Page 13 of Pride
Instead, I stood there with my jumbled thoughts, wondering what the fuck had just happened. And why a man like him had taken the time to get to know me tonight, handed me a flower, and fucked with my head.
I slid the peony inside my handbag and put my bag on the floor. Then I glanced around, discreetly trying to find Alex in the crowd, but I couldn’t see him.
Would I ever see him again?
The lights began to dim, then everything went dark as the crowd hummed with excitement. There was a blue velvet curtain hanging about ten metres high, covering one corner of the courtyard, and a spotlight fell on that curtain, catching all our attention.
Staccato piano notes began to play. The abrupt, sharp sound coming from the speakers set up around the courtyard grabbedall our attention. All chatter subsided, and everyone turned to face the velvet curtain, bristling with anticipation.
Each beat of the piano chord seemed to vibrate right through me, waking my soul as I stared intently at that spotlight. And then, it stopped, and a gentle rhythm from a guitar began to play as the curtain slowly opened to reveal a tall, brick wall. Our focus wasn’t on that dark wall, though; it was on the man who stood on it, wearing a blue boiler suit, with a cloth sack over his head to hide his identity, secured in place with a thick rope around his neck. He looked like a character from a horror movie. His arms hung limply at his sides, and he wore black leather gloves to cover his hands. But he stood still, waiting as we watched with bated breath.
And then, his voice reverberated around the courtyard. An electronic voice.
He was using a voice changer.
“Pride,” he stated loudly. “What does it mean?”
Then he stood like a conductor with his arms outstretched in front of his captive audience, that acted as his orchestra, with their rapt stares and gasps of awe as he began to perform his art.
“What does it mean?
In this sacred world that’s always chasing the green.
What is it that makes us proud, I ask.
Is it the things, the thoughts, the words, the tasks?
Is it the mansion you bought with your hard-earned cash?
The way you thrived through that stock market crash?
Or the car you drive?
The holiday you took?
Sitting in first-class reading your pretentious book.
Watching the workers slaving away.
Making sure that yours is the better day.
Better than theirs because you have more.
Take pride in your place, son.
You know the score.
More.
More.
More.
More.
Is there pride in flying high?”
He tilted his head up, then looked down to the ground.
