1001 Nights Cast

Look, I tell you, hardly a day goes by when I’m not assaulted on the street or in the train station foyer by some type of polo-shirt attired, badge or sticker selling panhandler who in their arrogance thinks that I have at least twenty minutes of invariably invaluable personal time to spend listening to their stinking underarm, unshaven, overstated diatribe on the merits of donating my invariably very hard earned samolians, being cash money, to their most probably arcanely run two-bit operation, which are always ‘terribly under-funded’, no doubt because the cause is, I would imagine, spurious to say the least. Generally there’s nothing you can do to get past them when they’re spread out like a front line panzer division across the footpath or whatever. It’s like running a goddamn gauntlet sometimes. I suppose it’s a testament to my regimented facial and skin care regime that I must look so approachable. Perhaps genetics have something to do with it but I prefer to think otherwise.

Still, as if I should get my wallet out just because some pea-brained marsupial is unable to process the fact that a large lump of metal is hurtling towards them at a rate of knots and they can’t figure out how to get their sorry, and if I’m to be convinced, particularly rare and unique, hides out of the way of said hurtling piece of metal, that being if it was my lump of metal, it would be fashioned into the shape of a BMW 360i, before becoming a splatter previously known as an endangered marsupial on a retro influenced designer radiator grill, the remains of which, I would picture, would be fairly difficult to extract. I mean, I bought the BMW 360i for the fact that it has the top of the range brakes and the exhaust emissions are some of the lowest in its class of similarly priced automobiles. So it’s not like I’m not doing my bit. It’s not like I’d intentionally run over the slack-witted critters if I had a choice. I’m not a killer, for God’s sake. I do care. But what am I supposed to do, for these people, who, half the time, and I’m being particularly lenient in my fifty percent assessment, can’t even look you in the eye. Like, isn’t their work meaningful to them? I mean I’m standing right in front of them. They’re asking me for my time, the fucking absolute very least they could do is address me like I matter, that I’m not just another passer-by who looks like a walking automatic cash facility. There is a reason I look like I have money. I take a lot of time to achieve this look, which I’ve noticed that various, in my opinion overpriced, men’s magazines have described as being so close to hip, it could be one half of a Siamese twin. I really can’t see how this analogy—slash—metaphor works in any fundamental sense though. Am I an easy target or just someone who fits their calculated ‘donator profile’?

So the problem this time was that I was assaulted from behind as I was tying my shoelaces, of all actions. A surprise ambush, you’d call it I guess. Well, as if any ambush isn’t a surprise, right? However the voice that met my ears sounded pretty sweet and as I turned my head when finishing off the knot, I noticed the curly blonde hair, which normally I wouldn’t take any notice of, as it’s not my first, or even third preference of hair types for women, but this time I think it, that being her hair, must have been catching the light in an essential manner which distracted me, and so I was off my guard from the start. Only when I stood did I notice the clipboard held in the crook of her left arm. The thorough disgust I felt at being cornered by another environmental charity worker was quickly flushed away by her sunny disposition and perfect teeth. What affected me the most was her ability to engage me as she looked directly at my eyes.

And while I felt this girl, or perhaps I should say more correctly, woman, although to my mind she had all the qualities, if not the height, of an older adolescent female that you would expect, or perhaps you wouldn’t, it hardly matters, while I felt she looked somewhat innocent, I couldn’t help but think that this innocence which seemed to be so acutely projected was only there to cover the fact that she was no doubt so experienced sexually that it was worth listening to her environmentally friendly speech—slash—spiel, if you like, just so when she had finished, while projecting the softest and most caring smile I could muster, I could propose a deal with her where I would donate all the money in my crocodile skin wallet, roughly over $800, if and only if she were to accompany me to dinner that night. Indeed, at first she refused, citing ethical constraints and even when I insisted that the money would only be donated if she agreed, she again refused. Again I insisted, in fact pleaded, that my interests were solely altruistic, and for a third time she refused. She smiled and walked away, only to pause a few paces later, and return to me, an expression of invention on her face.

What if, she noted, she agreed to accompany me and instead I gave the money to her directly as a friend? Then she could donate the money to the organisation herself. What in fact would be the difference?

Illicit thoughts sparkled.

Yes, what in fact would be the difference?