The puppet and the angel
Everyday, as the second hand covers the hour and minute hands, me, the puppet, and the old man would form the apexes of an equilateral triangle. Without a shadow, we would divide the circular piazza precisely in three along its circumference. At 12:02pm, a crowd would emerge from the subway, squinting in the flooding midday sun.
This would herald a few buses of tourists. The tourists would sit in columns and rows like neatly arranged eggs in an egg carton, occasionally a head impatiently poking out of the window.
“Look, it’s an angel and a puppet!” Someone would say as they approach us. Sometimes this would be a father holding the hand of his little daughter, who would only be as tall as his knees but have the aura of my Grandma. She would tug my white robe with her little hand and see if I would move. Sometimes this would be an old Chinese lady muttering in rapid Chinese, sometimes a teenager taking a been-there-done-that picture with his iPhone before moving on, sometimes a local grandpa weaving through the crowds unable to catch up to his grandson.
Beads of sweat emerge from my temples, crawling along gravity.
Most people wouldn’t notice the equilateral triangle – not that the triangle has been planned. I would be the first one to set up. Then the puppet would come, then the old man. And inevitably, we would form the apexes of an equilateral triangle, each of us tacitly obeying the natural attraction and repulsion laws of the universe.
In a dark suit that has forgotten its hues in the washer, the old man would sit on the marble stairs polished by thousands of steps. The piazza is very small, so that I can recognize the “Au Bon Pain” logo on his sandwich bag. The old man spends the whole afternoon eating his lunch, as if a mill of teeth trying to grind bits of muffin into atoms.
The puppet is my biggest competitor. His bucket and mine graciously fight for the same wallets. He has an easier time – he sits motionless on two hollow wooden cubes, one stacked on top of the other, so that he emerges from the sea of heads from waist up. I think the boxes are hollow because of the way he sets up these boxes. About 10 minutes before 12pm, he would arrive carrying one box on top of the other with his palm skyward, like a waiter nonchalantly entering the scene with a plate of steaming lobster.
A sound of coins plummeting in to my bucket. I slowly move my legs into a demi-plié and bow. Merely making good use of the ballet I learned as a kid.
The puppet painted his face white so that his reindeer nose stands out. He wears a puffy purple checkered costume with sleeves that are wide in the middle and narrow at the ends. Playing a discarded puppet, he has his head, legs, and arms connected via strings to a wooden cross. The cross dangles lifelessly along the side of the cubes so that little kids could reach it, and accordingly he would move his arms and legs.
People would perch by my feet amidst pigeons, futilely fanning themselves with a pamphlet or a map. Then a lick of gelato.
- So I asked the server if there is udon.
- Was there?
- Yes. And I asked if there is miso.
- I’m sure there is.
- I said I wanted udon in a base of miso soup, but he said no, there’s ramen in miso, no udon in miso. So I asked if I could replace the ramen with udon, and he said no, we have ramen in miso, udon in another soup.
Unknown to their owners, tiny shadows would start to tail beneath everyone’s feet, like daydreams unwilling to let go. They would elongate, and eventually glide over each other.
At 1:46pm, a teenage boy in a giant black T-shirt and baggy jeans would set up his speakers and guitar somewhere in the centre of the piazza, and jam jambon.
- You think the puppet and the angel would fall in love?
- Huh?
- You know, love at first sight?
- I don’t know, maybe. But you see, the world is always more boring than our imagination.
A middle-aged lady screams in pleasure as she finds that the cell phone she has been looking for everywhere is safe and sound by my feet. Amen, amen, palms together. A coin shimmers into my bucket. This time I pirouette, careful that I don’t fall off the bench.
Then the tourists would file back into their buses, eggs being put back into the egg carton by a meticulous housewife.
[short short story]
The puppet and the angel
Everyday, as the second hand covers the hour and minute hands, me, the puppet, and the old man would form the apexes of an equilateral triangle. Without a shadow, we would divide the circular piazza precisely in three along its circumference. At 12:02pm, a crowd would emerge from the subway, squinting in the flooding midday sun.
This would herald a few buses of tourists. The tourists would sit in columns and rows like neatly arranged eggs in an egg carton, occasionally a head impatiently poking out of the window.
“Look, it’s an angel and a puppet!” Someone would say as they approach us. Sometimes this would be a father holding the hand of his little daughter, who would only be as tall as his knees but have the aura of my Grandma. She would tug my white robe with her little hand and see if I would move. Sometimes this would be an old Chinese lady muttering in rapid Chinese, sometimes a teenager taking a been-there-done-that picture with his iPhone before moving on, sometimes a local grandpa weaving through the crowds unable to catch up to his grandson.
Beads of sweat emerge from my temples, crawling along gravity.
Most people wouldn’t notice the equilateral triangle – not that the triangle has been planned. I would be the first one to set up. Then the puppet would come, then the old man. And inevitably, we would form the apexes of an equilateral triangle, each of us tacitly obeying the natural attraction and repulsion laws of the universe.
In a dark suit that has forgotten its hues in the washer, the old man would sit on the marble stairs polished by thousands of steps. The piazza is very small, so that I can recognize the “Au Bon Pain” logo on his sandwich bag. The old man spends the whole afternoon eating his lunch, as if a mill of teeth trying to grind bits of muffin into atoms.
The puppet is my biggest competitor. His bucket and mine graciously fight for the same wallets. He has an easier time – he sits motionless on two hollow wooden cubes, one stacked on top of the other, so that he emerges from the sea of heads from waist up. I think the boxes are hollow because of the way he sets up these boxes. About 10 minutes before 12pm, he would arrive carrying one box on top of the other with his palm skyward, like a waiter nonchalantly entering the scene with a plate of steaming lobster.
A sound of coins plummeting in to my bucket. I slowly move my legs into a demi-plié and bow. Merely making good use of the ballet I learned as a kid.
The puppet painted his face white so that his reindeer nose stands out. He wears a puffy purple checkered costume with sleeves that are wide in the middle and narrow at the ends. Playing a discarded puppet, he has his head, legs, and arms connected via strings to a wooden cross. The cross dangles lifelessly along the side of the cubes so that little kids could reach it, and accordingly he would move his arms and legs.
People would perch by my feet amidst pigeons, futilely fanning themselves with a pamphlet or a map. Then a lick of gelato.
- So I asked the server if there is udon.
- Was there?
- Yes. And I asked if there is miso.
- I’m sure there is.
- I said I wanted udon in a base of miso soup, but he said no, there’s ramen in miso, no udon in miso. So I asked if I could replace the ramen with udon, and he said no, we have ramen in miso, udon in another soup.
Unknown to their owners, tiny shadows would start to tail beneath everyone’s feet, like daydreams unwilling to let go. They would elongate, and eventually glide over each other.
At 1:46pm, a teenage boy in a giant black T-shirt and baggy jeans would set up his speakers and guitar somewhere in the centre of the piazza, and jam jambon.
- You think the puppet and the angel would fall in love?
- Huh?
- You know, love at first sight?
- I don’t know, maybe. But you see, the world is always more boring than our imagination.
A middle-aged lady screams in pleasure as she finds that the cell phone she has been looking for everywhere is safe and sound by my feet. Amen, amen, palms together. A coin shimmers into my bucket. This time I pirouette, careful that I don’t fall off the bench.
Then the tourists would file back into their buses, eggs being put back into the egg carton by a meticulous housewife.
[short short story]
Posted 1 year ago & Filed under short short story,
