Jingle Bells and the Seven Dwarfs

snowwhite small letters no spacing was the password at J. Co. in the mall here. Nothing in particular first hearing; yeah whatever. It was over the road however for the beverage, where the short busty Scarf recalled the customer from six months before. No need say, the woman had no English; but she recalled alright. Impossible not to be charmed by the cascading sequence of Thanks in three languages that rained down upon her head: makasih, shukrija, nandri. The woman smiled, only to produce ten minutes later a very much below par halia, flat and without anything resembling a bubble. Yes, yes, it had been pulled earlier, the woman affirmed. Coulda fooled me Love. Malay most likely; perhaps some part recessive Indian. They often stretched you here even after all this time. Hearing Trumpet on the screen behind about the shutdown of Congress over the Wall one couldn’t help looking around at the faces, scanning for any jittery knees in particular, or—counter intuitively on the Equator—ice cool sliding glances. The right/wrong kinda fella here would not hesitate to take-out a dozen of his co-religionists with his prized scalp. Scores of men and women from Malaysia had joined the ranks of the fighters over there. Both in stature and colouration the Mexicans and Central Americans would immediately be identified as allies in these parts, even if it had been Obama building the Wall or droning them. Giant Komtar mall opposite didn’t help and neither did the fancy hotel opened fifty metres down that incorporated the most fall-down-laughing Highland bar & resto in creation. (MacGregor’s.) The day before an electric piano Santa’s Helper had her amplifier turned up there spreading her seasonal cheer; the mute chorus of similarly outfitted locals standing off must have been house staff. Did the lass read the news the other day from Morocco of the pair of bright-eyed innocents her age? In the mall the staff at one of the clothing outlets rang little hand bells to draw customers. Red caps and bunting throughout. Last night around the back street by the hotel a half-dozen ladies comfortably spaced on the incline with the pimp on his chair by the stairs couldn’t be made out in the dark and were only betrayed by their bass voices. Best to give that pass a miss just at present. Another bomb in Somalia, unless the footage had been a few days old; followed by football on the screen. The jumpy guy was finally sighted back-turned opposite a Scarf who had fired out a couple of blushing smiles earlier that could only add fuel to his fire. Turning round a single glance was enough to identify his target. In the whiteboard scrawl there was an offering of NASI GORENG USA at this no-name place. They’d be waiting a while to see that delicacy delivered to the table. A bomb in the mall on the other hand would not go astray, clear out all the people first. A stinker if nothing else. Snow white for crying out loud! Was it a seasonal selection perchance? Certainly it could not be recalled from the July visit here. The request had been made wordlessly, simply showing the phone to the boys behind the counter. Without raising his eyes the lad by the barista had helpfully provided the translation to make it easier: Salju puti. (For obvious reasons unheard previously.)