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By the same author
Swallowing Film: Short Film Fiction
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Didn’t it matter that wet swathes showed through her brand spanking skirt and Dior? Didn’t she care that salt water had dissolved powder, rouge, Diamante mascara? These questions I ask for the benefit of setting the scene and come up with the demonstrative: “No, she did not!”
Bather wet and with eyes blacked up like an opossum’s, Daffodil Rosa strode forward with a partly-formed purpose in mind. She paused only once, at the window of Yo’s Light and Electrical, where crowds in those days still gathered daily, Ha Ha! and Did you see that!, blocking the footpath, and she pushed her way forward to see behind glass and the most beautiful “Terms Available,” tele-vision. TV so new that it was diapered in tickets and tickertape “Wow!” “Gee!” in the convivial script of Mr. Yo himself “Bigtime Happening!” (for Yo, with his squiggles and squirls, would one day demonstrate to baby Maxim how a tele-vision might be mistaken, in some instances, for a close personal friend). On the TV, Miss Lucille Ball and Mr. Desi Arnaz saying “Some fellows here from Cuba, Ricky.” “Arrr Cubana! Swell!” respectively in a cabinet with speakers the size of the well respected Caddie convertible. Television which stopped workmen building the Kuringai Expressway and caused the government to issue the health warning: ‘No box during smoko!’ Maxim’s mother was not interested. . . . Or did not know herself interested; because, she said: “Pollytics, babe, means nothing to me.” and maybe the S.S. Iron Monarch was steaming toward us with four government tugs joggling beside its tremendous hull and the captain having instructions to assay ore for the making of seven million Singer sewing machines, two hundred Austin cars, five dozen Humber bridges . . . She noticed none of it, being beyond the airwaves of The George Jessel Show and The Circuit Rider and the silver airliner of Imperial Airways with faces framed in the portholes.
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