First Attempt - Angela
Not completely sure what I'm doing, but so far it hasn't made any objections. So I thought I'd chuck up an old story and see how that works:
ANGELA
Angela strides between the racks of clothing heading for the make-up counter. A ribbon of Gala de Dia follows her like a devoted puppy. Small children stop to stare, thumbs edging into slack mouths. Scowling wives elbow and prod husbands, keen to regain fickle attention. Angela smiles her perfect smile and nods graciously at her audience, a vision in white and gold caught in the spotlight of their adoration.
Nearing her goal, Angela flicks heavy curls aside and adjusts the tiny pill-box hat just so much before entering the killing zone. The waiting shark-pack slowly circles its territory, unsure whether prey or predator approaches. Red claws tap Morse warning signals on autumn colour charts. Plucked nostrils twitch, sampling the air for weak spots - last year’s fragrance, or, heaven forbid, body odour. Stiletto eyes scan and probe, seeking lipstick smudge or foundation build-up.
Angela is unconcerned. She has the purity of youth on her side. Her meat is too fresh for the feast, her presentation, flawless. She coos happily at the uneasy masks.
“Hullo! I’m Angela! Would you be so kind as to direct me in the direction of the floor-manager’s office? That would be ever so kind.”
Pointed traffic-lights of vermilion, scarlet and fuchsia indicate the far corner of the room, past hosiery and night-wear. Angela flashes amethyst-eyed gratitude, teetering momentarily and laughing as she adjusts her course. Lurking behind dressing gowns she finds a door in the plaster-board wall. She runs a candy-pink nail along gold writing.
“Mrs. Myers. That’s her!” She taps on the corrugated glass twice, then once more for luck. A blur rises inside and moves towards the door.
The woman is in her forties. Tall and friendly in appearance, her face creases into a puzzled frown as she stands, holding the door open.
“Can I be of some assistance?”
“Mrs. Myers?” The woman nods and Angela giggles, “Yes, of course you’re Mrs. Myers. That’s what it says on the door, doesn’t it. I’m Angela.”
“Angela?”
“Yes, Angela.”
“Uh, yes, that’s very nice miss, but what exactly do you want with me?”
Angela shrieks and covers her mouth with happy embarrassment.
“Oh, I am just so-o-o stupid sometimes. I thought they’d told you, but obviously they haven’t. I am so-o-o sorry. I’m Angela Withers. They sent me up from human resources. I’m the new hygiene operative. Duh, forget my own head if it wasn’t, you know.”
The woman lifts the tortoiseshell glasses hanging from her neck and inspects Angela. She takes in the faux-Chanel suit, the PVC disco boots and the shell clasp-purse on its snake chain.
“You’d better come in. You know, you’re not exactly dressed how I’d expect a cleaner to dress.”
“Well, you know, I did think about maybe a little denim shirt knotted under my boobs, and possibly high-cut jeans and a bandana.” Angela admires the uncluttered simplicity of the tiny office, but feels the chair may be a little unhygienic, so remains standing as Mrs. Myers closes the door. “But then again, I thought, what if I have to stand in for somebody who’s sick or ill or just off. It wouldn’t look right, would it? And anyway, there’s bound to be some kind of uniform, yes?”
“Well yes there is.” Mrs. Myers indicates a shapeless brown and white checked thing hanging next to the filing cabinet. Angela follows her finger and bites her lip.
“Ewww.”
“But why would you think you’d have to stand in for someone?”
“Yes, well, the way I see it - please sit down, don’t mind me, I’m just so very excited about having this opportunity and can’t wait to get started - but like I said, the way I see it is you’ll never get on unless you’re prepared, and my mum always told me that starting at the bottom the only way up is up, if you see what I mean and anyway you never know when somebody’s going to get the flu or get stuck at Malaga airport and I’m really keen to do well and it’s an opportunity, isn’t it.”
Mrs. Myers sits down hard in her chair. “Well, yes, I suppose it is.”
“Oh, I so knew you’d agree. I’m going to be so happy here, and we’re going to be the very, very best of friends.”
Angela spins, arms out, eyes to the heavens. The dingy room blazes with white and gold light.
ANGELA
Angela strides between the racks of clothing heading for the make-up counter. A ribbon of Gala de Dia follows her like a devoted puppy. Small children stop to stare, thumbs edging into slack mouths. Scowling wives elbow and prod husbands, keen to regain fickle attention. Angela smiles her perfect smile and nods graciously at her audience, a vision in white and gold caught in the spotlight of their adoration.
Nearing her goal, Angela flicks heavy curls aside and adjusts the tiny pill-box hat just so much before entering the killing zone. The waiting shark-pack slowly circles its territory, unsure whether prey or predator approaches. Red claws tap Morse warning signals on autumn colour charts. Plucked nostrils twitch, sampling the air for weak spots - last year’s fragrance, or, heaven forbid, body odour. Stiletto eyes scan and probe, seeking lipstick smudge or foundation build-up.
Angela is unconcerned. She has the purity of youth on her side. Her meat is too fresh for the feast, her presentation, flawless. She coos happily at the uneasy masks.
“Hullo! I’m Angela! Would you be so kind as to direct me in the direction of the floor-manager’s office? That would be ever so kind.”
Pointed traffic-lights of vermilion, scarlet and fuchsia indicate the far corner of the room, past hosiery and night-wear. Angela flashes amethyst-eyed gratitude, teetering momentarily and laughing as she adjusts her course. Lurking behind dressing gowns she finds a door in the plaster-board wall. She runs a candy-pink nail along gold writing.
“Mrs. Myers. That’s her!” She taps on the corrugated glass twice, then once more for luck. A blur rises inside and moves towards the door.
The woman is in her forties. Tall and friendly in appearance, her face creases into a puzzled frown as she stands, holding the door open.
“Can I be of some assistance?”
“Mrs. Myers?” The woman nods and Angela giggles, “Yes, of course you’re Mrs. Myers. That’s what it says on the door, doesn’t it. I’m Angela.”
“Angela?”
“Yes, Angela.”
“Uh, yes, that’s very nice miss, but what exactly do you want with me?”
Angela shrieks and covers her mouth with happy embarrassment.
“Oh, I am just so-o-o stupid sometimes. I thought they’d told you, but obviously they haven’t. I am so-o-o sorry. I’m Angela Withers. They sent me up from human resources. I’m the new hygiene operative. Duh, forget my own head if it wasn’t, you know.”
The woman lifts the tortoiseshell glasses hanging from her neck and inspects Angela. She takes in the faux-Chanel suit, the PVC disco boots and the shell clasp-purse on its snake chain.
“You’d better come in. You know, you’re not exactly dressed how I’d expect a cleaner to dress.”
“Well, you know, I did think about maybe a little denim shirt knotted under my boobs, and possibly high-cut jeans and a bandana.” Angela admires the uncluttered simplicity of the tiny office, but feels the chair may be a little unhygienic, so remains standing as Mrs. Myers closes the door. “But then again, I thought, what if I have to stand in for somebody who’s sick or ill or just off. It wouldn’t look right, would it? And anyway, there’s bound to be some kind of uniform, yes?”
“Well yes there is.” Mrs. Myers indicates a shapeless brown and white checked thing hanging next to the filing cabinet. Angela follows her finger and bites her lip.
“Ewww.”
“But why would you think you’d have to stand in for someone?”
“Yes, well, the way I see it - please sit down, don’t mind me, I’m just so very excited about having this opportunity and can’t wait to get started - but like I said, the way I see it is you’ll never get on unless you’re prepared, and my mum always told me that starting at the bottom the only way up is up, if you see what I mean and anyway you never know when somebody’s going to get the flu or get stuck at Malaga airport and I’m really keen to do well and it’s an opportunity, isn’t it.”
Mrs. Myers sits down hard in her chair. “Well, yes, I suppose it is.”
“Oh, I so knew you’d agree. I’m going to be so happy here, and we’re going to be the very, very best of friends.”
Angela spins, arms out, eyes to the heavens. The dingy room blazes with white and gold light.
posted by Grendel at 9:04 AM
1 Comments:
Just saw your picture. Was that taken when you went to watch the football in Paris last week? I always picture you a little taller.
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