A Morning in the Arcade

From the top of the stairs that lead to the arcade tailor, a man pauses mid-descent to blow his nose. A white handkerchief fanfares this mighty moment, heralds to all that businessmen are a proud, stout and unapologetically well-prepared breed, primed in presentation and ready for action. Resuming his march to Ground Floor, our hero folds his sodden flag and presses it ceremonially into the breast pocket of his shirt, against his heart. A woman approaches suddenly from out of nowhere, but never fear! the businessman steps a foot to the left just in time to let her pass with the utmost ease and comfort. Now that all is well in the world of chivalry, he can resume his journey to the office.

Entering the scene stage right, a married couple smile appreciatively at the glittering shop fronts, shuffling slow foot by slow foot so as to ‘take it all in’; the mosaic’d floors, the ornate arches and the pretty glass ceiling. Despite their age, the married couple hold hands, a touchingly naïve expression of commitment to any cynical eye that might slice past, and a definite indicator to such wizened urban types that, yawn, our gaping, gawking rural cousins have come to agitate our self-consciousness again, but sigh, at least they’ll be spending their hard-earned on our shitty city toys and novel services because god (or the universal energy or science or whatever) knows the Victorian retail sector is completely fucked these days and needs whatever injections it can get.

Couriers and delivery agents of all fluorescent kinds jolt by with carts and trolleys, grim and bothered. Shop to shop, they bleat, flutter paperwork, hand over parcels, clatter away. Their faces fog with function, the joyless setting of the bound. Families, rents, bills, all things oiling the joints with duty, all needs that need to be met, all givens that do not give.

The man who has just opened a café in this leg of the arcade has, in the space of a few weeks, fully and completely taken on the unadvertised job of Lord and Master of This Leg of the Arcade. At any given time he can be heard holding court in his 3x5sq palace, grandly bestowing the wisdom he accrued in ten years as a vacuum cleaner salesman upon anyone lucky enough to step inside. Since his arrival, phrases like, “I’ll tell you, mate…” and, “...don’t take shit from nobody…” float down the walkway like reassuring mantras for the shoppers and tourists.