Lollipop Leanette v Them
Right off the back of an afternoon flow state, I thunder up the hill having left it late to collect the kids from school. I still inhabit that glorious lucid state when I arrive, when solutions feel near for all and any issues, and possibilities are endless. Lollipop Leanette holds fort in the middle of the road, as she likes to, despite me – the next pedestrian – being fifty or so yards away from her traffic haven, meaning I – an overly considerate weakling – have hit a jogging pace to avoid upsetting the apprehended driver.
And without fail, she laughs a triumphant, defiant sneer. It’s beautiful and I implicitly understand it. To crown it, she turns to look at a tailback happening to the cars she has allowed to go on and says, in the most beautifully snarky voice, ‘I don’t know where they think they’re getting to, anyway’ and oh, the dark sticky treacle pouring out of that face is so sordid and magnificent to me.
I carry on, through the school gate, and I stop to make a note on my phone to remind me to write this piece on Monday because my lucid state has me joining all kinds of dots.
It’s one word that drove home so many observations, birthed so many thoughts.
They.
The antagonist. Her antagonist. Our antagonist. The foil.
A classic storytelling other. The contrast. Not always, in fact rarely, when you go beneath the surface, good v evil.
For Leanette, it is the vehicle and the person behind the wheel. She is the guardian of children and their protectors, a shield in high-vis gear come rain or shine, and if you pause for just a moment to engage her, she’ll detail HGVs that have nearly flattened her.
In 2002, for me, it was the customer browsing the VHS and DVD films in Blockbuster who would not fuck off despite closing time having passed minutes ago. I HAVE A LIFE OUTSIDE OF HERE YOU KNOW. Only once did I flat out refuse to process the rental of the eventual selection on the grounds that I believed this one was doing it, at least in part, to piss me off. SEVEN minutes after close. No mate. I watched them shuffle back to their car with a blend of guilt and glee, Shrek in hand.
And now, in this career, selling art, words, and expertise, who are the baddies? What makes them so?
I could go down a rabbit hole here and there’d still be no right answer, but as I waited for my kids to emerge, making small talk with the mums and dads, I began to wonder about the framing of these antagonists, their impact on creativity, and flow – how they can just as easily provoke more interesting responses than plain sailing and smiles.
It was in Blockbuster and the other retail and factory jobs I held until my illustrator beginnings that I heightened my tolerance, often fighting the corner of a person I recognised was more layered than the ‘prick’ or ‘arsehole’ tag another might – and often with good reason – have stuck on them in the aftermath of some mild skirmish. And not always just tolerance. It would grow into admiration, recognition of valuable difference.
In my lectures and coaching, I now ask my audience and clients to consider the duality of ‘like-minded people’ - the idea that we seek to populate our existence only with those like us, who align with our interpretation of the world. Here of course, there is capacity for joy, but also a risk of unnecessary limitation of our imagination, idea generation, and understanding of the human condition.
The tension between desirable and undesirable is a place where creativity gushes hot.
As far as Leanette, I’ve been thinking about the creativity in her role. Obviously it’s a subtle blend, but I saw that expression. Those eyes. The voracity in her handling of the impatient and reckless drivers, but also the mastery with which she aims her silent daggers. Believe me, she has her means, ways, and unique tricks for mastering her three meters of road. And it’s not just the metal boxes under her dominion. In my haste to get back and start work on my first-ever ‘drop-off’ day, I accidentally undercut her. Let’s put it this way: she didn’t shout, she didn’t gesture, she didn’t even turn to look at me, but I won’t be doing it again.