Where I lost my Spleen

‘La Belleza Convulsa: Where I lost my Spleen’ was written over the doorway to the Dog and Beggar Tavern. And on the opposite wall, covering over ricochets, near misses and bullet holes: Freedom for Los Desaparecidos! Suhcamelet, prelate to Norman and Varangian, his churlish egg-shaped jowl hanging below his chinstrap, stood admiring his reflection in the window, a stray Landseer with a maggoty eye sniffing his pant leg. ‘away bucetão! I have no time for strays and kettledrums’. On the back of his greatcoat, written in an unsteady Punjabi hand, was the following “(He smites with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his left hand.)” (James Aloysius Joyce, Ulysses). Harping, Suhcamelet retied his shoe and sent his hat flying; the brim whirling like a railroaded top. ‘haven’t seen head nor tail of the crapper spleen, must’ve hightailed north to sky-scraping ground’. Harping, the strings of his heart soaring, he delivered a sermon to those assembled in front of the Waymart, ‘may the goalie host redeem your pitiful souls. So say’eth Robin Goodfellow of the Puck’. Fool, hasn’t a toadstool to piss upon. See his sort round and a bout, piddling in the flowerbox out back of the Dog and Beggar; piddle-puddle astride the grave. Ill-omened, his shirttails un-tucked, he hightails it northerly, his cudgel dangling betwixt his legs. Makes a man harp, lest it does.

Tiring of the befuddlement that cursed his being, the man in the hat sat under a mighty elm and counted the stars in the noontime sky: 2. He had no other recourse than to admit defeat; his life having become a peccadillo of disappointment. Were he but a farthing, a boy called Poldy who’s worse fear was his ma’s uneven temper, wading knee-high in the muck behind the woolshed spearing frogs with arrows his da’s da gave him, the sucking noise his boots made when he unstuck his foot from a grave of squashy mud, his arrow a spit of frogs, garlands of roe and green things, three frogs impaled with one pull of his bow, his piss yellower than the buttercups they held under their chins to see who liked butter and who didn’t.

“(He smites with his bicycle pump the {mudbug} in his left hand.)” (ibid). His da wore his shirt back to front, affecting a backwardness that followed him wherever he went. Woolshed frogs, his granddad smiling broadly from ear to ear. ‘never admit defeat my boy’ thinking what he really meant was deafness, but his upper-plate slipped and got in the way. Pumping he went about the day, his unstuck boot making a sucking noise. Un-tucked he strode into the day, his cudgel dangling betwixt his legs. Knuckling his bicycle sump he set off into the world, Obadiah at his side. ‘never overestimate the forces of nature’ said his da’s da jawing his upper-plate. Time and again he lost time of time; the hours and days fleeting by like scat through a goose. Up to his waist he went about the day never-minding that at noontime he had a meeting with Dejesus. He wondered: who likes butter and who doesn’t? Maybe Dejesus. Who knows? “(He smites with his bicycle pump the {crawdaddy} in his left hand.)” (ibid). Maybe not. His da taught him how to make a cudgel out of worthless metals, the blacksmith’s apron cutting into the partial bones in his hips. That night his grandmamma served whitefish, his da rescuing a crumb of bone caught in his throat with a thump on his back.

Scenery Boy

He was a scenery boy with a Chinese Pantomime. My skin fits me like a Babybel, she said in the wings. He had that kind of stare, she thought. He pulled out a needle and wiped it against her thumb - there is a slice gone now. No fingerprint. It was the worst of nightmares, forgetting their lines. That was what scared the actors most. Sometimes you could feel them shaking as they waited beside you. The red skin peels away.

The happy scenery boy. He plumps himself up. He watches with pride, when really he wants to be centre stage. He flings himself at the feet of actresses and calls out, 'She's behind you.' (Oh no, he's behind you, I meant to say.) Poor scenery boy, he wears trousers that are too old. He said, 'Your face fits you like a tin, that's not quite right.' I think we got our lines wrong. Tilted inwards, he brushes against the velvet curtain, wishing he was out there, not here. Not like this. It's the worst place to be.

I am a boy in a Pantomime. My label is showing. Waiting in the wings, is the scenery boy. I have seen him there often. His face fits him. I will ask him later why he waits. His face fits him.....fits him like a.....like...I have often stared at the widow. Her rouged cheekbones, or should I say....his. Terrible nerves on the stage. With all this emotion, children calling out from behind mothers' skirts. The big, bad wolf. The little Buttons comes. Paper lanterns. Snakes made of thin cloth. Things that plug into furniture to make strange fizzing sounds when someone cries. Melodramatic facial expressions exaggerated by blue shadows. The lights worked well, didn't they?

He was a scenery boy in a Chinese Pantomime. That's where it all started. Sorrowful, he picked up small trees cut out of card. He had used two sample pots of paint to make it look like leaves. Two boxes that served to be a narrow-backed chair. Three lanterns, that looked red with the lights shining on them. However, in reality, they were grey. In the wings, they served well, lasted the whole season. Lots of slide-marks where items were dragged. The same lines, driving into the polish. Lines upon lines upon lines.

When he arrived home, he had stolen a piece of tape that held the two-box-backer together. Maybe tomorrow, the chair would fall and the lady would teeter. Her shaking hands and the dead scenery boy. The needle hidden. The horror as he looked in the mirror that failed to tell the truth. Mirror, mirror. He screamed. It was not supposed to lie.

A scenery boy in a Chinese Pantomime, found lying with a pin-prick thumb. A perfect slice. Two perfect lines of Kohl on the cheeks. Signifying arrows pointing to the horrors within. Remember your lines, perfected. You memorised them all and no-one ever noticed, only the velvet curtains held you warm. Two widows in the wings, two widows sighing. He was a good boy, we told him so. His face fit him like a tin.