Saturday, December 18, 2010

Ostensibly the First of Many

"What does one write about when one does nothing all day save read and drink tea?" I asked one day.
"One either does not write at all, or one finds something other to do than read or drink tea, and writes about that," I replied.
"Your logic is unparalled," I said. "You have given me a great deal to think about."
I smiled modestly. "I try to be of service, occasionally."
"You are a wonderful person," I said.
"I know," I said.

...

Yesterday I got a job - not an easy task during the Christmas season. The job was not one to be proclaimed from street corners, nor shouted from the roof-tops, but it would, I thought, provide me with a small, steady income - not something to be scoffed at by a poor, desperate student. It was a small job delivering pamphlets to a few streets around the Te Atatu area, and as well as providing money would give me the chance to get fresh air and critique people's front gardens.
"Truly," I said, "I have done well."
"You won't earn very much," I said with the authority of Prophecy.
"It's more than I'd earn if I didn't do it," I pointed out.
"Very true. And it would be good for you. You're getting flabby and slothful staying at home reading all day. You need exercise."
"Oh, shut up! Stop making me feel bad. I like staying at home reading all day. And besides, I managed to fit into a pair of shorts I bought when I was twelve today, so your arguments regarding my physical wellbeing are certainly sub-standard." If I had chanced to look into a mirror I'm sure I would have seen a smug smile stretch across my face.
"Those shorts were too big for you when you were twelve," said that infuriating and eternally accurate voice in my head, "and when you sit your circulation gets cut off. Look down. Your legs are turning a disturbingly purple hue."
"Shut up, fool," I said, thereby winning the argument.

...

Later that afternoon a woman with the physique of a pro-wrestler who has discovered the combined delights of chocolate and the comfort of her living-room sofa turned up at my doorstep with a pile of pamphlets and a grumpy demeanor.
"Are you run number 61039?" she demanded.
"Not a clue," I replied cheerily.
"You should have a paper with the number on it."
It turns out I had a paper with the number on it. I found it and returned to the woman on the doorstep, whose leg hairs were bristling with impatience.
"Yep, this is yours," she said, scanning the paper, and proceeded to dump the pamphlets into my unsuspecting hands.
"Thank you very much," I said, gasping. The pamphlets were ridiculously heavy. My arms trembled with the shock of holding something heavier than your average 600-page novel, and I was in danger of dropping them.
"Small run this week," she commented as she watched me struggle. "Last week we had fifteen of the things to go out."
"Wow," I said.
"Yeah," she grunted, and added, "Oh, this is yours," and gave me another piece of paper which contained my instructions and expected paycheck.

It was then that I discovered, with a shock, that my expected paycheck for this delivery, which would take an hour at the very least if one included the bike trip to and from the area, would be a grand total of three dollars and thirty-five cents.

I barricaded myself in my room.

"I've never felt so cheated," I moaned.
"It's certainly less than ideal. I admit, even I am surprised," I replied.
"I don't want to do it!" I wailed, "I want to give it up! I don't want to be an agent of consumer advertising and a purveyor of paper waste!"
"This is not an ideal attitude!" I scolded. "Think! Exercise! Fresh air! A change of scenery -"
"You make it sound like some sort of exotic holiday," I complained.
"- a chance to view gardens that could quite possibly be better than the ones on your street - "
"That's not hard, they're all just variations of the same degree of horrible -"
"- and don't forget that you'll be able to ride your bike, Cassandra, again, now that your uncle so kindly repaired the puncture. A positive attitude and ready smile, my dear, will get you far in life."
"This is true," I said, perking up. "Alright, I'll do it."
"I'm so proud of you," I said fondly.

It was easier said than done. The air in my tire, so lovingly repaired yesterday, had mysteriously leaked out. I spent a good ten minutes examining the tire in great detail, but when the air valve snapped off in my hand I gave it up as a lost cause.

It was raining. I went inside, and sulked, and read Harry Potter fan fic, and drank peppermint tea.

That evening, I resigned.

1 comment:

  1. "whose leg hairs were bristling with impatience"

    I would have loved to see that :D

    Debs

    ReplyDelete