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The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry. A great book for all writers, poets, and logophiles!
A loud chime. The suction on the heavy metal doors seal them closed and the large box car jerks forward. It’s stuffy inside and the plastic handles above our heads are slippery with oil from other people’s fingers. Strangers ballooned in bulky parkas are squeezed together in the aisle. Their eyes are fixed on backlit rectangles above the foggy aquarium windows where carefree people encourage you to sign up for a library card on the way to the flea market in the next panel. Mysteries, celebrity interviews, and thumping dance music quietly entertain the disinterested passengers while amber lights flicker each time the giant steel centipede pushes through a steady beat of tunnels. Hidden in a forest of denim and gray slacks, a cellophane bag of potato chips pops open followed by a muffled crunch. Four seats down, the tattered page of a paperback book swipes left.
Breathless. Hopping over rocks, kicking up golden soil on a sunny day. Steep, thick vegetation to my left and an expansive cobalt blue ocean to my right. Flying dinosaurs spread their wings overhead, carried by the wind. Salty beads trickle from my forehead onto my glasses as my arms flail to keep my balance. Couples pose for romantic selfies along the gravel shore with jutting burgundy boulders in the background. Solitary fishermen seated under their sun umbrellas use their teeth to tear beef jerky as they watch their lonely nylon lines stand perfectly still. Bobbing up and down, teams of surfers paddle out to sea.”
An alloy wheel is bent from hopping forcefully onto a concrete curb. The fender is dented and the metallic paint job is scratched. Four students stumble out of the car wreaking of cheap rum and clove cigarettes, laughing as they crawl onto the sticky sidewalk lit by a flickering yellow street lamp. A moth repeatedly bumps into it like an old drunk stumbling out of a neighborhood bar. His face pock-marked like a pink golf course with enough oil on it to stir-fry chicken in a pan and serve up with fried rice and egg rolls.
Virgin white rice kernels rain on the happy couple, littering the sidewalk as flashbulbs pop pop pop. Tuxedos and oyster shell dresses mill about the manicured grounds under teased hairstyles and flowery perfumes. Shoe straps choke their ankles and unforgiving soles push back with every step. Beneath their girdles and cumber buns, their stomachs plead for a piece of dry, overly-priced chicken breast, salad greens drowned in a raspberry vinaigrette, and bottomless honey-colored liqueurs, served by a handsome mustachioed bartender, whose rolled sleeves reveal an alluring tattoo. The white-walled wheels of the sparkling black vintage automobile roll up to the stairs and the thankful guests cheer the newlyweds on.
Shiny obsidian arrow behind glass tells the hairy man’s tale of hunting seal for its skin and meat. His family‘s bellies grumble in a dark cave. Framed by the orange glow of a crackling fire, they sit. Their kill’s fatty flesh drips onto their feet.
The big day is coming. A potpourri of excitement, nerves and uncertainty flow through the bride and groom as they realize the choice they’ve made will determine their next 40+ years. Will everyone like the vanilla buttercream frosting on the raspberry chocolate cake?
Sunday afternoon matinee. The warm sun lights a path along the sidewalk. The marquee smiles with the day’s lineup of daydreams and nightmares — escapes to lands far from suburbia. My ticket’s punched and the smell of butter sails through the air as a steady hum of anticipation follows me from behind, beating to the rhythm of my happy heart as I board first class for a two hour holiday steps from home. Breathless, I gaze at the gargoyles salivating over my shoulder, all properly seated in their corners. Waiting. The lights dim, the curtains part and people rustle in their seats. All aboard!
Heavy clumps of damp mashed potatoes glistening in salty butter, threaten to douse squealing children in the playground with large barrels of water.
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