In the summer of ’88 I obtained a part-time job as a manikin at my local Unfashionable Windcheater Boutique. I was painted as white as death and was instructed to stand ‘as still as a stepladder’ and 'as quiet as a lion volunteering in a church run op-shop’ while occasionally whispering ‘buy me’ to customers whilst in their peripheral vision.
After quickly being fired for failing to sell any windcheaters due to my constant creaking and roaring about doilies and old CDs, I took a thousand-questions-long careers aptitude test at Twisty Town College, only to be told I should be “either the front or middle guy in a Chinese Dragon.”
My husband at the time was a dentist who used to tease me about my black, decaying teeth - the reason, I assumed, I was destined to be hidden under a Chinese Dragon’s head/upper torso for all of All Of Eternity (I was immortal, you see.) I Was Almost Positive that he was the one colouring in my molars with Black, Decaying Coloured Texta at night as I dreamt about tickling tigers.
I squeezed out every square millimetre of his POWER CLEAN toothpaste and replace it with a sugary paste developed in The Rumpus Room whilst cackling and screaming. Unfortunately the loud cackling developed into a dangerous form of white noise and caused my eardrums to burst. I never heard a sound again.
Husband’s taste buds had been wiped out in The Great Taste Bud Fire of ’81, back in the day when man believed he could put out A Raging Fire using saliva alone, so this sugary replacement was never detected. Eventually his teeth rotted away, I had to buy him a new tube of toothpaste (and brush) as well as paying $30,000 worth of dental costs but all in all, a good prank well played.
I finally got another job (I had to, I’d just lost $30,000) as a fisherman’s lure, so I bought a waterproof windcheater with matching knee-highs from a manikin with a luxurious mane, who blurrily waved through the corrugated window as I wandered out into the street.