Friday, January 4, 2008

Strung Irish

She went to sleep. Euphemism it isn't, she just didn't wake up. She wasn't old or sick in the classic sense. He didn't like the blood marinade on the cucumber though it was tasteless, and she had done such a good job with the salad. People made him nervous when he wasn't drunk but by then they were farcical. BMWs and Mercedes had become the standard, spotted everywhere, to go with the nouveau-bourgeois status that went with the boom. Their drivers were amazed to hear Brazilians don't speak Brazilian. Not that it mattered, of course. Neither did collecting the city's garbage let alone fix one's teeth. There were more pressing matters to tend to, namely to ensure bottles aplenty of pink champagne and hook a chap. Girls had legs exposed in the whiplashed winter as a result of the mandatory uniforms, no one thought to change that - the last bastion of tradition, they insisted. A hierarchy quickly established to bestow honors on the moneyed, old, and silly. Racism was obsolete, every colored person had a job in a convenience store, supermarket, and restaurant. Those doing their P.H.Ds were the subject of curious asides. Men stared greedily at beautiful women, unquestionably foreign, assuming they were all on the marketplace for the taking. Women chirped loudly about nothing; their men drank to it. The old went on with their war stories, the younger ones about their vacations and gifts. The main library now held a place of distinction inside a shopping mall.

3 comments:

Indeterminacy said...

This text has a beat rhythm to it. It would sound great at a reading.

LiteraryMinded said...

I agree with the rhythmic quality. It's also slightly mysterious. I can make out shadows of the characters, the 'types' but I think this is your point. Surfaces. Nice.

observer said...

Hi Madeleine, I got your message, I'd love to contribute. Do you want to email me some details about the publication, what you're looking for and deadlines?