Prologue to the Office Romeo’s Tale
The city picnic table is fraught with sparrows
as sunlight spreads its crumpled lunch bag
– yellow egg salad on brown. Elm trees
and poplar are running up green flags –
summer’s bunting.
Coveys of secretaries, cotton-frocked,
are lured outdoors to corner parks
by the season’s fresh jollity. Giggle
after giggle of girls. Squirrels dart
at opportunities
in the shadow of leaves. A sparrow lights
on Aphrodite’s arm, cocky courtier,
bright-eyed as the young, sun-visored knights
of the road construction crew
who lounge at ease
in battered helmets and fluorescent vests
on grassy cushions, whistle mating calls.
Go away! Aphrodite suggests
pertly to the sparrow. But he perches
as if enthralled
by her sandwich. They always come to you,
Pandora muses, drawing in a breath of spring
like smoke from a cigarette.
Sparrow flicks a careless wing
at the obvious.
A businessman ambles by, dark jacket slung
from his fingers’ crook’d peg,
a shadow in the garden. He passes among
the lunchers, beside a blonde girl
in fetching denim.
Hi, Norm! Aphrodite twitters.
He hoists his jowls in a smile and nods
towards their table with its litter
of wrappings. Pandora pointedly
turns her back..
What’s your problem? wonders Aphrodite,
watching while the manager escorts
his leggy young companion, politely
protective past the raucous guerdon
in their hard hats.
Pandora scowls downward at her sandwich.
Don’t you know that story? she answers loudly,
sending out her voice like an officer
of the law against the jocund, rowdy,
squawking bachelors.
Four clerks from the company downstairs
got fired last week, because
they were passing pornographic pictures
on their e-mail. Pandora’s jaws
clamp a crust
fiercely. She swigs her orange crush,
continues. But that guy, Norm,
do they give him the boot? Nope. Gosh,
he’s the manager. But he’s the one
who downloads stuff
in the first place. Two girls cut loose
from paycheques, but he’s still sitting pretty.
Sheherazad puts down her box of juice.
Girls? she asks, astonished.
Exchanging porn?
Aphrodite shades her eyes and gazes
past the flexing pecs of the construction crew
at the dark jacket. Norm Januarius?
Her face perplexed. Why would he do
something like that?
And why did the company get straight-laced
about some sexy pictures? It’s not as if
they take up any more computer space
than those photos of her kids that Zoe
keeps sending round.
Sheherazad still looks stunned.
She doesn’t really like pornography –
pictures of women degraded, caparisoned
in leather. They stick, take up too much
space in her head.
Aphrodite’s cheeky sparrow pecks
merrily at their leftovers. Pandora
still frowns after Norm. Men want power and sex,
she states. And the more that they want power,
the more they crave
sex too. Look at all those presidents
who can’t keep their pants up.
As one who holds these truths to be self-evident,
she shuts her eyes against rebuttal.
Sparrow moves
on her crust. Oh, get real. Aphrodite sweeps
crumbs from the splintered, sun-scarred surface
of their picnic table. A heap
of small birds joyfully converges,
cheeping and cheerful.
Lots of guys want sex who couldn’t care
a button for promotion.
Impartially, she superintends
the sparrows’ plump commotion.
Take my Claudio
for example. As long as he can bang
dents out of car doors, he doesn’t need
to rule the world. And there are presidents
whose dicks are nearly atrophied
for lack of use.
So sex and power are not the same.
Pandora shakes her head. Well, maybe not
exactly. She eyes a squirrel issuing
furious challenges – a furry Lancelot
tilting at rivals.
But they’re like trees so close together
that a squirrel running up the trunk of one
is jumping in the branches of the other.
From the sun-split junctures overhead
the squirrels utter
ultimatums and rapid-fire rebukes.
Tsit-tsit-tsit. Tsit-tsit … cheet-cheet-cheat.
Their tails arch like indignant coat-hooks
for their dark jackets. They have a flare
for the dramatic.
But even then, power cuts both ways,
says Aphrodite. I remember when
I was in this meeting taking notes.
There were three men
in the room
and I’d had sex with all of them.
They could talk of quality improvement
all day long. But I knew more
about their product movement
than they knew.
I had as much power over them
as they had over me. She suddenly
realizes what she’s let out of the lunch bag
and adds apologetically,
I wasn’t married
at the time. A pink suffusion
blooms on her face. She looks down to hide
this token of clandestine confusion.
Don’t ever mention this to Claudio,
she murmurs
as though a hammer-hauling husband
is hulked jealously behind a tree,
mistrustful and cudgelled.
Pandora sighs elaborately. See?
That’s what I mean.
That’s not power – something that you sneak
around with. Something you have to keep
hidden in a pocket. Only the weak
do that. Look at that guy Norm.”
Scorn scores her voice.
He doesn’t have to keep his trophies
secret. He puts them on display
at lunch time. Aphrodite laughs.
But that’s his daughter, May,
He dotes on her.
Taken by surprise, Pandora turns
to watch the couple pacing on the grass,
safely past the tilting males. And anyway
adds Aphrodite, Norm’s wife would have his ass
if he played around.
Sheherazad shivers. And yet he downloads porn.
Pictures of some girl his daughter’s age.
Her silver moonlet swivels, forms
a question mark suspended from
one whorled ear.
What keeps males in line at all?
it seems to ask. The question walks the path
past the jousting squirrels, the wall
of wolf-whistling workers, the billowing
skirts of girls,
past the traffic of sparrows, immersed
in twittering transactions. The question
crosses into the shadow of Commerce
Place, enters the castle’s raised portcullis,
makes its way
to the acreage of a desk. Meanwhile
Aphrodite gathers up the wreckage
of wrappings for the trashcan, turns to smile
at her friends. Tell us a story, Sherry,
she suggests.
Sheherazad squints, trying to think,
until a short, red-headed man strolls by
with a squirrel-eyed girl. She grins,
glances at her wristwatch
and begins.