Views from Split

The sun glistened off the sea and the palm trees remained stock still, there was no breeze to remind us they were alive so they just stood their lifeless, listless like so many of us in the heat of the evening sun. People rushed, people strolled people rambled and people promenaded the promenade. Generic pop filtered from different street cafés and laughter and chatter filled the air. Pink legs, pink shoulders, pink arms; lobsters headed back from the beach while workers had a cooling drink before heading home for their dinners.

He was grey and groaning and he pushed the popcorn machine along the prom with the enthusiasm of a teenager dragging himself to school on the morning of a maths test. When he reached his pitch, he wearily began to set up, slowly opening the parasol, putting the popcorn boxes on the top of the glass holder, pouring the corn in to the machine to pop and then arranging the balloons in the balloon holder the same way he’d done so many times before. What a way to earn a living, every day from April till October he manned that pitch, everyday he filled the prom with the sweet smell of popcorn and every day he went through the process until midnight when he did it all in reverse and trudged home, with barely enough money in his pocket to cover his costs. 

The boy bounced along the prom like he was making his way to the dance floor, rhythm not just in his step but in his whole body. The music that flowed into his ears through his headphones coursed through his blood. His t-shirt crudely cut at the shoulders to show off his biceps, his black Mohican’s hair gel glisten in the sun and his eyes were hidden behind the darkest dark glasses. He smiled the smile of a man paid to get people to go to the best night they'd never remember; a town pub crawl, a genuine Split experience. He looked like he enjoyed his job, but don’t be fooled. He targeted mirror images of himself, the young and nearly beautiful, those girls and boys he hoped would come out to play later, but he was having trouble persuading people that his pub crawl was the ideal way to spend a hot evening. Each time the potential punters moved on, brushing off his advances and a smidge of spring left his step.

He must have only been 13 but already towering over his mother who admittedly was a little on the short side. Her brisk walk belied the hot weather and had a no nonsense air to it. She'd obviously had enough of the day and needed to get out of the sun and maybe away from her son. He was serenely gliding along on his skateboard every now and then trying to perform a trick he hadn't yet mastered causing the board and rider to go in different directions. The third time he tried it the board flipped and hit his mother's knee. It was her turn to flip.

‘From now on you walk,’ she screamed taking the board and marching off with it in her custody, a prisoner or war, only to be released when she'd declared peace. 

The four girls stood with their menus and fake smiles, laughing and joking with each other. They were the best of friends, the best of enemies. Their job was to make sure they out smiled, out flirted, out short skirted each other to ensure the passing tourists chose their restaurant and not the others’.  The menus were nearly identical, the prices just about the same, so all it came down to was how pretty the girl looked and whether the potential customer preferred a blonde or brunette. Three of the four fluttered their eyelids, flashed their white  teeth, and touched the top of their blouse to draw attention to their cleavage, men stopped to look at their ‘wares’ while impatient wives tried to pull them away. The fourth girl, stood still and smiled, her menu open in front of her, her smile in her eyes. She didn’t flash cleavage or too much leg and she caught the eyes of the wives, and it was her who won the most customers.