At a Party (fiction)
Someone was handing round a helium balloon at the party. We were all
sat in a bedroom, 360 degrees, covering each wall; a ring of bodies
blocking the door and on the bed like sardines. Some hip 1965
reformationist passed me the silver balloon.
"Hey, try some of this, it's a gas."
The gag was doubled by its ultra squeeky delivery. Everyone giggled
hi-pitchedly and the laughter snowballed until the gas ran out. I
passed the balloon on round with a 'thanks anyway' smile. Much like
universal smile for commiseration, which seems odd. Maybe it's
self-importance: "I don't want it but never mind hey; nice try..."
Anyway, I passed it on and sat back. I didn't feel like I wanted to
sound like that - too much loss of my gruff British hold on myself
and my reality. I really didn't think I could handle going squeeky.
So, I left them doing helium, my head far back enough to be out of
the circle, and turned to my formative plan of a hi-fi hijack. This
was my chance - their attention was diverted. I snook further out of
line, with the kind of steady purposeful motion that allows several
conmen I know access to 90% of unalarmed used-car skirt. Speed was
of essence now. Out come the shit brothers, in go the everly
brothers. Fast fingers, and it's done, and no-one has noticed a
thing. Actually it's like the nursedoctor women who gave us our TB
rations at school:
"So - er, your father's a writer, right?' - STAB! - in, stir it
bit to leave The Mark, and out; your safe is empty, and that is one
fat tsetse fly.
'That's it done, you can go home now,' I tell those supposed bearers
of working class educationism as they start to raise their ear-brows
and sniff the air.
The Everlies sing Take a Message to Mary and I'm smug as a smuggler
in a rug. That was a good clean getaway. The guards haven't even
pushed the buzzers yet, though they have that uneasy feeling that
they've just been done over.