Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

Strangely, I did feel sleepy. My body seemed to sink into the massage table. As my eyelids fell shut, an image of Mr Chin flashed before me. He was sitting in his Komfort King executive chair, shouting. When I tried to work out what this unsettling image could mean, my thoughts would not align. I struggled to stay alert but sleep, like one of those enormous Hawaiian surfing waves, knocked me down and pulled me under.

‘Hello, anybody home?’ The words were like an alarm clock going off in the centre of my brain. This area is known as the third eye and is the seat of the pineal gland, a small endocrine gland shaped like a pine cone.

The question had come from a strange man in the doorway. He was of medium height and wiry, and had the sharp features of an operator of a sideshow shooting gallery. He was dressed in flared blue jeans, cowboy boots and a John Wayne hat. His checked shirt had press-studs and pointed pocket flaps. He could have passed for a country and western singer if not for the haloes of grease around his pockets. There were dark smudges on his hands and face, which made me wonder whether he was a bicycle mechanic. He winked at me. I looked away.

Strange!

I was no longer lying on the massage table but seated on the couch next to my handbag. Its zipper was undone and the bag was open. I could not remember opening it or getting off the table. I pushed my knuckles into my eyes and rubbed hard until neon points of light appeared. When I opened them again Mr Tanderhill was striding over to the cowboy.

‘How dare you!’ He was trying to whisper but the absence of furnishings gave the room excellent acoustics.

‘Didn’t know you were entertaining,’ said the cowboy. He called out to me. ‘Howdy tooty, darling.’

‘Get out, Shanks!’ Mr Tanderhill made a wild pointing gesture. ‘You’re interrupting a professional session.’

‘I can see that.’ Shanks howled like an American coyote, which was appropriate given his Wild West clothing.

‘Get out!’

‘Well, pardon little ol’ me.’ He winked at me again and flattened a hand against his greasy chest in the manner of an apologetic duke. He smirked at Mr Tanderhill. ‘I need your professional opinion on some merchandise. A van load of very nice Husqvarnas.’

Mr Tanderhill threw the balls of his palms on to Shanks’s chest and shoved him into the hall. Shanks was still protesting as the hairy hand of the hypnotherapist snaked around the door and pulled it shut. I could hear them talking loudly as I hunted for my cardigan.

‘You’re ruining everything!’ Mr Tanderhill’s voice was shrill.

‘They’re very nice Huskies. He says he’ll take them somewhere else.’

‘You’re not listening, you fool! I’m telling you, I’ve struck gold.’

I stopped moving, my stomach gripped by the urgent feeling that accompanies vomiting, an upward rushing sensation from my duodenum to the base of my tongue. I had to get out of the bungalow. I pushed myself to my feet and realised my hands were damp with perspiration.

Outside the door, there was scuffling.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Shanks sounded surprised.

‘Look at this. It’s a valuable Hindu medal.’

‘Looks like crap to me.’

‘Take a closer look.’

‘How can I look with you waving it about like that?’

‘For God’s sake, just keep your eyes on the medal.’ Mr Tanderhill’s words were followed by a slap.

‘Ouch!’

‘Concentrate. Keep your eyes on it. You’re feeling sleepy, very sleepy.’

I heard a loud thud followed by confused movements. A door opened somewhere. There was shuffling and dragging. I found my cardigan rolled up next to the arm of the couch and stuffed it in my bag. I could feel my heart beating in the back of my throat as I opened the door and peered into the empty hall before slipping out of the therapy room. Taking care not to make any noise, I pulled open the front door and stepped outside. The day was still overcast but the sun had moved higher behind the clouds. A chunk of time had elapsed. I felt disoriented as I stepped over the wine bottles and around the Escort to walk swiftly down the path.

At the gate, I glanced at the side of the neighbouring building and saw something I had not noticed before. ‘TRUST’ was only the first part of the message. Below in smaller letters were the words, ‘NOT THE FALSE PROPHET’.

A stocky man in overalls was leaning against a white van parked next to the warehouse. As I broke into a run, he called out: ‘Ten quid on the chestnut nag. Ha, ha.’ I did not look back and kept running until I reached the bus stop on Industry Drive. There I opened my bag and removed my cardigan.

Strange!

My purse was gone. I rummaged inside the bag, taking out my notebook and pens, two multigrain cereal bars, town map, lip balm, tissues, three hair clips and the large colourful handkerchief I carried for rainy days. My passport was still tucked in the side pocket but the purse had disappeared. There was only one place it could be but the thought of returning to the hypnotherapist’s bungalow made me feel nauseous.

I held out my hand as the number five Blue Line bus approached the stop. The bus door opened but I did not move. The driver gave me an impatient look.

‘I’ve lost my purse,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘You mean you’ve got no money,’ he said, revving his engine.

I nodded.

‘Take a bloody hike then.’ The door closed with a hiss.

As the bus pulled away I noticed a large banner advertisement printed along its side. It showed the head and shoulders of a man in a tuxedo resembling Sir Winston Churchill. He was holding up a hand and flashing Sir Winston’s famous V sign but instead of regular fingers he had two fried fish fingers. Coming out of his mouth was a speech bubble: ‘Nack’s Fish Fingers. The winner’s gold medal dinner.’

As I walked home, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Something had occurred between Mr Tanderhill’s massage table and the couch. Time had passed, at least half an hour. But the harder I thought, the more elusive this period of time became and the more uncomfortable I felt. There was a blank where there should have been a memory of events. I had no recollection of what had occurred or what had been said.

Industry Drive is a long road and I was quite disheartened by the time I reached my flat.

3

I have seen the man in the fuchsia trench coat every morning this week. He must be quite public-spirited because he always brings a plastic bag to pick up his dog’s droppings at the rose gardens. Many dog owners do not bother with such precautions, which is not very responsible. Excrement is unpleasant but in the worst-case scenario, it can kill. In France, thousands of people slip on it every year. Most victims are mildly injured but some actually lose their lives. The government of France publishes annual statistics on such tragedies. The figures do not speak positively about French dog owners.

For several decades, Laos was part of the French empire and probably had a problem with dog excrement until the Japanese arrived during the war and created other, more complex problems. Japan does not publish statistics on dog-related deaths and is by all accounts a very clean if not severe nation. I imagine the footpaths of Laos were reasonably clean until the French briefly reclaimed the country after the war. When the Americans started bombing Vietnam decades later, they also bombed Laos for good measure. From 1964 to 1973, the American air force dropped two million tons of bombs on Laos. This is twice the amount of bombs dropped on Germany during World War II, which is quite a lot when you consider the small size of Laos and the fact that the Americans were not actually at war with the country.

This morning, after cleaning up his dog’s business, the man in the fuchsia trench coat stood looking at the floral clock for a long time. The minute hand moved from seven to ten while he shuffled his feet and the dog sniffed at the flowerbeds.

The clock is a very attractive timepiece and a legacy of the Beautification Drive pursued by the town council during the Benevolent Years of the fifties. According to the information panels at the council photo display, it was during this period that many trees and flowerbeds were planted around public facilities to ‘enrich the lives of residents with verdant niches’. You can still find traces of garden structures near the old library building but very few of the original trees remain standing. Beautification was not a priority under Jerry Clench who was mayor throughout my childhood and adolescence and might have kept the post if he had not bankrupted the council. He was sacked last week for gross financial mismanagement. His black Range Rover was impounded and his personal financial assets were frozen.

This weekend an election will be held for a new mayor. The Cockerel has dubbed it the ‘Ballot of the Bloody Knight’ because of the ancient bylaw on which the town’s unique electoral system is based. The bylaw is the only one like it in Great Britain and dates back to the thirteenth century, which is quite a long time ago when you think about it. It gives the townspeople the right to hold a weekend election to elect their own mayor and was enacted during the ill-advised Crusade of 1271 when the local lord and all the churchmen rode off to the Middle East on the town’s finest horses. The bylaw was supposed to be a temporary measure but remained in place when the town leaders were ambushed and killed before they reached Jerusalem. Two of these unfortunate knights are featured on the town’s coat of arms. One has an arrow through his chest and the other is missing his head. Both are bleeding profusely.

For the first time in my life, I am old enough to participate in an election. But voting is a civic responsibility and I do not feel ready to accept this mantle. It does not seem right for me to participate in choosing a leader when I am not a bona fide member of the local society. Observing is not the same as engaging, as well I know.

At five minutes to nine, the man turned to leave, pausing as he passed my bench. ‘Time is a like a fowl,’ he said. ‘But does it fly towards us or do we fly towards it?’ He did not wait for a reply but turned on his heel and headed for the gate with the dog trotting after him and a delicate floral fragrance lingering in his wake.

As I stood and prepared to leave the gardens, I was surprised to find new graffiti on the pavement below the CCTV camera. The message had been scrawled around the base of the pole in green chalk. By now, I recognised the bold hand and capital letters. Removing the notebook from my bag, I copied down the words under today’s date.

This new chalk message and the man’s poignant comment about time were on my mind as I waited for Mr Chin to unlock the office door at the foot of the stairs. It is my habit to talk to him as he does this and I found myself repeating the man’s words. Since Mr Chin is not a native speaker of English and I did not want a misunderstanding, I substituted the ‘fowl’ with ‘chicken’ to avoid confusion with the word ‘foul’. I had not wanted to upset Mr Chin but that is exactly what occurred.

‘What you mean?’ he asked.

‘It’s a comment about time,’ I said.