The tale of the phallus and the fly tier
|By Will Jones - The Outsider | January 23, 2014
As I sat there winding thread around a hook I sensed that someone was standing over me, staring at me. I turned and looked up at him, meeting his gaze as best I could through the silver lensed skiing goggles that he wore. Even through these mirrors that reflected tiny images of myself back at me, I could see, or sense, his expression of incredulity.
I smiled. It was all I could do not to laugh.
“I’m tying flies,” I said, before adding, “for fishing in the spring.
The lower part of his face cracked, into a sneer. “You should be out on the hill, buddy, that’s where the action is. Not sitting here playing with feathers and tinsel!
And with that he turned and marched away, obviously very pleased that he had set the weirdo straight on the order of the day
Finally, I could let it out, a sort of suppressed squeal that turned into an eyes watering, chest hurting uncontrollable laugh.
In addition to his mirrored goggles, and a very fetching multicoloured ski jacket, my assailant had been wearing a ski helmet with what can only be described as a cross between a jester’s hat and a multi-appendaged sex toy stretched over it. As he clomped away, his stiff ski boots giving him a somewhat jerky (or just jerk) gait, the eight phalluses atop his head jiggled and danced like disco diva dildos.
I scanned the room and no one else was pointing or laughing at him: no one was taking the slightest bit of notice of him.
I looked around again and more than one or two pairs of eyes averted their gaze from me and from what I was doing in the corner of their ski lodge: my fly tying vice fixed to a table, my feathers, fur, hooks and threads spread in front of me.
On my third survey of the room I took time to check out what people were wearing and it slowly dawned upon me that it was I and not Dildo man who was the odd one out. It was I who was the outsider.
The room was busy and noisy. People strode, or clomped about in the same robotic manner as my ‘friend’. Many wore extremely bright ski outfits, the theme of which seemed to me to be, ‘how many migraine inducing colours can I don at the same time, making sure that they in no way complement or match whatsoever’.
I saw other strange headwear stretched over ski helmets, too. There was a furry turtle, a bear’s head, a princess’s tiara and a floppy set of moose antlers. Thankfully all of these were worn by skiers of less than four feet in height and as such were totally fine by me. The fake dreadlocks and red, green and gold headband that adorned the helmet of a forty-something, white Torontonian (I knew he was from Toronto because he kept shouting into his cell phone about the house in Roncesvalles), was rather more disturbing. It was as if a Black and White Minstrel had been reincarnated as an obnoxious skier!
I passed the day quietly tying flies and taking in the rainbow of colour around me. My lovely wife and Little Z popped in from the slopes every now and then to check that I was OK and each time I smiled serenely; partly very pleased that they wore somewhat less gaudy skiing attire, partly tripping from the sensory overload of this colourful kaleidoscope that milled around before me.
“I think people think I’m strange,” I said to my lovely wife during one of her visits. “I see them nudging each other and whispering abou…” But I was interrupted. Dildo man was back, this time with a friend in tow.
“Hey buddy! I brought Brandon to meet you. He’s a fisherman, too.”
I was already staring at Brandon. Taller than Dildo man by six inches at least, his height was further accentuated by the blonde pony tail of fake hair that was fixed to the top of his helmet.
“HAHA,” he boomed. “You ain’t gonna catch anything with them. You need jerk baits!”
Startled at his directness, and oddly apt suggestions, I blurted out: “Err yeh, thanks. Nice hair.”
“Cheers buddy,” came the reply with not a hint of irony. Then, punching his friend in the arm, he added: “What about this guy, he looks like he’s got eight dildos sticking out of his head. Bahahaha.” And with that I was lost to them as they bickered and fisticuffed their way back across the ski lodge.
I could sense that day at the ski hill that I was the outsider. My hand-me-down Haliburton dinner jacket and blue jeans did not meet muster with the skiing set, and my antics with feathers and hooks made me down right strange. But hey, I don’t mind. And if they can accept a wannabe Minstrel and a guy with sex toys strapped to his head into their fold, there’s hope for me yet.
WILL JONES - The Outsider