15,000 Feet – Chapter II

A knife blade sliding quickly over bread. A spread of peanut butter. Debby’s eyes on the Tv. A perfect watch for the perfect love. End of the ad. Why doesn’t it ever happen in life? Thank god for reality shows! A mix of ads and real life. Alchemic formula of show and reality. That seems actually lived.
Round of sponsors spread over commonplaces. Pseudo-community of a “separate” reality.
Angela, flabbergasted, looks at her daughter. Who is watching Tv. “Mom, you don’t understand…” “That those are the heroes?” “Yes, shut and blocked inside a house! To face each other for months. Pitted against each other!” “For the toothpaste or for a piece of bread?”
“They have the courage to show themselves… As they really are! In front of the Tv of the entire world!”
Angela sighs. “Debby, dinner’s ready!” Debby’s blu Converses. Dropping to the floor from the armchair’s armrest. Debby grabs the dish. Tuna and tomatoes.Toast and peanut butter. Debby’s Converses regain the armrest.

A Provencal tablecloth, filtered water and organic veggies. Angela stares at the tablecloth.
Why don’t we ever have eat together?
“Tuna? Tuna again? You know I can’t stand it! Why don’t you make me a hamburger with lettuce and mayo? I don’t want any bread at supper… You know that!”
“You can’t eat meat all the time… And stop it with the story about no carbos in the evening!”
“I’m eighteen. Think I’m dumb? What a drag, ma!” End of the ad. Jingle. “Debby
I won’t let you…” “Shut up!”
Angela’s clogs. They close in. Threatening. Debby slouched in the armchair waits. Motherly rage! Now the show begins.
“Debby, I won’t let you… talk to me this way…” Angela’s hand on the zapper.
Turns the Tv off. “You think you can do as you please? Come to the dinner table!” Debbyin anger throws her dish on the floor. Squirts of tuna and tomato. The bread glues onto the floor. Debby is already at the door. “Come back, this isn’t a reality show!” Jeans jacket slung over her shoulders. And the backpack. Held tight in her hand. The clogs drag Angela to the door. “Who do you think you are?”
“A person!”
Door slamming. Quick Converses down the steps. Front door opening again.
Converses in free descent. Last steps. “Where are you going?” Angela’s voice resounds in the entire building.
Converses running… In the courtyard! The keys in the ignition. Fuel in the engine. The moped starts and Debby flies.
At the gate of the housing project is Angela.
The moped dashes off, it already turned the corner.
It’s the story of your life, Angela. Always a moment too late. Since you were born. After your twin sister. Or at Debby’s communion. When you get there, a moment too late. Trains, planes, ships. You missed them all. By a few moments.
Gust of wind. Angela’s tight overcoat and eyes fixed on a blade of moon.
Shy, between two buildings. Now, if it were a movie, there would be music.
Melacholic. With a long fade out. Tinged of sadness. Angela instead stayed put.
Didn’t fade out. She looks at the street and thinks. Of Debby, of what Debby is thinking.
There the man on the second floor. Seventy. Angela envies him. Wishes she were seventy!
“Good evening.” The retired tram driver smiling. “What are you doing here?”
What am I going to tell him? The truth?

“I needed an onion… I ran down… but then realized it’s late…” Smiles a bit, doesn’t know what to say….
“Come, I have an onion, actually, I have a lot of onions. She’s always buying them… You know, the cleaning lady! I don’t eat them… But how can I explain it to her… She’s from Ucraine!”
Angela climbs the steps behind him… and doesnìt even have the strenghth to thank him.

Annunci

Rispondi

Inserisci i tuoi dati qui sotto o clicca su un'icona per effettuare l'accesso:

Logo WordPress.com

Stai commentando usando il tuo account WordPress.com. Chiudi sessione / Modifica )

Foto Twitter

Stai commentando usando il tuo account Twitter. Chiudi sessione / Modifica )

Foto di Facebook

Stai commentando usando il tuo account Facebook. Chiudi sessione / Modifica )

Google+ photo

Stai commentando usando il tuo account Google+. Chiudi sessione / Modifica )

Connessione a %s...