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smokingbootThis is a grotesque piece, not least because I have not bothered too much about writing it well. The main protagonist is one of England's most enduring psychopaths whose story is still enacted in every sea-side resort. He has turned up in my writing before, the child of nightmare and bad taste. Out with it, and let it be gone!
Meeting him is not advisable without the presence of a professor: He's got a reputation with the ladies despite his intense ugliness. They've got cures for it now of course, but it all came too late for him. And he'll act for all the world as if he's Romeo if you let him. Even reminding him he's a married man only makes him back off for a shamefaced moment or two.
'I'm a widower,' was his squeaky rejoinder to me. It was better than any part of his routine I have ever heard, and I laughed. He laughed with me, and asked if I thought he should add it. Pointless. For all his articulacy, he can no more change his patter than he can straighten his back. When he saw me smiling at him his eyes glittered as he wondered if I was laughing at his deformity. I suppose I was, but like the actor he is, he decided to file that away for another day, and treat it like encouragement, like flirtation. And he winked at me and carefully poured me a drink.
Pretty pretty pretty lady!
My brother used to be scared of him, but then my brother used to hide behind the sofa at the onset of daleks, a timid boy. I, on the other hand, always liked his routine. Sausages and a crocodile. The crocodile was my favourite.
'Used to be a dragon,' he told me, and I asked him why it had changed.
'Couldn't fit it into the booth,' he said. We both laughed. When he laughs, the wrinkles show around his eyes, and there are a lot of them, even for a man of wood. But then, as he explained, he is very old. 'Older than you think,' he told me.
'I thought you came with the Romans,' I said, and he flashed me that ugly look he saves for those too smart for their own good. For a moment, I wonder if I should be careful. It wouldn't be the first time a lady found herself in difficulty with him. A lady or a gentleman.
'Don't be silly,' he reassured me. We both know he is never going to persuade me to put my head in that noose to show him how it should be done. We are both too smart. And anyway, he wants to compare notes, unfortunate because I can't compete with him on this one: His list is exhaustive. Mine is unremarkable. So we start with him.
I stare at her first of all, poor battered old woman desperate to get out, to be normal, to cook sausages. 'She fought back,' He assures me. ' I got black eyes too.' And he looks downcast for a moment and then I see his teeth sharpen 'But not many.' The pan is nearby, its underside darkened. I ask him if the stains come off. He shrugs. Once she was gone, no-one else ever tried.
And then I pull out the thing on a stick, the baby. I look at him.
'Oh, Mr Punch,' I say.
He picks it up and croons to it, trying to remember. 'Oh putchaway,' he says softly, 'putchaputchaputchaway...I will mind you. Iwillmindthatbaby ...if only it wasn't so ugly...' he looks a little hopelessly at me.
'Of course he's ugly,' I say, 'He takes after his father. And don't turn to me for sympathy. I never killed a baby.'
And he raises an eyebrow at me, though he is too polite to take it further, throws the baby to the ground and says, 'Well then, neither did I.'
'So we're both innocent then?'
'Oh yes...'he loves to smile.
'And will they believe me?'
'They won't even get to you. I've dealt with the law before. I'll protect you...yes I will. yus I will. Iwillmindthatlady.'
Like he minded the sausages and the baby, I think, all right. Looking sidelong at him, there is something about his face. He feels hungry to me.
We go through the list and it's comprehensive, beatings and strangulations, hangings and a rather spectacular defenestration. He has never used a knife, and he looks at me with something akin to respect.
'Can I see it?' He says.
'No.' Because I dropped it down a grating in south London some three miles from the event.
'I would like to see it.'
'I'm not going back.'
He is too smart a fellow to ask me why, but I can tell he wants to know because of the way he keeps stroking the others; We are not alike. He keeps everything and I keep nothing.
Another drink.
I am very clean and my clothes are very clean too. It was the easiest thing I have ever done, easier than passing my driving test. In the club, in the toilets, I heard her grunting away in the cubicle. Push the door, no lock, and everyone else is gone or too out of it and the music is perfect. Under the ribs and into the lung, no blood, no noise, and it happened so sweetly that it just was and he nods, he understands. I didn't leave the club straight away. I danced a bit and drank a bit and went out onto the streets later. And here we are, back by the sea, a lone puppet booth sitting on the sands of Southend. The professor is gone, which is just as well. We don't need him.
I look up to see how gently and neatly he has lined them all out for me to examine; Judy and the policeman and the judge and even the doctor...and the baby of course ('Was she ugly?' He asks me. 'Was she like the baby?' And I can't help laughing when I think of the scrunched up face and open mouth. 'Oh yes,' I tell him, 'Just like the baby...')And he laughs too. Drop John the Hangman and the Devil are waiting in the wings.
'They don't come out any more,' He explains, 'Not in the show. Everybody is frightened of them.' They are not afraid of the crocodile of course, because it is covered in green felt. He smiles at me because I am not afraid of them. They smile too. Drop John shrugs, and I feel safe around him. He can't kill people any more, baffled while the wilder Punch becomes, the more they try to understand, and I feel myself warm with love for their effort, for the acceptance within them. When I lean against his cheek, I feel his mouth open and he tries a daring little kiss. I turn away. All that can wait until he shows me what he can do.
I take them all with me, the crocodile and the hangman and the devil, so old and clever. The thing to remember is that the ones who want it wait for it, seek it everywhere, they walk the streets in a sleepwalk so close to it that there is no need to try, no need to find. Because they belong, I can find them if I'm bored and need something to do, or I can just wait and they will walk towards me, tired, ready, knowing even when they think they don't. And then some sweet natural guidance will sway time and method for me, just like tonight, like cutting a potato nice and clean and quiet.
That's the way to do it.
http://www.spyrock.com/nadafarm/html/punch_pdf.html
Meeting him is not advisable without the presence of a professor: He's got a reputation with the ladies despite his intense ugliness. They've got cures for it now of course, but it all came too late for him. And he'll act for all the world as if he's Romeo if you let him. Even reminding him he's a married man only makes him back off for a shamefaced moment or two.
'I'm a widower,' was his squeaky rejoinder to me. It was better than any part of his routine I have ever heard, and I laughed. He laughed with me, and asked if I thought he should add it. Pointless. For all his articulacy, he can no more change his patter than he can straighten his back. When he saw me smiling at him his eyes glittered as he wondered if I was laughing at his deformity. I suppose I was, but like the actor he is, he decided to file that away for another day, and treat it like encouragement, like flirtation. And he winked at me and carefully poured me a drink.
Pretty pretty pretty lady!
My brother used to be scared of him, but then my brother used to hide behind the sofa at the onset of daleks, a timid boy. I, on the other hand, always liked his routine. Sausages and a crocodile. The crocodile was my favourite.
'Used to be a dragon,' he told me, and I asked him why it had changed.
'Couldn't fit it into the booth,' he said. We both laughed. When he laughs, the wrinkles show around his eyes, and there are a lot of them, even for a man of wood. But then, as he explained, he is very old. 'Older than you think,' he told me.
'I thought you came with the Romans,' I said, and he flashed me that ugly look he saves for those too smart for their own good. For a moment, I wonder if I should be careful. It wouldn't be the first time a lady found herself in difficulty with him. A lady or a gentleman.
'Don't be silly,' he reassured me. We both know he is never going to persuade me to put my head in that noose to show him how it should be done. We are both too smart. And anyway, he wants to compare notes, unfortunate because I can't compete with him on this one: His list is exhaustive. Mine is unremarkable. So we start with him.
I stare at her first of all, poor battered old woman desperate to get out, to be normal, to cook sausages. 'She fought back,' He assures me. ' I got black eyes too.' And he looks downcast for a moment and then I see his teeth sharpen 'But not many.' The pan is nearby, its underside darkened. I ask him if the stains come off. He shrugs. Once she was gone, no-one else ever tried.
And then I pull out the thing on a stick, the baby. I look at him.
'Oh, Mr Punch,' I say.
He picks it up and croons to it, trying to remember. 'Oh putchaway,' he says softly, 'putchaputchaputchaway...I will mind you. Iwillmindthatbaby ...if only it wasn't so ugly...' he looks a little hopelessly at me.
'Of course he's ugly,' I say, 'He takes after his father. And don't turn to me for sympathy. I never killed a baby.'
And he raises an eyebrow at me, though he is too polite to take it further, throws the baby to the ground and says, 'Well then, neither did I.'
'So we're both innocent then?'
'Oh yes...'he loves to smile.
'And will they believe me?'
'They won't even get to you. I've dealt with the law before. I'll protect you...yes I will. yus I will. Iwillmindthatlady.'
Like he minded the sausages and the baby, I think, all right. Looking sidelong at him, there is something about his face. He feels hungry to me.
We go through the list and it's comprehensive, beatings and strangulations, hangings and a rather spectacular defenestration. He has never used a knife, and he looks at me with something akin to respect.
'Can I see it?' He says.
'No.' Because I dropped it down a grating in south London some three miles from the event.
'I would like to see it.'
'I'm not going back.'
He is too smart a fellow to ask me why, but I can tell he wants to know because of the way he keeps stroking the others; We are not alike. He keeps everything and I keep nothing.
Another drink.
I am very clean and my clothes are very clean too. It was the easiest thing I have ever done, easier than passing my driving test. In the club, in the toilets, I heard her grunting away in the cubicle. Push the door, no lock, and everyone else is gone or too out of it and the music is perfect. Under the ribs and into the lung, no blood, no noise, and it happened so sweetly that it just was and he nods, he understands. I didn't leave the club straight away. I danced a bit and drank a bit and went out onto the streets later. And here we are, back by the sea, a lone puppet booth sitting on the sands of Southend. The professor is gone, which is just as well. We don't need him.
I look up to see how gently and neatly he has lined them all out for me to examine; Judy and the policeman and the judge and even the doctor...and the baby of course ('Was she ugly?' He asks me. 'Was she like the baby?' And I can't help laughing when I think of the scrunched up face and open mouth. 'Oh yes,' I tell him, 'Just like the baby...')And he laughs too. Drop John the Hangman and the Devil are waiting in the wings.
'They don't come out any more,' He explains, 'Not in the show. Everybody is frightened of them.' They are not afraid of the crocodile of course, because it is covered in green felt. He smiles at me because I am not afraid of them. They smile too. Drop John shrugs, and I feel safe around him. He can't kill people any more, baffled while the wilder Punch becomes, the more they try to understand, and I feel myself warm with love for their effort, for the acceptance within them. When I lean against his cheek, I feel his mouth open and he tries a daring little kiss. I turn away. All that can wait until he shows me what he can do.
I take them all with me, the crocodile and the hangman and the devil, so old and clever. The thing to remember is that the ones who want it wait for it, seek it everywhere, they walk the streets in a sleepwalk so close to it that there is no need to try, no need to find. Because they belong, I can find them if I'm bored and need something to do, or I can just wait and they will walk towards me, tired, ready, knowing even when they think they don't. And then some sweet natural guidance will sway time and method for me, just like tonight, like cutting a potato nice and clean and quiet.
That's the way to do it.
http://www.spyrock.com/nadafarm/html/punch_pdf.html
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Date: 2004-12-19 11:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-20 08:27 am (UTC)