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"That's
Entertainment" by Jason Nunes
Doctor Logic
It turned out that the lads had an insulting nickname for every manager apart
from me and, according to the gurus, this is a sign of enormous affection, so I
had to get one too.
I tried everything. An elaborate corkscrewing limp, a breathy ee-aw sound when
I spoke, but nothing happened.
'I'm at a crossroads.' I explained to Gary. 'One way I get a nickname, the
other way, oblivion. Could you arrange for me to be called a funny name?'
'That's not a crossroads,' Gary said. 'That's a T-Junction.'
After he'd gone I thought about how logical he was. I rang Keith.
'Keith, I've been talking to Doctor Logic.'
'Who the fuck is Doctor Logic?'
'Gary. You know how he's always logical.'
Soon everyone would be saying Doctor Logic and when Gary discovered the favour
I'd done him, I was sure he would devise a suitable name for me.
~
Through the medium of modern dance.
The bin-men laid out the recycling boxes and pressed play. Latin beats
spluttered out, and from a wheelie-bin sprang a woman in floaty clothes. She
danced as she demonstrated how to recycle. A bin-man battered hell out of a
bongo.
Within every bottle are pieces of all the bottles you've ever used, they sang
The dancer had long ochre hair. Freckles. She hated newsnight, and
laminate-flooring. She liked celeriac. And ferris wheels.
She was my ex-girlfriend.
My insides churned with recalled desire and when she'd finished I gripped her
arm. But she pointed at the label on a tin. DO NOT REHEAT.
When we lived together I dealt with the rubbish; a monstrous heap of unloved
packaging and decayed food. We threw away more than we ever had. It was better
when everything got burnt. Ash-men came with an ash-cart and grey flecks
wheeled in the air, getting in your eyes.
~
The funny way I feel inside
I rested my forehead against the cold chromium rail in front so I could hear
what the cute pixie girl was saying.
'I could never go out with a boy who didn't love, love, love the sound of
rain.' She told her mate. 'That's a real deal-breaker for me.'
Later that week it was really hammering down so I followed her into a
bus-shelter. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. I stretched my fingers
like a pianist. I hummed and rolled my head from side to side.
But when I opened my eyes she'd gone.
I stayed there listening to the pulsing of the drops. If there was ever an
overrated sound, it's the sound of rain. It's not even actually the sound of
rain. Rain itself doesn't make a sound. What you hear is a much more complex
phenomenon, more intricate than she could ever imagine.
~
The heartless chain
Someone sucked the soul out of Paloukis bar. We'd gone back there to rekindle
the love in our marriage, but Helen wasn't impressed, believing the place had
been gobbled up by some heartless chain. I deduced that old Palouki had passed
it on to his son. I knew I was right, as was usually the case, but I didn't
push it; the job was to rekindle.
When our food arrived a photographer appeared and asked if he could take some
pictures for outside the restaurant. Helen laughed girlishly, threw her arms
about me, and waited for the flash.
But the photographer was focussing on our plate of metze.
'The pictures fade fast,' he explained. 'Since the old man retired, his son
wants everything so-so.'
I winked at Helen, but she began to cry. 'Just imagine it. Our special dinner,
outside for all to see. How many people can say that?'
Copyright
2005 David Gaffney
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