roland@equalpartners.ca
http://EqualPartners.ca/

Equal Partners
by Roland Ezri

Equal Partners by Roland Ezri

Equal Partners

By Roland Ezri

"Women are the backbone of all societies. They do a substantial part of the work, and play a major role in raising the future generation yet they are largely powerless. The decisions that count are made by men and foisted upon women."

Writings by Roland Ezri

The Confused Photographer

Mistaken identity, confusion, and misunderstanding have been the staple of funny sketches and comedies for centuries. Lately, to a certain extent, they have fallen out of favor. I have penned a short sketch based on a confusing (fictitious) situation. Is this stuff still funny today? You tell me.

Norton Morton is a child photographer. On this day, he has been asked by a Mrs. Jones to come and photograph her 3-month-old boy.

When he arrives at the apartment building, he realizes that he has never taken Mrs. Jones apartment number. There is no directory to be seen anywhere. He therefore goes to the superintendent to get the information. As luck would have it, this man is hard of hearing; he directs him to a Mrs. Janes, a Swedish lady living one floor below Mrs. Jones. The god of confusion was in a mischevious mood on that day!

Mrs. Janes is expecting a plumber, one hour from now, to unblock the drain in her bathtub. She is therefore not surprised when Norton knocks on her door. He is one hour early, but no matter, the earlier this mess is cleaned, the better. Let’s eavesdrop on the confused exchange between these two, keeping in mind that Mrs. Janes is new in the country, and that her English is still somewhat shaky.

“Hi, I am Norton Morton. You requested my services?”

“I am so glad to see you. I am Vilma Janes. You gave me different name on the phone. But it’s O.K. Come I’ll take you to the bathtub.”

That’s strange Norton thinks. First he is sure he’s given his name properly, he even spelled it. Second, Mrs. Jones spoke a flawless English, and it is Jones not Janes. Finally, why the bathtub? He decides that the person he spoke to was perhaps not the mother of the little boy, a visitor perhaps.

“The bathtub will not do, I …”

“But the bathtub …”

“We can get back to the bathtub. Let me look around the house. I’ll then decide how to proceed.”

When Norton arrives at the bedroom, he exclaims: “Ah, magnificent. I love that queen size bed and all theses pillows. We can do a lot with that.”

“I beg pardon, Mr. Norton, what do you mean?”

“Many poses are possible on …”

“Poses?”

He decides to simplify his English. “I mean many positions are possible on this bed. Don’t worry, I’ll be very gentle. You’ll cherish the memories for the rest of your life.”

Vilma is dumbfounded. What does he has in mind? She is not worried. This diminutive man is no match for her; she is a strong woman. In her youth she worked in construction and held her own. Nevertheless, she prefers to avoid any unpleasantness.

Norton is oblivious to Vilma’s turmoil. He arranges the pillows and mutters to himself: “Yes, this will be grand.” He then addresses Vilma: “You will want the classic one I imagine, with the bum up in the air, and …”

“The bum?”

“I mean the tush.”

“The tush?”

In despair, Norton pats his ample derriere to clearly indicate the part of the anatomy he is referring to.

Vilma simply nods, she is totally lost here. She is now light-years away from her plugged bathtub.

Norton is putting the final touches to his plan. He remembers something and his face lights up. He turns to Vilma: “If you don’t mind, we’ll deal with both sides; I mean the, ahem, bird. Frontal nudity as it were.” At this, he laughs heartily at his own joke.

“The bird?”

“It’s a figure of speech, you being a lady and all that. Now if you don’t mind, I am going to my van to bring my equipment. It’s quite heavy, you know. In the meantime, can you bring the baby?”

“Baby” was the last word Vilma heard, for she collapsed on the floor like a bag of flour.

“Oh my God. She fainted. I wonder why?” shouted Norton.

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