George

Lightning cracked outside the window and woke him. George Crombers sat up and looked out at the night, at the rain coming down in torrents, wetting the road and the world beyond, then lay back down again and fell back to sleep. When the morning came, he roused himself and stood, put on the only pair of boots that he had that were beginning to blister his feet, then his shirt, and walked to the bathroom, stood and looked at himself in the mirror, didn’t like what he saw, then looked around at the place. The realisation washed over him, almost as though he were waking up from a dream: the insane way that he had been conducting himself, more like a vagrant than anything else, obsessed with an idea that may or may not be true: that he had been married at one time, that somehow, in the blink of an eye, his life had been taken off of him. But he couldn’t actually recall this life, or even exactly what it was that he was pursuing, only the image of a woman, but even that was like a blurred photograph; some accident that he had had, leaving him with only the vaguest of recollections.  

He stepped out into the bright sunlight and decided right then and there that enough was enough, he would let it go, start again, leave it all behind, and the effort itself, to do it, was massive. It had been months - or was it years? - of this relentless searching for a woman, a woman who may or may not even exist, and he realised that he could lose his whole life to this �" what else could you call it? �" obsession. No, somehow or other, life had to go on.

He started walking, trying, as always, to recollect what exactly he used to be, for he had this belief that he used to be something, something really special, like a doctor or a lawyer, and that he was really good at it, and yet, like everything else in his memory, it was only ever dim and, at best, a suspicion. His mind would trace over all the various professions, trying to find a match, some flicker of recollection, but there was nothing, and he knew that, like everything else, he simply had to resign himself to the fact that there was nothing there, that the only reasonable thing to do was to start his life again, forgoing the past, whatever it was. But first, he was hungry, and so, decided to walk to his local café and have breakfast, as was his habit, feeling bolstered for finally making the decision.

The streets were empty, empty chairs and tables cluttering the streets, open doorways where waitresses were laying out cakes. The cafe had an ornate style lettering on the window, and décor from another era that appealed to his sensibilities. The barrister stood behind the coffee machine, head down, hair like a dark helmet on her head, looked up and smiled at him, her face lighting up, and he stepped inside and took a seat and looked around. The place was dimly lit and there were only a few other patrons around, most people at work, and, after a moment, she came over and took his order. Maybe, I could work in a place like this, he thought, and she leant over, and, as always, he admired everything about her.

‘How are you today, George?’

‘I’m ok, just sorting some stuff out?’

‘Oh, yeah, like what?’

‘Like everything?’

‘Sounds promising. The usual?’

‘That’d be great.’

She turned and walked back to behind the machine and started making the coffee, and he looked out at the view of the city, and thought more about his obsession, about letting it go, about starting his life again, and, in the next moment, she returned with the coffee and put it down in front of him, and he looked at her, an idea forming in his head.

‘Say, Julie, what does it take to work in a place like this?’

‘Oh, there’s nothing to it, really, you’ve just got to ask the manager.’

She turned and looked around.

‘I’m not sure if we’re putting anyone on at the moment, but I can have a look, ask for you, if you want.’

‘Hey, that’d be great.’

She turned around and George watched her walk to the back of the shop and then she came back, smiling, which he wasn’t expecting.

‘Ben says to come back in the morning, if you’re interested.’

Elated, he finished his coffee and paid and spent the rest of the day walking the city, amazed at how life could suddenly turn around. He thought about his quarters and realised that, with a job, he could actually live somewhere, get his own place, and, all of a sudden, life suddenly seemed to be worth living again.

He bought groceries and carried them back to the block where he lived, carried them up the stairs and dumped them in the communal kitchen, on the table, started making the meal. The kitchen started to fill up with the other residents, putting out their condiments, others wanting to cook, to use the stove, and he kept his things in a tight area in the corner, and started chopping vegetables, dreams of his own place filling his mind, his old obsession finally defeated and fading. He threw the vegetables onto the pan, turned and saw Ray, his neighbour, doing the same thing; Ray, a relic from another time, wearing his usual silk pants, which came half-way up his body, held up by braces.

‘Georgie-boy, what have you been up to?’

‘Not much, Ray, you know, this and that, got myself a job, today, you know.’

‘Is that so.’

Ray turned back to the vegetables that he was frying on the pan, leaned back on his heals, his belly protruding, then served them up, winked at him, and walked over to the table and sat with the others; men sitting, shoulder to shoulder, hunched over their food. He finished making his meal, walked over and joined them, sat next to Walter, another old timer and war vet; Walter, who wore yellow lensed glasses and looked as if he was still serving.

‘Georgie-boy.’

‘Walter, what’s been happening?’

‘Oh, you know, this and that.’

‘Any luck on the job front?’

‘As a matter a fact, yes, I might have found something, am going down in the morning.’

Walter started cutting into the meat on his plate, his massive hands making his knife and fork look tiny.

‘I always knew you could do it.’

‘Thanks, Walt, you?’

‘Still looking, man.’

They ate the rest of their meals in silence, the sound of cutlery banging on the table with their conversations, and then, people were getting up and leaving, making their way back through to their quarters. Walter finished his meal, stood and took his plate.

‘Well, Georgie-boy, I’m turning in, catch up, soon.’

George sat and waited for them to leave, enjoying the silence, looked out at the road and the trees and the orange light falling on the bitumen and wondered what it was all about, this life, then stood and went to the sink and washed his plate and made his way back to his room.

He sat on the chair and looked out at the night, decided to stop wondering, and once and for all about his past life, deciding it was over, whatever it was, after all, he had a life to get on with, didn’t he? It grew dark and he sat and thought more about life, and what it all meant.

The next morning, his alarm went off and he leaned over and turned it off and, for once, got out of bed on the first try, took his shower and got dressed. Was he really going to be a cook, now? Was that it? He thought about it and the idea didn’t seem all that bad all of a sudden, and he got dressed and stepped out into the day that was warm and sunny.

A cook; there was dignity in it, though, he always saw himself doing something to do with his head with his smarts; but his head was all messed up, and if he was ever smart, he didn’t feel it, at least, not anymore. His mind scoured itself, hunting again, for remnants of his theoretical accident, and, for the millionth time, but, as always, there was nothing. If was well and truly time to let it go; and if this was to be his fate, he accepted it.