The girl next door
Right beside the gates to my dormitory is a small shack from where I buy my out-of-date Suntory when my beer stocks runs low, and the kids buy their lollipops, popping candy and pigs ears after a long arduous day of schooling. The girl who, along with her father, runs this operation, is one of the most eminently sweet creatures I have ever beholden. Always well dressed like some kind of Swedish indie-elf, she'll shyly serve me my three or four bottles of pijiu. I would often wonder what she did with her spare time - does she go to school? college? have a family of her own?. The only time I ever saw her outside of the stall was when she strayed out of it to buy some spunk-apples from a passing confectioner.
It was for my good friend Jon to, as he often does in all seemingly innocuous situations, spot the true horror of the girl's condition.
We used to tease Jon with the moniker 'slightly racist Jon', not really because he's a racist (though he may be a closet racist - you never can tell!), but, looking back, because of his cutting observations. That these observations were invariably about this strange new land is probably what lead to the nickname, and merciless teasing. Though I suspect that a good deal of Jon's cynicism was built upon this kind of treatment during his childhood, conditioning him into his current cynical ways and that he revels in it.
But the point is, I'm thinking his new tightly should be 'fairly observant Jon'. On the same trip, it was Jon who pointed out that my favourite pet shop "Happy Spirit Pets" was actually called "Happy Spirts Pets", thereby trumping my funny observation with an even more humorous one, and also casting doubt on my previous career which consisted in a large part of preofessional proof reading.
That's the multi-faceted kick-in-the-nuts you can expect when you're out-observationed by fairly observational Jon!
And, while being served by the girl's father at the tiny little store, it was fairly observant Jon who noticed that within the heap of rugs, blankets and rags beneath the side counter was the sleeping form of the girl. Could she have been so tired that she'd decided to crawl under there for a quick doze, before returning to her four bedroom, two-garage house in whatever the Shanghai equivalent of the Hamptons is?
No, much future observation by mine own eyes confirmed the truth: that the 7'x5' flimsy uninsulated tin shack serves as the permanent dwelling place of the girl. As to her father, I am unsure, but it would make sense, I suppose.
She has a TV, and there's a small area behind the back wall (I'm guessing, from further observation) which can't be much wider than a svelt man where they can probably brew tea and things. But how does she manage to stay looking so good. And being so humbly cheerful and smiley all the time!?
Anyway, I have made it my life's mission that, if I ever find myself in a position to be able to do so, I will return to this little shack decades from now, stepping from the doors of my private helicopter, monacle to my eye, coat-tails flapping in the breeze, stride up to the shack, tap on the window with my faux-ivory cane, and present the young girl with a fully-paid scholarship to an ivy league university of her choice.
That she'll be around 45 by then, wizened and mentally deficient after years spent imprisoned in a rickety shack and lack any of the mental, social or linguistic skills to ever hope to make anything of such a wonderful opportunity is by-the-by. Because for me to ever be able to offer anyone such a gift would require hard work, perseverance and ambition on my part. And that isn't going to happen.
Maybe I should just ask her for tips on successful shack-operating.
Right beside the gates to my dormitory is a small shack from where I buy my out-of-date Suntory when my beer stocks runs low, and the kids buy their lollipops, popping candy and pigs ears after a long arduous day of schooling. The girl who, along with her father, runs this operation, is one of the most eminently sweet creatures I have ever beholden. Always well dressed like some kind of Swedish indie-elf, she'll shyly serve me my three or four bottles of pijiu. I would often wonder what she did with her spare time - does she go to school? college? have a family of her own?. The only time I ever saw her outside of the stall was when she strayed out of it to buy some spunk-apples from a passing confectioner.
It was for my good friend Jon to, as he often does in all seemingly innocuous situations, spot the true horror of the girl's condition.
We used to tease Jon with the moniker 'slightly racist Jon', not really because he's a racist (though he may be a closet racist - you never can tell!), but, looking back, because of his cutting observations. That these observations were invariably about this strange new land is probably what lead to the nickname, and merciless teasing. Though I suspect that a good deal of Jon's cynicism was built upon this kind of treatment during his childhood, conditioning him into his current cynical ways and that he revels in it.
But the point is, I'm thinking his new tightly should be 'fairly observant Jon'. On the same trip, it was Jon who pointed out that my favourite pet shop "Happy Spirit Pets" was actually called "Happy Spirts Pets", thereby trumping my funny observation with an even more humorous one, and also casting doubt on my previous career which consisted in a large part of preofessional proof reading.
That's the multi-faceted kick-in-the-nuts you can expect when you're out-observationed by fairly observational Jon!
And, while being served by the girl's father at the tiny little store, it was fairly observant Jon who noticed that within the heap of rugs, blankets and rags beneath the side counter was the sleeping form of the girl. Could she have been so tired that she'd decided to crawl under there for a quick doze, before returning to her four bedroom, two-garage house in whatever the Shanghai equivalent of the Hamptons is?
No, much future observation by mine own eyes confirmed the truth: that the 7'x5' flimsy uninsulated tin shack serves as the permanent dwelling place of the girl. As to her father, I am unsure, but it would make sense, I suppose.
She has a TV, and there's a small area behind the back wall (I'm guessing, from further observation) which can't be much wider than a svelt man where they can probably brew tea and things. But how does she manage to stay looking so good. And being so humbly cheerful and smiley all the time!?
Anyway, I have made it my life's mission that, if I ever find myself in a position to be able to do so, I will return to this little shack decades from now, stepping from the doors of my private helicopter, monacle to my eye, coat-tails flapping in the breeze, stride up to the shack, tap on the window with my faux-ivory cane, and present the young girl with a fully-paid scholarship to an ivy league university of her choice.
That she'll be around 45 by then, wizened and mentally deficient after years spent imprisoned in a rickety shack and lack any of the mental, social or linguistic skills to ever hope to make anything of such a wonderful opportunity is by-the-by. Because for me to ever be able to offer anyone such a gift would require hard work, perseverance and ambition on my part. And that isn't going to happen.
Maybe I should just ask her for tips on successful shack-operating.
posted by Monadic Flaccidity Complex at 9:59 am
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