Lunch With Red
And Goldie
by Marvin Pinkis
The commissary
buzzed with characters scurrying about under the
monitors’ scrutiny. It took little for those
doomed souls to stay in step. A banner suspended
from the ceiling reminded: “Myths are made.
Myths can be shattered.” No room for
rebellion.
“What an
ordeal,” moaned a cute moppet sporting a
head of yellow ringlets and plopping into a booth.
“Park
yourself, Goldie,” said the booth’s
other occupant, draped in a crimson cloak.
“Another bout with your ursine friends?”
“No
kiddin’. You look done-in yourself. Been
running with, or from, carnivorous lupines?”
“Yeah, we
just stay away from preditors, can we?”
replied the cloaked one.
“It’s
our fate, I guess,” retorted the curly-head.
“Maybe,
but it’s not a fate of our making.” (Cloak).
Her companion
noted, “Red, you’ve been at this game
for who knows how long. Don’t you ever wish
for a different world?”
“Sure
when I reflect on what I have to deal with. Dense
scary woods. A senile grandmother. An alien
specie in drag. Living in fear of the woodsman
showing up late. Recently, he’s made it in
the nick of time and I smelled booze on his
breath. Also, he’s intimated that a girl can
more convincingly show her gratitude for saving
her skin besides a scripted glance of relief or a
nosh from Grandma’s basket.”
“You
think you got it bad?. How about endless breaking
and entering, sipping soup of all temperatures,
destroying chairs, testing mattresses? And, let
me tell you, waking up to the sight of a trio of
hirsute beasts, even after many times, continues
to scare the hell out of me. One time, when I
bolted out of the bed to get away, the biggest
one blocked the door. I got by and complained but
a fat lot of good that did. Who knows what those
crazies are capable of. It isn’t human.”
Red asked,
“What line of work were you in before this?”
Goldie replied,
“I was nothing. This is all I know. I
answered the ad in the paper and here I’ve
been.”
The Cloak
spoke. “I know. I feel so one-dimensional.”
“Somebody
always has it worse. Look at these unfortunates
around us. Some I don’t recognize. Like,
who’s the dark-haired broad with looks to
kill? And who are those little guys sticking like
glue to her? Must be a half-dozen. Can’t she
make it with guys her size?”
“Could be
a need to feel superior. They do dote on her,”
said Red.
“Right,
and check the girl over there. Her hair must be
twenty feet long. Bet she lives in a tower
somewhere. And, ain’t that something, but
there’s a little runt with her too.”
“Interesting
folks. Well, there’s the lunch whistle. Back
to the stuff of which legends are made. Or, at
least, bedtime stories. Here comes the next crew.
Get a load of the girl with no pupils, frizzy
hair and always the same 1930’s red dress
with her goofy-looking dog.” (Red again).
“And,
there’s that little Nancy brat. Can’t
she do anything with her hair? Let’s get
outta here. These people aren’t for real.”
(the other one).
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