Prawn Man

PRAWN MAN
By
Kim West

A blue sky evening. We round the corner to head for the sparkling sea
shore, when a foul guttural sound shatters our tranquil thoughts and an
evil looking character on his stool throne, flobs a great blob of
phlegm onto the road before us.
"Grockles" he hisses, as we swerve to avoid the menace of his mean gaze
and his monstrous brown blob of spittal.
"You fucking grockles" he hisses through cracked teeth.
"What's he implying?" I think "Is it me he's calling a fucking grockle?
Am I a stranger come to harm the delicacy of this place? Is it me he's
labeling a vile lump of city shit?" I seethe.
Next to him is a blackboard which declares:
"PRAWNS".

We wander, less contentedly onto the rocky beach and I peek a look back
at him. He's still staring. He might flob again.
"Did he spit at us?"
"Surely not at us."
"A bad chest probably."
"Bronchitis"
We rehearse our way back to some tranquility, as we gaze at the
precious sea. There is that wonderful long awaited tumbling sound, as
the waves roll back and pebbles, sand and rocks constantly choreograph
themselves gracefully into new patterns and alignments. We start to
shed our skins of city stress. We uncoil as we pluck up the little gems
of driftwood and look into shape and textures of other beach
debris.
Thank God we can come here. Without this place in our hearts, life
would be quite unbearable. For me, being able to be here is wildly
important. Arriving makes me feel as though I am "coming home" in a way
that I cannot feel elsewhere. For now I live in a nowhere place, where
I was neither born nor brought up. I have lived in many parts of the
country and originate from a place that I shall never return to live
in. So where I now live is a place to pass through in the middle of my
life and earn an income to settle our future. It's a place where acres
of dull suburban housing stand to attention in grid like worn out
streets. A place where the lime trees are slashed down to gruesome
stumps with whiskers, in order to stop the roots erupting pavements.
Most households have 2 cars and the grid roads are lined with these in
non-working hours. It's "All Out!" between 7.00-8.00 in the morning and
"All back!" between 5.00-7.00 at night. It's the same for us.
So when we drive into this seaside place, our hearts settle and we sigh
and we know where we want to be. Don't blame us Prawn Man. Where I'm
called "local" it doesn't mean a thing to me. All the history of the
small world I actually derived from has been smashed up, hedged in,
built over and forgotten. I don't own the right to anything other than
half the bricks of my parents' house and a few ton of topsoil. Did you
design this seaside? Maybe

you have swum to the horizon or to the sea floor? Maybe you have made
plans to save this town as the sea-level rises 20 ft? Are you a
historian, an archeologist or a geologist? How important are you to
this place? Do you, for instance care for all its ancient inhabitants,
by daily ministering to their needs as a social worker or nurse? Are
you basically any good?

We return from the beach to find him still enthroned by his blackboard.
Prawn Man looks away a little, but once we have passed, another phlegmy
missile is launched far across the road, to presumably register that
he's still got our number.
This time I turn to him and walk steadily back. I take off my glove and
slap him very hard across the face.
"How bloody dare you, you evil minded git? How bloody dare you sit
there and spit at strangers? You've no idea who we are or what we stand
for. You're just guessing aren't you? Perhaps you think we're leeches.
You think we'll buy some old local property and set up some obscure
Tate Gallery arty farty hideout. You think we'll stop local young
people from staying here. We'll single handedly raise house prices. You
assume that we'll talk in snooty voices in your pubs and laugh
haughtily in streets. You think we want to own a power boat or squeeze
local traders out by opening a supermarket. You're sitting on your damn
stool in judgement.
A man who will sit spitting won't be selling many prawns. Me, I'll
never buy any. So bloody watch out Prawn Man. I won't tolerate your
evil attitude in the precious hours that I have in this lovely place.
Your ancestors may have lived here since the beginning of time. I'm
sure there's no doubting that, but when you spit at me you only demean
yourself. So if you ever spit at me again, I'll not only slap you, but
I'll kick you over, no matter who your great grandfather damn well
was."
All this time I have him by the collar and we fix our eyes with not a
blink. Then I release him and he shakes his jacket and, picking up his
stool, hastily retreats inside, tail between legs.

Well, actually I do none of that last part, although I wish I had. We
simply turn the other cheek and walk away feeling disturbed.

On the corner sits the Prawn Man
Evil glinting in his eye
Don't walk near,
he'll grab and catch you.
Always smile as you walk by.