

Ian Firla - Parkdale Angel




          Chameleon phased yet again.  Absorbing the grain of the
stucco wall, he took on the tone of the local grime.  Invisible
now, he watched.

          Disturbed faces strolled by.  A man's nervous twitch
rippled through his beard before melding in the wrinkles around his
dark eyes.  A prostitute straightened her skirt, but judging by her
features, not her mind.

          Nothing shook Chameleon's disguise.  Chameleon was
invulnerable; this street would not penetrate his armour.  A
druggie, a wino, a pimp, he could absorb and become all.  He played
the role of a convict once, while hanging out at a dockside bar. 
He had told everyone, with pride, how he could slit a throat and
read his own future from the pattern of spilt blood.

          From the distance, a beautiful girl waltzed towards him. 
Her perfectly blond hair streaming behind.  Her open white blouse
buttoned down to reveal a soft cleavage; tempting as a shot of
Vodka to a recovering alcoholic.  So tempting.... Her unblemished 
fingers caressed an unlit cigarette, its fate so tenuous in the 
presence of a flame.

          He looked at her long smooth legs swinging from a pair of
high cut-off shorts.  Stride after stride, they hit the
pavement in evenly measured paces.  Clip, clip, clip, clip, the
heels clicked along.  A picaresque image violating the ugliness of
the slums.

          Chameleon watched as the image noticed a reflection of
itself in a store window.  It paused; twirled, and continued on its
way.  Another window, a glance, a flick of the blond hair.  Her
hair... it made Chameleon remember the sensation of passing his
face
through a cobweb.  Now, he really wanted to pass his face through
hers.

          The strides resumed.  Perfect still, despite this recent
show of narcissistic weakness.  Another four steps.  Yet another
pause, giggle, and twirl.

          "Incredible", thought Chameleon, "she's more than
I could ever covet."  

          Seven more steps and she drew even with him.  He acted at
once.  She was too perfect to ignore.  He moved from the wall and
matched her stride.  Step, step, step, he thought of her body
moving in sync to his own; step, step, step, step.  They moved
together, to a secret rhythm, faster and faster. 

          She seemed oblivious to his presence.  Stride after
stride, she continued on her journey.  Chameleon gathered his
pride, put on his best face, and tapped upon her shoulder: "Can I
offer you a light?"

          Horror screeched out of her eyes.  She jumped back from
his hand.  Ripping her nails across the shoulder he had touched.
Screaming, screaming, screaming, at the sky with unforgivable
hatred,  "Fuck Off!  Fuck Off!  Fuuuuucccckkkkkk Offfffffffffff!". 

          "Ha ha ha 
               ha ha ha 
                   ha ha ha 
                       ha ha ha "

          Like a whirlwind, the laughter echoed through the cavern
that had been her mind.  Like an old friend, laughter always stood
by her side at these moments; the one friend she could always count
on.  Like a desperately needed drug, she always got the laughter of
strangers just in time.

          The Chameleon panicked.  Thoughts raced through his mind
as the laughter echoed on.  Distracting.  He had shattered whatever
fragile world she had constructed for herself.  She had seemed so
happy, so normal.  Then her outburst.  In his alarm, just for a
brief moment, he let down his guard and was seen out of disguise...
causing him to vanish from sight.  

          Blind, but feeling the regular pulse of the strangers'
laughter, the image fell to her knees.  Clutching her violated
shoulder.  Her hands shielding her face.  Her long hair covering
her body like a shawl.  She crawled along the sidewalk to a wall;
curled up her body and wept.


                         (Parkdale, August 11, 1992, 5:30 p.m.)  

                                                       (c) Ian Firla 1992