PaulTwo Thieves (Part 1)
March 17th 2007 22:55
Today I learned to be wary of heroin addicts who hum along to Indian devotional music, and doe-eyed temptresses who bemoan the size of their breasts.
For today, unless I am gravely mistaken, representatives from these singular demographics ripped off the handicraft shop at which I work.
The day had been quiet and pleasant, until a diminutive humanoid stepped past the caneware. The straps of her mismatched gym wear rode like tendons over her emaciated frame, binding her together.
I was certain I'd seen her before - in a colour-coded dissecting manual. Her eyes were tar-black and crossed. Her jagged teeth jutted. Three meagre sprays of greasy hair sprouted from terry towelling scrunchies; brown, smeared with molybdenum grey.
'Owareyedarl?'
It talked. I gripped the banister and stared from the mezzanine. Her face twisted up in salutation, her good eye boring into me.
'Good, thanks.' Alarm bells shrilled. Druggie! Thief! Flipper! Though the costume was unique, the demeanour was familiar. I recalled previous dealings with the dispossessed and my manager's insistent advice: 'You can spot them. They're over-friendly. They don't stop talking. They cart you all over the shop until another customer distracts you; then they strike.'
Yet this woman was tiny. And we'd hidden the Thai sword after the terrifying Christmas incident. I was free to watch her every move. So why was my heart racing?
'Beaudifulday.'
'Y..yes.'
'Gunnabehottertamorra.'
'Really?' My wooden words tumbled like blocks. What was she after? Her hands were spiders, scampering lightly and at speed over the stock. Then she picked out a carved box and held it towards me.
'Where'sthismade, darl?'
Her face got me. Suddenly, the drug addict was gone. In its place, a pathetically disabled woman, with no friends, no government support and nothing to do all day but seek contact with strangers. I saw freckles, and echoes of what she once looked like. Privileged and whole, who was I to judge? Flayed with Catholic guilt, I pompously granted her the benefit of the doubt.
To be continued...
For today, unless I am gravely mistaken, representatives from these singular demographics ripped off the handicraft shop at which I work.
The day had been quiet and pleasant, until a diminutive humanoid stepped past the caneware. The straps of her mismatched gym wear rode like tendons over her emaciated frame, binding her together.
I was certain I'd seen her before - in a colour-coded dissecting manual. Her eyes were tar-black and crossed. Her jagged teeth jutted. Three meagre sprays of greasy hair sprouted from terry towelling scrunchies; brown, smeared with molybdenum grey.
'Owareyedarl?'
It talked. I gripped the banister and stared from the mezzanine. Her face twisted up in salutation, her good eye boring into me.
'Good, thanks.' Alarm bells shrilled. Druggie! Thief! Flipper! Though the costume was unique, the demeanour was familiar. I recalled previous dealings with the dispossessed and my manager's insistent advice: 'You can spot them. They're over-friendly. They don't stop talking. They cart you all over the shop until another customer distracts you; then they strike.'
Yet this woman was tiny. And we'd hidden the Thai sword after the terrifying Christmas incident. I was free to watch her every move. So why was my heart racing?
'Beaudifulday.'
'Y..yes.'
'Gunnabehottertamorra.'
'Really?' My wooden words tumbled like blocks. What was she after? Her hands were spiders, scampering lightly and at speed over the stock. Then she picked out a carved box and held it towards me.
'Where'sthismade, darl?'
Her face got me. Suddenly, the drug addict was gone. In its place, a pathetically disabled woman, with no friends, no government support and nothing to do all day but seek contact with strangers. I saw freckles, and echoes of what she once looked like. Privileged and whole, who was I to judge? Flayed with Catholic guilt, I pompously granted her the benefit of the doubt.
To be continued...
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