10.20am. Walking now. Is it spitting? No, it’s not spitting. Please don't spit.
Always Chasing Pavements. I was walking down Queensberry Street. (The crowd goes wild) I was walking Queensberry Street, I wasn’t working Queensberry Street. I was just approaching Swanston Street, when I saw a face in the crowd that I thought I knew. (On top of that balding forehead, was a fried egg) I was listening to Adele, so it was kind of lyrical, as in dancing, the sound track and the road ahead, dancing ethereally together.
Where did I know him from? He was someone in charge, someone in a position of power. Presumably, a straight man, with a gay man’s face, and a woman’s arse, grimace, I remembered it well. Now, where did I know it from? …from where did I know all of that?
I have worked just down here once, but he wasn’t the cocaine sniffing call centre bloke, no it wasn’t him. Too young. In this mental process, I acknowledge some other form of recognition from the crowd. A glance, eyes with which I was supposed to connect. I know, he was the head finance guy from (name of company) and they were moving down here. Wait, the other recognition, I closed my eyes and rerun the footage, momentarily. Yes, someone blond, and while I couldn’t, actually, visualise the face itself, when I turned around I’d recognise that style of floral mumu, and huge calves and the shoes going over on each outside edge, any where, it was Fatty Cake Snoop Lady.
I wondered if she thought I saw her and ignored her, I didn’t, I didn’t see her, thank the universe. I hope she thinks that I saw her and deliberately ignored her, give her something to think about. Still marching along in the crowd of stiff suits, even if they were the least stiff of all the people with who I worked.
Fatty Cake Snoop Lady, she doesn’t feel the cold, I saw short sleeves. It was cold. I’m picturing a floral fifties sun frock, with a smock strategically worn below it.
I wonder if she’ll message me to ask me to do a few days work. I have to pay into my superannuation account somehow, I’d completely forgotten about that.
I was walking in the middle of the day, I didn’t look like I was working. Maybe, she has some staffing issue. She thinks she might as well give it a go. Employ me as a casual, I’d be happy to work casual hours, on a very casual basis, walking distance from home. Those kinds of employees are hard to find
Come on Fat Girl, (we're allowed to say that now, post Trump, post truth. It is the new paradigm, right?) give it some thought. We could eat cake together again, like the good old days. You could bring me banana bread, I could feign that I shouldn’t. You could bore me stupid, again, with your tediously, eventful life, with all those interesting things you do. Blow up cars, split up from significant others. All told with a certain theatrical flourish, with her little-girl voice. I miss hearing about Fat Girls Night Out at the Sarah Sands, no it wasn’t the Sarah Sands, but some place in Brunswick. That’s how I picture it, morbidly Obese Chicks in an old lesbian bar. Imagine the talk from the pool table’s passed?
A few days would be good, not really for the money, but for the inspiration, the material. Get me out of the house. I could write about the latest in Fatty’s life. Fancy cars? Fat boyfriends? “I like them beefy.” Was there really any option, I ask you? Imagine if she got on top? She implied that she had a healthy sex life on more than one occasion. I was more than happy not to think about that, but there were a number of, "I probably shouldn't say this, but..." She was the one who referred to "it," her "it." She was newly single, enough time to get back out on the singles scene, back on the horse. Buffalo. Why do I want to say two walrus fighting… in the dance scene from Pulp Fiction?
… oh, no, can you imagine? On second thoughts. Shake of the head. “No thanks.”
Oh Fatty Cake, so flawed, so flawless. You were cool, you tried hard to be cool, I have to admire your for that much. The endless lollies that you ate, dragging me down your slippery slope. Admittedly, willingly. I’m as weak as piss, you know that. What's been going on?
They’re the people we want to hear about, those who try and fail. Big, important job, my arse, I think she big-noted her achievements. Caught in the rat's wheel. It comforts me.
“How’s the internet, no-carb guru going?” Chuckle. Good to see. She ran a corporation once, too, you know.
Jagger sings, Emotional Rescue.
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