Notes of a Professional Voyeur I

Notes of a Professional Voyeur I

Serial Fiction

Benny Profane

 

 

I can see it all from up here…

Up here in this insulated cavern of heat and noise. Up here in this den of obscurity; up here in my hovelled alcove hidden away from the rest of the world; where my only companions are the creeping mice and the scuttling cockroaches.

Here I have my own private observatory; my own sheltered window looking out onto that partially-lighted room of strangers; onto that microcosm of the world. It is my keyhole through which to spy, my blind through which to peek.

From here I can see every wandering hand, every munching toddler and every relieved parent praying solemnly for just a few hours of rest. I can see every uncomfortable shuffle in every chocolate stained seat and every dozing pensioner, snoring away with their head tilted back like a broken Pez dispenser.

One of my most precious distractions involves counting the random distribution of bald heads in the theatre below. They are easily spotted and particularly eye-catching; some of these heads are so expertly maintained and diligently polished that they reflect the images from the screen off their shining orbs back up and into the dark atmosphere.

Often, when my technical duties are finished–that is, all the splicing, setting and sorting that those ingrates down there never give a second notion to–if I have noting better to do I like to count the number of baldies in that sea, (well, not quite a sea, let’s say a pond), in that pond of arbitrary heads and calculate what percentage of the male audience are victims to that hereditary affliction.

Now when collecting this field data… hmm, first a pond and now a field; these topographical metaphors are becoming tedious.

When I’ve collected my research figures I like to divide the results into three separate categories.

The first of these categories is that of the uber-baldies i.e. those who possess one of those perfectly round, smooth and geometrically pleasing craniums without a wisp of a thought of a hair in sight.

You know the one I mean; the type that you feel compelled to rub in the hope of inducing the emanation of some sprightly spirit that might grant you good fortune.

These heads transfix me and to tell you a confession; sometimes–when I’m feeling particularly giddy, and I find myself in close proximity to one of these globes of flesh–I often have to fight the urge not to spontaneously wind back my hand and deliver an almighty smack on that inviting patch of glistening skull. Bam! Right on the sweet spot: right on the crest of their occipital bun.

Of course, I’ve never had the courage to act on this strange impulse; but that does not prevent me from envisaging my fantasy and acting it out time after time on the inside of my own head, or mind’s eye, or imagination, or whatever you want to call it.

In this fantasy I imagine myself kindly greeting the plump-headed patron at the door to the cinema–flashing them an inviting smile and delivering my well-worn words of courtesy and welcome. Then, just before they make their way through the door, while they are quietly looking forward to taking their seat; I see myself quickly moisten my slapping apparatus with a liberal application of spat spittle before arching my arm way back and then quickly swinging forward; delivering the most tremendous open-palmed WHACK! Right on the butt of the back of that precious gemstone head.

If executed correctly the sound produced from the contact should resemble the breaking-snap of a sycamore branch, the satisfying pop of a stray tendon being shunted back into place or, if you are especially accurate, the crackle from a flash of lightning shooting over Mt. Olympus.

Such a scalp, I believe, would be well worth the disciplinary actions that would no doubt ensue. But anyway, back to my study…

Now these perfect baldies occupy the first of my three categories and I like to think of them as the High Lamas of the Baldy Sect. Figuratively speaking, they hover over their receeding-hairlined underlings like levitating Buddhist monks who have attained a heavenly state of enlightenment. In the descending scale of the baldy hierarchy they are very much at the tippy-top.

My second category consists of those skulls whose follicles are still frolicking with relative fecundity but who have, perhaps in anticipation of some prospective regal appointment, developed that curious Yamaka of baldness eloquently balanced on the crown of their head.

If the defiantly pure-bald baldies I described before are the infallible Deities of baldness; then these members of the fraternity are the meek and retiring clergy; merely flirting with their baldy-ness like half-hearted pilgrims who attend to their prayers and visit the temple on the Sabbath but who otherwise have no real dedication to their cast. In fact some of these part-time baldists are even known to grow a beard in order to supplement their dearth of head-based hairiness. Peter himself surely felt less shame when he denied the Lord.

The third and last category of baldies consists of those who occupy the intermediary stage between these two poles of baldness. These are the semi-bald gentlemen who display a fine dome of baldness on top which then rests over a consistent drape of thin hair that, from the top down, begins at about an inch above the ear and follows in a half circumference to the back of the head and all the way around to the corresponding opposite ear; in this way their mat of lower hair holds and frames their dome-like bust much in the same way the earth’s ever-retreating and innumerable horizons will cradle the setting sun.

These nearly-men of the baldy world are involved in a perpetual tight-rope walk of destiny. It’s uncertain whether they may shed their last blades of servitude and subsequently scale to the lofty heights of true baldy enlightenment, or whether they will remain fettered to their follicle-based fancies. The blind councillors of fate shall attend to their case.

Once I have adequately collected and categorised my pool of data I can enter it into my log book where I keep the rest of my findings and therefore derive scientifically accurate results concerning the particular cinematic preferences of the three baldy families.

As you may have guessed, the tastes of each set correspond closely to the main thrust of my above thesis; with my results proving that an inversely proportional relationship exists between the relative baldy-ness of each group and the quality of the movies that they choose to go see.

And in order to satiate your curious minds I can reveal that the lower set, that is the Yamaka’d baldies, show a marked preference for the movies of Woody Allen–probably due to the self-deprecating and neurotic allure of his male protagonists in whom they seek their portrait.

The semi-baldies are particularly partial to the darker and more ontologically challenging films of the Coen brothers; as they can no doubt relate to the doomed search for meaning that so many of their characters courageously pursue.

While the uber-baldies in general prefer to frequent themselves with only the most dense, deep and demanding of auteur cinema; pluming mainly for art-house giants such as Bergman, Fassbender, Dreyer and Eisenstein.

I am in the process of submitting my findings to one of the most respected and widely-read Scientific Journals of our day but my submission has not, as of yet, received a reply.

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