Most of the people in this anonymous unit of monotomy were oblivious to his shouts. They had faces, but they were not relevant to DT and so, their features were invisible to him, just as he was largely, irrelevant to them. He just thought he was the boss, and people let him by virtue of not having time to even think about it.
He was like a parrot spouting words, inconsequential…I met him, my ‘father’. There was a sense of family accompanying the disconnect and embarrasment. ‘There are some things you can’t change’, seemed to be what my mind had wanted me to know by coming here. It was confirmed all the more when he started to give me two, vitally important pieces of knowledge which he deemed crucially important for me. One was that I needed to dress better. I would never ‘make it’ in the world, if I continued to dress the way I was dressing. Think ‘pink ladies’ from ‘Grease’…No wait, John Travolta but for ‘ladies’.
The second piece of advice…I wish I could remember because it was something ridiculous and yet now, as I reflect on this weird, antibiotic fueled, subconscious adventure, I think ‘shit, maybe he had a point!’
But no, whatever it was I do remember that it was depressing and pathetic and that I accepted it gracefully for fear of dismantling the façade that this was someone who wasn’t quite unwell.
Goodbye shouting, parrot father! Goodbye weird, gymnastic tunnel in a world made of ominous warehouses! I’m running for a bus, or a train, or a tram, anything that will get me out of this carpark of the damned.. but where to?