"God's bones!" someone next to me harrumphed. I couldn't see them because of my umbrella, but they sounded stuffed up, like they had a bad cold. We were standing at a crosswalk on Southwark Street, waiting for traffic to clear.
Ignoring the voice, I looked down at my phone, trying to read a map. A month since moving to London, and I still couldn't untangle its spiderweb of lanes and alleyways to save my life.
Lost again, Stella. You reek of tourist.
I peeked out at the street. It was narrow and winding, lined with buildings older than Queen Victoria's best pair of knickers. Double-decker buses whizzed past in the wrong lane, turning puddles into spray. Not a big deal, since the drizzle had already turned my dress damp and my hair to frizz. I hugged my messenger bag close, hoping the precious cargo inside was safe. At least my feet were dry, snug in a new pair of heinously expensive designer rain boots.
"Now where's the infernal thing gone?" The harrumpher was still there. I shifted the umbrella just enough to see someone bent over, searching for something on the sidewalk.
Why's he dressed like a pirate?
Okay, maybe not a pirate, but something really old-fashioned, in a gold-trimmed coat, baggy bloomers, and buckled shoes. On his head perched a white wig that looked like a cat pelt, and perched on that was a huge, triangular hat. Both threatened to slide off as he turned around and around.
I spotted something reddish and lumpy on the ground a few feet behind him. Before I thought the better of it, I pointed with my phone. “Is that it?"
He looked up at me, and it was then that I noticed that he had no nose. Just a red, pulpy hole where it should be. Not only that, but there were oozing sores all over his face and hands. He looked like a slice of pizza, fresh out of the oven.
I shrank back, shuddering involuntarily.
It has to be makeup. Look at his costume. He must be some kind of historical re-enactor. Plague victim, or something.
The man's rheumy eyes widened with surprise. His mouth, encrusted with pustules, fell open. "You . . . can see me!"
Hoo, boy.
”Excuse me, I have to go." I gave the street a quick look to my left. It was clear, so I started walking, double-time.
"Wait!" He was next to me, trying to get ahead and block my path.
Screeeeeeeeech!
A minivan jammed on the brakes and skidded, to the right of us. I let out a small shriek and scrambled backwards, onto the curb again. Breathing hard, I looked around for the plague guy. He wasn't with me.
I forced my eyes over to the minivan, cringing, expecting to see carnage. At the very least, a pair of buckled shoes peeping out from underneath. But there was nothing. The minivan's front grille snorted and steamed, clean as a whistle. Definitely carnage and cat-pelt free.
"Tourist!" someone yelled through the van windows.
I looked around, bewildered. People were staring. They turned away, but I heard somebody whisper, "American."
Ah. I had looked the wrong way before crossing the street. Again. It was a constant problem since I'd set foot on British soil, but I thought I was getting better, blending in. Nope. In an instant, my Tourist Reek-o-Meter had spiked higher than Big Ben.
"I'm Canadian," I said weakly. The minivan and the crowd moved on. I stood on the curb, trying to catch my breath.
"Canada," said a familiar voice. "The colonies?"
I turned and jumped. It was my re-enactor friend, at my side again. His hat wasn't even askew.
”Wha?" Normally this would have been my cue to tell him to hop it, but my eyes locked onto a pustule on his cheek. It was leaking, a long line of fluid dripping onto his lacy collar. It was so spectacularly gross it was mesmerizing.
The smile on his crusty lips didn't waver a bit. "Ah yes, this bloody pox!" he said. ”It is indeed an impediment to . . . ah . . . how do you say nowadays . . . 'getting down with the ladies?' But I assure you, I have many gifts that more than make up for it." He took a step closer.
That was all I needed to make me start race-walking down the sidewalk in a random direction. He followed, trotting along beside me, his short, stockinged calves pumping double-time. "You must have suffered from the pox yourself, at one time or another!" he panted. "Surely you can see past it!”
"I don't know what you're talking about.” My eyes darted up and down the street as I looked for ways to get away from this guy.
He laughed, deliriously happy. "You can see me! It's so rare someone can! Oh, you must talk to my wife. She doesn't understand, ‘twasn't my fault I caught the pox! It was the harlots, the jezebels! They seduced me! They used their wiles and their charms on me and they left me with this curse!"
“Leave me alone!" I yelled, but he continued to run alongside me, collar bouncing, holding onto his wig and hat.
"My wife, Elspeth, she never understood the power that wanton women have over me. I tried to explain, when I passed this infernal pox on to her too, but she was a good woman, an angel. She was not tempted by the ways of the flesh, not Elspeth. Perhaps you could explain it all to her, since you are clearly a lady of the street!" He gestured vaguely at me, at my thin dress which was clinging to me more and more with every raindrop.
Before I could smack the rest of his features off his decrepit face, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The words ‘Crossbones Museum’ were glowing up ahead, just large enough to read.
Finally!
Ignoring the voice, I looked down at my phone, trying to read a map. A month since moving to London, and I still couldn't untangle its spiderweb of lanes and alleyways to save my life.
Lost again, Stella. You reek of tourist.
I peeked out at the street. It was narrow and winding, lined with buildings older than Queen Victoria's best pair of knickers. Double-decker buses whizzed past in the wrong lane, turning puddles into spray. Not a big deal, since the drizzle had already turned my dress damp and my hair to frizz. I hugged my messenger bag close, hoping the precious cargo inside was safe. At least my feet were dry, snug in a new pair of heinously expensive designer rain boots.
"Now where's the infernal thing gone?" The harrumpher was still there. I shifted the umbrella just enough to see someone bent over, searching for something on the sidewalk.
Why's he dressed like a pirate?
Okay, maybe not a pirate, but something really old-fashioned, in a gold-trimmed coat, baggy bloomers, and buckled shoes. On his head perched a white wig that looked like a cat pelt, and perched on that was a huge, triangular hat. Both threatened to slide off as he turned around and around.
I spotted something reddish and lumpy on the ground a few feet behind him. Before I thought the better of it, I pointed with my phone. “Is that it?"
He looked up at me, and it was then that I noticed that he had no nose. Just a red, pulpy hole where it should be. Not only that, but there were oozing sores all over his face and hands. He looked like a slice of pizza, fresh out of the oven.
I shrank back, shuddering involuntarily.
It has to be makeup. Look at his costume. He must be some kind of historical re-enactor. Plague victim, or something.
The man's rheumy eyes widened with surprise. His mouth, encrusted with pustules, fell open. "You . . . can see me!"
Hoo, boy.
”Excuse me, I have to go." I gave the street a quick look to my left. It was clear, so I started walking, double-time.
"Wait!" He was next to me, trying to get ahead and block my path.
Screeeeeeeeech!
A minivan jammed on the brakes and skidded, to the right of us. I let out a small shriek and scrambled backwards, onto the curb again. Breathing hard, I looked around for the plague guy. He wasn't with me.
I forced my eyes over to the minivan, cringing, expecting to see carnage. At the very least, a pair of buckled shoes peeping out from underneath. But there was nothing. The minivan's front grille snorted and steamed, clean as a whistle. Definitely carnage and cat-pelt free.
"Tourist!" someone yelled through the van windows.
I looked around, bewildered. People were staring. They turned away, but I heard somebody whisper, "American."
Ah. I had looked the wrong way before crossing the street. Again. It was a constant problem since I'd set foot on British soil, but I thought I was getting better, blending in. Nope. In an instant, my Tourist Reek-o-Meter had spiked higher than Big Ben.
"I'm Canadian," I said weakly. The minivan and the crowd moved on. I stood on the curb, trying to catch my breath.
"Canada," said a familiar voice. "The colonies?"
I turned and jumped. It was my re-enactor friend, at my side again. His hat wasn't even askew.
”Wha?" Normally this would have been my cue to tell him to hop it, but my eyes locked onto a pustule on his cheek. It was leaking, a long line of fluid dripping onto his lacy collar. It was so spectacularly gross it was mesmerizing.
The smile on his crusty lips didn't waver a bit. "Ah yes, this bloody pox!" he said. ”It is indeed an impediment to . . . ah . . . how do you say nowadays . . . 'getting down with the ladies?' But I assure you, I have many gifts that more than make up for it." He took a step closer.
That was all I needed to make me start race-walking down the sidewalk in a random direction. He followed, trotting along beside me, his short, stockinged calves pumping double-time. "You must have suffered from the pox yourself, at one time or another!" he panted. "Surely you can see past it!”
"I don't know what you're talking about.” My eyes darted up and down the street as I looked for ways to get away from this guy.
He laughed, deliriously happy. "You can see me! It's so rare someone can! Oh, you must talk to my wife. She doesn't understand, ‘twasn't my fault I caught the pox! It was the harlots, the jezebels! They seduced me! They used their wiles and their charms on me and they left me with this curse!"
“Leave me alone!" I yelled, but he continued to run alongside me, collar bouncing, holding onto his wig and hat.
"My wife, Elspeth, she never understood the power that wanton women have over me. I tried to explain, when I passed this infernal pox on to her too, but she was a good woman, an angel. She was not tempted by the ways of the flesh, not Elspeth. Perhaps you could explain it all to her, since you are clearly a lady of the street!" He gestured vaguely at me, at my thin dress which was clinging to me more and more with every raindrop.
Before I could smack the rest of his features off his decrepit face, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The words ‘Crossbones Museum’ were glowing up ahead, just large enough to read.
Finally!