YD6~07 Buddy Body: Jewish Princess, Janine

 Synopsis: Flash Memoir: Vitrine of Consciousness.

I've been quoted as, "John le Carré mystery style of writing," But true to my life experiences, I feel the need to orientate the reader a bit, explaining. Aetheria's personification of consciousness' 10-year saga, until birthing – "Sunshine," plus two years. Resuscitated at nine-month intervals, then again in the Intensive Care Unit, the sudden ill heath vanished – My memoirs recorded because of proper and psychic experiences starting as a three-month-old newborn, when I was taught to write my first words, I wished to understand the astonishing mind interface with the brain, as I took notes.

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Vitrine of Consciousness: Chapter 7

Subscribe + Comment = Editor, or, I'd like to know who reads my work: age group, gender, and your opinion in a sentence.

Here’s the Story

Dragged into a sphere of play, I wanted no part, while destiny attempts to dissociate me from a more pressing taking off my group, with SFB properties (Pty.) Ltd., Aditon-Finance (LLC.) and -Marketing, as I’m cruising downtown Johannesburg street, for a stroke of luck churning in mind. ‘_Shift court hearing from the supreme court to the Magistrate Divorce Court._’ Lawyer and advocate black gowns and suitcase at hand. Walking toward the portico stairs, I’m circling the brownstone fenestrated sculptured street block. By changing traffic lenses round the corner. stalled the Mercedes --. 

I’m reminded of sensing predator’s eyes, then onto facing the judge. Barry Baskin’s advocate argued in court, to plague me by wealth, saying. “He drives a Mercedes... He published a book...” My ego daren’t reply. ‘_The Mercedes is second hand, masked by a body style that hasn’t changed for a decade! The booklets’ cost are owed to the printer! The companies’ mere auditor’s registration _’ I open my door, press close behind, stepping to the parking meter. Fumbled for coins in my hip pockets, slot and turn the handle after each coin, the lens pointer augmenting from the red dial into the black. I turned away from the lens’ 120 minutes display, jaywalk while traffic through paused by the lights.

With a few lawyers and advocates on the plaza, engaging the stretch treads rising to enter by heavy doors to a flurry of people across marble floors, to the cathedral interior, I accosted the man in a fluttering black gown, apologetic saying. “Sorry, can you tell me where I have to be?” The willing listener, glances at my fist’s A7 tight held neat cross folded paper, unfolds Barry Baskin’s summons. The man, with a glance, points me back to the entrance’s peripheral corridor. Parting ways, I said. “Thanks.” Sorry for the man encountering my character. With a thought for him. ‘_But I’m left without options in this theater._’ We split way toward opposing wings, me toward my car parked outside the walls.

I walk through the massive deserted street wide corridor, along a series of miniature doors to capture small plaques, on my right etched with the even numbers, huffing. ‘_At last, I’m going to be heard — explaining to a judge maintenance for the children ought to be pro rata on income, between Jean and me!_’ I found myself alone, cornered by the corridor’s classic solid wooden door, pondering. When, over my shoulder, emanated a figure from the on-running corridor’s shadows around the blind corner. A man in a black robe jumps upon an abrupt question. “Where is your legal representation?”

I’m reluctant to reply to Jean’s advocate, coming to stand in the nook of diverging corridors, reminding myself. ‘_Don’t yield to their pressure_.’ He steps out of his stance, bearing a strategy, reaching for the door lever. Nurtures to mind. ‘_Whatever happens, lose or win, it cost me my inconvenience!_’ Without shame, I replied. “I am.” In anger, the door flings back, agitated stride, he burst into the courtroom, swerves at the rear bench, descends the left flank aisle’s half-dozen gleaming backrest shelf, to the benches slatted dark and empty seats, to pause confronting a bare tribunal.

The judge appears from a coulisse, peaceful in his black gown, with Jean’s representative advocate rushing to meet, in the depth at the head bench, saying. “Your Honor!” The judge breaks his pace from crossing the estrade to pause. Cheat me out of words, the advocate enchains his words. “I can’t stand here to argue a case with a man who has no qualifications.” The judge moves on, lowering to his seat, with the advocate’s pressing on, saying. “I had to practice for years in the trial courts. Years in High Court. I trained under an advocate on record to stand here.” The judge nods to say. “Yes, you’re right.” 

As I’ve lagged to the bench, asking the judge. ‘_Am I intelligent enough to hear figure out your words?_’ after the judge stood up, turning away from me, to trailing words, “You’re not qualified to represent yourself.” Jean’s advocate emphatic parroted the tone-deaf judge aimed at me. Turns away, pressing past me, on his way up the aisle. I’m left baffled. ‘_Why can’t I have a voice at saying. ‘I haven’t got the money.’ Which I’ve maintained since the divorce._’ Dragged by embezzling lawyers into the Supreme Court ruinous procedures, before I launch my new enterprise?_’ 

After calling Hilton Rogoff from the court’s payphone, out of the shady Supreme Court, and again I stepped into sunlight as I descended the stairs to the sidewalk plaza, turning away from earlier’s few eastern pedestrians lawyers and advocates’ upcoming from their offices. I walked past bleached windows, searching hereabout street name among idle cars and a few others trickling through traffic lights. Around the brownstone block’s corner, I jaywalked the desolated street, after Small Street on the nameplate post, to my luck. Panned my view prolonging the sidewalk outbound’s street numbers, to my surprise, towering from the sidewalk, the corner’s quoin signage spelled J.H. Smilg House, recurring across the transom window to the glazed portal. I weave through cars in the one-way street, step on the curb to enter the lobby. 

Like that first arriving at the Smilg House, signed myself into the ledger open on the security desk, stepped onward to the elevator door, sensing I’m entering another universe’s bubble, to stand by, until the doors split, opening to a mirrored cabin entering to close. Chimed again, clear the seventh-floor’s tunneling lobby onto a distant counter — I stepped up to the Janine behind the reception counter, the layout reminding me that first crossing the receptionist I announced myself, and swept an eyesight off offside on the classy valet, impeccable in a dark business suit. He stood by the counter, return leg, saying. “Will you follow me?” I rounded the corner, to a side corridor opening, zigzag in his wake off right through a doorway. Hilton stands by welcoming me, onto introduces me to the man behind a majestic desk, saying. “Mr. Smilg — he is blind.” Afar, the valet, stands by. The old blind man stands up, steps around his desk to shake my hand, with his valet over the old man’s shoulders. Hilton walked out, I followed to the opening folder on the reception counter’s corner, exposes a company’s Memorandum of Incorporation. He signs a share transfer of SFB properties (Propriety) Limited to me. Hands me the folder leading me through the lobby to the elevator.

Jean is held from being present to hear her lawyer and advocate’s claim. “He has multiple companies. . .” I step away from the classic courtroom, shaking my head. ‘_When will this ever stop_?’ Walked the Supreme Court’s corridors, dwarfing in my steps, to accost a man in a black gown. The man directs me around the corner to the west wing corridor. The far corner to an offside hallway displayed a row of four telephone boots. I picked up the handset to read from my open 7-Star agenda. I dialed the Aeroton area prefix to Duro Industries’ number. The female switchboard operator answers. I hung on the silent line. The operator’s voice returned, saying. “Can I help you?”

After another brief silent line, Hilton breaks in. Without feeling I owe, I’m pleading. “The supreme court ordered an audit.” I hear in Hilton’s silence, dubious and straining his voice, onto taking upon himself his new partners at Smilg & Co. He ends waning words by the weight of my case upon, he says, “Go to Smilg’s offices.” 

I step out the shaded supreme court’s portal to bright sunny street, descend the stairs flare onto the plaza. I’m stepping the sidewalk, turning the east brownstone corner, gazing growing white fluted tower. I entered the lobby, paused in my stride, at the brunt of the registered office, SFB properties (Pty.) Ltd., listed among trails of company names.

I stepped in the elevator, exit in mind rhyming, lightening my heart. ‘/. . . Flying through the darkest night/ Searching for some teardrops in / The wind with the ship of lonely loveless / I sail over seven seas. . ./’ In view through the tunneling passage, the blue wavy hair, beneath the overbearing golden lettering, J.H. Smilg & Co Chartered Accountants. 

Sorting, Janine picks from her embracing pile of folders. She slides along the stretch counter that reaches a dust glowing window, telling my shadow. ‘_I’m busy._’ back and forth posing folders in the shadows to the gleaming top shelf. I pace up to stand by my elbow, pressing on the ledge. Her eyes rise, roll her silk complexion, grimaced signals with a jaw drop the tedious file sorting. ‘_So boring!_’ Out the somber end phone rings. She poses her pile of files to break away from the front counter, to the short leg butting the rear wall, further from a beige phone. She whisks the red phone’s handset to her face’s blind side, saying. “Yes, Mister Smilg?” she gazes toward the short end of the corridor to the old man’s office. She nods, flutes a bitter refrain. “Yes, Mister Smilg.” Rolls her eyes as I’m an audience, flinches her shoulders, grimaces, final sighs. “Yes, Mister Smilg…” slender in her summer dress, she hangs up, turning, telling. ‘_I need to escape from here_!’ Her eyes arose, glints. She asks. “Can you go to Sun City on Friday?”

Before thinking, I said. “Right!” I awoke to Janine’s rhymes, Buddy Body, as she voices an irresistible Jewish Princess, her telling eyesight cascade the countertops to the shadows. I’m pleading. ‘_Wait, I didn’t mean, yes! Sure, let me think this over?_’ But each of her hands brings over the counter’s edge, a ball-point pen and a sliver of paper she slips amidst my elbows. While I’m propped on the top shelf to steal from her attention, a spine relief pain stretch. as Janine scribbles. while I’m breaking a promise to myself. ‘_Don’t mix business and pleasure!_’ My auditors’ receptionist rushes, handing me her Hillbrow address, underscored, “10PM.”

I’m called to glimpse over my shoulder, reach at the end of the passage a young man in a dark suit pauses to doors sealing the elevator cabin. He locates his way, steps away, approaches with an eyesight short of me, to doubt my contact. His timid eyes floored entering the reception, turns off-site passing me by, lags in his strides to circle to pause offside. Greets me without looking, but his eyes unrolls a carpet from my feet. I’m pacing away, slowing my step from tripping over the carpet’s red roll. Give him leeway, but so does the latent accountant. I’m eager to shake the man, but I’m lost, too. After begging Hilton for an audit of my companies, walking a foot length ahead, the accountant arrives offside at the elevator door. He stretches a finger, pressing the call button.

The doors split, clearing the cabin’s mirrors, as I’m exerting patience. He steps inside, behind me sealing the doors, to clearing a floor below with my mind storming out to a ghostly corridor. I’m tripping over feet, with the young man abreast lagging and squints. Ahead ghosts a two-way traffic of accountants to sentinels of corridor doors. A few doors across the crack dogleg the shaded corridor. With a persistent chivalry, the young man veers offside toward a flush panel door. His hand reaches the lever, cranks the handle, hesitant he slithers past the left door leaf swing. clears a guard’s ante-room to a distant window’s light shining on a kitchen chair’s backrest to a bare wooden table pressed against the wall. Short of the furniture, he paces right, a doorway clearing a prison cell. He pauses at the head of a small yellow wood desk under the window. I’m left asking. ‘_Which is the visitor’s chair_?’ but he turned around, lowering himself. The accountant raises his eyes across the desktop to my cheekbones, as I sat, questioning. “Tell me?”

‘_Ho no — Need I start again_?’ Begged the young man. “The court ordered an audit of my companies.”