Petal Pusher by Laurie Lindeen

Author:Laurie Lindeen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2007-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

FOR the next five days, the number of days that must pass before we have a gig, Co and I wander the streets of London together. Because we are sullen and bitchy, Linda hangs out primarily with Jimmy, which I think she wants to do anyway. Much has been made of English cuisine, or the lack thereof. The dairy is sour and clotty, the meat is based on internal organs, and there’s no evidence of produce anywhere in our wanderings. There are no “ripe strawberries, ripe” being offered by singing turn-of-

the-century farm girls in crisply ironed aprons. My internalizing of musicals-as-reality has dealt me another staggering blow; this is nothing like Mary Poppins, either. We draw nourishment from bottled water, too-strong beer, and Cadbury’s Fruit ’n’ Nut chocolate bars, rationalizing that all food groups are being represented.

Poverty makes the sights, the museums, and even public transportation out of our realm. Because we are next to Scotland Yard, we watch the changing of the guard several times and listen for Big Ben’s toll, but he’s broken. We walk through the free part of Westminster Abbey, and stroll along the banks of the dirty old river. It’s wet and chilly, which feels worse when you’re sad and tired.

It’s Christmastime; there are shoppers, decorations, and merrymaking everywhere you look. There’s feasting in restaurants behind steamed-up windows and lavish bakery displays in storefront windows. Co and I are like paupers peering into windows, longingly salivating for food, glorious food. “They’re probably eating kidney pie,” Co reminds me.

In the pub, we witness on a daily basis vicious barroom brawls that feature head butts, shoves, grabbed lapels, and blind swings. I’m no stranger to day drinking in a bar, but I’ve never witnessed casual flesh-on-flesh physical violence. I blame the strength of the beer. Everyone around us acts like these fights are boring daily occurrences; no one seems rankled by these incidents except Co and me.

We take to hanging out in our barren room, writing letters and postcards, sneaking in and out. I feel like Anne Frank without the serious life-threatening horror. I identify on the level of being holed up in a room, being extraquiet, fearful that the spooky bar employee from Transylvania (I kid you not) will catch us, which in turn will force Tom and his family into involuntary immigration and a life of poverty.

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