Kangaroo Jack

It was another mother-daughter shopping expedition. He materialized, as if by magic, out of some darkened crevice in the city's underbelly.


"Hi. I'm Kangaroo Jack," he says in a poor imitation of an Australian accent. A scathing remark comes to my tongue (telling him not to put on a terrible fake accent when talking to real Australians, said in my own flawless Aussie tongue), but I swallow it. It tastes like bile. We turn into a shop. Maybe he'll leave. He doesn't. He follows us, telling us about the kangaroos he keeps hidden in cages underneath the sidewalk.


And suddenly, I want to laugh. I want to laugh for pity, for the ludicrous situation, for my own anxiety. The laughter bubbles up like yesterday's sour milk, unwelcome and inappropriate. I bite my lip and tuck my face into a rack of clothes to hide it. When he asks my name, I tell him it's Candy Cane. I can hardly restrain my giggles. The situation seems beyond hilarious-almost hysterical. 


Finally, he asks if we want him to leave. After what feels like an eternity of emphatic encouragement, he finally does. We are left to peruse. Bright colours and frills soon replace anxiety. 


He is all but forgotten, a lurking shadow in the cob-webbed recesses of my subconscious, nothing more than the fragile wisps of a barely remembered nightmare.