Valley of the Trolley Dollies

d-2, and, oooh look: it’s a new piece of fiction. Once again, a rather short piece, but there’s enough in here to make me both laugh, and go hmmm, this might go soemwhere interesting.

Steam

“For this, you shaved your asshole?” Patrick surveys the half empty lounge area. Apart from Federico, the (straight) Yugoslavian (”Former Repoobleek Macedonia, pliss”) barista, the congregants do seem a little … lacklustre. There’s a duo of Big Black Boys. That’s Big as in Fat, as opposed to prison-style muscle-bound hunks, Black as in the colour Ms Ross used to be, and Boys as in ‘Not quite manly,’ a cute youngster an older, naked, gent lying flat on his back, his flaccid, yet still scarily elongated dick flopped carelessly on his left thigh, his half open mouth and general lack of movement making me fear we’ve got an unusual type of stiff, and us: A straight and a homo, neither one entirely comfortable with the situation.

“It’s early yet,” I answer. “They’ll all be in once the pub closes. Still, less people means it should be easier to spot him.”

“Pub?” Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Singular?”

“The princess’s head. Used to be the Queen’s,” I explain, as Pat mouths the word Princess, managing, even in silence, to add a question mark. “Until Di… Well, you know.”

A silence descends, broken only by a regular rhythmic sound from the distance that could be either the barking of an otter, the fuck grunts of a regular, the hacking cough of a consumptive or anguished sobs. The sound of six year old techno drowns it out somewhat.

Patrick crosses the room, opens the door to the steam room, pops his head in, shudders, withdraws, and returns to my side.

“Felt like Diane Fossey in there,” he says, the sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know: Gorillas in the-”

“I know,” I tell him, my patience finally fading. “Look, Patrick, if you want to find your dad, I suggest you take a look around. Don’t forget to bring a torch for the dark room.”

“What? Where’ll you be?” He’s worried now. Good: I’m getting a bit sick of his attitude. Yes, it’s all terribly provincial and sad, but it’s my sad provincial sauna, and I won’t have it disparaged by someone who can’t even keep his early-onset Alzheimers parent locked safely in his bungalow.

“I’ll be in the Sauna,” I answer airily, “Making like Goldilocks. Let me know when you find him.”

This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 26th, 2007 at 11:29 am and is filed under Fiction etc.. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.