The Arsenal Files 6/The Arsenal Files 6 (Arsenal Computer).ISO/epub/df9601r.zip/DFF

Text File | 1996-01-01 | 10KB | 177 lines

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The Black Pram
  by Eric Dunstan
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  Black!. The average over-the-garden-fence philosopher would
turn round and say. "Hey! Now just a cotton-picken' minute.
Black? It's just not on . . . Why Black?"

  Well why not? It is only the nerds, the so called "er-roo-dite"
who say that black is really an absence of any colour and that its
opposite, white, is a mixture of all colours. Thems that knows,
knows? So it can be said, for starters, that this "colour" is
neither a colour in the true sense, nor is it suitable for prams.
It is only "tra-dit-ion," and perhaps them hot rays of the sun
that says, prams should be white or at least a cream colour. But
this is what made this particular pram "you-nique." It was glossy
black on the outside with thin-lined red and blue trim and big
silver coloured overlapping wheels with white tyres, and an open-
spring system that would make a carriage manufacturer real proud.
It was a Cad-il-lac, the "creme-de-la-creme" of prams and it
belonged to Mary. And Mary was black.

  So, Mary with a pride usually found among young mothers
with their first-born, would nestle the little mulatto, in the
whiteness of the interior lining, stroll among the sorrow of the
street and share with her near neighbours; so that they could goo
and gah, and smile, and wave little handsies, and "chin-chuck,"
and cheek-pinch, and "ditty-ditty", and "Oh isn't she nice?" and
"How old is she?" and "Oh! My! My!" . . . within, and between
each other. The fact there was no dad to accompany the child on
the street rounds on any similar dirt-day, made little difference.
People were used to the "single mamas" in this black "neigh-burr-
hood," and the falsity of their real indifference to another
ghetto new-born -- showed . . . .

  But Mary in her youthful "ex-uber-ence" and simplistic view of
life became careless. She left the baby outside the drugstore on
the corner while she went to get some "form-you-lar." When she
returned both baby and black pram had gone.

  Even the black policemen were reluctant to come to this
part of the ghetto and of all the questions they asked not one
reference was made to the father. Nobody had seen nothin' and
even if they had they would only give the ghetto head shake and
shrug to questions asked by a "po-lees-man." The kidnap case was
reported and indifferently shelved when there was no result after
eight days, but Mary cried for a much longer time, and the "oh-
deary-mes," and "we-help-you-chyl," and "holy-holy-her-daddy-
whoever-he-was-musta-cum-fo-her," . . . from those offering
comfort did very little to help Mary.

  Two boys, Jelop and Joseph, found the black pram under a heap
of old soggy cardboard cartons, down the end of an alley that few,
except for the most brazen of all the street-wise kids, would care
to visit. After a, "Get-your-focking-spik-arse-outa-here-and-
take-that-focking-pram-back-to-wheres-you-got-it." And a, "Me-
and-your-oncle-and-your-muddar-wez-get-some-works-to-do," and a
muffled, "Compree?" came through the slammed door -- type
explanation when they took it home, left the boys in no doubt
their thinking was wrong; and their boxed ears were still ringing
to confirm it. But they continued to scramble the second flight
down when they were called back. They hesitated and looked at one
another, remembering that their ears were still ringing from the
first blows and they were loathe to get more.

  When they returned, they were told to keep the pram and hide it
somewhere safe but in the meantime they were to see Jose and get
him to steal a car big enough to hold the "theeng." The boys did
not understand, but for fear of another beating, did as they were
told.

 Jose read aloud to the boys about the bank robbery and how
three robbers thought to be Hispanic had entered a midtown bank
just on midday and at gunpoint robbed the cashiers of between
$50-$60 thousand dollars, then fled to a big black car and
disappeared. The police were puzzled by the disappearance of both
the money and the robbers and the speed at which the whole event
had occurred. The black car thought to be the getaway car had been
found but it did not lead to anything. But the boys knew. Their
mother had practised walking the black pram up and down the street
for some weeks before the event and it was only one street and an
alley away from the bank. Friend Jose, the boy's papa and uncle
had transferred the money to the pram and mama had casually
wheeled it away while the sirens wailed all around her. The black
pram having served its purpose was dumped uptown in a deserted
ally. And that is where Annie found it.

  There wasn't much to Annie. She was your typical bag-lady,
a scavenger that hummed tunelessly as she walked, and hummed
because she was not one to wash frequently. No one knew much
about the squat shambling figure, where she came from or even
how long she had wandered the town between rubbish tins:  she
was a loner and it was in her liking to be that way. Always
dressed in a man's overcoat and down-at-heel shoes, she would
work the restaurants and bakeries and the hotel rubbish tins for
food or anything that seemed of value. The police knew her and
sometimes spoke to her because she was far from being stupid --
eccentric, yes -- but if you wanted to know something about what
was happening on the "street" you could just, ask Annie, and she
would know.

  The fact that she had swapped a super-market trolley for a far-
from-new black pram did not register in the minds of the policemen
and she continued to walk it and collect her rubbish without being
questioned. And Annie merged with the ambience of the wind-blown,
paper-littered streets that were sometimes corridors of concrete
shadows, to become that familiar figure wandering the town with a
black pram filled with all that she owned and cherished. She became
part of the quality of the streets -- the life-blood and character,
and one day, without her knowing, she also became the subject of a
photograph.

  But they all mourned for her when they found that she had been
killed by a hit and run driver; the fancy restaurateurs who left
the odd plate for her; the bakers of the fine french bread who
left her yesterday's stale; the policeman who respected her for
her street eyes and ears; and the street kids who frequently teased
her about the baby she didn't have in her old black pram. But it
was a yesterday's event that is forgotten tomorrow, and they took
Annie without ceremony to the morgue to await a nothing grave,
and a little further on, the pram filled with its aluminium cans,
bottles, rags, old buttons and a few coins was tossed ignominiously
to the dump. Both, it seemed had served little useful purpose.

                               *  *  *

  It was called "The Gallery" and it was filled with the uptown
yuppies with their cellphones ringing indifferently from their
pockets and the gaggle of finery-bedecked women with crooked
little fingers and hour-glass bodies and sparkling slippers that
had just walked off a cat-walk, and bubbling champagne at $120 a
bottle, and an insincerity that drooled down the walls and into
the street where the chauffeurs waited in their shiny black
limousines . . . . And interspersed with the moneyed zoo was the
ingenuousness of the five finalists who talked amongst themselves
quietly and held themselves aloofly from the pain-in-the-arse
babblers. They knew why they were there and wandered together as
a group around the rooms inspecting and admiring the great beauty
of the black and white prints. Each had submitted prints, and the
overseas judges had reached their decision.

  The third prize was awarded to a print of a young black baby
sitting on a man's knee with the afternoon sun casting soft shadow
into a dingy one-room apartment highlighting the character of a
strong yet rather sad Spanish face. It was called "Mary's Child in
The Sun." The second prize awarded to one showing a back view of
an old lady in an ankle length coat and turned-over shoes. She was
leaning forward away from the camera and may have been pushing a
pram or trolley, titled "The Bag Lady." The winning picture was
that of a discarded pram thrown carelessly into a dump and hinting
at a wealth of secrets which assured the viewer that it *must* have
had a history. It was called the "Black Pram" and all who studied
it wondered . . . .

                           (DREAM FORGE)

Copyright 1996 Eric Dunstan, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Born in New Zealand closer to 100 than 50 years ago. University with
Physics and Maths. Merchant seaman (engineer) working mainly South
America, East coast of North America, and Pacific Islands. He likes
giving essence and flavour to short stories & poetry; published by
small press in Canada, UK and Australasia under various pseudos.
He's won various prizes. Loves: wife; kids; animals; life; trees;
women; New Zealand; 30 foot putts; wine; music; women; writing;
computer; laughing - and did I mention women? And refuse to give
up on any of the above. Hate TV crap; nuclear testing; war; inane
government thinking; un-environmentalists; boring conversation;
yuppies who can't get it right; and rejection slip wallpaper.
Email:  [e-mail]
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