Thursday, January 18, 2007

Stuck in the doors at Bloor.

Asian woman, late 20s, long black hair twisted into a lazy ponytail, wearing a grey overcoat and scarf, teetering on implausibly high-heeled black suede boots. I look at these boots and all I can see are organized elementary school outings to the local skating rink, my ankles bent outwards, turning in on myself as I hopelessly attempt, of all things, crossovers around the bend. Her bookmark is a worn, almost soggy, postcard of Jupiter.

Walk in the Light & Twenty-Three Tales, Leo Tolstoy (Orbis Books)

Page 235:

Only there is one special custom in his kingdom; whoever has horny hands comes to table, but whoever has not, must eat what others leave.

Late Wednesday evening in the church basement the three young teenagers took a thirty-minute break from their weekly rehearsal, setting aside their foam puppets, the smell of adherent still toxic in the kitchen next door. Sunday School Puppet Harvey's moustache had fallen off; another's hair, strings of brown yarn, had thinned requiring a touch up, other strings of yarn not quite the same colour. The group's coordinator had gone up to the chapel while they rummaged through the storage room for sports gear. Out came the gym mats and impromptu Judo lessons. "Come at me from behind. Just come at me!" Plastic hockey sticks and orange rubber balls lined the walls, a basketball rolling to the end zone. "It's the key, not the end...Just give me the ball!" Retreating to the closet to look for the Nerf football she pulled the pastor's son, a good deal younger, close. She watched the mole on his neck bob, ba-dump, ba-dump. Her hair was short and greasy. She wore purple velvet knickers, a starched white blouse with a frilly collar and oversized beige leggings bunched up in the buckles of her patent leather sandals. The tetracycline had done wonders, only the occasional welt brewing under the skin on her chin. His hair parted firmly down the middle. He wore black corduroys and a white baseball tee with burgundy sleeves. She put her hand on his crotch. He yipped. "I've been practicing our number for your birthday party. I wore the Ace Frehley make up last night. The paint makes my teeth look yellow." She pulled his hips to hers and told him to open his mouth. He obliged, willingly, holding his breath. Music blared over the sound system:

Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory.
Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory.
Rise. And. Shine. And. CLAP. Give God the glory, glory.
Children of the Lord.

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