112: Walnut

In the main city square where pigeons peck at phantom crumbs and vacationers snap at buildings with a tired predictability, a gaunt man in a Guys and Dolls world tour hoody, even though the temperature is far to high for such a piece, snakes his way through the crowd searching for eyes to hook. Around the ogle locus he makes himself apparent until one of the numerous fans of the hit broadway spectacular gasps with peek mouthed excitement and raises a plump finger to direct a partner's attention. He pounces. "O M G, you're really a fan too?! Where are you from? The U S! You're so lucky! The land of G and D! Whats your favourite number?" ... This goes on, both parties singing snippets from the musical to each other, until there can be no doubt about his veracity. He feels the excitement cresting and wipes an imaginary tear away from his eye, saying that he really has to get to work now but how nice it was to meet people with a passion as strong as his. He gives his new bezzzers a big big hug and says adios. They walk away, bodies still pumped with the euphoria of unexpectedly finding a brother in arms. Across the square they turn around hoping to get a last glance but he is gone. Some time later when going to pay for a honey glazed hotdog or to check the time on the their limited edition luxuary line diamond pupiled Mickey Mouse wrist watch, they are met with the absence that only a yearning heart knows. ---------- I woke in a heap of cracked walnut shells. I gathered most of them in a tarpaulin dumped near the communal bins, shovelling them across with withered hands, halting when the load became more soil than shell. Dragging it along the high street, the crowds of Saturday shoppers parted in good faith, before totally dissipating by the time the launderette door swung open at my gentle push. There, I began dispensing them in every empty washer. At the counter, Austin was eyeing me warily, the normal lip-smacking gum-chewing sounds slowed to half-speed, biro tapping reduced to every eighth beat. "Wouldn't you prefer a service wash? I would discount some ... for nut shells. I'll dry them in the ovens after for free?" Shrugging, more from the draft produced in the negotiations at hand than her question. We were both propelled by the idea that I was me and Austin was herself, while both hoping we were something infinite only experiencing an extended dose of the finite - on a lifetime break for that which has no bounds. Yet, it all plays out, seemingly unravelling, but into a knot. Though it had been many years ago, Mrs Ogden's house was still burning within a downpour somewhere, while I dumped the matches and kerosene in the builder's portacabin. Also, washing around the drum of immanence, like my walnut shells, Quentin's shoulder remained permanently out of the socket, his arm drawn up behind his back by me higher than joints and ligaments permit, while, in parallel, being permanently rehoused within his endless shriek, and so on - all these echoes present in the business at hand, while being nowhere to be seen. "No thanks Oz.”