Your Correspondent, Page 2

Your Correspondent ... Page 2

It had been a particularly crime-free week, which was usual. A large quantitiy of apples had been stolen from Mrs Simmonds' tree on East St. A bicycle thought to have been stolen from the bank's parking lot proved to have been placed in a spot `other than that which the individual initially recollected'. A pair of purple fluffy dice had been taken in broad daylight from a sedan parked on North Broadway. He was weighing up the merits of inventing something about cattle rustling or money laundering or suspected Mafia activities when the roar started in Cueball's room. The staff hunted their corners. "You fuckin' little bimbo ..." Pallid murmurings. "Do I care? Your Daddy ..." More choked murmurings. An object hitting the wall. Pleadings. A momentary reconciliation. Another whoosh, back to square one. Silence. Your Correspondent peeked from around his office cubicle, and, to his horror, observed Space Cadet raise his hand to knock on the door. It was already too late. A sobbing New Girl catapulted from the room. "Your photocopies, Mr ..." "You keep your goddamn mouth buttoned til the end of this year, you little bitch, or your Daddy will be the one owing me a favour. Capiche?" "Mr ... uh, sir ... your photcopies?" The entire office tensed as Cueball turned. "Get this fuckin' retard out of here. Y'hear me? Get outta here!" Space Cadeet placed the photocopies, properly sorted, into three piles on Cueball's desk, and fled. "I'm stupid, I'm stupid, I know it," sobbed New Girl, taking Garfield's fourth offering. "I'm too fuckin' honest, that's my problem. Miss Lonely Love had, it must be said, been a mistake. She had already recommended two facelifts, a threesome, several cases of adultery (`Get it out of your system now rather than later. Your husband will love you for it!'), and in today's issue, the final straw.
	Dear Miss Love, I have come to believe that my husband, a wealthy middle-aged businessman, is having an affair with a younger woman on his staff. How do you recommend I proceed? Should I confront him, or should I attempt to catch him red handed? While I hope to make him pay heavily for his actions, I believe our marriage can (and, I hope, will) survive the crisis. Ms Informed Dear Ms Informed, Well, here's the thing. I don't think this marriage is worth holding onto, probably. You have to understand that while women run hot and cold, men are hot for it their whole lives, 24 hours a day. As women get older and a little big less attractive [here there was a list of reasonably priced plastic surgeons in the proximity] it is only natural that men will not get off on you any more. Let your man have his fun, his lover is probably just sleeping her way to the top anyway. In the meantime, take up an expensive hobby and make sure he pays through th enose for it. All my luck for future bliss. Miss Lonely Love
At first, she had considered art collecting. When that proved too exhorbitant, she settled on a subscription to the Faberge Egg of the Month Club. "He wanted /my /father to pay for her nose job! Well, I talked him out of it ..." Your Correspondent offered her a clean handkerchief. "Oh, thanks Carl. You're a real sweetie." She crushed it in her hand. "God, what do I see in the son of a bitch?" Again, she looked younger, her plump rosy face was that of a child lost in a department store. He let her keep the handkerchief. He walked home as usual; it was a warm night. As the tankers trundled their milk to the cities for lattes and cappucinos, Your Correspondent stood above a pond so still, reflecting the early stars so vividly, that for a moment he felt as if he were floating above them. He held the New Girl up to the light - her soft naivete, his handkerchief somewhere on her person - and tucked her away in a warm place in his mind. He arrived at the level crossing and found Space Cadet, aimlessly wandering around by the train tracks. The guilelessness was gone. It was not a face Space Cadet would have cared to immortalise for him. "You be careful there," he told Space Cadet. He nodded, and continued dropping fireworks on the lines. "You shouldn't do that, you know," Your Correspondent urged. "It's, uh, it's a little dangerous round here." The 6:45 rocked past, making a sound like a hail of bullets. Space Cadet galloped around like a thrilled puppy; he was a little shocked at the stern look he received from the driver. "What you been up to?" "Nothin' much, huh. My brother let me have some pot last night. That stuff is good, huh? Makes you feel kinda sick." He sniffed, and rubbed his finger under his nose. "You gonna look for another job?" Space Cadet squinted at the sky, which was rapidly fading. "I dunno. Yah. I dunnon. Huh." "You be careful round here, OK?" "OK. Say hi to the new girl for me, huh?" Despite the warnings, Space Cadet's silhouette reappeared on the horizon within minutes. Your Correspondent picked up the hardest, shiniest, smoothest, baldest, most callous rock he could find and kicked it all the way home. That night he dusted off an old Polaroid camera that hd sat in the shed for as long as he could remember, belonging to nobody. The lense was the colour of a potato but when he cleaned it off it looked brand new. There was nothing much to photograph in his life. Birthdays were little more than currants in cakes. Monday came. It brought with it a morose New Girl, who floated around the office like an apparition. Without Space Cadet's constant interruptions, the morning moved surprisingly slowly (One Caught Red Handed at Mrs Simmon's Fruit Tree, Fruit Stealing Racket Exposed, Domestic Altercation at Taylors General Store Turns Out To Be False Alarm, Spate of Parking Violations Inspires Parking Awareness Day). He was even more grateful to sneak out for his mid-morning liason with New Girl than usual. He had bought chocolate biscuits for her as a special treat. Garfield grinned like a satisfied Buddha. He would give her a shoulder to cry on. A barn from which to see the stars. Leading her into his heart via a trail of ants, he would ... But she never arrived. "Cutbacks," grunted Cueball, by way of explanation. "I decided I wanted a stupidity-free workplace." His head glistened, he sat back in his chair like a big soccerball ham glazing in the oven. "Surely ... you're acting against unfair dismissal laws!" Your Correspondent accused him. "Bullshit. She was never officially employed here in the first place. I owe her Da-da a favour. He once pulled my wife and I from a burning business deal." "Nevertheless ..." "Listen, Carl - what's your point? You got a woody for the little bitch" Your Correspondent swallowed. Now even Cueball didn't remember his name. "She's lucky she's got other skills, cause she sure ain't got talent. Not in this industry, anyway. She'll find plenty of call for that when she gets back to the big smoke." Glumly, he considered arguing Space Cadet's case. He huffed a few times. "I think this is highly unethical," he said calmly. "So do I." said Cueball, grinned, showed him the door, and closed it behind him. He stepped quickly. There would be no other chance. He knew where her apartment was. The horizon bumped up and down, never getting any closer. Now he trotted, never noticing a figure keeping step beside him. "How you been, huh? How you been?" "Oh, hey - hey champ. How's things?" "Not too good, huh. My brother made me this meatloaf, and I was shitting pieces of rock til yesterday. You like meatloaf, huh? You like it?" He glanced at the skyline, still too far away and getting darker by the minute. "Listen, uh ... uh ... I, uh, I got something for you." He produced the camera from his bag, feeling not nearly as benevolvent as he had hoped. Space Cadet, however, was transfixed. "Heeey, man - this is good, huh? Really nice. Huh!" He patted it around in his hand like a hot potato. "Not that button. Don't press that until you're finished, OK?" The sun had almost set completely. Disappointment sunk a hole into his stomach. "Press this button here to take a picture. Got it? The picture comes right out of the slot." "How long can I borrow it, huh?" "It's yours to keep, it's my pleasure." "Huh? /Huh?/ Wow. You sure are nice to me. Some folks don't seem to want me around, huh. But you ..." He quieted him. "Cheese!" But Space Cadet was already scrambling up the embankment to catch some action shots of the train, whose wheels were bursting with a thousand sparks. "Wooh! Did you see that? Wow! Wooooh!" The hood of his pullover slid from Your Correspondent's hasty grasp, and pictures littered the ground. This time, the driver didn't just glare. The train skidded to a halt. Heads appeared at everyo window. The conductor stepped into the cornfields and collared young Space Cadet, who stood there looking for all the world like he expected to be congratulated for his fine work. "You see what you did son? You see? That's dangerous, boy! Dangerous! You know you could have had us all killed?" Space Cadet, crestfallen, galloped in the direction of his brother's farm. "Sir - let me explain to you," started Your Correspondent. After discussing the matter of slightly slows and a little tap-tap-tap on the heads, he became aware of the voice and its growing urgency. "Clint! Hey Clint! Overe here! How are ya? Clint!" "Do you know this young lady?" demanded the conductor. He stood and took a breath, knowing he would only have one chance. (Knits brow) "Yes I do, sir" (to the girl, heroically) "Bring your luggage. I've gotten you your job back." He lay in his bed that night, breathlessly contemplating her presence in the guest bedroom mere metres away. He had done it. Now, he had to make it work. Turn the page ....