Fear not a plastic bag,
It only wants to play,
But don´t put it over your head,
It just might ruin your day.
As I walk home I can´t help but notice that the people in the street are panicking. Bus-tops everywhere are peeled back like tins. I see one bus-top peel open right in front of me. I decide to hurry home.
No one could see Arnold the green monster because no one believes he exists. And what´s more no one would believe that anyone could have so much fun with a giant tin opener. Would you see him? Have a look at this…
We are still talking about the strange event when the bus zooms into the noisy traffic. The weather has cleared up and the suns rays are stealing through the clouds and blinding the passengers who are starring out the windows. Most of them shield their eyes with their palms or squint and look back into the dreary occupants of the bus. Then another thunderbolt sounds, right above us, people shriek and look up, cowering down at the same time. Once again the roof of the bus is pealed back the same as you´d open a can of sardines. It´s a clean cut. The bus driver pulls over and shouts at everyone to get of the bus calmly. We break windows and shove each other out of the way. This slows the bus emptying process. On the pavement we can see the neat curl of metal at the end of the bus. It´s impressive. The people are crazy now, someone is ringing the press. I decide to walk the rest of the way home. I´ve had enough weirdness for one day.
The day is warm. A light breeze dances upon the trees leaves. It plays with plastic bags and whirls up leaves in a windy spiral. It´s fresh out. A crack of thunder sounds from far off. The fluffy white clouds scurry away, their grey cousins take over. Another thunderbolt sounds through the air. Some people panic, reaching for umbrellas. Some enjoy it, but zip up their jackets all the same. The rain drops steadily. Everyone hunches over and dashes for shelter. Trouser ends get soggy, socks are drenched. The smell of wet wool and wet hair is overwhelming as I get into the bus. I hold onto the pole. I´m going home from work so the cold wetness doesn´t bother me so much. A traffic jam stops our jerky rush home. Ten minutes pass. People click their tongues and flip their eyes to heaven. Everyone is listening to two old dears complaining about their pains. I try to change the channels but the only other options are my private thoughts or the loud monologue of some fellow boasting down a mobile phone. I doubt if there´s really a listener at the other end, wait what am I saying, there´s a bus load of them. I stare at the raindrops racing each other down the outside of the glass. Unable to find a winner I stare at the street walkers. Another loud crack of thunder peels through the air, frighteningly close. People scream. Something is peeling back the roof of the bus the same way you would open a tin of sardines. People push to get out of the bus. Without realising how, I find myself outside on the pavement gobsmacked and staring at the curled metal roof of the bus. It´s so well pulled back, it´s almost beautiful. No one can explain what has happened or how it happened. We are ushered to the next bus stop while the bewildered bus driver rings for help. I trudge to the next bus-stop. We all wait together, the weirdness of the incident draws unlikely people together. Everyone is sharing their theories. The rain stops when we mount the next bus.
“Where´s Tom? I asked finally forgetting who in the name of god was sitting in front of me. I thought him very rude as I was no spring chicken and he had left me standing here in front of him for what seemed like an eternity. “Get up and let an old woman sit down, have you no manners?”
He jumped up. “Sorry, now if you don´t mind let´s go, I´ve to call up to Mr. Ryan yet.” I scrunched up my eyes to look at him better. He looked familiar. He was very bony looking so, feeling sorry for him, I suggested. “Won´t you stay for a while. My mother is in the kitchen making cakes.”
Smoke bellowed out of his non existent ears. I felt as if it was my fault that he was angry. I wanted to ask him to sit down again and take the weight of the floor but all that came to my lips were the words. “Where´s Tom?”
Just then the door swung open and in came my happy little helper with a big mug of tea and biscuits. “Nuala,” she said while shutting the door with her foot. “Sit down there for yourself. What are you doing wandering around the room talking to yourself?” I turned to introduce her to the familiar stranger. He had disappeared.
“I was talking to Tom.” I said and sat down. She smiled and said “Had he any news?”
Then I remembered and started to cry. “Ah now Nuala what´s wrong?” she consoled me while giving me a big hug. I said bitterly through salty tears. “I´m all alone. All my family is dead. I´m the last to go. I just want to die. I just want to die. Why won´t I die?”
“Your daughter is still with you,” she said as if I needed reminding of it. “Ah I´m only a burden to that one, she tells me enough times.” I replied. “That´s not true, she loves you loads now give us a hug and have your tea before it gets cold.”
I knew where the conversation was headed. I was upsetting her and she was going to change the subject and I´d forget my sorrow and fall into banal conversation.
I tried to hold onto the feeling.
The tea was a bit hot. “Can you put some more milk in that dear?” I asked. She took the cup and went into the kitchen. I could hear her talking to my mother.
In the kitchen Nuala´s happy little helper ran into Nuala´s daughter, Nora, who had just come back from work. “You´re early!” said the helper. They began to talk about the old woman. The helper told her how upset Nuala had been when she suddenly regained her memory.
“Well sometimes, I think, if death tapped her on the shoulder and gave her the look, she´d even forget to go with him.” sighed Nora.
“I haven´t time to talk Nuala. It´s time to go now.”
I told him to put down the scythe and take off that mouldy back tunic he was wearing. Surely with all the money he was earning he could afford to do himself up a bit. “Look at the cut of you, come into the bedroom and I´ll give you something better to wear. I´m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”
“I´m not Tom, Nuala, and we have to go now.”
I wasn´t sure that it was Tom so I asked him. “Where´s Tom?”
“He´s outside waiting for you.”
“Are you a friend of his?”
“I´m friend to no one.”
“Rubbish, stay for tea, I think mother is making cakes.”
“Your mother isn´t making cakes, she´s outside with Tom.”
“Oh no, they´ll kill each other, they could never get along you know.”
“I don´t think you may worry about them killing each other.”
“Well, I don´t think you know them that well at all then. I´ll put the kettle on.”
“There´s no time, the carriage is outside.”
I´ll be 93 next week or at least that´s what they tell me. Sometimes I remember what age I am but to tell you the truth the days I forget are often better. I don´t know what day it was but I suppose it was a day like any other. I like my routine. Change scares me now. My home help arrived a little late and flustered. She apologised and got me up and out of the bed. My mother had already given me my breakfast in bed and I told my little helper so when she scrambled off to prepare it. I was sitting on the commode when she came back. “Any luck?” she asked. “No, same as usual,” I replied. “You had better give me more of that prune juice.” She helped me get dressed. And then handed me my zimmer frame. We walked unsteadily out to the living room. I sat into my cosy chair that had the shape of my arse moulded into it from years of sitting in front of the television. “Where´s Tom?” I asked her. “He´s at work.” she replied without making eye contact. She brought the breakfast tray out to the living room and helped me eat. I wasn´t hungry and told her so many times. She ignored me. Then it was tablet time. I took a blue one for constipation, a red one for depression and another one for luck. I think I had an asprin too but I´m not sure now. “Where´s Tom?” I asked. “He´s at work.” replied my sister. Then my sister sighed, “I´ve to get the chores done now, call me if you need anything.” She kissed the top of my head and left me alone with the politicians. I had to laugh at myself when I realised they were only on the television. I really thought there for a minute that they were in the room with me. I grabbed the zimmer frame and hobbled into the hallway. “Tom, are you there Tom?” I called. “It´s only me” came the voice of my daughter Nora, hoovering upstairs. Oh , that´s right I thought. Tom´s at work. I slowly hobbled into the living room. I was exhausted. I sat into the armchair and leaped out again. “Jesus Christ, Tom, you scared the life out of me.” I said feebly. Holding my zimmer frame with all my might. There in my armchair was the cheeky Tom. Although he looked terrible ( it must have been all that work) I was glad to see him.
Ernest woke up at the fine hour of twelve o´clock. The minute he sat up on the sofa Mrs. Spencer put the kettle on. In fifteen minutes Mrs. Spencer was in to him with a tray carrying a good breakfast. “Thank you very much but I´d like to get a move on before Little Laura Long gets here.”
“Well she´s already been and went so you can relax and enjoy your breakfast.” replied Mrs. Spencer. “What are you saying? that can´t be, what did you say to her? she has a keen sense of smell, she would have smelt me in here.” said Ernest confusedly.
“Well you don´t have to worry about her any longer, I sorted out everything.”
“Not violently I hope, no offence but you have a bit of a reputation in these parts.”
“Just trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”
Ernest persisted. His reporter instinct was wide awake. He had to know how she did it.
He asked a ream of questions and pulled out his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. Mrs. Spencer muttered. “I think I´ve had enough of this,” she nudged the carpet bag with her slippers. The mole jumped out and ran across the sofa. He stopped behind the head of Ernest. “Hello there, “ said Ernest. The mole leaned over and whispered something in his ear. In no time at all Ernest was thanking Mrs. Spencer wholeheartedly and gathering his things together. Before he got into his truck he resowed all the flowers and then waved a grateful goodbye and set off in his truck.
It was windy outside, Mrs. Spencer waved, pulled her shawl around her and shut the door. She rolled her eyes to heaven and said to the mole. “Elves – they´re such a sensitive and serious lot, I don´t know about you but I´m going back to bed.”
Meanwhile Ernest was singing along to some song on the radio and driving over the speed limit. He suddenly stopped. The breaks shrieked. He opened the door. “Hop in, it isn´t really a day for walking. What´s your name?” He said. Little Laura Long jumped in and as she slammed the door shut a gust of wind blew Ernest´s wig onto the dashboard. He caught it and fixed it back on his head. “Sorry about that.” said the calculating voice of Little Laura Long. Her beady eyes peered at his pointy ears.
A peaceful hour passed. Suddenly there was a loud racket outside and wild knocking on the door. Mrs. Spencer didn´t even flinch. She sat silently on a kitchen stool sipping her tea. She heard someone shouting, “My old legs might be slow but my head is as fast as ever, come on out Ernest. I know you are in there hiding from me.” Mrs. Spencer got up slowly, complaining quietly about her arthritis. She went into the living room. Ernest was still snoring. She picked up her carpet bag and gave it a bit of a shake. Muffled noises came from inside it. She poked her head inside and sang, “Wake up my little mole!” Out popped the head of a bedraggled mole. He looked sleepy or maybe he just looked like a mole. They usually have a sort of sleepy look. “Has she arrived?” he asked rubbing the sleep out of the corner of his eyes. “Yes, she has, let´s go say hello.” answered Mrs. Spenser.
With her handbag under her arm she opened the door to a mad screaming Laura Long who was now tearing up Mrs. Spencer`s peonies. The mole popped his head out of the bag. He shouted at her, “leave the garden alone.” She stood to attention and dropped the flowers on the ground. “Get her to clean the house and weed the garden while you´re controlling her mind,” whispered Mrs. Spencer. “Let´s just keep to the work at hand, shall we?” retorted the mole raising an eyebrow at Mrs. Spencer´s cheek. “Now forget about Ernest Elf´s secret and leave him alone,” shouted the mole at Laura. She spun around on one foot and repeated, “forget about Ernest´s secret and leave him alone.” Then off she trotted on her little old legs.
He was desperate now. He had heard talk of another crazy lady with strange powers in the next neighbourhood. The following day just after talking little Laura Long into a deep slumber he ran out and hopped into his truck. He drove directly to where he had heard the crazy old lady lived. He knocked twice on the door. It squeaked open. “It´s three in the morning, if you´re thinking of robbing the place do it without waking me,” responded a grumpy voice.
“Wait,” shouted Ernest as he put his foot in the door. She proceeded to slam the door repeatedly.
“Agggh,” he screamed, pulling his leg out of danger. The door slammed firmly shut.
“I only want to know if you are Mrs. Spencer and if you can help me?” whimpered Ernest.
She opened the door wide. “Well that´s me and I´m awake now so you might as well come on in.” Ernest hobbled into the living room.
He told her the problem. She went into the kitchen for a while to make tea. “Keep going, I´m listening,” she shouted. She came back in with a tray of tea and some chocolate biscuits and a huge carpet bag under her arm. She put the tray on the coffee table and flung the bag on the floor. Ernest thought he heard a muffled cry of pain from the bag. He really needed to sleep. He asked Mrs. Spencer if he could crash out on the sofa as it was only a matter of time before little Laura Long tracked him down. “No problem,” she said and went to fetch blankets and a pillow for him. He thought he heard the words “go to sleep,” just before he collapsed into the comfy sofa, snoring loudly.