Dorrita
My luck with women
February 24, 2005
iranian.com
She was Portuguese and worked in a bakery called
Olivers. It served cakes, coffees, sandwiches and was run by what
we school kids guessed was a retired military general. We all hung
out there when school was out. “You can’t congregate
here!” he shouted at the sprawl of uniforms that amassed
each afternoon as a result of a cappuccino someone had ordered
at two o’clock.
Congregate. I remember that word because
it gave us a sense of purpose, as if we were rallying for the miners.
Plenty of mini-purposes were no doubt being played out but on the
whole we just dossed. Drawing up plans to find out where Dorrita,
the Portuguese girl I was obsessed with, lived was as meaningful
as my time got. To know her address I thought would also be the
route to her heart. But of course it was not. In those days we
thought following a girl home would in some way endear us to her.
As if tomorrow she would tell her friends: “He’s a
bit of a creep, maybe I should date him.”
Dorrita had black hair and wore a brown shirt under a yellow
tabard. All the staff did at Olivers. Two of my friends, Robert
and Ali
had conveniently set up their own “detective agency”.
They wore raincoats collars-up and whispered a lot but as far as
I knew little actual detective work was involved. At best they
monitored the movements of local petty-gang members to avoid getting
nabbed for petty cash. I tried to enlist their help to “attract” Dorrita
but when push came to shove Robert was not prepared to “stalk
the poor girl.” Robert went on to join the British army even
though he was Canadian and Ali would probably have become a bad-ass
fraudster had he not burned to death in his flat near Piccadilly
Circus, which was being paid for by housing benefit, ten years
later.
 I don’t know what became of Dorrita but I doubt that
she joined the army or died in a fire. All I remember was that
for a good year or so she was on my mind day and night. She was
the epitome of feminine beauty but was as inaccessible to me as
a movie star. Did I ever talk to her? I’m not sure, I don’t
remember. Maybe I asked for her autograph at some point. Flowers
were once delivered to her at Olivers but they were not from me.
Perhaps I did talk to her once or twice. And if I failed to get
on “hello” terms with her, I certainly got on nod-of-acknowledgement
terms, and that was something.
|
