A story with a moral

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A Story with a Moral

 

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 1.

Distraction and Melancholy

Very hot. The naked neighbor appears, as usual. But alas! The sight of her leaves Our Hero nothing but melancholy

 

10 am. June but unusually warm: sun raked into the window so forcefully that it was hard to see my screen. I peered and read Energy Star,  Market & Industry Scoping Report, Vacuum Cleaners, November, 2011.

"The maximum suction power divided by the input power at the same point determines the maximum airflow efficiency (energy conversion efficiency) of the vacuum cleaner."

 I was trying very hard, but hardly moving. stuck in the heat. My work session was coming to a close. I'd done almost nothing.

Air dense. Everything oppressive, strange. I leaned back and looked across at the apartment opposite.

 My neighbor was drying herself in the window, as was her habit. She slipped on some blue panties. Desire. Giddy, heat and suffocation as melancholy pressed in. 

She turned away, into the depth of the room. No more in sight, thankfully.

 I breathed, I got up.

 

2.

Sardines on Toast 

Consumption 

 

I sliced some bread and put it in the toaster. I took a plate and opened a can of sardines, curling the metal back to show the fish crammed in merciless confinement, their faces frozen in screams of horror.

 Had they cried out for help as their seas were invaded, and they were overcome by nets flung from huge black boats and transported many leagues to foreign soil? As they were weighed en masse, then flung writhing into metal holds had no one protested? And when they were sent with casual efficiency for mass slaughter to giant killing factories had their cries of anguish gone unheard? Or had some heard but turned away: workers following orders, good citizens trusting their authorities?

 "Ding," said the toaster. Now, toast on a plate, buttered. I got the sardines out with a knife, crushing them onto the bread.

It was so damn hot I could hardly eat. Stillness. Air dense. Laptop silent, the report on vacuum cleaners heavy. Lethargy. 

 

 

 

3.

Bed

Rest

 I lay on the bed. Overcome, I began to sleep.  I did not wake for many hours.

 

 

4.

In the ice cream parlour

 I take to the Paris Cafe to consume ice cream. Tom appears.

 

 The Paris Cafe has been there since the turn of the last century. It has the furnishings typical of that epoch, sinuous dark wood, mirrors engraved with floral motifs and deep red banquettes. It serves French Brasserie standards: Coq au vin, Moules Frites, Sole Meunière, Tarte Tatin, Profiteroles, Crème Brulée...

It  also serves a range of ice creams:

 Knickerbocker Glory: Ice cream, jelly, fruit, and cream, topped with syrup, nuts, whipped cream, and glace cherry

Banana Split: Banana, chocolate, vanilla and strawberry icecream.  crushed pineapple  and morello cherry

Eton Mess: Meringue, strawberry and strawberry ice cream

American Parfait: vanilla yogurt with strawberries and blueberries.  With a granola topping

Mimosa Float: White chocolate, sherbet and Champagne

 Hot fudge Sundae: Vanilla ice cream, hot fudge sauce and nuts

The Amalfi: Lemon sorbet and milk gelato with whipped cream, candied lemon, crushed meringue, lemon sauce and sugared rosemary. 

 

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Evening. Stillness.  I was here to recover my spirits. Me and the waiters both swift and calm, endlessly reflected in the mirrored walls. I ate my Amalfi.

I heard a familiar voice: Tom's: "How did you discover this place, you little sneak?" Is this where you bring your girls? I'm going to bring mine here."

But there was no need for that as shortly entered two young ladies.

 

 

5.

Two Marys

We meet two unusual young women

 

 Two girls one in red and the other in blue sat on the dark red banquette. The one in blue's dress had touches of white, and she wore a sorrowful expression. The other's face seemed to show a constant mirth and her manner was lively. Both had long dark hair.

Tom looked over.

"Hi ladies. I'm Tom. This is Caspasian."

 

"Hi.  I'm Mary" said the one in red.

"Delighted, and are you Mary too?"

"Actually, I am," laughed the one in blue.

"Really? I hope you aren't sisters?" I asked.

 

"Actually, we are." they replied together

 

"Oops!? Are your family Catholic, by any chance?"

 

"Very," said both Marys together, forcefully.

 

"But it must be confusing?" said Tom.,"

"Well, they usually call me Magda." said the girl in red. A heady fragrance wafted across from her.

 

"And they sometimes call me Mog," said the one in blue.

 

 "Why's that?" I asked.

 

"If you must know, it's short for Mother of God."

 

 "Jesus!"  said Tom," that's ambitious!"

 

"I do prefer simply Mary," said Mary.

 

 Magda was finishing her ice cream, a banana split. Mary's Eton Mess was also almost done.

 

"How were your ices" I asked? 

"Lovely," said Mary.

 

"Delicious," said Magda looking directly at Tom.

"We should go for a walk in one of the gardens," suggested Tom. "They are so charming in the evenings"

 

Tom led the way, through residential streets to a square, the centre of which was given over to gardens, but closed to the public by means of black railings and a hefty gate.

 

6.

In the Garden

In a private garden square,  Mary makes a passionate plea on behalf of our readership

 

We had to clamber over the railings. Magda managed easily, indifferent to the possible embarrassment that hitching her skirt, thus revealing a glimpse of a scarlet g-string, might have caused a lesser women.  Mary, however, was demure, even prim, and Tom and I had to help raise her over so that she might arrive on the other side without shame. 

 

We walked a little and found a secluded lawn then together lay on that rich softness. Like silver coins, dark leaves above glinted in the moonlight.

 

 Magda produced a spliff from her bra. Tom helped her light it and it passed easily between us:  we inhaled with the moonsong, the air pungent with potscent. Magda sat in such a way that her long legs, which sported short red socks, were plainly visible to Tom who gazed on them admiringly.

 

Mary got the joint and took a long drag, exhaled then turned to me, brows pressed together, "You know this story is missing something."

 

"What?"

 

"A moral."

 

"Really, Mary?"

 

"At least a sense of purpose. Meaning."

 

"Who cares?" interjected Tom.

"They care" said Mary, with great emphasis. "The readers. The listeners."

 

"Oh Christ." I felt uneasy about what I was surely to hear.  I recalled how a bout of melancholy had beaten me down me earlier in the day and was not in the mood for sermons.

"They think you are having meaningless lives. Empty relationships. They say you just wander about and stupid random stuff happens. They don't like naked bearded transvestites. Or trees decorated with lingerie. They don't think it's nice or funny. They do not think an elephants anus should be visited by a human head." Mary stopped and smoothed her blue dress. "And they don't like the swearing."

 

I came in, "That's Tom. You swear a lot, Tom. And it is really very unpleasant. Thank you Mary,  you are right. It is utterly gratuitous. You make such a bad impression, Tom. You're probably even soiling my reputation."

Tom looked away from Magda's legs for a moment. "Bugger off, Caspasian. You're such a fucking ponce." And, after a  moments further consideration, he added, "And a dickhead. And a cunt. And a wanker." And he returned to admire Magda's legs which had opened in appreciation of his self-defense.

Mary chose not to get involved in our fracas, taking another drag from the spliff and  continuing, "they probably want some good characters too.  Can't you be a little good? Or at least wholesome. I see you never pray. Look at Joe Biden. He's a Catholic, you know. Be like him. Good, but with a just a minor flaw, to seem human. Like being a hairsniffer."

 

"Is that a minor flaw?" Magda and I asked in chorus, with Tom then adding loudly "The guy's a fucking perve, Mary!"

Mary passed over this and continued, "maybe you'll have to get a proper job, Tom. Or volunteer? Do something for society. You could even join the services."

"Bugger that," said Tom. He was now seated behind Madga, running his fingertips round the edge of her socks, teasing her calves: her eyes were closed, a dreamy expression playing across her face.

"Yeah, come on, Mary", I added,. "Be realistic. Tom can't do stuff like that, it's too far off. He'd have to have feelings, thoughts of social solidarity."

 

A pause. Mary then continued,"Everyone is capable of goodness," a statement which showed how little she knew Tom or, indeed, humanity at large.

But her speech unsettled me and now, insecure, I asked, "Am I a good person Mary?"

 

"Probably not." replied Mary forcefully. " I doubt you'd  have saved Private Ryan."

I thought for a moment, "I saved a tortoise from some fat schoolchildren."

Mary took an especially long drag from the joint.

"Well maybe. But it has to be more proactive. And no more occult stuff, please. It gives everyone the creeps. God doesn't like it either. Try to be Self-Sacrificing. Think Nation. Family. Tortoises won't really wash."

Mary was getting more stoned, and with each puff more eloquent.

 

"You guys need to offer something redemptive. And soon. Maybe it doesn't have to go all the way Jesus on the cross etcetera but at least a little heroism. Why don't you watch some Frank Capra movies for ideas?"

 

 Mary finally passed the joint on and we were silent for a moment. Tom managed to raise the hem of Magda's dress a little more and his fingertips gently traced the contours of her knee.

  

"I was quite happy as we were," I said, "just getting on with it."

 

 "Well they, your readers, want to be improved," insisted Mary. "Especially the Yanks. Give them a positive message. The glass is always half empty, you know."

We all laughed, "don't you mean half full?"

 

"Oh fuck,  yeah," said Mary. "Jesus, this stuff is wicked."

 

"Christ! Mary, you can say that again," said Tom.

"Oh My Lord, yes,  I'm almost tripping," said Magda.

 

"Magda's spliff did indeed seem to be industrial strength variety. I lay back resting my head, and images from the day floated though my mind: vacuum cleaner turbines, my neighbor's bum, a genocidal massacre of sardines, Knickerbocker Glories, stoned virgins and Magda's perfume and glorious moonlit summer gardens of grand chestnut trees and sweet night silence in London's vastness.

 Tom,  in the meantime, had been running his hands up Magda's thigh. They were surely about to kiss.

 

 But at that moment a  gruff voice came from the railings. 

 

"Have you permission to be in there?"

 

"Fuck," said Tom, sitting up "some bugger has called the police."

 

It wasn't in fact the police at the railings, but a private security service.

 

"We don't want to call the police. Come on guys, you have to leave "

And so, like guilty schoolchildren, in file we left."

 

7.

And the moral of the story is...

We reflect 

 

 The girls called taxis and off they went.

 "Well?" I said.

"Well what?" said Tom.

"Are you prepared to change?"

Tom laughed. "Fuck that, I'm having too much fun. And if the readers don't like us they can piss off."

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Illustration: Acrylic on board, 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2001

 

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Read to Albuquerque Cyberscribes, 24 May, 2021 and Edinburgh Creatives 25 May, 2021

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