors from getting in although why they should wish to was incomprehensible.
posted by Bob @ 2:47 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home