Tuesday, February 26, 2013

The eternal hedonist

This topic came from a discussion one night over a few pots of ale down the PackHorse pub in Leeds.  I can't recall what the discussionn was but it was agreed that it should be the next task for the Leeds Savages.  

 
The eternal hedonist

The afternoon noises wafting up from the beach fell on her ears in waves of pleasurable cries and happy shouts. Sarah smiled wistfully at the thought of the dad, wife and kids dancing and mucking about in her sand and surf.

She'd lived so close to the beach for the past two years she had come to think of this piece of coast as hers. The mornings usually saw her walking at the edge of the waves, trailing her toes through the sea foam, ankles swished by the thrust and draw of the salty water. She was endlessly amused at the way her feet sank ever so slightly into the sand as the wash retreated to its tempting depths.

Unexpectedly falling into a life of beach combing had turned out to be endlessly rewarding and surprisingly fulfilling.  Her life-long opportunism and antipathy to goal setting was completely satisfied by the way her days rolled simply along.
 Granted, the small, weathered timber house with its permanent  gulls and occasional leaking roof was not how she had imagined surviving her fourth decade on the planet , but from the first night she had slept there it had enveloped her with a nurturing calm and a welcome solace.  Cosseted by its patched walls and protecting her from the elements it also provided her the privacy she craved.  Sarah was  enthralled by the dwelling's proximity to her beloved beach and she was not at all motivated to seek a more substantial alternative. 
There were other ways in which she preferred this slower life, for one, there were much fewer daily demands placed on her.  The tailored bankers suits, Jimmy Choo shoes, bespoke silk lingerie and latest fashion blouses of her past life never called out to her to release them from their vacuum packed flatness.  Loose cotton throws and cheap bikini bottoms were her current wardrobe and on some days these exceeded her clothing needs. 

Sarah's mornings mostly broke to the rising gleam from sub-tropical sunbeams cresting the horizon.  The rare rainy days provided a welcome waking novelty of patter on the tin roof and gurgles falling to the water tank outside her room.  Such a wonderful change from her time-structured life in the crushing city.  Now she woke when she felt like it, no make-up or hair protocol to be managed, a slow breakfast and  a long soak if she felt like one.  The only routine, at some time in the day, depending on low tides, was her collecting walk along the beach to deftly swoop on left treasures. 
It was an enduring bemusement to her that people thought leaving their valuables in their towels or shoes was the pinnacle of beach camouflage and security.   Sarah never stole, but it was amazing how grateful people were when she ran up to them, at the right moment, saying she had stopped the local kids and had recovered the wallet or valuable.  It was key to allow enough time prior to the return for confusion, anger and acceptance to be played out.  It was a fun game with many subtle skills she had perfected over months,.  Not the least of the skills was the remembering if she had targeted the person before.  Early on she had nearly come a cropper by almost playing the game twice on the same girl, so now she kept records on the phone hooked to her bikini.  She made it a point too of picking people she was certain were international or inter-state tourists.  Wallets, purses or identity had become her prime target.  Returning loose change and trinkets was not sufficiently rewarding.   A girl can't live on thank-yous.  Besides, she needed  their I.D. it let her check notes on her phone that she had not hit this target before. 
This morning was an ideal example of the payback from her accurate record keeping.  The driver licence had said George Roberts, a very forgettable name but it did have a city address which should have been a memory trigger.  The phone quickly matched up the details with her code for a very generous reward from last summer.   So, a counter-ploy was needed if she was going to work this donor again.  Maybe another gift or even a meal could be solicited if she played it right.  Sarah replaced George’s driving licence inside his deck shoe and made sure she was sitting within easy sight when he returned. She gazed out towards the horizon, slightly away from her target, sure she could be seen but certain she appeared unaware of him returning.
George noticed her as he reached down for his towel.  'Sarah?' his voice immediately recognisable.  She slowly turned her head, it was a  small thrill to her that he had remembered her name.  As she saw him walking towards her in the flesh she remembered money was not the only reward he had given her last summer.  Her phone's note system didn't have a code for that though.  
‘My god, Sarah?  Is that you? It is, isn’t it!  You still slumming it here?  Gees, how have you been?  I thought you said you were heading back off overseas.'  The flood of questions streamed out as he helped her up and gave her a connected kiss on the cheek.  
Familiar but demure, Sarah thought, considering their past passions.  She responded by giving him as shy a smile as she thought appropriate under the circumstances.  
‘Yep, things stayed good here. I decided to hang around.  How about you?  What are you doing back here?  You told me you thought the south coast was hateful, if I remember.’ 
‘Yeah.  May have said that.  Truth is, my old dad lives down here and I drag the wife and kids down every year.’
‘Shit , you didn’t tell me you were married.‘
‘Well I wouldn’t, would I?  Had a good time though didn’t we?'  George rested his hand briefly on the rise of her hip. 'And , wasn't as if you were without the odd fib were you?  Have you left me my keys this time?’ he grinned conspiratorially as he glanced towards his  shoes.
Sarah flushed.  ‘ What are you talking about?’ 
George's grin turned to a smirk.  ‘Huh.  Whatever.  Anyway that bit of fun’s not going to happen this time, Lizzy is bringing our kids down soon, so for the kids sake, best we leave that all aside don’t you think?’ 
Sarah was rapidly working her angles, ‘Yeah.  I guess.  I do recall some very pleasant afternoons though.  Your wife must be a happy lass, all being well in her garden so to speak.  It wouldn’t be that nice for her to learn about us I suppose.’
No cloud drifted across George's face as he responded quickly.  ‘No point thinking along those lines there Sarah, Lizzy’s the eternal hedonist,  fantastic mum , great wife, fun to be around, and there is no exclusivity for us, we are quite open about all that,.  She’s a happier lass than you could imagine. Playing away is who we are. All is well in both our gardens.’
‘Oh, Okay then. I guess. I suppose I am happy for you.’ Sarah lied.
‘I doubt you care Sarah, but anyway, its been fun to see you again, good memories huh?’   George smiled again, a genuine smile, slipped on his shoes  and with a cheery wave headed off to the car park to gather up his family.  
 Sarah watched him disappear down the path as she tried to think of another angle.  Nothing came to her. 

She cast her eyes back to her beach and spotted, not far away, the snow-white flesh of a new arrival neatly rolling his possessions into a union flag beach towel before heading with enthusiasm into the waves. She waited for him to dive in, waited for him to look back to check no one was near his treasures, then she waited some more until he began to pay the necessary attention to the waves.   Another bit of beach combing fun had started.  

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Inconvenience

 Inconvenience was another topic from the writer's meeting in the pub.  I used it as the first of my stories to be loaded onto www.ReadWave.com and it got some interesting comments so I loaded up some of my other tales.  My story 14 got subsequently listed as a 'Staff Pick' so that was nice.


Inconvenience

  It’s always the same at the bloody festival, stupidly long queues, banks and banks  of portable toilets all occupied with people taking stupid long inside them.  Mike stood shuffling in his chosen queue, rocking from one foot to the other, fighting back the cramps and knowing he wasn’t going to make it. He could see himself ripping down his jeans and squatting to release right there in the line. 
 Just as he was considering taking that very action, the performance stage and  speaker towers suddenly errupted into the intro to the Frantic Dukes' latest hit.  The lines of toilet people let out a group moan acknowledging they were stuck in these stagnant queues for the headline act.

Nothing sharpens the senses like pain and as Mike bent over to another gut-stabbing cramp he noticed  there was a gap in the fence.  The chain wire formed a rough barrier enclosing a yard where toilets from yesterday were locked and lined up waiting to be hosed and pumped out .  Stacked tightly together the backs of the full loos formed a solid blue green wall to the performance paddock and people stood and lent against them to get a clear view.  Through the gap in the fence Mike spotted a toilet on the end of one line had its door ajar.  Desperate times call for desperate decissions and he abandoned his place in the queue, slid through the gap and stumbled across the yard to dive into the open cubicle. 
The bowl was soiled but the seat was clean enough, the floor though was awash in crud.  He closed the door and the trapped air turrned instantly foul.  With as much speed as his cramps demanded, Mike pushed down his pants and sat.  This change of position triggered forces to blast an acidic stream from his bowel into the noisome bowl. 
The foot pump thankfully had flush but regrettably the cramping urge increased rather than subsided and Mike realised he’d be locked in this stinking cabin for some time. 
Too much bloody fruit.  Up until about thirty minutes ago it was a fantastic idea to bring only fruit so it wouldn’t matter if it got wet, and he wouldn’t have to wait in mile-long queues to pay a fortune for something greasy, cold and stale.  He was also pretty sure no one would steal fruit.  With a sense of his own brilliance he’d jammed a backpack full of oranges, apples, figs, dates, sultanas and a yellow- green hand of supermarket bananas.  In the outside pouches of the bag he'd tucked away as many boxes of Tropicana as he could carry without getting a hernia.  
As he sat now miserably contemplating the error of his brilliance and managing the cramping as best he could.  Over the blast of the music he heard angry yelling people being pushed and jostled to bump against the back of the toilets especially the end one which he was in.     
The Frantic Dukes were punching out their latest release at an ear-tearing rate.  Mike’s intestines matched the beat by wracking him with stabbing pains and releasing squirting burn and splatter.  Deep cramp and gut compressions heralded every debilitating cycle.  Mike grew exhausted but as the music increased its fervour he did notice the angry people had stopped thudding against the side of his toilet box.  
The sounds from the stage pulsed through the plastic walls setting up a sickening vibration in the rank interior.  Reflux rose into Mikes throat.   
A juddering thump.   Not in his gut but from the toilet box.  The whole thing suddenly jolted and swung.  He was being moved by some lift or hoist and Mike screamed out and pounded the walls to let them know he was inside.  No use, the Frantic Dukes were in crescendo and no man on earth could out-scream their vocals.  On cue another gruesome cramp shut Mike up and made him jamb his feet and arms against the walls to lock his arse onto the rank hole and release the inevitable spray of shit.  Desperatly pumping the chemical flush he felt the box swaying in an arc then rock slightly backwards.  Then a thump and slosh of waste beneath him as the cabin dropped hard on a metal surface.  Another cramp overtook Mike’s attempt to rise and get out and he fell back onto the hole to release an explosive mist of burning air. 
That’s it, it didn’t matter now, he had to get out of this box.  Fumbling with the dispenser he realised there was no paper,  he tore off his T-shirt and used that to roughly scrape the flush and crud from around his raw and stinging sphincter. Leaving his shirt in the bowl and dragging his jeans up he was reaching for the door latch at the instant when he felt the unmistakable thump and shudder of another toilet cabin colliding with his.  His door release would not open.  If he pushed out the bottom corner it might force the catch .  Problem was he was weakened and when he tried to lever the door it was obvious the toilet that just landed was hard up against it.  He was trapped, the Frantic Dukes increased their lunacy and his feeble shouts and thumping against the walls was never going to be noticed. 
Through the vented roof panel he could see the sun was deciding to shine through the clouds, almost immediately the temperature inside his prison began to rise, the fetid smells concentrated in the humidity and Mike became nauseous to the point of feinting, he stumbled and sat on the edge of the seat trying to catch a breath.  The thump of another cabin landing against his made him scream out and pound against the walls again but to no effect.  The cheers and whistles of the crowd paying homage to the Dukes drowned out all. He slumped back against the bulkhead throwing his head back.  Looking up he saw the roof was far less robust than the walls, there were panels joined by clasps and small fixtures around the vent  panel.  Mike gathered some strength and stood on the seat, pushing against the vent.  It popped and Mike could force out the centre part at an angle.  Cool fresh air fell on his face as the Dukes gave no reprieve by launching immediatly into their classic number one hit and the crowd vented another wall of cheers and whistles  in anticipation of speaker-blowing chords.  Mike punched the other edge of the vent and the whole section cracked and flipped up, he tore it off its last clips and the whole roof piece slid away, clouds and scraps of blue sky were framed in the square over Mike’s head and he tried to lift himself up.  Not tall enough to get a grip. 
He looked around and lodged his foot against the door release, other foot on the small ledge and with every effort he could muster his head rose from the cabin, he took a deep breath of vibrating air and felt some strength return.  Lifting both arms he managed to support his weight by his elbows on the edges of the cabin and lifting himself further managed to get a knee then a foot out as well,  but the attempt drained him and he sort of allowed himself to be jammed there for a moment while he gathered the strength for a final effort.  Pushing up with his foot he leveraged himself out the top of the box just in time to see another cabin flying in over his head.  Ducking in reflex to avoid it Mike overbalanced, slipped and crashed down the side of the box, slamming the edge of the truck bed and falling in a heap on the trammelled and muddied gravel of the service road.  He lay bleeding, stinking of fruit shit, and redolent of chemical flush. The flying toilet swung ominously overhead as the hoist man locked his controls and rushed to Mike's aid.   
Mike went right off fruit after that and for years will talk of his afternoon in a convenience.