Open all hours

Mike Stevens left the house as the rain sat in, falling hard on his clothes and hair. It was seven am, Monday morning, and 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 and crossed the road and came to the 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, 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, enjoyed the view of her face, like that of an angel.

‘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 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 conundrum which was like a plague to his existence.

‘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 John, the extra twenty years of life experience meant something, and yet, 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 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 don’t go to those places.’

‘Right.’

They sat and Tina came back with their breakfasts - scrambled eggs, toast, jam, more coffee �" and they ate without fuss, and then Chris took a break from his food and looked 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. But 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, to be working.

‘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 Chris 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, and he looked at the two men sitting opposite 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, then at Chris, his other mate, with his strange hat and long hair, and then John put his paper back down again and returned Mike’s stare, as if reading his thoughts.

‘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.

‘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. They paid and all got one more look at the waitress before making their way out, then 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 lap-top and opened the glass door to the Library’s court-yard and sat in it, enjoying 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 street corner; a well-composed body in a micro-skirt and leggings. 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, then 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, spotted a man staring at him, then started 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, got home and showered and managed to lay on his lazy-boy and get a few minutes rest, then got up and cleaned out the car and started making his way around to his mate’s place with time to spare, got out of the car and rang the buzzer, heard the crackling voice of his mate come 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, and, after a while, heard chains rattling around from the inside, then locks being unlocked, and then the door creaked open and there was John, standing there, looking like a skeleton.

‘Hey, man.’

‘Hey. Come on in.’

John walked through to the small lounge room where they had spent so many Friday nights, then sat on his couch.

‘Hey, man, are you ready?’

‘Nearly, just sit down for a sec, we got time.’

He 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 sat slumped forward, in a daze, looking as though he was going to pass out on the couch that he was sitting in, looking like a zombie, while Mike sat watching him, the thought entering his head that maybe he was asking too much of John, that maybe getting him to play base at a venue, in front of people was over the top.

‘Look, man, we got to go, seriously.’

John slowly turned his head and looked back at him, then slumped forward and started tying his shoes, then, got to his feet, moving in slow motion as though he was walking through sludge, and then Mike too stood and managed to get the base amplifier out of there, then started dragged it down the stair, got it into the car, and they both got in, and he fought his way through the traffic.

The sun was setting on the horizon by the time that they got there, parked the car, and got all the amplifiers in place, the guitars and leads. A few sullen punters were slumped over the bar, and then more people came funnelling in - two women, both with long hair and skin tight jeans hugging broad hips. More people started to arrive, and, the starting time for them to play was past due. Mike tuned up his guitar, got his amp working, then suddenly heard the deep grumbling of John’s base playing, looked over at him and saw his figure coming to life like a life-sized puppet, moving about, and he realised that all of the stories were true, that in fact, he actually was a retired rocker, a music legend: John with his thinning hair falling over his face, his thin arms with tattoos.

A thick base line that was coming out of his amp, telling a story, nothing they had rehearsed, but brilliant, enigmatic and authentic, and Mike started playing the lines that they had agreed on, but nothing was working and he could feel the restlessness of the crowd, but John played on, reinventing, constructing, holding firm, solid in the restlessness of the crowd, his experience on display, and then his other mate brought an electronic beat and something was happening, something Mike couldn’t really understand or control, for the band itself was its own organism, and he 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? He stood and listened, and 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, and the music rose and swirled and he could feel actual appreciation coming from the crowd, and then, with growing confidence, 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 then, all of a sudden, the whole thing was over, and they were turning the amplifiers off and retiring to a secluded spot to revel in what the hell they had just done. Mike sat down and was delighted by the feel of the 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 the falling haze of booze, and the rest of the night went like this until they were piled into a cab.

Mike remembered looking over at them all, and the cab driver, and at the dark night all around them, and wondering, 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, and then, they were piled back in at John’s place, 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, finding him sitting, hunched in a corner table, reading a paper, glasses on, looking no different to what he looked like any other morning.

‘Hey, man.’

‘Hey.’

Tina came over and stood 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 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 and then 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 looked back at him and grimaced at the hated 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 at him, 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 the figure 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 John 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 the 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 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 marvelled for a moment, if ever there was a bunch of solemn unusual looking, strange individuals, and yet, they were John’s strange individuals, and his message ran through them, ran through all of them: that, to be yourself was what mattered, to be your own form of beauty, your own form of weird, for, though it protests and claims otherwise, that is what the world is crying out for, is pleading for…

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 then 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.

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[LittleScribbler]

Hi Pitbull1000
I really loved your fantastic descriptions. I could see your characters and the places. It was a great title too. Your main character, Mike needed a goal though, something more than just going to a cafe for breakfast with friends. His goal could be how he's decided to try to fix his sad life. That goal could be your hook that draws your readers into the story and keeps them reading. I'll look for more of your work.
LittleScribbler