The Scene Changer
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Portia stepped in through the door and Erasmus followed. They found themselves in a restaurant; and looking around and finding what she was looking for, Portia waved at me.
I waved back. I was seated at table 15, designated to be served by Marcus, the handsome waiter of Welsh descent. "What will you have today, Miss Orfelia?", he would ask in that accented puppy dog voice of his as I dined here at the same time everyday, and I would say every time in response, "You, of course", and he would reply straightfaced, "I'm sorry, Miss Orfelia, but I am not available on the menu." "What can I serve you today, Miss Orfelia?", he did ask differently once, perhaps as an attempt to rid the monotony of our conversations, and my reply went, "A large helping of Marcus, of course", but it turned out unsurprisingly that a large helping of him was still not available on the menu. This must have become a regular demand of the patrons seated at table 15 I realised later, as a sign appeared soon enough on the glass windows of the restaurant. It read : No, we do not serve human meat at table 15.
Portia came over to table 15, unaware of its history, muttering "What a strange sign..", and frowning, followed by Erasmus, always a step behind. "Can you be a dear and watch Erasmus for me?", she said, " 'cause I promised to help Sheba move into her new house."
"Wouldn't you need your man to carry the heavy stuff up?", I asked.
"No, Sheba is royalty and she has an army of men at her command."
"Ah!"
"Yes, some women have it all, don't they?"
"Why does she need you then?"
"To direct the men at their task, silly girl. Oh, I have dilly-dallied a quadrant of an hour speaking to you; I must be off now. Please watch Erasmus well."
And she was gone. Erasmus promptly sat down at table 15 and watched me intently.
"So, Portia tells me that you are a writer of sorts. What do you write?", I asked, uncomfortable in the direct gaze of the eyes that were previously downcast in the presence of his mistress but were presently gazing directly at me.
"Books, Miss Orfelia."
And a silence fell upon table 15. I looked around, trying to catch the eyes of Marcus, who wandered in and out of the kitchen. It had been two quadrants of an hour since I had ordered tiramisu, in disappointment after finding that Marcus was still not available on the menu, and it hadn't arrived on table 15 yet.
"Please excuse my skeletal appearance, Miss Orfelia", Erasmus said suddenly, breaking the silence.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you say something?", I asked absent-mindedly, my eyes still on Marcus.
"Please excuse my skeletal appearance", he repeated, "My character has not been fleshed out yet."
I stared at him. "Your character?"
"The characterisation of me in your story. Please excuse his skeletal appearance."
"My story?"
"You are generating the story of your life and today I appear as a character in it. So far, I have not been fleshed out and I appear horribly skeletal."
I confess I had no idea what Portia's man was talking about.
"However, to maintain optimum levels of narration in this story", he continued, "I must make the following modifications : A change in scenery, A reversal of gender roles in society and A change in command."
And the lights flickered, blacked out and came back again. Orfelia found herself sitting in a kitchen, a bowl of freshly chopped capsicum staring back at her and a knife in her right hand.
"What's for dinner, honey?", I asked as I walked in, dressed in a strange black suit, briefcase in hand.
"I-I- What's happening? Where are we?"
"In a different scene", I replied, "I would really love pizza tonight."
It took Orfelia a while to get her bearings right. And after she did, she felt an overwhelming sense of oppression; it felt as if freedom had been sucked out of her through every orifice. She could sense blinds around her eyes and manacles on her hands, but they remained intanglible. It was a strange experience and it intrigued her.
I smiled.
It did not get a smile from her in response. "Who are you?", she asked.
"I am Erasmus."
"And yet you look different. I can see the old Erasmus in your face; his presence merely suggests itself but cannot be ignored. Like a familiar face torn by lines of hate and distress leaving a hideous mask that cannot be removed."
Well- then, I hope you have a good imagination, Orfelia, and imagine yourself a pretty face for me 'cause I sure can't change my mask."
And she closed her eyes and opened them a moment later. She was smiling.
"I see the old Erasmus now and it reminds me of the previous scene", she said, happily.
I nodded. "Most people are guilty of doing this unconsciously when confronted with hideous ugliness that they cannot avoid. They cover the ugly face with an imagined mask of beauty. Our eyes are tuned to see beauty even where it does not exist."
"Why has this scene taken away your beauty?"
"Because Men live differently in this scene. We are hunters here, and become prey to primitive emotions. Emotions so strong that they become visible on our visage. And some emotions so negative that they cause changes that cannot be undone. There is pure beauty in the man child born, but it recedes as he grows older and hates other man children, marring his beauty."
"Are you a writer in this scene too?"
"I am a writer across all scenes. "
"How can you capture beauty in your writing when you are so hideous yourself?"
"Why would my hideousness affect my quality of writing?"
"Unlike beauty, your ugliness is beyond skin deep. It creeps into your flesh and goes deeper until it blackens your soul. You have now an ugly soul and your eyes are incapable of seeing true beauty."
"An ugly man is born with a gift. A good imagination", I explained, "Just as you have covered me with an imagined cloak of beauty, I have covered the ugliness of the world with imagined paint strokes of beauty. My eyes can only truly see ugliness but my imagination covers it with beauty."
Orfelia seemed satisfied with that answer. She was not satisfied with her voice though. It seemed as if someone else was speaking on her behalf.
"Why does it sound like someone is speaking on my behalf?"
" 'cause someone is speaking on your behalf in this scene. I am the narrator and I am weaving this part of the tale."
"Is that why the world seems so male now?"
"It would be so if I was male.."
"And you aren't?"
"No."
"You look male."
"I was born male. But my reproductive organs are non functioning."
"Then why is there a distinct XY feel in this scene?"
"Male memory."
"Male memory?"
"Yes, after my birth, I waited for the day when I would reach puberty and be capable of procreation. When the day arrived, I found myself a mate and coupled. The next day I lost my reproductive abilities in a horrific accident. I have not been male since. Only the memory of that day remains and it colours my world view at times. However, at most times I see the world through the eyes of an Olmec scribe."
"An Olmec scribe?"
"Have you heard of the Olmecs?"
"Yes, a lost civilisation that ruled over the lands constituted by modern day Mexico."
"Have you read the Olmecs?"
"Well, a lost civilisation usually means a lost writing system?"
"Not quite. Olmec books are stashed in the private collections of a certain collector who wishes to remain anonymous in this story. They have a singular outstanding feature."
"Which is?"
"They are all written by Olmec holy scribes. Men who are castrated upon birth so that they may record Olmec history and culture for posterity through gender neutral eyes."
"Did it really make a difference?"
"It sure did. Olmec literature is known for the non existence of sexual metaphors or euphemisms and poetic descriptions of beauty unmarred by carnal thought. In their books, a banana is just a banana."
"Aren't you an imperfect Olmec scribe?"
"Yes, the first flush of desire in my body overwhelmed me. I am now flawed, though I still am the closest the world can get to an Olmec scribe. The Russians have tried to raise a troop of Olmec scribes for cultural warfare, but it was a disastrous attempt. They realised too late that it would not work unless-"
"Miss!"
"Miss!"
"Miss Orfelia! Snap out of this reverie. Your man has run away."
It was Marcus. His familiar blue eyes looked concerned. He had been trying to wake me up for the last quadrant. I looked at the bucket of water he held raised upright as a last resort and smiled.
"Has Erasmus run away?"
"Yes, miss. It was strange and disquieting. Something seemed to come over him. He had a wild look in his eyes and he ran away, screaming gibberish."
"When did I fall asleep?"
"Right after Lady Portia left and your man took a seat. He leaned over and whispered something in your ear. I did not like that and I felt strange, felt that he had no right to-"
"Oh my, were you actually jealous of Erasmus?", I asked laughing.
"Jealous? Certainly not, Miss Orfelia."
"Oh, silence yourself, Marcus. I would like to order a large helping of Marcus on table 15. Now get on the table and I shall have you."
"Very well, miss."
As I finally got my order on table 15, I asked him what Erasmus had screamed as he ran away.
"It did not seem to make sense, Miss Orfelia. He said the scenes were changing beyond his control and he did not know how this story would end."
posted by foogarky @ 11:25 AM,
7 Comments:
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At 4:50 AM,
To Be Rock And Not To Roll said...
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Absolutely brilliant
[i](No not you, Orfelia I meant, colon P)[/i] -
At 11:51 AM,
foogarky said...
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Orfelia thanks you for the kind words, sir. She also says that some credit must be given to the writer who wrote her lines. And drew her curves.
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At 8:06 AM,
To Be Rock And Not To Roll said...
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No sir or madame either if you please orfelia.
Well knowing that the character doesn't exist and still succeeds in making this reader talk with it, isn't that a praise for the writer in itself. -
At 9:29 AM,
foogarky said...
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I would have supposed that only an Olmec scribe would prefer to not be addressed as either sir or madame. This is a strange request, however it shall be complied with. No more honorifics.
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At 5:31 AM,
Kaber Vasuki said...
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Awesome indeed foogarky. your stories and your movie reviews are great.
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At 12:59 PM,
foogarky said...
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Thank you, Kaber!
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At 11:08 AM,
LilBoCreep said...
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That story is one of the best written and most surreal feminist lit pieces I've read. <3 <3
I just wish we lived in that matriarchal world.
The Author
foogarky
foogarky is the pseudonym of the fictional construct who battles for supremacy with other constructed personas in the mind of a crazed individual. He describes himself as a man living in a non descript house in Rio De Janiero, Brazil with two dogs and a parakeet.
About This Blog
The Loony Lampoonist serves to parody, spoof and satirize everything that needs to be parodied, spoofed and satirized. Due to the fictional nature of this electronic journal, any anecdotes appearing here ever so often that seem to be personal in nature, would suffer from the effects of conflicting personalities, the creation of fictional events and the inclusion of non existent characters who did not make it to the big league in the author's literary works. Thus, the Loony Lampoonist is also a purgatory for characters and ideas that have missed the limelight.
