Open all hoursA Story by Pitbull1000Mike Stevens left the house as the rain sat in, falling hard
on his clothes and hair. It was seven am, Monday morning, the usual time he would see
his mates. Cars and a bus flew past, drenched his shoes and pants. He watched
them, all lined up and ready to go and didn’t envy them, for today he was happy
to be out of it. He waited for the lights to change then crossed the road and
came to it: the same old café where they would always meet, pushed the old
mahogany door open and looked up and saw one of his crushes working the coffee
machine, black hair cut into a bob, painted eyelids. He took his jacket off,
hung it on a hook on the wall, saw the blonde mop of his mate, and, sitting
opposite, his other mate, dressed in his usual obscure hat that held long curly
hair in place, walked over to them and sat down. ‘Fellas.’ ‘Mike.’ A waitress came over to their table and stood over them and
Mike looked up at her, enjoying the view. ‘Tina, how’s it going?’ ‘Good, thanks, Mike, you?’ ‘Not bad.’ ‘The usual, gents?’ They all nodded and she turned around and walked back up to
behind the counter. ‘So, how you been, Mike?’ ‘Not bad.’ ‘So, what you been up to?’ ‘Not a lot, been cooped up in my flat.’ He looked back at them and felt the jolt of inadequacy: the
fact that he was living in community housing, the fact that he was in his
forties, unmarried, single, the fact that he only had enough money to buy his
breakfast. Something had to give, but, as always, his apathy proved to be the
deciding factor, and yet, at the sight of the pretty young waitress across the
counter, the same old reminder made itself clear: that to pull one of them, or
one just like her, he would have to be in full-time employment: the same old
conundrum. ‘You’re not very forthcoming, Mike’ ‘What are you, my Dad?’ ‘That’s the spirit.’ Mike sat back and looked around the café - there was no point
in arguing with him, the extra twenty years of life experience meant he had
the final say on most things - still, he was tired of being lectured on his
failings... The place was packed, the mahogany door opening and closing, a
constant stream of people, ordering coffee to go, and then, Tina came back with
the coffees, brightening his mood, then spun around and was gone again and he
watched her walk away and wondered again about his life, what it had amounted
to. ‘You got another gig lined up, Mike?’ ‘Two weeks away, it’s at a place called ‘Lost’.’ ‘’Lost!’ I know it well!’ ‘Why don’t you come, Chris?’ ‘You both know I can’t go those places.’ ‘Right.’ They sat and then their breakfasts came, scrambled eggs,
toast, jam, more coffee. They ate, without fuss, and then Chris took a break
from his food, looked up at Mike. ‘Band’s doing pretty well, aye, Mike.’ Mike looked back at him, saw that he was making efforts to
cheer him up, and he suddenly remembered the months that he had spent unable to
even leave his home, days of not even being able to get out of bed, remembered
that it could, in fact, be worse, a lot worse: he had managed to rouse himself,
get showered and get here on time, and that had to have meant something… ‘Still haven’t made any money out of it, though.’ Even as he was saying the words, he knew that he was being
facetious - the band, it was the best thing that he had going on in his life, apart
from his boxing; not so much for the music itself, but the fact that he was
tied to a project that seemed, actually, seemed to be working, much like his
boxing... ‘The Buddha often said, life is suffering, Mike.’ Mike looked at the other man’s smiling face and suddenly
wanted to punch it in, seriously wondered whether or not he was only here,
having breakfast with them, to get his kicks out of watching his pain, then
remembered another mate from a life time ago, telling him to always imagine the
best in any given situation, that he was better off for doing it. Mike looked
at his mates and wondered who they were. He looked at John, the retired
computer programmer, sitting in his usual classic flannelette shirt, jeans and
trainers, the haircut of a woman slicked back over his scalp, a deeply lined
and craggy face, looking down a pair of prescription glasses; if anyone seemed
to be coping, it was him. He suddenly put his paper down and returned Mike’s
stare. ‘So, what’s on the agenda for today, Mike?’ ‘You’re not my f*****g parent either, what the f**k do you
care?’ ‘Alright, Mike, no need to get grouchy, just asking.’ ‘Well, don’t. You can keep your f*****g condescension and
take it somewhere else.’ ‘Right.’ Chris looked over at them. ‘C’mon fellas, let’s have a bit of cheer, aye? It’s not all
that bad, is it?’ A few of the other dwellers stopped eating and looked at him. ‘Look, sorry, I’ve just been a bit pissed off at everything
lately.’ ‘Right.’ ‘What about you, Chis? What are you gonna do, today?’ ‘Oh, you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that…’ Mike looked at Chris and was tired of him as-well, tired of
the fact that nothing seemed to phase the c**t, tired of his evasiveness and
self-congratulation, and then, as per usual, John put his paper down and
started making movements, calling an end to it, and they got up and made their
way to the door and John paid, as he would sometimes do, which was somehow a
compliment, and they all got one more look at the waitress before making their
way out. They stood, facing each other, the rain holding off, a cold
wind blown up, the giant frame of Chris, leaning over them, long hair billowing
underneath his strange hat, his massive frame hidden underneath a jacket. ‘Well, Namaste, fellas.’ ‘It wasn’t much of a Satsang.’ ‘It was what it was, we’ll do it better next time.’ But the comment didn’t seem to solve anything and they all
looked at each other and departed in different directions. Cars sped past, engines spluttering and roaring. Mike looked
around and wondered if it was ever going to change, his life, the country, the
government, his poverty. He started walking and the weather cleared, a ray of
sunlight breaking through the clouds, shone down on the local park that he
would pass when he took his walks. A girl appeared in front of him, fish-net
stockings and a denim jacket; how sad it all was that he couldn’t just walk up
and talk to her, he thought, after all, he wished her no harm and his
intentions were good, but of course it was impossible. He kept walking the few
blocks to get to the library itself, came to it and stepped inside, found a
booth and sat in it, tried to put some sentences down, and, after a while, saw
that the sun had come out, and so, he stood and closed his laptop and opened
the glass door to the Library’s court-yard and sat in it, enjoyed the warmth on
his face. After a while, he went back inside and worked a bit longer, decided
to pack it up and start walking the streets again. He passed a prostitute standing on a corner; a well-composed
body in a micro-skirt and leggings, and they exchanged glances and he wondered
about her and her life, that it had been reduced to this; after all, she was someone’s
daughter, but, then again, what right did he have to judge anybody? By the time
that he made it to the bottom of the hill to where he lived, the rain had
stopped and the sun was peaking through a grey cotton wool sky. He walked past
one of the old mansions on his block, turned and gazed at it, and, as always,
was fascinated by it for reasons he couldn’t articulate - something about the place,
the fact that it was boarded up. He would often wonder who lived there, what
story it had to tell, had often vowed to check the place out, then thought:
what the hell, there was no time like the present. He stepped towards it, and,
on a whim, bent down and contorted his body through the hole in the fence, and,
after some effort, came out the other side. Giant green tendrils of grass
growing everywhere, an old wardrobe lying broken and rotten. He looked up at
the house that looked also like an old broken wardrobe, and wondered what he
was doing, creeping around someone’s property, walked up to it and came to the front
door, lifted it up on its hinges and tossed it aside and stepped inside. The place was a shamble, cracked floorboards turning inside
out, rubble and birds flying around and nesting, bird-s**t caked to the floor.
And yet, despite it all, he was curious. A broken lounge set sat in the middle
of the lower floor facing a smashed tv set, as though a family had once lived
here years ago, and had simply upped and left, a set of stairs leading to un
upper floor. He walked over to them, stood on the bottom rung and looked up at
the rotting carpet and stairs that were still intact that led to an upper room,
and suddenly wondered if maybe squatters actually lived here, called out but
there was no answer. He put his weight on the bottom rung and took a step and the
wood creaked and groaned and took his weight and he came to an upper floor
where an empty room stood with a bed in it which was adjacent a window where
light seeped in unnoticed. He walked into the room and sat on the bed and looked out
the window and wondered who had once lived here, what a building like this was
doing vacant, for, the place, it must have been worth a fortune, then lay back
down on it, listening to the traffic going past, wondering at the world and his
place in it, eventually falling off to sleep. Dreams of old girlfriends’ past,
coming to him, people he had disappointed and failed. When he opened his eyes,
he saw that it was getting dark, looked around and recognised the possibility
that he was probably taking some poor desperate person’s bed, lifted himself up
and looked around the room, deciding, in his mind, to be kinder with himself
from now on: after all, hadn’t he lived like this at one time in his life? He
stood, hearing the bed springs squeak, wondering if someone had heard him come
in, then realised that it must be someone’s room as the bed itself was so
neatly made, and the room was swept and manicured. He turned and left and made
his way down the stairs and came out onto a dark and foreboding street, a man staring
at him, walking past. He started making his way home, deciding, in his mind, to
get himself ready for the following day, to work. The next morning, the call to work came and he took it, got
himself showered and dressed and got in the car and made it to the school with
ten minutes to spare. For the rest of the week, he took calls and worked, and
then, Friday came, the day when they were booked to play, and, as always, he recognised
the pre-gig jitters that he would always get, in the hours beforehand. He had
managed to clean out his car and make it to his mate’s place with time to
spare, got out of the car and rang the buzzer. ‘Hello?’ The voice of his mate, crackling over the line. ‘It’s me.’ In the next instant the door clicked and buzzed and he
pushed it open and made his way up the stairs, stood and waited for him to open
the door. After a while, he heard chains rattling around from the inside, then
locks being unlocked, and then the door creaked open and he saw his mate
standing there, reminding him of a skeleton. ‘Hey, man.’ ‘Hey. Come on in.’ He walked through to the small lounge room where they had
spent so many Friday nights, watching tv and eating pizza. ‘Hey, man, are you ready?’ ‘Nearly, just sit down for a sec, we got time.’ John sat down on the couch and packed a cone in the small
glass pipe that he would always use, lit it and sucked. Smoke rose through the
chamber and he put it down and started coughing, hiding his head in his hands
until it passed, then poured himself a shot of tequila, gulped it down and
poured another, sat, slumped over the couch. ‘Hey, man, are you gonna be ok, we’re on in like two hours.’ John slumped forward as if in a daze, as though he was going
to pass out on the couch that he was sitting in, reminding him of a zombie, and
he suddenly wondered if he was asking too much of him, getting him to play base
a venue, in front of people. ‘Look, man, we got to go, seriously.’ He turned and looked back at him and suddenly snapped out of
it, all of a sudden, as though he had only just woken up, started tying his
shoes, then, got to his feet, moving in slow motion. Mike stood and managed to
get the base and the base amp out of there, started dragged it down the stair,
then got it into the car, and they got in, and fought their way through the
traffic, got there an hour and a half later. The sun was setting on the horizon by the time that he got
all the amps in the place, the guitars and leads. A few sullen punters were
slumped over the bar, and then more people came funneling in the place, two
women, both with long hair and skin tight jeans hugging broad hips. They got
the amps on stage and more people started to arrive, and, they were overdue to
start. Mike tuned up his guitar, got his amp working, then suddenly heard the
deep grumbling of John’s base playing, looked over at him, saw his figure
coming to life, like a life-sized puppet, moving about, and he realized that
all of the stories were true, that in fact, he actually was a retired rocker, a
music legend, thin hair falling over his face, thin arms with scribbled
tattoos. A thick base line that was coming out of his amp, telling a story,
nothing they had rehearsed, but brilliant, enigmatic and authentic. Mike
started playing the lines that they had agreed on, but nothing was working and
he could feel the restlessness of the crowd, and then a scent of fear that was
starting to build as though there was a sentiment that whatever it was that
they were doing wasn’t working, except for John who played on, reinventing,
constructing, holding firm, solid in the restlessness of the crowd, his
experience on display, and then his other mate brought the electronic beat and
something was happening, something Mike couldn’t really understand or control,
but knew that they had done their part, had brought what they could and that it
was up to him to find a way, or it was on him and the gig was a bust. Mike could feel the sweat dripping from under his shirt,
thought he heard somewhere griping, felt the fact that the crowd had payed
money to come and see this, searched desperately to find the hook, then paused
and asked himself, what the hell was John trying to say on the base? Then stood and
listened, tried to imagine what sort of guitar sound, he himself would like to
hear, then, like a miracle, threw it all to abandon and found it, the hook, and
clung to it for dear life, tried, after a while, to add some different ideas in,
as though he knew what he was trying to say the whole time, and, low and
behold, it worked, better than he ever thought it could have, and there was
actual appreciation from the crowd, and then, all of a sudden, the whole thing
was over, and they turned the amplifiers off and retired to a secluded spot to
revel in what the hell they had just done. Mike sat, delighted by the feel of
two women’s hips, sitting next to him, two fully grown blondes, and then
another blonde was leaning over him, and he looked over at the smiling faces of
his friends and thought that he’d died and gone to heaven, sat and drank and
enjoyed falling into the haze of booze, and the rest of the night went like
this until they were piled into a cab, some other old friends, and members of
other bands who played that night. Mike remembered looking over at them all, and the cab
driver, at the dark night all around them, and wondered, all of a sudden, if he
had found what it was to be alive, the gold tooth in the cab driver’s mouth
winking at them, as though it were some sort of sign of things to come �" money,
fame, wealth - and then, they were piled back in in John’s place, and playing
records and endless beer being handed around. * Mike woke the next day with a raging hang-over, heard the
ringing of his mobile phone, picked it up and heard John’s voice, asking him if
he wanted to meet and he agreed, showered and got dressed and made his way down
to the café. John was sat, hunched in a corner table, reading a paper, glasses
on, looking aloof, and no different to any other morning. ‘Hey, man.’ ‘Hey.’ In the next moment, Tina was standing at the table and he
looked up at her, and they ordered their coffees. ‘Pretty good gig last night, aye, man?’ John looked over at him from behind his glasses, tilted his
head and looked at him and frowned and Mike remembered the point that he often
made: that he didn’t want to talk about it, and Mike could see where he was
coming from with that, understood the superstition surrounding art, that it was
a mysterious thing and best not spoken about. Tina came back with the coffees
and placed them down in front of them. ‘So, you’re well, Mike?’ ‘Yeah, not bad, Tina, you?’ ‘Oh, you know, working away.’ ‘Onya.’ ‘Hey, you ever heard of a guy called Bonobo?’ ‘Can’t say as I have.’ ‘He’s great, you should check him out.’ ‘Ok, I will.’ With that, she turned and left, and they sat and sipped
their coffee and faced each other, and then, after a while, John put his paper
down and looked at him. ‘So, what’s on the agenda for today?’ Mike grimaced at the question. ‘Don’t know, still pretty tired after last night, might
still try and get down to the library, you?’ ‘Yeah, nothing.’ ‘Nothing? Oh, come on, man, you must be getting up to
something?’ ‘Probably just go home and get smashed.’ Mike looked John, at his craggy, lined face, and suddenly
saw that he was miserable, but didn’t know how to help. ‘I don’t know, man, do you want me to come over, hang out a
bit?’ ‘Nah, it’s fine, I’ll be alright.’ He looked at him, and realised that it wasn’t alright, saw
that he was genuinely in pain. ‘How about a meeting man? There’s plenty around. There’s AA,
NA. I’ve seen them advertised in St Kilda.’ ‘Nah, I’ll be right.’ He looked back at him and put his paper down, and started
packing up. ‘Well, guess we’d better start making a move then.’ Mike looked back at him and thought, why? If you’re only
going to go home and smash your health further, why not hang out for a bit
longer, try and keep from poisoning yourself, but didn’t say anything, and then
they were approaching the counter and paying and standing outside looking at
each other. ‘Well, it’s a beautiful day, man, you sure you don’t want me
to come over?’ ‘Nah, it’s fine, you do what you have to do, we’ll catch up…’ ‘Ok, man, I guess I just worry about you.’ ‘It’s fine, you go.’ Mike turned and then turned back to him, saw him walking
away. ‘We played a good gig last night, man!’ But he just kept walking, and so, Mike turned around and
started walking, himself, determined to make something of the day. * That Friday, he finished work for the week and called him up
on the phone to have their usual Friday night tv session, but there was no
answer, and so, he walked around to his house and rang the buzzer but there was
no answer there either. And same, the next day, and the day after that, and two
weeks went by, and still he hadn’t heard from his mate, then began to wonder if
something was seriously wrong. And then, one day, driving home from work, his phone rang and
he pulled over and picked it up, and an older women’s voice started telling him
that she was John’s ex wife and that he had passed away a week ago and he sat
and looked out at the traffic going by and suddenly, nothing seemed to make
sense any more. He thanked her and she told him that there was going to be a
funeral and he drove home and everything suddenly seemed surreal and full of
meaning, the dark thunder clouds looming, the traffic on the road, the rain
tapping on the windshield, the droplets running down, all of it somehow like a love
letter from his mate to him, and he drove home and parked the car and went to
bed, wishing that his friend would have stayed with him just a little bit
longer, suspecting that it was going to take time to understand it. The funeral was held a month later. Mike picked up his mates
and they all wore black, marking the occasion, and he marveled, for a moment, looking at them, himself included: if ever there was a bunch of solemn unusual looking, individuals… They arrived on time. Family members spoke and Mike was amazed to see his friend as a younger man in photographs, then got up and spoke and then it was all over, and they ate sandwiches and drank coffee and heard and told stories about their mate. Life went back to normal for Mike, but then, nothing is ever as it seems, and losing a best friend showed him that: the value of things. Every once in a while, he would sit with Chris and have coffee and occasionally they would reminisce about John but it was never the same. Every once in a while, he would swear that he would catch a glimpse of a skinny old man wearing an obscure band t-shirt, screen-printed on, and for a second his heart would miss a beat and he would have to suppress the urge to run up and talk to him, or see the guy's face that was John's face, and yet not his face and he would remember that his mate was gone. Sometimes, he half fancied that he could hear him in his ear, but of course it was all imagination and superstition, and yet Mike would always enjoy imagining that his mate was now traversing some other plane, playing a base line to a different crowd, who were equally appreciative, a new crowd, equally bad a*s, and in a dive, somewhere else, mahogany walls with band posters, where a woman with a generous body was serving alcohol, open, all hours. © 2020 Pitbull1000 |
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Added on September 24, 2020 Last Updated on September 25, 2020 AuthorPitbull1000Melbourne, St Kilda, AustraliaAboutI'm a dude with a fascination with literature. Trying to improve my writing. All comments very much appreciated. more..Writing
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