blame it on blaine
(I've had a long day and my creative title juices are sapped so that will have to do...)
Anyway.
It's one of those nondescript Saturday late mornings and I was heading for the long awaited MPH book sale.
I hopped onto the westbound train with a decent hand-me-down-from-kind-colleague-but- ultimately-needs-getting-use-to black roomy bag and squeezy past the usual asinine train door keepers to the empty mid cabin space.
On my left was a fat faced on-wrong-side-of-looking-bohemian female teen tub of lard in a silly French cap reading a book titled Amazonia (talk about dramatic irony). Wrapped her rotund right wrist like a thick demented centipede in a constricting frenzy was a metallic cilice like chain with crosses made from diaper safety pins dangling about, seeming ever so salah and masochistic (what the - and I just watched The Da Vinci Code last night...).
On my right was an equally rotund rollypolly dude in mocha glasses and pink bag.
He has funny looking eyebrows.
And he was making funny movements with his hands.
So I spied him from the corner of my evil right eye.
In his right palm was a blue gambling card with Arabian motif, printed on only one side. The number side was a blank face.
His fingers kept pinching salt from the air and that blank face side started to float inches above his palm.
Then more inches.
The card is in mid air at his chest now.
Spinning and waltzing around.
There are no strings attached - I searched.
Next, Rolly Bird flickered his left fingers.
The card spun like a flat spinning top.
He kept his head down, concentrating. But his eyes were darting sideways.
Checking the audienceship ratings.
The little girl sitting in front of him looked enthralled, sucking her thumb.
The mother whose laps the girl sat on looked on benignly with a brief smile.
The neighbours pretended not to notice, be amused or be amazed.
My evil right eyebrow did an arch-over.
One station down.
Blubber Blaine turned his back and pretended to straighten himself, look nonchalant, talk silently with his eyes, phewing, thanking, cooing.
New audience. Let's try targets.
By now, everyone in that cabin within a 1 metre radius from where I was standing pretended they didn't know we ALL in the vicinity know but I know that an upstart was braving a limited crowd putting on an in-your-face show.
Now he turned and faced the lady in front of me.
His head went down the moment she smiled at him.
La ballet est commence.
Pinched some air salt. The card rose like a steam rolled zombie. And then a flourish with the wrist.
The card spun madly and swung from his left palm, made an arch across his tummy to his right side, still spinning.
The little girl sitting in front of him (another one, always picking the easy victims eh) giggled, front row seat performance especially for her.
The father had a frown that could melt butter, his head refused to face Rolly Bird, eyes sharply glued to the card.
The lady smiled tentatively. She looked on intently and then turned, like pretending she shouldn't peek at a man's unzipped trousers.
(I think it rude to look away. In some societies, people positively BATHE in their direct adulation for such stuff. To them, and me, it's polite to pay attention.)
The card never dropped out of Rolly Bird's hand. But his guard never dropped from his face too. He was suppressing his little build-up of confidence.
He is still a hatchling.
He knows we know - SMELL - he is winging it on a dare or a personal challenge, keeping his fears in check, his uncertainty at bay.
Soon the girl's awe melts to a yawn.
Blatantly, he moves pass the lady in front of me to 2 young girls on my far left.
They giggle and watch and smile politely. Their faces show a practised blandness, a glaze. They've seen him from the sidelines. We know your tricks. We are prepared to play audience. We are humouring you now, the entertainer being entertained.
His ship has docked, he knows. For a moment he falters - what's next?
He hovers about, blends in and is part of the crowd again.
I have sat down now, working with my thoughts, already elsewhere, planning my next amusement.
At the next station, he is gone.
In the flick of a card.
Anyway.
It's one of those nondescript Saturday late mornings and I was heading for the long awaited MPH book sale.
I hopped onto the westbound train with a decent hand-me-down-from-kind-colleague-but- ultimately-needs-getting-use-to black roomy bag and squeezy past the usual asinine train door keepers to the empty mid cabin space.
On my left was a fat faced on-wrong-side-of-looking-bohemian female teen tub of lard in a silly French cap reading a book titled Amazonia (talk about dramatic irony). Wrapped her rotund right wrist like a thick demented centipede in a constricting frenzy was a metallic cilice like chain with crosses made from diaper safety pins dangling about, seeming ever so salah and masochistic (what the - and I just watched The Da Vinci Code last night...).
On my right was an equally rotund rollypolly dude in mocha glasses and pink bag.
He has funny looking eyebrows.
And he was making funny movements with his hands.
So I spied him from the corner of my evil right eye.
In his right palm was a blue gambling card with Arabian motif, printed on only one side. The number side was a blank face.
His fingers kept pinching salt from the air and that blank face side started to float inches above his palm.
Then more inches.
The card is in mid air at his chest now.
Spinning and waltzing around.
There are no strings attached - I searched.
Next, Rolly Bird flickered his left fingers.
The card spun like a flat spinning top.
He kept his head down, concentrating. But his eyes were darting sideways.
Checking the audienceship ratings.
The little girl sitting in front of him looked enthralled, sucking her thumb.
The mother whose laps the girl sat on looked on benignly with a brief smile.
The neighbours pretended not to notice, be amused or be amazed.
My evil right eyebrow did an arch-over.
One station down.
Blubber Blaine turned his back and pretended to straighten himself, look nonchalant, talk silently with his eyes, phewing, thanking, cooing.
New audience. Let's try targets.
By now, everyone in that cabin within a 1 metre radius from where I was standing pretended they didn't know we ALL in the vicinity know but I know that an upstart was braving a limited crowd putting on an in-your-face show.
Now he turned and faced the lady in front of me.
His head went down the moment she smiled at him.
La ballet est commence.
Pinched some air salt. The card rose like a steam rolled zombie. And then a flourish with the wrist.
The card spun madly and swung from his left palm, made an arch across his tummy to his right side, still spinning.
The little girl sitting in front of him (another one, always picking the easy victims eh) giggled, front row seat performance especially for her.
The father had a frown that could melt butter, his head refused to face Rolly Bird, eyes sharply glued to the card.
The lady smiled tentatively. She looked on intently and then turned, like pretending she shouldn't peek at a man's unzipped trousers.
(I think it rude to look away. In some societies, people positively BATHE in their direct adulation for such stuff. To them, and me, it's polite to pay attention.)
The card never dropped out of Rolly Bird's hand. But his guard never dropped from his face too. He was suppressing his little build-up of confidence.
He is still a hatchling.
He knows we know - SMELL - he is winging it on a dare or a personal challenge, keeping his fears in check, his uncertainty at bay.
Soon the girl's awe melts to a yawn.
Blatantly, he moves pass the lady in front of me to 2 young girls on my far left.
They giggle and watch and smile politely. Their faces show a practised blandness, a glaze. They've seen him from the sidelines. We know your tricks. We are prepared to play audience. We are humouring you now, the entertainer being entertained.
His ship has docked, he knows. For a moment he falters - what's next?
He hovers about, blends in and is part of the crowd again.
I have sat down now, working with my thoughts, already elsewhere, planning my next amusement.
At the next station, he is gone.
In the flick of a card.
posted by logomancer | 7:35:00 PM
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