Foreign Talent

 

SEX

LOVE

Infatuation 

Chap with a hulking, crab-like gait going into one of the printers on ground at Bras Basah Complex, sheaf of papers tucked underarm.

The last on the cover sheet may have been all caps too; first was bludgeoning more than flaming fire engine red.

Bright blue biz shirt. Tie. Shoes. 

Sizeable bundle. 

Conventional churchy white foreign talent of some particular kind. (The designation remained here, though the government was always hard pressed explaining the necessity to the wider public.) 

Car accident, if not congenital deformity. 

One could safely assume the man would be advocating for the golden mean, the healthy, sanctioned form. And warning bells & whistles given against all the dangerously deceptive others creeping in the dark. There was little doubt.

Couple hours earlier when Yan, the eight-year widow, had been pressed again whether she liked this or that, fast or slow, one thing or the other, the poor dear could only get out her replies in faintest whispers. 

Feathery thin. Choking gasps that in a court of law would prompt the judge to ask for stronger voice so that all members of the jury could hear.

There was no doubt about Yan’s stance, of course; none whatever. But, you know, the Devil’s party does admire frank and fearless avowal. It always helped.

Shortly the blue shirt & tie would be presenting the counter case to his students, or parishioners more likely. Pure, committed devotion that reflected the higher awaiting upstairs in the radiant light.

There was no point arguing the toss if it came to it. Live & let live only.

 

 

Practice Makes Perfect

 

For a fellow who had missed FOUR internat. flights, 2 ½ hrs early by the gate was A-OK. At the boutiques along the corridors the ice-cold starlets had loomed with bags & watches, calling out all the losers. (Fantasies of the Soviet austerity; some modicum of purity.) Eye contact anywhere almost completely verboten, even from many of the salesgirls in the uniforms, the makeup & lashes, shaking out the cobwebs early morning. Usual probs at check-in. That is your boarding pass, sir. Downloaded by yourself without yourself knowing. Latino lady, the Euro shine worn off a week later, if there had been any for that poor dear, single mum likely. The fine, mostly sunny was always welcome, especially after a couple of days light drizzle in the driest autumn on record on the driest continent. No slick on the tarmac to worry about, slide onto the grass, fire trucks, &etc. Strange you might actually miss Brunetti’s a wee tiny bit, even after how many months unable to stomach the stage-set indoors. One has to be somewhere, the Norwegian Nobel Fosse had it. (Was there a Roman archbishop on the panel last year? 745pp of slow, slow-slow repetitive dribble.) Again pre-dawn thoughts of Era the Minanghabau, slowly raised for the squat over the pillow. The surprise of it for a kampung girl such as herself and her masked delight was  the whole of the turn-on. Unfortunately, wouldn’t be in town on landing; the reserves would need to be called up to the front. ANNOUNCEMENTS for the hearing impaired. Lass was struggling with all the ethnic names in the radically altered country last couple decades; all over the first world the new middle classes enticed, who cares about their own hospitals, labs & peak industries over there. The Sikh cabbie had talked about his labrador, about comfort pets and his daughter in bio-med, hoping to transfer to vet science. Uniformed lass in the corridor on the end of a leash had been struggling with an excited tail-wagger trying to drag her into one of the boutiques, drawn by the pumped perfumes no doubt. Perhaps they have them on hand now in the airports too; very understandable. Heel clatter over the tiles like artillery in a war zone. Half hour later another early bird, settling himself behind with head-bobbing tunes. A good many smiling faces were anticipated in the days & weeks ahead, though in truth you have made yourself a stranger everywhere now, you jet-setter you. Some concern the front section might in fact be reserved for biz & first—couple others arrived also keeping back in the large pen behind…Yeah, definite demarcation. Blue wheelchair seats were clearly signed, but not all the others adjoining. Would the staff be able to tell you didn’t cut it? Time was nigh to pull the Versace outta the bag and lay it on them. ($35 2.5s @ Sacred Heart without a single scratch.) The stockings! Outbound they had been left in the bag. Soon enough dozens & more dozens arrived, without risking the breach. No! Point blank refuse to budge. Would they have the gall? Couldn’t they see the VVVs staring them in the face? Note-taking would give additional pause; collared shirt, albeit colour-faded. ($10 Sacred H. few years back.)… Well, a pee soon settled that contretemps without trouble. Gee, there was a mass of us great unwashed in cattle, some old Chinese included likely hiding their wealth. Blasted drip at the urinal, no amount of shaking-out availing. Zadni kap ostaje u gace (Slavo). The last drop remains in the trousers. Hopefully the liberally applied essential oils would screen. Clutching the passport against the downloaded boarding pass on the phone, 2-3 minute panic where in the FFF could it have gotten?! In fact no first on these budgets. Despite biz being called, at first nothing to suggest even that cohort from aisle 23. Well, rear of the seats the bright red lower anchor. Delay loading with all the holiday attire. The 10ml eyedrops had been no kinda problem, snappy guy was only interested in 100ml. Almost a full-blown emergency within the dangerous first two minute climbing: drips drenching the girl in the window. 2-3 dozen at the very least, without any pause. Luckily she had donned a hoodie. Not to worry, the phlegmatic little Chinese crew reassured—reason inaudible. Hosing down the wings? the motors? condensation?… The VVV weren’t gonna be removed for the duration. Screen-flippers could get their fill right there before their eyes in the meat world.

 

 

Muso (Last of Winter)

  

The guy who rocked up with his bags outside Scarlet played an energetic air guitar on first landing, a big blast of some kind strumming low on the groin. Cock rock superlative. Following which some refreshment was needed. A milk choc it looked like, brought over to the opposite table in the alcove, where from a screw-top container he spooned what must have been sugar three times into the bottle. A stem of that length extracted from one of the bags was of the kind for supping with the devil. Out on the other side of the shadow line quaffing, one hand on the pavement tree trunk, he reminded of Arthur sunning himself after the winter morning chill indoors. In this case the man no doubt had a good deal more to contend with overnight. On the other side of the street at the bus stop, where he had carted his 6-7 bags, an early lunch was taken, in the form of a thick sandwich cut on the diagonal and tightly wrapped in paper bag. A brief juggle/what-to-do? before he settled one half of the item on the aluminium top of the waste bin. Perfectly coherent he had been five minutes before remarking on the young magpie or mudlark that had come down onto the Scarlet pavement. The claws on its feet were not growing, juvenile form, but torn off, most likely in a fight. Man had seen the same in other birds, seagulls particularly.

 

 

 

Publication news -On the Street (Linda)

 Hello everyone

I have another piece published at New World Writing in the US. This one is drawn from the mean / hard / captivating streets of Footscray, down there in Melbourne. The piece was first penned during the last trip a couple years ago. It’s pleasing to have acknowledged some of the people in that quarter, without whom there is nothing.

Freely available (1.55k words) —

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-on-the-street-linda/

All best

Pavle 

On Your Marks

 

Revolving in the usual way Era, Yan & Rina. Neet had pretty much fallen out of the picture now since the last mail, which almost certainly put the final nail in the coffin. (Slowly I’m stop loving you, Neet... Let’s see how the gal fields that true-enough teaser.) Atas, Era. Up. Upstairs... Era needed to be bushwhacked unawares for the spell to work, waiting on her to slowly twig. If she hesitated a second or two too long, take her hand and pull her up toward the bedhead, where she could hold herself steady, adjusting position same time on the pillow below. Era was hardly likely to forget the prompts last time, near nine months ago now. Slow and steady, in the squatting culture pretty easy peasy for her. Ya. Bagus. (Good.) Honey. Honey. Dirty talk would be out of order for E; the Minangkabau was the most conservative of the trio. No, fucking, fucking, good fucking. / Era honey. Darling. Darling, rather. Making enquiry how we were getting along. Careful, measured, targeted, deft darts & tickles, listening out the while for the escaping moans. Era has always been careful to mask her pleasure; rarely ever a hint offered, almost nothing to suggest. Wonderful fortitude and restraint; marvellous game to join; perfectly happy, delighted indeed to play by those rules. For Yan again slow holding back. Give the gal a bita hell. We not put all in, Yan. OK? Slow. Just little. Once or twice last year in the midst of it, the slow nosing onward, the lady had frankly called out her objection. I want all!…  No real soto voce tumbling off the cliff as she had been. Unexpected. Lady was not supposed to blurt that, giving the game away. Might be on getting home that night Yan had prayed, when she was less than observant; recited at least the Al-Fatiah. For Rin similar rather spun out the lady. Not too much, Rin. We do only half inside, OK? (The play was because of the size involved, blush to tell; and also the separation; recommencing needing caution, &etc.) At the first suggestion of that Rina had frankly guffawed. Ha! Only half!… No two ways about it, lady was seeking holess boluss for herself, thank you very much. With little more than a fortnight for the scheduled return, the reunions were keenly awaited, hopefully the same all three sides.

 

Alarm

 

The grimace, the wince, the internal shudder, sometimes the lizard blink, raising the arms both sides like a bird preparing to take wing was also known—it needed to be left until one had passed. Two weeks ago the deeply gouged leathery man, sitting over his beer in the window at the Elizabeth Street pokies smoking bench, had put on a twisted grimace of his own, recalling something way bad, presumably. The rough sleepers, the beggars by their cardboard signs (one was penning something yesterday for Fourth of July), the chap sitting on the cold footpath smoking by the phone booth at Woollies—such numbers brought undone. Overnight temperatures were near zero last few days and felt like 3 under, Pauli reported his iPhone showed yesterday. In the Studio the Pad yesterday failed to recharge both morning and night, until the temperature returned to “normal.” Young Antoinette was giving the woman drawing flowers in crayon on LaTrobe corner some converse instead of coin, as the young PhD candidate had none of the latter. Not using heating at home herself to save money had Ant’s feeling heart properly attune. The chap with his lady outside Coles said they hadn’t eaten for five days. To the suggestion of Sacred Heart, the man replied he had been barred from there, which drew a laugh from his companion. In Kachin State Shachendra WhatsApp-ed a dire situation: Life is any moment gone here. (Singapore was unendurable any longer for the Nepalese pastor.) Gaza, Ukraine and Sudan too made it into the paper this morning. Dressing in the more tolerable 6 degrees this morning there came a momentary confusion over the socks... Ah yes, worn overnight! Climate deniers would be chuckling at all the unnecessary alarm.