Friday, February 11

at the behest of a friend

This is actually bits of a chat conversation between a Friend and I, but I've taken out her bits of the conversation because I didn't ask her about posting it. I said "I might." So, without further ado, I give you scribblings about "The Woman on the Roof with the Frenchman".

Once there was a woman on a roof. She was there running from her husband, a member of the boorish and inexorable bourgeoisie, who had no taste or recognition for her literary talent. "Wommin! Make me suppah!" he said, with blackish overtones. He had bushy eyebrows.

The woman on the roof sniffled pathetically, and continued reading her novel (The latest by Rapheala Di Scarletta), marking her favorite bits in it by dotting all the printed "i"s with hearts. The roof began to grow hot, and her romantic idea of stripping to her undies and reading cheap erotica soon began to evaporate. She grew thirsty. "Honeeeeeeeeey," she crooned sweetly to the door which led to the rest of the house. Bourge Wasey shut the door with a clang.

A man in a dashing red military outfit and outlandishly pale skin approached the woman with the novel on the roof, with only her socks and undies on . . . He had a French accent. She felt dizzy from the dehydration and incredible sex appeal of the Frenchman, but heard the children next door screeching and her heart faltered.

Should Bourge be at the flower shop? Or should her novel fall off the roof onto her husband and kill him?

Or should we skip to the children, who may or may not have been watching the scene from below?

Or should we move to Bourge, who is trying with the might of his bushy eyebrows to figure out how to boil an egg but is reminded of his wife's first child, who died stillborn? So he doesn't boil the egg. He sits and cries in the kitchen.

While his wife, in ankle socks and undies, seduces a wild Frenchman (also a fugitive of the law for cheating at cards, but she doesn't care; she doesn't play cards with him) on the roof?

the egg obviously has to do with his mother and his wife, for whom he has a similar love (they both take care of him e.g. "make his dinner") and his desire to boil the egg reveals his primal instincts to violence and love of killing.

Therefore, the Frenchman.

Couldn't be sexy undies either, they'd have to be Hanes or Fruit of the Loom. Sports bra?

OH! The Frenchman gets entangled in the sports bra while in the process of removing it, therefore signifying that he is trying to strip the woman on the roof from her agility and individual strength . . . which foils him in the end.

Maybe one of the kids next door could throw a piggy bank at him and blind him. Blinded by money, but still groping wildly for sports bras?

The Frenchman must have a moustache!


Harbin said...

Wow. It's like 'At Swim Two Birds', only coherent.

Good metafiction is difficult.

I like it.


Harbin said...

P.S. 50 is astonishing given the obscurity of the allusions.

Anonymous said...

I hereby rate this entry "R"

for "Ridiculous".

---The Geoff

Madame Quill said...

Bourge Wasey.

Cracked me up. :)

Whimsical flight of fancy, ma'am. It is a pleasure to read aloud. This cannot be said of all fiction.