Also written for Mark’s blog:
You are leaving the American sector? Christ, that didn’t look familiar. I look about. The world is dreary like the inside of a whale gut and it doesn’t smell much better either. Or perhaps that smell is me. I lift my arm and have a whiff of my armpits. Oh yeah, ripe. I run my tongue into my armpit hair, taste sweat (obviously) and funnily enough, curry powder.
The curry powder. Of course.
Curry has a displacing effect on me. As a twelve year old it had started when I bit into a curried egg sandwich that knocked me into the middle of next Wednesday. I was standing in my kitchen one minute, and then I was in front of my class, spluttering a mouthful of egg. The class exploded colourfully, every child jumped up, except for one: that little boy in the back who had known, dreaded, that this moment was coming.
Time displacement is difficult to explain so it was with a fair measure of relief that the symptoms of my curry powder allergy shifted to geographical displacement.
It had actually been beneficial. I’d just get to wherever I was going quicker. When I got married, I was displaced from my plane and met my wife at the Charles De Gualle airport with some hastily purchased flowers, and a baguette.
But the symptoms, like my wife, left. I hadn’t been displaced in, shit, I guess twelve years.
You are leaving the American sector?
The pub that I was walking out of when I displaced was full of stale beer, stale cigarette smoke, stale humans. I was turning grey, as grey as this place and I was getting used to the idea you know? It seemed like a slow, boring, harmless death. I’d accepted it.
But that sign, the warning it tries to impart upon me, has the opposite effect. The grey can’t get to me now. The colour is returning to my tar stained fingertips, they dance frenetically over each other like an upturned classroom of twelve year olds.
I’m going to die here. Bring it on.