|
By Sandra James
Old women have flabby arms that hang like crepe elephant ears,
creased and wrinkled, wobbling like half-set jelly when they raise their
hands. The woman on the next table is old. She looks my way as though
she has read my thoughts, then slowly raises her cup to her lips, arms
flapping.
I reach for my cup but it is empty. My editor wants a story – a
Christmas story. Deadline…three hours. “Why me…couldn’t Coco…?”
“She’s busy.”
I have come to the shopping plaza armed with my laptop and a pocket of
shrapnel but the pristine Norfolk Pines with their untouchable baubles
and symmetric clone presents beneath have done little to inspire me.
Frazzled shoppers and rapacious ankle-biters surge between brightly
coloured displays like fire ants on a crusade. Credit cards are
stretched thin like the taut nerves of the madding crowds.
Piped Christmas carols persevere above the jangle of tills, fractious
voices and the rattling tin of the turgid Santa collecting for the
poor kids in the festive season. Not bloody likely…parents
on welfare. Smokes. Beer. Pokies. Nothing for food, clothes or Christmas
presents. Preying on the taxpayer. Civil libertarians ignore truth. Am I
too harsh or has my profession left me jaded by reality and
unsympathetic to fools?
My essay becomes a discourse on a modern society devoid of the true
spirit of Christmas. What is peace? What is goodwill? Where is the babe
born in a lowly stable? I am Scrooge. I am the Grinch. My editor will
slam his fist on his desk, snort through his Rudolf-red nose and demand
my sacking. He shouldn’t have sent me; he should have sent Coco with her
jingle bell earrings and Christmas bunny t-shirt stretched tight across
her silicone breasts. Coco would have found a tearjerker worthy of her
Christmas bonus.
I need more coffee. I finger the change in my pocket and look around.
The late lunch crowd has commandeered every seat. Catch 22. Take
laptop…lose seat. Leave laptop…lose laptop!
“Get your coffee. I’ll watch it.” She nods. Chin wobbling in sync with
her arms.
I choose the counter with the shortest line. The coffee is all the same.
“Make that two.” Three words…my voice.
“Six fifty.” My index finger points to a plate of mince pies and joins
with the next to signal two. “Nine fifty.”
I weave my way back through the horde. A harassed young mother, with one
tear-stained toddler peering from a package laden stroller and another
gripping tightly to the hem of her denim skirt, tries to secure a vacated
table but is beaten by a seasoned shopper unencumbered by wheels.
“Take mine,” says the voice again as I place my tray in front of
the old woman.
The old woman raises her cappuccino to me. Arms swinging like a
pendulum. Across the food court a giant cuckoo clock chimes 2:00pm, opening
its window to reveal a ho-ho-ho-ing Santa. “Merry Christmas.”
The placated toddlers point with delight, wielding tomato sauce dipped
crinkle-cuts. Their mother draws strength from a straw in a bottle of
diet cola. Her finger is ringless and her eyes are the depths of the
Dead Sea.
“Plans for Christmas?” The old woman raises her eyebrows as she bites
into a sugar-sprinkled mince pie. Mini-snowflakes fall onto the
laminate table.
“Working!” I shrug, omitting to mention that I have volunteered
for the Christmas shift. I have no one but the stray ginger moggy who
knows I am a soft touch for leftover takeaway. “You?”
She reminisces and I wonder if there was too much brandy in her mince
pie. Of course not, only a hint of essence, as artificial as the
mistletoe that hangs from the domed ceiling. Coco would have loved this.
She can tug heartstrings with a weather report. I smile and nod at
regular intervals. My mince pie is good.
She hasn’t seen her only daughter for ten years…but she will
phone. And the Council Christmas lunch is always good. Last year they
gave everyone a box of chocolates…soft centres.
The toddlers finish their chips and the young mother prepares to leave.
Already squatters have claimed possession. Special of the
day…with chips. Wheels pause beside me. “Thank you.” I detect a ripple
in the Dead Sea.
“I must go, too. Bus leaves soon. Hope you get that story right.” The
old woman is gone and I suddenly feel very alone.
Deadline...two hours. Do you want to save? I catch a last
glimpse of cap sleeves over pudgy arms.
Delete.
***
© Sandra James 2008
The short stories on this website are copyright and cannot be copied for
any purpose. However, you are welcome to link to any story.
More Features
|
