A Short Story

By J.R. Reid

At The time it had seemed quite a reasonable thing to do. Rather beneficial in fact. But, of course, you can never really tell, can you? It is so easy to make a decision which seems perfectly adequate at the time, but subsequent events, as well as hindsight, may very well prove the original decision to be quite wrong.

This is how the whole thing started: I was standing on the corner of our street one warm Saturday morning, feeling very happy with the current state of stability in the sausage market, when a car came hurtling full tilt around the corner. I received a considerable shock, for I had been deeply involved in my reverie and had barely enough time to hop out of the way. Not that I was really in danger of being run over, but it is a comfort to take a positive and realistic safety measure in such a situation, don't you agree? Like diving under your bed if a severe earthquake should strike in the night. (That's if your Mummy hasn't tucked you in too tightly, of course.) At any rate, I took my hop and a step backwards and staggered. In the heat of such intense activitv it is all too easy to forget one's duffle bag lying on the ground ever so close beside. "Curse it," I muttered, remembering in the nick of time that at that moment I just might have been the subject of a Candid Camera trick. ( wholesale American programme.)

My precipitate action and its unfortunate consequence did not go unheeded. Admittedly I probably could easily have retained my balance and stayed on my feet. But a fellow like me, who has been round the block a few times and has a highly-developed sense of the dramatic, learns to exploit such situations to considerable advantage. He uses his nut. So I fell over with a swoop and roll. (Don't ask me how one accomplishes such a manoeuvre; I used this dashing little phrase merely for its aesthetic value.) Swoop and roll is of course the masculine equivalent of fling and totter: s&r is coasidered a trifle inelegant for ladies, except in gymnasiums. The apparent helplessness conveyed by the f&t is an irresistible summons for any young gentleman of heart. If he is dashing, he will no doubt reach her before she falls.

As it turned out, my s&r was no mere mechanical trick. The car pulled up. The door of the dark red Rover 2000 opened and out stepped a honey blonde. (I might equally have said a "blonde honey".) She came rushing with dainty steps. "Are you all right?" she called. Actually I got the vague impressions that if anything had been really wrong with me, she would have been quite at a loss to know how to deal with it. This was no doubt due to an unaccustomed switching of the roles of rescuer and rescued. Ah, what a doleful burden our womenfolk have to bear in these heady days of emancipation! Still I suppose she could always have made soothing mother noises and asked me what she ought to have done. A kissing-it-better would certainly not have gone awry—well, probably wouldn't have gone awry!

In the event, I assured her that I was quite all right. "No broken bones, I hope," said I, grinning mildly.

"What do you mean, you hope?' said she, anxiously scanning my frame for any signs of a protruding fibula or a grievously fractured metacarpal.

I further assured her that I was only joking, and added that I was prone to use dazzling little witty comments in my conversation. She smiled a little vaguely at this and, turning away, said, "Oh well, that's all right then."

I somehow felt I was being cheated of something, Be bold and calculating, I advised myself. It was desperately easy really.

"That's a nice car you've got there," I commented loudly, for my rapid meditations hadn't left me any closer to me. Stall, stall, gain extensions and play the advantage, I said to myself (rather mixing my metaphors, I'm afraid).

"Oh ..... yes, isn't it;" She recovered from the initial surprise, covering up with a flashy smile. I hoped that I looked decent and respectable enough to warrant a little more than strained courtesy.

She had stopped and turned and was now standing rather awkwardly, expectant. The offer did not come, so I proposed it myself.

Another young lad, a good deal fresher than I, might well have asked straight out for a ride (to visit his ailing aunt in Myrtleberry Avenue). However my frank assessment of the situation counselled caution. You can push things too far with these honey blondes, you know.

Well, I can tell you, she really had the whole works. So did the car, of course. Corgeous blue-dyed sheepskins draped themselves over the front bucket seats in demure luxury. There was all that glowy wood panelling which so distinguishes Mother Britain's custom-built saloons.

(In the interests of historical accuracy, it is perhaps pertinent to mention at this point that I wrote this last sentence in good faith and in full flush of youthful toiletry. A prying check that I mounted recently on a stray Rover 2000 reveals some grounds for disputing the wood panelling bit. If this imaginative reference has caused any inconvenience, I can only say, with apologies to Edgar Barnes and others, "Sincere regrets.")

What about those smooth headrests that the best people are installing these days, and those reel-type seatbelts which allow you to move about without undue restriction. Th dashboard was just studded with intriguing knobs and switches for which my fingers itched. I couldn't see the cocktail cabinet, but naturally such sophistications are not for open exhibition, are they?

Taken all round it was pretty hot stuff. That's how I like my cars to be: sexy, but commercial. Now don't get me wrong, I am not suggesting that my honey blonde was cheap, mind.

And somehow (how, I cannot imagine, so I'll skip the details, which would probably be terribly sordid anyway) I found myself driving off with Honey Blonde, a veritable wolf in sheep's clothing. She chatted warily, keeping her distance. I was content to sit and let the world glide by. I could have stayed riding along for the rest of my days —although the way she was fugging up the atmosphere with Consulates was likely to have a terminal effect on me. Then it all happened. That bloody maniac came careering out from the side-street, lammed into us with considerable verve and all but turned me into an instant stiff. There was a rather ugly graunching of metal which was offset by the shock-ridden siren in Honey Blonde's throat. Our safety-belt reels locked obediently (Cod knows why we'd done them up). We endured a moment of shuddering unreality, wondering if these were our last mortal moments. Sharp stabbings and imprecise throbbings ran through me in discord. "There'll be all hell to pay for this," I remember thinking boldly as I slipped into my coma.

So here I am three months later with shattered limbs, stitched and plastered and pinned together like a bloody emaciated cripple. Me! incapacitated! It's just not possible. Quite alien to any motion of inherent superiority. I've had every kindness and consideration, but where does that leave me? I am utterly pissed off. Naturally I have my claim in for damages but it'll be years before I can wring any money out of him, Just wait till I can lay my hands on that bastard!

And the honey blonde, what about her? Well, she got off quite lightly; in fact she is already up and about. She comes along and visits me occasionally, as decency and respectability require. But you certainly won't catch me out driving with her again, even though her Daddy has just brought her a brand-new dark red Hover 2000 complete with gorgeous sheepskins, glowy wood panelling, smooth headrests and reel-type seatbelts.