here, there & elsewhere. Blue bottles

Bins comes in all excited. “Guess what! I’m going to be a beach comber!” I frown at him. I’ve been staring at a blank canvas all morning, feeling dull and uninspired. And anxious: in order to live in the US, Bins and I need to earn money. A lot of money. But I’m a painter with no skills at self-promotion and he’s a middle-aged hippie whose parents convinced him that money is something that only losers worry about.

“No, no — you don’t understand! This is going to be big.” He puts his backpack down and pulls out a small, square glass bottle. It looks like an old-fashioned pickle jar that’s been squashed down vertically. Two-inches high, two-inches wide, it has a rubber stopper with metal clips to keep the glass lid clamped down. Inside the bottle is an assortment of coloured glass fragments and tiny sea-shells, mostly broken. “See this? It’s called ‘Beach in a Bottle’!”

I shrug. Did he steal it, I ask. “Not today,” says Bins, puffing up his scraggly yellow moustache. “I should have though! It cost FIVE DOLLARS. Can you believe it?” He’s looking at me expectantly. I continue to look blank. He sighs heavily and reaches into his backpack again. Pulls out a small carton containing a dozen little bottles identical to the one with seashells in it. “Each bottle costs 46 cents!” Now he pulls out a zip-lock bag filled with seashell fragments. “This I got for free, after spending one hour at the beach, using a kitchen strainer.”

So it cost one hour of your life and three dollars, I say. “What three dollars?” The cost of the strainer, I say, with a prim expression on my face, because of course we’ll need a new one now for the kitchen. “Tcheh,” says Bins, “you are really in a dirty mood!” So what are you going to do now, I ask. “I’ll fill the bottles with sea-shells, seal the cork, go stand near the shop where I bought that bottle and sell MY bottle for four dollars! Clear profit of three dollars and 54 cents.” You’ll be arrested at once, I tell him. Pavement stalls are not allowed without a permit. And it’s too cold. And there are no tourists in winter.

“Fine! I’ll put a peacock feather inside, call it ‘India in a Bottle’ and sell it to that same shop!” The bottle’s not big enough for a peacock feather, I tell him. “I’ll use chicken feathers and dye them blue,” he says, striding up and down, waving his arms about. “I’ll fart in the bottle and call it ‘L’Aire de L’Inde’!” Those bottles aren’t big enough for one of your farts, I say. Whereupon he grabs his down jacket and heads for the door. Where are you going, I ask. “To sell my body!” he yells over his shoulder. “I’ll call myself ‘Frenchman outside a Bottle’!” Good luck, I call after him, and remember to buy a new strainer. But the door slams before he can hear me.

(Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column)

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