Friday, January 28, 2011

Killing Time & Robert Mitchum

A wise doctor once told me that the view from his house is not the same as mine. Using a map, he highlighted the area of town where he lived, and warned me not to rent a property close by, or he would kill me. I stood by my promise. He died one morning making breakfast dressed in his Donald Duck play suit. His house pal, Gus Goose, finally tired of eating duck eggs, and stuck Donald's yellow flat feet down his strap-on duck beak. The wise doctor's last words were, 'And there's me keeping blue eggs for your birthday ...'

Lately I've been feeling tired, bloated and lacking in energy. I sent a sample of my hair, with a cheque, to find out what my diet was doing to my body. I received an in-depth analysis in the post. The results were amazing. It confirmed my body was in great shape. The cheque, however, is suffering from hypersensitivity, a skin problem, muscle imbalance, deficiencies in a number of minerals and vitamins and requires to undergo a comprehensive detox plan. As I type, the cheque is resting on the sun-drenched front porch. It's on a new diet. I believe it's starting to look and feel better. It's early days, of course, but the signs are encouraging.

I'm in the library trying to think and write. Outside the the street is bright, full of people coming and going, mostly going. A man with a small, slender face, and black-rimmed glasses in the left inside pocket of his jacket, stops in the street and holds his breath in his right hand. He places it back in his mouth and moves on. I sense a presence looking down at me. A young girl: pretty, short straight black hair, wearing a short black leather coat. In fact, everything is short, including the scar on her left cheek.

'Aren't you a teacher?' she asked.

'Yes,' I said, lying.

'We've met before,' she continued. 'Your first name has two syllables ... Let me guess ... May I sit down?'

'You may.' I like the company of females, playing with words, expressions, flirting. She inclined her head. It made her more beautiful.

'Is it Rumpelstiltskin?'

My kind of girl. 'No. But you're close.'

I produce a genuine smile and place it back in my wallet. 'Have you been in a library before?'

'No. This is the first time. I mean ... Well, I've been watching you'. Her blue velvet eyes aroused my emotions. 'Two syllables? ...'

'Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes three or four, if you count swear words.'

'What do you write?'

'Whatever pops into my head. If I wait, something happens. Something always happens.' I pause for a moment, only because she is so damn pretty, bracing, and she observes, listens. She's sharp in a good way.

'Is it Alex?' she asks. Then, 'Jean-Patrick?' I notice the holes in her jeans and her small well-shaped lips.

'I have to go.' We stare at each other in silence.

Her voice sounds like a whisper, 'I'll see you again.'

I lift my writing materials. 'Well, yes ... ' She gives a lop-sided smile and tells me her name is Hannah.

I hand her my card. She looks at it for a while. Her face lights up. She is amused, beautiful.

'I'll see you around kid.' I do my best Robert Mitchum impression as I exit the library and merge into the shape of the town. I'll see her around, that's for sure. Life's all about killing time. There are worse ways to kill time than in the company of an intelligent, beautiful, young woman who knows your first name has two syllables.
Reflections:  What most people want in this world is honesty and to be recognised as a human being. The mass media (owned by the wealthy) try their best to distort the truth about the poor, the disadvantaged, the homeless, the unemployed.

Twenty-four hours walking and sleeping in the streets without proper clothes, cash, credit cards, mobile phones, Blackberries, iPod's, laptops, food, and protection from physical and verbal assault, might just enlighten 'some' people whose job it is to distort the truth to bag a 'good' story line.

Thankfully there are honest people with compassion, generosity, courage, and goodwill, who daily help the damaged and abused whose lives, sadly, hang by a thread.