We landed in the cauldron of early evening rush hour. The heat was about 15 togs but devoid of sweat. On the coping spectrum I’m at about 7 – capable of eating, unlikely to sleep. There is aircon but it isn’t a panacea, leaving me scratchy and fractious.
That said the clan had regathered so the smothering heat wasn’t about to diminish the smiles and hugs. We were lead on a short stroll to a pleasantly accommodating fish restaurant where we caught up.
While the chit competed with the chat I took in our surroundings. It’s a bit Disney, pastiche. Wealthy, with a penchant for a sort of Colonial-Manhatten hybridised architecture. Youngish vibe, confident, controlling – people wait until the green man shows even if the nearest car is in Malaysia – who knew that happened? On the cab from the airport there was a line of ‘don’t’ stickers – the one prohibiting congress suggested a more flexible clientele than you’d find in London. Do you really need stickers for that? I always said it spoke volumes about the French that they needed a sticker telling people not to spit on the train.
Every third block is a mall of some kind and a lot is made a gaming.
In one store, whose frontage exploded with Minions and Pokemon there were tables with adult males (mostly) playing complex looking war games while others watched – the new thing, this e-sport where people spectate on gamers. I don’t think I’ll be buying debentures for that.
We wandered off for ice cream. At least that feels universal.
I brought some postcards and asked my family to chose one – this from the Vet – for me to use as a short story or flash prompt. Here
She added it had to be written from the POV of the cat.
Being a familiar is no picnic, I’ll have you know. There’s the constant need to appear otherworldly, possessed of special powers. Then I’m expected to perform like a pet monkey, reacting to Spamzo’s stupid prophecies. It’s not like I don’t understand what he’s saying but he insists on those ridiculous props – the twitching tache, the tipped hat, the false hand and that bloody ludicrous fag.
After each show, when he’s at his lowest, I’m expected to fetch a towel and check on dinner. Then count the takings, check if his costume needs any mending, call the accommodation. I could say no but if I didn’t do it the whole thing would fall apart.
I know I’d be better off with another Warlock, someone with more pizzaz. Someone with ideas, plans. With imagination. It’s that I miss. The excitement when he surprised me with a new spell, or insight. Those days were always too short, each hour passing in a blur; now they drag like his feet, barely leaving the pavement.
I know I should quit, leave him to his mumbles and fumbles. People sometimes laugh at him when he loses his thread. It takes all my willpower not to come out of character and claw the morons. I want to scream. ‘Don’t you know who this is? Don’t you realise how lucky you are to spend time with Spazmo the Stupendous? You’re not worthy of wiping his feet.’
Instead I just smile and stare straight ahead. If I blank my mind I can get through this. We both can. I know how hurt he is. He still has it. He just needs to believe. We’re a team after all.