Gladys’ Marbles
How can they say she was losing her marbles
Gladys sat in her armchair in front of the television, knitting away ferociously but also keeping a stray eye on the fiasco playing out in front of her.
How can they say she was losing her marbles?
There was a thin man sitting next to three women. Two of them had bellies rolling over their belts, the other had prominent clavicles and sunken eyes. All three were pregnant. The skinny one was the man’s cousin. The results were announced. “You are the father of Katrina’s baby” said the announcer without looking up. The crowd booed. The two fat women stood for a moment, then began beating the skinny one. They landed blow after blow as the crowd booed and the announcer watched on with mild indifference. Security jumped in. They were all re-seated. The skinny pregnant woman now had one puffy black eye. When asked, she said she was going to keep the baby.
Gladys shifted her weight a little, put down a knitting needle and picked up the remote.
And they say SHE was losing her marbles!
On the television, a dilapidated door coated in torchlight. “Police!” The door was kicked in. Inside, a man wearing a filthy white singlet lay flat face-down on the ground. Half a pizza and a bag of powder were on the coffee table. A toddler watched from the hallway holding a stuffed horse with one eye. Somewhere, a woman was screaming. Everyone’s faces were blurred. Glass smashed. “Proceeding on foot!” A girl was crying. A dog was barking. Heavy breathing. Wailing sirens. Gunshots.
Gladys flinched at the television, aimed the remote and pressed the button.
“And they say I am losing my marbles!” Gladys said to herself, shaking her head in disbelief.
She resumed her knitting, while on the television four people were drinking a red fluid that looked like blood but with less viscosity. Somebody announced “That’s four litres of tomato soup for Gina, come on Marcelo, you can do better.” Marcelo looked as though he was going to vomit, but he opened the next can and began pouring it down his throat anyway, taking big, confident gulps. Suddenly, without warning, Gina stopped. Her face filled up the television. She winced. She opened her mouth and a violent eruption of red came pouring out, the same voice yelling out “Oh no, looks like Gina’s in trouble”. Gina staggered backwards momentarily, then forwards, then fell over in the pool of red accumulating around her. Marcelo covered his mouth with his hand, small red trickles filtering their way out through the cracks in his fingers. Gina gave out one more exasperated burst of red liquid, then deliriously pushed herself to her feet. Marcelo watched on in dismay as Gina peeled open another can of tomato soup. “She is back in the game!” yelled the voice.
Gladys went to switch it over, but before she could she heard a light knocking at her door. It was Nurse Hayworth with a trolley of orange plastic trays.
“Hello Gladys, are you hungry?”
“Am I hungry? With all the people yelling and screaming and the man and his cousin…oh, and the tomato soup! No. I actually feel a bit sick!”
“You feel sick? Oh, that’s a shame. Well I will just leave this here, just in case you get hungry later.”
Nurse Hayworth wheeled the trolley over and amicably deposited a tray onto the table next to the armchair.
“OK Gladys, do you need anything else? Are you cold? Do you need another blanket?”
“No thank you dear, I am perfectly fine.”
“Would you like me to plug the TV in for you?”
A scoff burst out of the lady in the armchair, startling Nurse Hayworth.
“No thank you dear.” Gladys said, returning to her ferocious knitting, “Reality is already far too much to handle.”
