BS: Toby Day Afternoon

Subject: BS: Toby Day Afternoon
From: The Fooles Troupe
Date: 27 Sep 03 - 11:38 AM

Toby Day Afternoon, or Babel in a Miner Quay.

The demons always come in the afternoon. At least, I mean, the Demon, for 'tis but One in many disguises. And always in the White Room, by The Station, with Black Curtains.

I am not mad. Just crazy, say the doctors.

We all have our own Cute Demon. He knows all our soft weaknesses. We all have our own Private White Room. With Flush Curtains. And Black Lace trimmings.

Purple lilac fragrance wafts by my nostrils. I am not crazy, just sane in a different way. A Better Way, my friend. A new plan. A Revolution. In thinking, at least.

But back to my story. Just relax until the guard strolls by. He is a nice guard, as guards go, and have I seen guards go! And come!

Dali said that the difference between him and a madman was that he - Dali that is - was not mad. But is he now?

The Man in White finishes his rounds. The Demon perches on my shoulder. He tries to sell me Eternal Apples, Amplified Hate, and Pressed Rat's collection of dog legs and feet. I buy a set of dog's feet. I conceal them behind the speaker box. It slides up the wall. It reveals the stash of lithium and Lord knows what I will do tomorrow. I spit out every day and keep hidden lest I am insane. Demonic Warthog knows my secret. He and I and Brave Ulysses play tennis triples.

I look at my watch. It has melted again. The little men are running anticlockwise on my wrist. I shake them off and they tumble to the floor. Make tiny "eek eek" noises as they fall. Even tinier splats. I mark the spots with blood-red Sharpie[tm] marker. I draw the curtains - for they are not real.

But back to my story. Toby the dog comes out from behind the couch. Sniffs carefully at the spots. Lifts his leg against the table. Wish I could do that.

A tiny firetruck dashes out from under my cuff. Skids to a halt at the base of my index finger. In the room the ugly women come and go, whisperingring - that'll be the phone - of another Michelangelo.

But back to my story. My back gives me curry at times. Without it I starve for affection. Toby the tiny firetruck pisses against the table leg. I wish I could do that.

The Demon is back. He is up front this time about his Amplified Hate. I pretend I want some Eternal Apples. He says he is out. I say he is in, for I can see him. I never liked Arthur anyway. Nor his Port. Nor his Snort. Nor his Tort. Nor his shorts.

I lie down for a while and feel beter. Don't need their pills. Feel all right left right left right out of breath. Sit up. Deep breath. I am safe in here. Except for the Demon. But he will not really hurt me. He needs me. My demon.

But back to my story. The Demon says he is Michelangelo today. I knew him once. Not twice, just the once. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away. And they all lived happily ever after. So they said.

Thirty something it was. I never liked Arthur anyway. Nor his Port. Walk around the White Room. Can not look out the window. The curtains are drawn, not real. Not really. Not really there. Not here. Tiny Toby makes tiny "eek eek" noises, like he isn't there. Like the man on the stair. With the long yellow hair.

The Demon is pushing his Amplified Hate again. I tell him I already have a large stock and he laughs. Offers me a special once in a life time discount. I tell him to push his pram elswhere. Says he can't cause the wheels fell off. Wheel deal me some Eternal Apples then, I say. No way son. No Deal. No Wheel. For real.

But back to my story. My watch has heeled over. It ticks again. The smooth purring of well oiled gears, meshing wildly but earnestly. I can almost tell the time now. Only the hands are blurred. Toby Tiny wishes he could do that. So does Brave Ulysses. Of course Demonic Warthog pretends he does not. But I know their inner thoughts. They are mine. Mine. All the time. All the tiny men.

I stroll casually over to the stressed window. With pressed curtains. There is still no view to be seen. Nothing on today. Should get another channel. Another real channel. The Reality Channel. The Wheel Channel. Weal he. Mealy biscuits for lunch with raspberry cordial. My favourite. The cordial I mean.

Pressed Rat with his brown hat turns up. This is a turn up for the books I say. Good day, he say. Big selection from my collection today. Dog's feet today. Toady. Toby the dog comes out from benind the couch and makes tiny "eek eek" noises. He is upset about the dog's feet collection selection. He wants bigger ones. We all want bigger ones. They always want to make you get bigger ones. Why do you only have small ones I say?

I say, I say, I say. Did you hear the one about the barmaid with the tiny tray? Couldn't put it down he say. Bully him to show me some larger ones. Got them on another tray he say. Can't get them here today. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow. To borrow, to burrow. Tomorrow never comes. Sorrow tomorrow. Stay in today. Toady. Won't toady today. Toady tomorrow, if it comes to that. If it comes. Tomorrow. No way today Toady. Toby waits for tomorrow with bated breath.

The others make shuffling sounds, snorting about, dust busters patting their pillows, blasting mote mites. The hunkers blast a two-by-two on the fog horn. Dust motes swirl before my eyes. Blast past, very fast mites.

A naked ape trills exoticly on the bowsprint and Lewis Carroll is panicking with pureed Alice. The Demon is picknicking with unabated Joy. It is a cheerful night today and the dentist picks his nose. The Demon has confiscated the fog horn.

Pressed Rat is working the drag queens for bloody marys. Bullies them to show him some larger ones. Toby is wearing tinsel and innumerable battery-powered lights. Joy makes some more tiny "eek eek" noises. The dentist says to open wider.

But three pm comes and goes and still not a child is about. Just a purged Alice. Alice now has Joy in an unbreakable headlock. Unexpurgated Joy. Joy with her two-by four. Both on the bedroom floor.

I check behind the speaker box again. The lithium is still there. With the hare. Brave Warthog knows my secret. His hares stand on end. But he won't lend. I check it several times a day, just to be sure, to be sure, to be sure. And I won't bend. Never mend.

Never mind. What is mind? Is mind because of brain? If one is out of mind, is one still in brain? Such pain again. On the Train again. In the White Room, by The Station, with Black Curtains. But the curtains are drawn, not real. Not really there.

I round up all the stray extra characters and put them back in their little boxes. Little boxes. All made out of... No! Must not go down that road again! That is why I am here. The Demon says I can stay as long as I like. But I don't like Pressed Warthog with his box of shocks. Or his purple socks.


... To be Continued ...