SMALL TALK

a story by Albert Russo (2100 words)

excerpted from his award-winning book
THE CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume 1,
the Collected Stories (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc)


CATHY: Oh blessed Mary,she's coming towards me. I'll have to stand her all the way to the end of the line. Meeting her in the street when people go about their business is only half a chore, for I can usually disengage myself, but here there is no escape. With those two huge bags she totes around plus that indefinable thing hanging from her shoulder, as if her life depended on it, and the half dozen skirts and petticoats she wears and her face painted up like a babushka's, she would scare off even the fiercest circus tigers. Now she settles opposite me, taking up three quarters of the seat.

RITA: "My dear, girl, what a nice surprise! I don't know if it's those subway lights - I hardly ever take the subway, it turns people into potential criminals - but you do look a bit green. Have you been ill lately?"

CATHY: People are staring at us. What an odd pair we must look! It wouldn't be so bad if she spoke less loudly and not clack her tongue every other second. "No, just feeling a little tired. I haven't taken a vacation in almost a year." Her rouge is violently purple and if she does have to put so much lipstick on, why smear it all round her mouth? She could at least shave the moustache. The way her hands twitch, maybe she has Parkinson’s disease, the poor devil.

RITA: “Have you heard about those two thugs burglarising the apartments of little old ladies and raping them? They've been on the rampage for several weeks now and the cops can't get their paws on them. You'd better watch out, they're supposed to be operating around your neighbourhood. I wonder if the other guys - I mean the pigs - aren't involved in some way. You know, pigs' corruption is almost as old as prostitution. But tell me, why would young hooligans want to rape those wretched gagagenarians? They must be terribly - how do you call it? - deviant, to fancy decaying flesh, unless they have necrophilic tendencies. I find that pretty disgusting and you know how tolerant I am, being a bisexual artist."

CATHY: My blood is going to stream out of my pores if she continues in this fashion. I have to stop her before she provokes a row. And God, she smells like a fishmonger. The couple sitting across the aisle are watching me as if I were a pervert. Maybe they think I'm the one who stinks. I won't be able to endure this for another half hour. Oh, I have an idea, I'll tell her I've just remembered I had to run an errand and I'll get off at the next station.

RITA: "Well, I'll accompany you, dear, it isn't as if anyone is waiting for me or that I have any urgent matter to attend to. And I like a good conversation, don't you? It's always enriching, especially in this day and age where people remain glued to their silly box for hours on end. No wonder they get bored with each other so easily and file for divorce because the beef is overcooked or because they can't say please or thanks anymore."

CATHY: I can't believe this. She's going to follow me. All that time wasted! And of course, I'll have to help her carry one of her filthy parcels. She huffs and puffs like an otter and gives the impression she'll collapse from a heart attack any second. Don't be a coward, Cathy, tell her off, tell her to scram. No, I can't do it, I'm too goddamn proper. When they say ridicule can kill you, that's what's happening to me. Where will I take her? I must pretend I need to buy something. But what? I'm panicking, I can't think, even for such ordinary things as a simple purchase.

RITA: 'Which is your favourite shop in this part of town? I, for one, tend to shun the so-called trendy boutiques, which are really nothing more than consumer traps. They attract the petit-bourgeois and the nouveau riche like flies. I much prefer to roam about at the flea market. It's a constant adventure, for you never know what can meet your fancy. And the sheer pleasure of discovery is worth all the window shopping those ladies of leisure spend their time at. The human touch has completely disappeared in your modern supermarkets. I just love to haggle over the price of a second-hand lace blouse or a velvet skirt that has been worn by some grande dame back in the thirties. Such items ooze history."

CATHY: And loads of germs too, let alone the stench! You'd do well to douse yourself with eau de Cologne. Wasn't it for women like her that the French invented perfume? Now she's talking about 'my' supermarkets as if they had been my idea. In any case, they're very handy, you don't need to hop from one grocer to another or to a hardware store, for that matter. Very soon she'll accuse me of going into designer boutiques. What does she know about haute couture anyway? She prefers moth eaten rags. But enough musing, find a store, any kind, and the quicker I can get rid of her the better. Oh, that toy shop over there!

RITA: "So this is what you wanted to do, surprise your little nieces. I wished I had a good-hearted auntie like you to spoil me. Deep down, I've never really grownn up, that's what makes artists what they are. Look at those beautiful plush animals, you want to cuddle them or even want to make love to them, don't you? They're so much better than men, those whimsical prickheads!"

CATHY: She's starting to perform again. First she refused to leave her bags behind the counter, yelling: 'rule or no rule, they're my belongings and I won't let anyone poke her dirty nose into them.' I had to exert all my art of diplomacy to placate the monster and bring her to reason, lest the owner eject us both. Then her vocabulary! Calling men pr ... whilst she was staring at the two male attendants. And her lewd remarks concerning the plush alligator. I thought at least in a toy shop she'd behave.

RITA: "I'm getting hot and raunchy, Cathy. Those animals are pumping incredible adrenaline in me. I feel like fucking every one of them. Look at the stud! Why are those toy makers such hypocrites, I don't see any balls hanging where they should. Do they think children don't notice? Either they suffer from repressed sexuality or were mentally castrated by their mothers. Life without sex is meaningless. Do you know that before I paint, I use dildoes to stimulate my creative juices? Ask any great painter how he feels in front of his canvas. They're ready to come all over it."

CATHY: Will she shut the fuck up! That grandmother accompanying her two young teenagers is rushing down the aisle to complain, I'm sure. Who wouldn't? The worst with this loudmouth is that she won't listen to me or to anybody, in spite of the fact that I've tried to hush her up. She turns round instead and hollers: 'No one wants to hear the truth in our decadent world. Why do you suppose there're still so many wars going on? Because of this kind of attitude!' And she points a menacing finger at the customers and attendants alike. Either they're indifferent or they're damn scared of her. They must think we both escaped from the loony bin. I couldn't bear it any longer and in a rare fit of courage, dragged her outside with her bags and all. Good thing they ignored us. It's me that she then insulted, saying: 'You have no guts. To be intimidated by such hogs, phew ... you disappoint me so, Cathy. You haven't bought anything for your nieces, that's not nice.'And still, she won't let me off. Wants to invite me for some'home brewed' coffee and 'genuine' butter cookies at the Bohemian Shoppe- Noooo thanks! What a sticky leech she is. Lord, free me from her claws!

RITA: "Come on, Cathy, put some spice into your drab existence. You'll die before experiencing a real orgasm. What? You're crying! Oh I really didn't mean to hurt you, dear. I just don't want you to miss the good things of life. You're too shy, too prudish. Let me take you home. We could have dinner together if you wish. I'll prepare a good salad niçoise with pure virgin olive oil, young crisp lettuce, baby tomatoes, tuna and anchovies, and we'll eat it with some freshly baked baguette. Those French people are epicurean par excellence. And do they know about I'amour! I shall never forget my Provençal lover. He was the one who deflowered me. Divine, purely divine!"

CATHY: I don't want her to take me home, I don't feel like salad niçoise. Actually, I wouldn't be able to swallow even a spoon of honey. She's nauseated me. "That's kind of you, Rita, but I have a terrible headache, and the best thing for me to do is to lie down in my bed."

RITA: "OK, I'll make the salad for myself, but before that, I'll see to it that you rest. I like to pamper my friends. Forget all your worries and let me take care of you. I'll put some order in your apartment while you're asleep."

CATHY: I want to scream! She's hailing a cab, in the middle of the street. I wish someone runs over her and kills her on the spot. No injuries, let her go straight to the cemetary. If they ask for witnesses, I'll say I was browsing and didn't hear anything on account of my partial deafness, that I've never seen the woman before, that I'm in a hurry because my old mother is waiting for me at the rest home. She's at it again, hurling abuse right, left and centre, quarrelling with bystanders: 'bourgeois swine ... execushit ... Kellyslut...' My head is reeling. No, dunce, 'tisn't time to faint, decamp, girl, learn to say no once in your life! Can't move, paralysed, transfixed, the beast has bewitched me.

RITA: (addressing the cab driver): 'Phew ... your taxi smells, do you carry dogs too? I hope they haven't dropped their lice on our seats. In any case, I'll write down your license number and if ever I get some of those filthy bugs, I'll sue you. Another thing, will you quit smoking, right now, don't you see the lady here isn't well? Unless you don't mind her throwing up in your car. Where have you been brought up?"

CATHY. The poor guy, he must be new in the business, instead of retorting, he blushes like a beetroot. Another sucker! I would have wanted her to talk like that to my butcher who's twice her size, he'd have stuck his hook into her paunch and knocked a few teeth out. She always seems to have the upper hand, though. We've arrived at lasl After paying the fare, I was not allowed to give the cab driver a tip: 'Zilch, that's what he deserves,' she interceded, 'let him first learn to treat his customers properly. This taxi is a pigsty.'

RJTA: "OK, put on your nightie and slip under your sheets, I'll go to the kitchen and prepare the salad!"

CATHY: What a fool I was to tell her I became ill. The worst is that I'm more to blame for this situation than she. Trapped, literally tossed in the blanket by my own words. And here she's taking over while I must pretend I am sick. Cathy, for Chrissake, react, it will be now or never!

RITA: Oh, where is she? I'll go see in the bathroom. 'Are you alright dear?" Strange, no answer and the door is locked. She must have passed out No choice but to break in. One, two, one, two, three ...

*****

The following morning, one could read in the short news column, on page seven of THE STANDARD: " ... In a fit of madness, the petite, seemingly tranquil woman - her neighbours unanimously praised the forty-four year old widow for her kind temper and equanimity - murdered a Mrs. Rita K., whom no one in the building could identify, with a pair of scissors... such savagery would have astonished even Landru..."

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 19.11.2009

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