The Witness Who Was Witness to Nothing

‘I’d rather not’ said the harridan’s sister, ‘at least not until I can get this gum out of my hair’. The legless man trifled his hands over his head and let out an ear-to-ear yawn, his nose spliced into the pap of his cheeks. The sky threatened rain, black brackish rain. Remember the bowlegged man? Remember the chattel and whip of his stride, the awfulness of his awful life. The Witness who was witness to nothing worth witnessing, the Witness who sold pamphlets and card tricks, the Witness who sharpened his tongue on moonshine and wet whetted whet stone. Remember him, the witnessing of him? It’s a strange world, very strange indeed. ‘I’d pay a Kina for a peek at her bloomers, yes’ said the shamble leg man in a manly manner. ‘Not before I get this gum out of my hair, not a moment before’. White eggs and a basketful of pulled taffy, paying witness to the Witness’ witnessing, not a moment before. Loop the pulled taffy over a Pop-siècle stick, twirl and twirl, then into the jiggery of you’re maw ma it goes. Easy as Lynn, and at 27½ % less the cost. The man in the hat doffed his cap and went about his business, pulling pulled taffy, his Ballymore flatcar cap jiggering on the tip-top of his head.