TCOTNK 11 Blues
TCOTNK 11 Blues
Rose stood transfixed. Her eyes following the man leaving, “who is that guy?” she asked, dumping the clothes on the table. "He did exactly what I thought."
Blues
"No, I'm going alone." she said to Joe, James and Michelangelo.
They were in a kind of pantry at the end of the hallway next to the office. Partly because it had the massive brown sofa - the cushions were way too soft but it was the only real couch for miles - and even more because Joe felt the need to retreat from the overrun beehive his headquarters had become. Joe’s think tank, it had been named. Joe is in his sensory room, they said. Usually alone and sleeping. There was sometimes other activity in the murky room with the broken copier and the empty shelves along the wall. So for some this was the snuggle vault. Because the double door was soundproof. And there were no windows.
There was also the antique safe that was now almost empty. And next to it ‘a few’ newly arrived boxes of plastic payment tokens. Two hundred and fifty thousand blue ones and fifty thousand 'halves’ that were red. They were not really half, but round. Like the red moon, Scarlotte thought. The amounts were on the packing slip that lay next to her on the couch. The blue ‘coins’ were not coins at all, but failed oversized dice with the number four on them twice.
"Why do you want to go to that guy all by yourself?" asked Joe concerned. "I think he has sixteen-year-olds for breakfast." Joe was the only one standing. 'Sorry, forget that last bit, but I do think it would be more comfortable for you if Michael came along, or better yet James, he speaks the man’s language, so to speak. Or we just go with the four of us?' He looked at the other men for approval and ran his hand through the open box of blue cubes. The gentlemen in question sat slumped side by side, staring at their dirty shoes.
"Have you counted them yet?" asked Scarlotte, waving the packing slip.
Joe laughed crookedly. "Yes," he said, "Five, there five pallets with black plastic wrapped around them," pointing to the five zero zero number on the open box. He relaxed. 'A stunning good deal with that toy man. The red PimPamPet chips cost me one tenth of a cent each and I got the dice for free.' He bellowed at the reminder, "Ha, they kept them for ten years hoping someone would make up a game that uses imperfect blue dice without a three."
Scarlotte thought it would be great to empty those five hundred boxes between the two couches. Just to see how big of a pile it would make and then dive in, roll the dice.
"They don't really fit in your purse, do they," James said. He had his palm full of five or six of those things.
"No," said Joe, "and that's why," he searched the tote bag next to the box, "we're selling these!" Triumphantly he showed the black pouch. Pulled it open and started putting dice in it while counting.
"More than twenty," he hurled the full sack on the black string at James. “The black felt is synthetic, but there's more than enough on the industrial roll.”
"Those pouches still have to be made?" asked James, “and who's going to sew five thousand of those things? Pedal Powered Rose?”
Joe looked satisfied and held up a finger.
“Under the motto, stitch or ditch, they can do it themselves. Or stitch and hitch? Is that better? Anything that itches will do. Maybe, sew the pouch or feel the ouch? But that’s too long, huh? For a string and a cut-it-yourself circle we will charge thee three blues. If you want a ready-made one, you give the maker another three blues. Whoever that is. So the makers and the doers are rewarded. If you buy one and make one it will cost you nada. If you make a hundred, you can drink yourself to oblivion or invite your friends to donate some brain cells for the greater good. Furthermore, immediately after the festival, the traders, the food trucks and the service providers can exchange their blues, each three out of four paid in hard cash if.... they didn’t circulate plastic cups or bags or glass. Otherwise it drops to two out of three. You can get paid by bank, but that happens a month later, recycled mugs cost one blue one, as a kind of deposit. You get a red for handing it in, so, better put your mug on a leech. Even better, get your own bioplastic mug with logo, suitable for soup, beer, pasta or megaccino, it slides three.”
He looked so proud.
“Someone finally made up the game with the missing three and that's me. King of the blue dice.”
There was a knock at the door. Joe jerked at the sound. Like a startled animal. Scarlotte looked surprised at the quick turnaround of the festival boss.
The door opened gently and the head of Cynth, one of the flower fairies, according to Michelangelo, slid into view, looking guilty. She was on the reception committee, so to speak, a kind of failed stewardess with fake rasta hair.
"The end of the world or what?" Joe barked. The girl shrunk and turned pale.
'No, that's not it. There are new volunteers.'
Her thin voice almost broke.
"But that's not—", Scarlotte interrupted Joe's angry run and walked over to Cynth.
"Let me handle this," she told Joe off, then followed the pattering floral dress into the foyer where their table was. The noise flooded them before they got there. At least fifty new arrivals were busy talking in front of the overfed intake.
“Who’s creative?” Scarlotte called out. It grew quiet and more and more hands appeared. Some of them recognised her from the clip and were nudging each other. She handed out blank printer paper.
“Anyone who within an hour from now makes something original from one sheet of humble paper has earned themselves a spot on the creative team!”
That cleared up the counter. A bit. She walked over.
“And who has been complaining about the waiting time, and the way things are handled?”
Several people pointed at a man looking sullen. Scarlotte smiled widely.
“You’re first in line,” she said. Conjuring a lot of comments.
“On the condition,” she went on, “that you spend the rest of the day on this side of the reception.”
Now she got cheers. And the man was patted on the shoulder as if he were a winner. He looked sour but still accepted. Cynth gave Scarlotte an admiring look full of gratitude and started the intake of the man. Scarlotte too, grabbed a form, sat down.
Ten minutes later the men resurfaced from the treasury pantry.
James said, “well, that’s sorted then,” just ahead of a very amazed Joe. He was at a loss for words. In the background you could hear the phone lines ringing, and the quirky sounds for incoming mail fill the gaps. Joe left for the canteen where they’d set up several desktop computers. The ticket sales team had grown overnight from one and a half to five. They were stressing. Taking calls and answering questions in writing. Joe returned, scratching his head.
“We just passed a thousand,” he said, “A thousand five day tickets. Full access.” He walked over to Scarlotte.
“I’ll take your spot, you go prepare to see Picasso.”
Rose dressed her for the trip. With her full attention. She dismissed all offered help and suggestions and moments later everyone actually had to get out of the sewing workshop with an, “I love you all but sod off for now.”
"I'm getting cold," Scarlotte was in her underwear.
"Shush, I have to think." Rose disappeared into her caravan and immediately returned empty-handed. "Do you know what he does, or makes or sells?"
“No, I don't know anything, being rich, I believe that's what he does. Seems to be a full job.”
Rose was gone again. Scarlotte didn't want to think about her excursion. James was going to take her there. She had wanted to go by train or something, but James wouldn't hear of it. And going with his luxury car was nice of course. She had an hour left. She looked at her nails. Despite taking a shower they were still dirty. She had rough hands with cuts and barely healed blisters anyway. She peered into one of the mirrors. Jesus, what a ghost. Her nose was burned. She rubbed the skin loose. She pushed the sports bra strap off her shoulder. The unexposed white was sharply defined. And for sure the girl mustn't keep one’s tittybags on for more than a week surely, an inner voice played her. She pulled the large square plaster from her foot. The abrasion was almost healed, but there was also a white island there. She sighed
"What's wrong with the dancing flame?", said a man’s voice. Chris stood next to the shop floor.
"Today I'm the depressed model," Scarlotte said, happy for the distraction. He sat down on a stool near a sewing machine.
"Why are you nervous then?" he asked, plucking at a piece of embroidery.
"I'm not…" Scarlotte began, then pushed her lips under her nose. She made a funny face and tousled her wild hair.
"I'm going to give someone an idea," she said.
"You can't," Chris said.
"Well, that's why I'm nervous," Scarlotte said.
"Do you know that someone?"
Scarlotte shook her head.
"Does that person know you?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think so."
"Get to know him," Chris said with a smile. She looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Was just a guess,” he said, “rule two is; want nothing. He does the wanting.”
"And rules three, four and seventeen?"
'No,' Chris said, 'that's all there is.'
He looked at her.
"So getting to know and wanting nothing, that's the key," Scarlotte said, nodding.
"Yeah, and wearing some clothing," Rose said, stepping out of the caravan with an armful of outfits.
"Well...," said Chris.
"Get lost," Rose said.
Chris stood up and bowed. “Remember, there are only two options. Straight and open or—” He seized a bow from the spike and in the same motion laid an arrow on it and shot it into the bulletin board behind Scarlotte. She smiled broadly, or go for surprise, she thought.
Rose stood transfixed. Her eyes following the man leaving, “who is that guy?” she asked, dumping the clothes on the table. "He did exactly what I thought."
"Try and shoot me?"
“Yes,” said Rose, “not far off, but more that I wanted to dress you up like Artemis, goddess of the hunt, and the forest and the hills. And archery of course. But a medieval version. A bit like Robin Hood, because she also stole from the rich.”
"I don't steal from the rich."
Rose tilted her head and her lips were tight together.
“You're going to that creep, aren't you? To that Picasso, or what's his name? You just have a soft spot for ancient artists.”
"How do you know about that visit?" Scarlotte asked, blushing a little.
"Well," Rose said conspiratorially, "those older men take their time with you, and I could get used to that."
"Jesus," Scarlotte said, "it’s always about sex with you."
“No definitely not always, just twice a week. And yesterday was the first time. Of this week I mean. With a somewhat older festival organiser.”
Scarlotte opened her mouth and widened her eyes. “Joe?” she whispered.
Rose smiled contentedly and held out a pair of leather pants for her.
Scarlotte felt like a forest nymph. Now her bare feet and dirty nails fit. She was a time traveling fighter. Completely in style. Even her modern underwear had to come off. Only wool, leather, hemp rope and linen. The black alpaca felted hoodie was soft as an ermine. The arrows in the richly decorated quiver had real feathers and mean sharp points and the bow had a proper string.
"Something other than a bag of tampons," Scarlotte said in front of the full-length mirror. "Sick," she said softly.
James almost fell over when he saw her, "I think I'm going to switch to women again," he said, holding open the door for her. The bow barely fit the back seat.
It was almost two hours away. An estate far outside the city. They stopped half a mile away on the grassy soft shoulder. She got out.
"I want to walk the last bit."
She handed back the phone through the open window. "I don't want it," she said.
"Shall I wait for you here?" James asked from the car.
She straightened up, looked around, and shook her head. She sighed and thought. Then sighed one more time.
“No,” she said, putting a hand on James' shoulder, “don't worry, you'll see me again, I'll be fine. Thank you for dropping me off.”
James was about to object, but she turned away resolutely and started walking. Her unstrung bow and quiver slanted over her back. The pouch bag moved rhythmically on her rear.