James Anderson. In memorandum of Edan John BarnettA Story by Pitbull1000The wind picked up and blew across the brown empty plains. James
Anderson stood and looked out across it. Open fields, empty and devoid of anything,
except for the occasional vacant house in the distance. He stood, looking like
a scarecrow, or a weed, shot of the ground. Dust blew in his face and
everywhere else, in shallow brown waves that stung his cheeks. He could make
out a house, standing in the midst of it, tiny on the horizon, and the tiny
figure of a man, riding on a tractor. Thought, for a moment, about approaching him
and begging for a meal, offering to lend a hand, but changed his mind, looked
back at the highway. The same old languid tongue, fleeing into the distance. He
turned and trudged it, his body slightly stooped from the exhaustion of
walking, his clothes sagging, his shoes nearly worn down. A blue sky had turned grey and there wasn’t much light left
on the horizon. His steps were tired mechanical. He looked up and saw that the
light had almost eclipsed on the horizon and with it, the land, and all of a
sudden, everything had turned dark. He kept walking, the wind loud in his ears.
Heard the roaring of a car from behind him, got off the road and held out his
thumb in a useless gesture, that he knew would get him nowhere, then tripped and
fell off the road and landed in the embankment, hard. The hissing of cicadas and the sound of toads squawking. James,
lay there, looking up at the stars, the diamonds in the night sky, then closed
his eyes, and knew that there was nothing else for it, that, like every other
night, this would be where he would sleep. Dreams of his life, before this life. Sitting in a
classroom, full of other children his own age, all dressed in uniform. An old
man seated at the front of it. Curly hair, swooped over a bald shiny head, an
oversized black moustache that made him look comical. And then, the man was
summoning him to the front of the classroom where he was told to pick up a
piece of chalk and answer simple maths problems that were written there. White
chalk on a blackboard, perfect handwriting. He tried to copy it, but the
letters came out scrawled and illegible. The man sat, observing him and his
struggle, a smile curling at the side of his mouth, told him to sit down. And
he remembered walking that seemingly long aisle, back to his desk, and hearing
the laughter of the other children, at his failure, then sitting down in
disgust, for it was nothing new for him, but only a long line of defeats that
seemed to have become the theme of his life. And then, the dream that he always had: his last day of
living at home: the blows hitting him in the face, and in the head, the wood from
his precious, worthless guitar, smashing on top of him, scaring him more than
anything for the sound of it, hitting him in the head; the sound of it,
crashing on top of him; his mother’s face, twisted into a hideous mask, the
teeth, like a monster’s; some horrible giant serpent from another realm, come
to life. He remembered running away and escaping it, opening the door and
running down the street in the heat of the afternoon. Bougainvillea swaying in
the breeze. The silence of the neighbourhood. The road before him, and the
house and his mother and his family, standing behind him, already a remnant, a
diorama, filled with memories. The long road before him. The last look at the
streetlights and the surrounding houses; green lawns, iron fences, houses with
lattice work and gardens. He woke to the sound of a car roaring along the highway and
cicadas hissing, then sat up and winced at the pain that shot down his neck, dusted
himself off and stood and looked around at the empty plains that stretched out
for miles, then started walking the road, again. He stuck his thumb out. A car roared past, blew hot air at
him. He trudged on. Could feel the clothes on his back sticking to him and
starting to sting his skin. A truck roared past and then skidded to a halt, blowing
dust everywhere, a hundred metres from where he stood. He ran up to it, fearful
that the driver would change his mind, came to the side of a giant tire and
looked up at the hull. A woman’s voice came from high up inside: ‘are you gonna
get in or what?’ He climbed a set of metal stairs and stood, looking at a
woman, deep inside of it, sitting behind a huge wheel and gear stick. A woman
with curly red hair, tied up in a ponytail. They looked at each other and then,
he climbed in and slammed the door, and she adjusted the gear stick, and the
truck started moving. He looked down at the road, amazed that he had found some
reprieve from the heat, the cool of the cabin and the tinted window, all
constructed. The truck started to pick up pace and the woman turned and looked
at him. ‘So, where are you from, kid?’ ‘Around.’ She looked at him. ‘Around’s not a place.’ He didn’t answer and she turned back to the road and kept
driving, kept the truck at a steady speed. After a while, they turned into a
petrol station, the sky coming down in thick clouds, everywhere turning dark. ‘Listen, Kid, I’m gonna pull in here for a couple of hours,
get some kip. You can do whatever you want. Just don’t rob me, ok?’ He looked at her, and she looked back at him. A woman
wearing oversized glasses, looking younger than her years. He was getting
hungry but thought it rude to ask, so let it be, looked around at the hull of
the cabin, watched the woman regress into sleep, then decided to do the same. When he woke, he could smell meat. He opened his eyes and
saw that he was in the cabin of the truck and that they were moving through the
night. The outline of the woman’s face and arms were lit by the dash and there
was a tiny light in the cabin which she had turned on. He looked at her and
suddenly felt ashamed of himself that he hadn’t been more polite to her, but
there was nothing for it. He looked at her and didn’t know where to start. After
a while, the silence became uncomfortable, and so, he just blurted out the
first thing that came to his head: ‘What’s your name?’ She looked at him for an instant. ‘It’s Patty. What’s yours?’ ‘James.’ ‘You from around here, Patty?’ She looked at him, hard, for a second, then turned her eyes
back on the road. ‘That’s a pretty big question for a little kid, isn’t it?’ The comment made him angry. ‘I’m not so little as you might think.’ ‘Well, Mr not-so-little, I could ask you the same question.’ He looked back at her, resigned, then saw that there was a
burger on the seat, fries, and a bottle of coke. ‘Go on, take it. I bought it for you, anyway.’ He picked it up and it was heavy in his hands. Unrolled the
paper that it was covered in and took a bite. His stomach rumbled. Sumptuous
meat melted in his mouth with bits of lettuce and tomato and cheese. He kept
eating and soon devoured it, then went onto the bag of chips that was lying
open, then twisted the lid off the coke and took a sip. Let it wash through his
mouth. ‘Looks like someone enjoyed that.’ Said the woman. He devoured the coke and burped, and she turned the light off
in the cabin. ‘James, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but shouldn’t
somebody know about you? I mean, aren’t you a little too young to be just
rolling around?’ He looked at her and didn’t know what to say, except that it
was none of her business, and that is what he told her, and it brought on a
silence between them. He watched the road, watched the lines of the road
disappear under the truck, wished that he could stay right here with this
woman, but recognized that that too, would come to an end. They drove through
the night, and she snapped the radio on, asked him if he needed to the toilet
and he said that he was ok, told him that they would stop at the next petrol
station, anyway. They listened to country music, and, after a while, he fell
back to sleep. When next he woke, a hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened
his eyes and saw a new day through the windscreen. The woman was looking at him
like a mother would a child. ‘You need a pit-stop? I do. We’ve been going for a while.
That’s one trained bladder, you got there.’ He looked up at her and then, out the window of the truck. A
world within a world, and far away and devoid from his parents and, for that
reason, it gave him hope. He opened the cabin door and was hit by the cool of
the morning, walked down the stairs and landed on the hard ground. The woman was
standing next to him, and he looked up at her and she led him into the diner and
pointed to the toilet door. He walked into a passageway that had a red tiled
floor, walked past a mirror and saw a child’s profile, for a nano second, a
child with a shaved head and a downturned mouth. A big man with long grey hair
tied in a ponytail was standing at the urinal and he walked past him, and
opened the cubicle door, before the man noticed him. A fluorescent light above
his head flickered on and off and he heard the man turn the faucet taps on,
then his shoes clacking on the tiled floor. James gratefully relieved himself,
then stepped out onto the floor and washed his hands, looked at himself in the
mirror, his head, making it above the edge of it. The face and head of a child,
which he was, though he saw that it was caked in dirt. A bar of soap lay on the
faucet. He turned the tap on and lathered it and washed his face, turning the
lather brown, washed it all off and looked back at himself in the mirror and
saw that his face had turned a lighter colour, then walked out of the toilet
and saw the woman, sitting at a booth and sipping a plastic cup. He walked over to her and sat up at the booth, opposite her,
and looked at her and she looked back at him. Looked down and saw a burger,
sitting in front of him and a paper bag full of hot chips and a hot cup of
coffee in a plastic cup. ‘Listen kid, I can only take you to Taree, cause that’s
where I stop off myself. You could come and stay with me for a while, if you
wanted to. I got a spare room, and we could take it from there.’ He looked at her and couldn’t think what to say, then
thought about it for about half a second and agreed, picked up the burger and
took a bite into juicy meat. ‘You don’t say much, do you. Well, fair enough.’ Said the
woman. They sat and he ate in silence, and it was about the best meal that he
had ever eaten in his life, that was, aside from his mother’s cooking. He
looked out the window, at the day, and saw an empty road, and felt the grief
that he may never see his mother’s cooking again, and didn’t know what to do
about that either. They finished all the food on the table and the woman
ordered two more cups of coffee and they sat and looked at each other. ‘Well, kid, you about ready to leave?’ He looked back at this woman who might have saved his life. ‘Yeah, sure. I’m gonna pay you back for the food, by the
way.’ ‘Sure, kid.’ The woman walked to the counter and paid and then stepped
out into the sunshine and got back in the cabin and they were on the road
again. A new day and suddenly good things seemed possible. She snapped the
radio on to an easy listening channel and he pictured himself playing all the
tunes on a guitar and standing in front of an audience. They drove all day and
stopped a couple of times and made it into the town called ‘Taree’ where she
slowed the truck down and drove through the small city. Buildings and
promenades. Suburbs sprawled across the horizon. Houses with gates and fences,
much like where he had grown up. She pulled the truck into one of the houses and stopped it
and turned and looked at him, then opened the door and disappeared from out of
the hull and he climbed down, himself, and landed on a cement driveway, looked
around and saw a one-story house, standing at the end of it, a place that was
half falling down. Overgrown brush, the roof, semi collapsed. She called out to
him and asked him if was just going to stand there, and he made his way around
the front of the truck. A yellow light came on in the front of the house and the
door opened. A man appeared in the entrance. They said something to each other, and she turned and looked in his direction and the man turned his head slightly
and looked at him and he couldn’t make out the man’s expression. And then he
disappeared back into the house, and the tall woman turned and walked up the
path and stood over him, looking like a giant. ‘Come in, kid, it’s been a long day.’ He looked up at her and was wary of the man, looked back at
the house and could feel the danger inside, danger that he knew. But he was
tired, and she seemed to be appealing to him. They exchanged some silent
communication, as though she was saying to him that he could trust her, and he
took it and followed her through the door. Before he even stepped inside, he could smell it, the unholy
odor inside the house, like dog s**t mixed with human body odor, the smell of
a bear: a human male’s domain. The place was carpeted and there were burn marks in it, and
it too smelt rank, as though it were damp. He followed her down a darkened
hallway which opened up to a lounge area where the man sat, staring at a
television set. He was big and semi bald, with strands of black hair swooped
over a pale head, wore glasses, and it somehow seemed obvious that this was
part of his persona, a well-constructed and deliberate feature. James took one look
at the man and despised him immediately. For this was just the sort of person
that he had escaped from, the same sort of person that he had been forced to
grow up with, which meant that he was humiliated on a daily basis. And here was
another one, and in that moment, he wondered why he simply didn’t just turn
around and leave and get back on the open road.
The woman looked down at him and seemed to sense his fear, then
patted him on the shoulder and looked at the man, but he only sat there staring
at the television and the woman walked over to the man and bent down and
whispered something to him, and, after a moment, the man yelled ‘what!?’ and
got up and turned and looked at the kid. The man started yelling at the woman
and the two of them started screaming at each other, and he turned and left
them to it and walked back down the hallway and the smelly carpet. Opened the
front door and was hit by the wind, the cold going right through him. He started walking, the voices that sounded like two dogs
barking at each other, disappearing on the wind, just as the door slammed of
its own accord. Voices from the past, voices he hoped that he would never hear
again, voices that echoed like his dull memories. He walked out onto the road, surrounded by other houses that
all looked the same, in a cul-de-sac that looked just like the one where he
grew up, kept walking in the night, looked around for somewhere to sleep. But
there was nothing. Only the road and the traffic and the suburbs and the rain
that started in spats, then came down hard. It came down so hard that it became hard to see where he was
going. He crossed a road and came to a park, could see a building in the
distance. Ran across the park and stepped inside of it, saw that it was high
school building, and that there was no-one there. He tried one of the doors, but
it was locked, then settled for a bench, lay down and fell into a sort of a
sleep, the white light of the overcast day in his eyes, at least, safe from the
rain. When he woke, the rain had stopped, and it was dark all
around. He couldn’t make out anything, then slowly stood and saw the
streetlights on the horizon. Miniatures, illuminating the road. He started
walking and felt an ache in his bones, an ache that only the elderly understood,
walked through the park and couldn’t see anything, then spotted a girl about
his age, a girl in a red jacket walking a small white dog. The girl saw him and
waved but he kept walking. He came to the street and followed it, and, after a while,
came out onto the main road. Cars going up and down. White and red lights. He
followed it, walked past a brewery, could smell the hops, the red beer sign
radiating out into the night, kept walking and could see the city itself, then
saw that there was a river, and so he followed it, the water looking like oil,
reflecting the lights from the city. He came to a bike track and walked alongside it, then
stopped and rested, decided to walk down to it, get off the road, his stomach
aching for food, walked further down to the river and a mud-bank that was cool
all around it, then couldn’t go any further, stepped into a thicket and lay
down and rested, looked up at the night sky for a few moments until sleep came.
Dreams of his family, his brother and his sister. He woke to the sound of insects hissing in his ears, cars,
roaring along the highway, the river, gurgling.
Sat up and had the need to relieve himself, took off his shoes and
rushed down to the river and pulled his pants down, then dove in and swam out
in into the brown water, waded out into it and looked up at the sky. Perfectly
blue with only the occasional cloud. A dingy drove passed him and then a girl’s school rowing
team. He looked up at them, but they didn’t notice. Blonde hair and spandex.
Couldn’t have been any older than him. He floated on the water and looked up at
the buildings and wondered what he was going to do for food, waded back to
shore and sat on the bank and put his shoes back on, stood and started walking
the path. After a while, he came into the city, stood at a set of
lights and wondered again what he was going to do for food, then remembered
someone telling him that churches often put on free food, then went looking for
one. The streets were full of people. Many, dressed in suits. He
kept walking and came to a church and saw that it was open and stepped inside.
A welcoming silence. People sitting in pews. He walked down one of the aisles
and spotted two fat elderly women, in a rear room, then walked toward them, and
one of them smiled and ushered him in. ‘What have we here?’ said one of them to the other. ‘Looks like someone could do with some tucker…sit right down
there, young man.’ James looked at the women and sat down at a table, and one
of them handed the other a plate and she served him up a hot roast that lay on
top of a stove, put the plate in front of him, and he ate one of the best meals
he had ever tasted, gravy and the meat melting in his mouth. ‘Somebody smells like he could use a shower,’ said one to
the other. ‘And I reckon a new set of clothes and a bed…But isn’t he a bit too
young to be out on his own?’ James looked at the lady and could see where it was going,
didn’t want the authorities brought in. ‘Thank-you, but I can take care of myself.’ They looked at each other for a moment. ‘We’re not saying you can’t, dear, it’s just…well, you look
as though you should be in school, that’s all.’ ‘I can take care of myself.’ They looked at each other. ‘We could send him down to ‘the mission,’’ said one to the
other. He looked at them. ‘The mission, that sounds, ok.’ With his belly full, he thanked the two women and stepped
out into the heat of the day and started walking the streets. He followed the
directions that the two women gave him, walked down alleyways and came to an
old building that was another church. Stepped inside an empty building, saw a
sign that said ‘office’, walked to it and knocked on the door. A voice came
from deep inside of it and he opened a door and came to a room with a woman,
seated behind a computer. The woman looked up at him, then seemed taken aback
for an instant, then recomposed herself. ‘Can I help you?’ ‘Uh, I was told to come here, that you could help me find a
place to stay.’ She looked at him from behind a thick pair of glasses, then
closed her computer. ‘Son, how old are you?’ ‘Never mind how old I am, I was told that you could help
me.’ She looked at him hard in the eye. ‘What’s your name, son?’ ‘It’s James.’ ‘Well, James, we don’t usually help minors.’ ‘I’m not a minor, I’m eighteen.’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Is that so, is it? Well, we have dormitories for the
homeless, here James. We can house you, but only temporarily. Cattle call is at
five. In other words, be in line outside the church be five and we can give you
a bed. There’s a free breakfast at 9am, sharp.’ With that, she looked back down at her computer, and he
looked at her and resisted the temptation to stand up and kiss her. For James,
all of his Christmases had suddenly come at once. He started making his way out
of the office and the woman suddenly called out to him. ‘James! One more thing.’ She reached into a draw and handed him a piece of paper. ‘It’s a fifty-dollar food voucher. Valid for two weeks.’ He looked up at her and wanted to weep, and she sat back
down to her computer, and he walked out of the office and the church, staring at
the piece of paper. For the rest of the day, he went shopping and took his time
with it. He bought a pre-made pizza, a ham and cheese roll, and some orange
juice, and had plenty of change left over on the card, then sat in a park and
watched the day expire. The sun, hot in the sky, the occasional worker on a
break, trams and cars moving. He watched it all and something like hope began
to well up inside of him. After a while, he took a bite into the roll and it
was about the best thing that he had ever tasted, then looked up and watched a
cloud sitting in the sky and wondered to what extent he was innocent or guilty
of his circumstances. Then, made his way back into the city, pigeons crowding in
the streets, people in suits, walking. He looked up at and saw a clock-tower,
saw that it was 4.30, and so, he made his way back to the church, and was
confronted by a line-up of people. Old men in brown suits, younger men in jeans and trainers.
He stood behind them and waited in the hot sun, saw that a woman stood at the
front of the line with a clipboard. At five-o-clock sharp, she began admitting
people, and he looked behind him and saw that the line-up had grown to down the
street, then realized that not everyone was going to be allowed in, that they
only took in a certain amount of people. The woman at the front of the line,
slowly began admitting people, and, as it drew closer, he hoped that he was
going to be allowed in, then breathed a sigh of relief when it came to his
turn. The woman looked down at him and studied him and he looked
up at her and she nodded, and he walked back into the church and was ushered
into another room where there were beds stacked up on top of each other. The
light coming down into the room in a white prism. He looked back at the woman and
saw that she was a holy vessel and then she was gone, and he wondered back out
into the main hall. People sitting next to each other, shoulder to shoulder,
sitting behind benches, looking like giant stooped sacks. The room murmuring
with conversations. He found a spot and felt relief wash over him: here it was
a place to live. People were getting up from their tables, then formed a line-up
and he did the same. The smell of cooked vegetables and mincemeat, hot coffee.
After a while, he came to the front of it, where there was food in metallic
serveries. He looked at it and saw vast quantities of soup, vegetables, and
mincemeat. A man in glasses and an apron looked at him and smiled, held a
plate, and asked him if he’d like some and he said yes. The man made him a full
plate and stood it on the counter, and he put it on a plastic tray and moved
along the line. A woman asked him if he wanted coffee and bread and he said yes,
then took the full tray and walked back to the tables where people were sitting
and eating, squeezed in on one of the tables. He sat between two large men,
then started eating and one of them looked down at him. ‘Look at this one, his eyes are bigger than his belly.’ The comment sent a murmur of laughter around the table, but
it didn’t stop him, he devoured the whole plate, went onto the bread and
slurped at the coffee. They looked at him a moment longer then went back to
their own meals. James looked at the man next to him, and the other, and at
the other people around the table and wondered about this life, what it all
meant, how he was supposed to feel about being here, and didn’t bother judging
anyone, for it seemed to him that there was a secret place inside of everyone
that was private and sacrosanct and didn’t belong to anyone else, no matter how
much they insisted that it did, and that this hall was somehow an extension of
that place, something holy and beyond reproach and best kept secret. He took a pot of sugar from the table and put two spoon-fills
in his coffee, sipped it and sat and looked around at the hall where he now
lived, the last of the light sifting through the room through stained glassed
windows in rays. He looked at the others who had made it here for the night. Worn
out badgers, in clothing that had holes in it. He stood and handed his plate back and walked outside, sat
in a courtyard where people were seated, smoking. Someone offered him a
cigarette and he took it, and it made him cough, gave him a headache, and he
wondered what anyone saw in it, put it out and watched the sun go down. An old
lady sidled up next to him and laughed, told him a tale of defeat, visions of a
long-lost son who had died of alcoholism. After a while she became silent, drew
heavily on a cigarette and coughed, looked at him as though content that she
imparted some deep wisdom and they sat, together, watching the sunset that was
a band of peach melting into the horizon. It became dark and more people sat around in the courtyard,
smoking cigarettes. He looked at them and wondered if people actually lived
this way, night after night, congregating on this little strip of ground,
saying some silent vigil to who knew what? After a while, he stood and turned
around and walked back into the hall, saw a sign up that said ‘bedrooms’,
walked over to it, followed a large figure through a passageway and came to
another wing of the church. Rooms in the passageway. He looked inside of one and saw
that it was full of wooden bunkbeds where people were sleeping, walked further
down the passageway where a musky scent grew deeper, looked inside another one
and saw an empty bed, walked over to it and got in and fell to sleep, even as
an old man was snoring, directly above him. The next morning, he woke at dawn, looked up at the foot of
the bunk-bed above him, and forgot where he was for an instant, then
remembered, and it gave him delight that he had found a bed and an evening meal
for as long as he wanted, then suddenly realized that he could stay here
forever and there would never be any threat to his person and it gave him such
intense delight that he suddenly felt like crying, then got up and walked down
the passageway and that too, gave him delight, that it was empty. Came back out
into the main hall and saw that the tables were empty and that there was a sign
up that said ‘breakfast 7am to 9am’, then, again, felt like weeping that
another daily meal was put on. He checked his watch that said five thirty am, then looked
around for a shower and found one down another passageway: a large communal
white tiled room with multiple shower heads in the middle of it. He undressed
and turned the hot water and stood underneath it, the hot water heavenly on his
skin, found a bar of soap in the holder and washed himself, then found a towel
folded up in a pile and dried himself, then put his shorts and t-shirt back on,
his worn-out trainers, and suddenly realized that he could do with a change of
clothes, maybe even a second or third pair, but where to store them? He walked back to main hall, saw that a group of men and women,
dressed in aprons, were standing behind the server, walked up to them and
asked them if he could eat early and they agreed, then gave him a bowl of
cereal, coffee and toast and he sat down to eat, relishing the food. When he
had finished, he brought the tray back to the counter and, upon having a sudden
flash of inspiration, asked the old man where he could find work. The old man looked
at him from behind heavily magnified spectacles. ‘Well, I suppose you would have to look at the daily paper,
look in the employment section…But aren’t you too young for all of this? I
mean, shouldn’t you be in school?’ James looked back at the man and remembered his experience
at school, all the taunting and the homework and his homelife, and his reliance
on his parents, and knew that he had had enough of all of that, that there was
no place for him, there, and anyway, didn’t he already know enough about
drudgery. ‘I’m just asking you a question, mister, anyway, I’m done
with school.’ The man looked back at him more heavily. ‘Well, it’s like I said, you need to get the daily paper,
look in the employment section.’ James thanked the man and went on his way, walked out into
the streets with a new mission. A bright sunny day, people on their way to work,
a sea of dark suits, cars lined up in traffic. He walked amongst it all, tiny
and insignificant, then came to a park and a seat and sat down and enjoyed the
sunshine, then thought about his mission to get a second pair of clothes. He
stood and looked around for a bin where someone had thrown away the daily paper
and it didn’t take long to find a copy, then walked back to the bench and
turned to the back where the employment section was. ‘Wanted, bricklayer, $25 an hour.’ ‘Carpet upholsterers,
$25 an hour.’ Carpenter’s apprentice, wanted, Sheet-metal workers, apprentice
rates’
He walked back to
the bench, clutching the paper, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. Waited
the time out, then headed back to the church for the evening meal, considering,
how he was going to make the phone call, who was going to lend him the fifty
cents. Standing in the line-up,
behind the others, envying the ones in ratty brown suits, the smell of
meatballs and vegetables. When it came to his turn, he looked on, once again,
with amazement at the full plate of food that was ladled up to him, walked back
to the tables and sat down with the others and ate with relish. When he had
finished, an old man with long white hair and a bulbous face, sitting next to
him, turned to him and smiled. ‘Well, you ate all
that down, didn’t you, cobber!’ said the man. James looked back
at the man. ‘So, did you!’ ‘Yeah, I guess I
did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out for a cigarette.’ James looked at the
man and had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Say, Mr., you
wouldn’t have fifty cents I could borrow, would you?’ The man looked at
him and laughed. ‘Fifty cents, you
say!’ He leaned in close, smelling of tobacco. ‘Tell me something, son, do I
look like I’m made of money to you?’ James looked at
him. Blood-shot irises ready to burst. ‘No.’ ‘No? Well…’ He suddenly reached
into his pocket and dug up a bundle of coins from his pocket and threw them on
the table, looked threw them and handed him a dollar coin, then stood and
departed. James put the coin in his pocket and followed the old man, took a cup
of tea from the kitchen onto the outside courtyard and watched the sun go down
with the others, then went back to his room and slept. He woke early the
next morning, then made it to the bathroom and took his shower, walked out into
the kitchen and saw the workers preparing the meal, took a tray and got a bowl
of cereal handed to him, and toast. Then made himself a cup of tea and ate it
all, walked back to the bathroom and cleaned his teeth, looked at himself in
the mirror, saw a skinny kid with a shaved head staring back. Eyes with murky
whites, that said something about him, something he would have rather not
known, then walked out into the day. A bright sunny day.
Bright enough for a career in sheet-metal work. He thought lovingly about the
acoustic guitar he had once owned, then vowed that it would be one of the first
things he would be with his wages. He walked the streets, watching the other
adults walking around, most looking as though they were heading somewhere
important. Some, strange world. He kept walking, noticed people sitting in cafes
and restaurants, a man and a woman, sitting, eating behind the glass. One table
among many. She wore a white dress that showed off a curvy body. James looked
at them and tried to imagine what their life was like, and it seemed to him like
a heaven he could barely comprehend. Just then, a waiter looked at him and
sneered, shooed him away from the glass and he dragged himself away from the
scene and started the street, vowing that, one day, it would be him sitting at
that table, and able to buy anything that he wanted, and with money left over.
Plenty of money. He kept walking,
and finally found a phone box, stood and put the coin in the slot, carefully
dialing the number that he had memorized, careful not to lose the coin. A man
shouted from the other end and there was a screeching noise, and he had trouble
making out anything at all. James tried to speak into the phone but there was
too much noise at the other end, and he couldn’t make out anything. A loud voice
at the other end screamed ‘hang on!’ and then there was a silence, and he tried
again. ‘What!’ screamed
the voice, again. ‘I said, my name is James Anderson and calling about the sheet-metal workers’ position!’ ‘What!’ ‘The sheet-metal
workers’ position!’ ‘Oh, right. Meet at
55 Grub Road, tomorrow morning at six am.’ With that, the
phone reverted to the engagement signal, and he realized that the man had hung
up. He put the phone down and turned around and looked out at the day. From
what the man said, it suggested that he already had the job. It must have been
that on-one else, maybe even wanted the job. Who knew, maybe the job itself was
too tough for most people? Who knew? He walked around for a bit and thought
about it. Something about it didn’t feel right. After all, he should have been
elated, shouldn’t he? Maybe, he was something to do other things, but what? He
kept walking. Well, anyway, it was money, wasn’t it? And it meant that he could
move out of where he was living, maybe get his own place. But how much were
they paying? That was the question. If the carpentry one was twenty-five
dollars an hour, surely, they would pay him that, wouldn’t they? He sat down and
thought about it. If it was full-time, then that would be a forty-hour week,
and on twenty-five dollars an hour, then that was one thousand dollars a week!
Easily enough to rent his own flat! Elated, he kept
walking. He would try it, if he didn’t like it, he would do something else. He
walked back to the park and sat and watched the sky and watched the clouds and
thought more about his predicament. It still didn’t feel right, but what did he
know about feelings and intuition? What did he know about anything? Enough to
know that he was usually right about most things concerning himself. He got up and
started walking the streets, went back to his people watching. Studied them to
try and get some ideas about who he wanted to be. But nothing fit. One thing he
did know, though, was that he missed his guitar. He made it back to the city.
Looked up at the clock tower. Two Pm.
Still too early to go back. He found the main outdoor mall and walked it, then
saw a music shop, and delighted, walked inside. Wall to wall, guitars, hanging
on racks, some of the beautiful things he had ever seen. He looked around for a moment, then summoned
the courage, and took one down, found a stool and sat down and started playing
it. He couldn’t believe how smooth the neck was. Much smaller than the
classical guitar that he had learned on. He sounded a chord with his hand and
the strings ringing out, and he was in love it, everything about it, then
shuddered to think what it would sound like plugged in. Just then, a salesclerk was approaching him, a big guy in a uniform. ‘Listen mate, you
can only play these guitars if you’re intending to buy on.’ ‘But I do intend to
buy one.’ ‘Listen kid, just
put the guitar back on the rack, will y'a?’ James looked at the
guy and wanted to punch him. One day he would she him, one day he would show
everyone… He put it back on
the rack and walked out of the shop. Outside, the afternoon had turned cold.
The wind had picked up and the clouds were covering the sun. He started
walking, wishing that he had a jacket that he could pull close to him, then
thought more about what was coming for him. It was the unknown of it that frightened
him. And yet, it was money, and that was something that he had barely seen, and
the idea of earning a thousand dollars in a week seemed unheard of, and yet, it
was what grown-ups seemingly did, day in, day out. It was how that guy got to
take that woman out to the restaurant. He rubbed his arms to get warm, hoping
that he wouldn’t get a cold, made it back to the mission early. The same old half
dilapidated building, standing on a slab of concrete by a church. He looked at
it and wondered how much longer he would be here, possibly only a fortnight,
until he got paid by the sheet-metal workers. He stepped inside.
The place was empty, except for a couple of workers, dressed in white, standing
behind the counter, doing food prep. He walked past them and out into the
courtyard, got the idea that he could bot a cigarette from one of the locals,
that smoking it, and getting a habit would make him look tough. His mind lit up
at the prospect of being able to buy his own packets, thoughts whirling around
like a hurricane, about all the things that he would be able to one day buy.
And so, he sat on the step and watched the sunset with the others, awaited the
evening meal. Gold coloured light, radiating through the trees and the other
homes. The sound of car horns and engines. He turned and saw a woman sitting
next to him, who looked older than her years. Blond hair tied up and in dread
locks, creases around her mouth. He looked at her
and asked her for a cigarette and she pulled out a pack and offered it to him,
lit it. He coughed at first, but then, after a few draws, was able to inhale
it, felt that it gave him a kinship with the others, made him look older than
his years and possibly tough. They smoked together, and didn’t say anything,
and he took it as a sort of a badge of honor. The light started to fade around
them and there were people shuffling inside, as though to some call to
something safe, so long as it was secret. Which is what this place was, and he
suddenly felt grateful for it again, knowing full well that he could possibly
die out there, and yet he had his big dreams, knew instinctively that with
them, he would have power of those who had shunned him, and it drove him on. Inside, the smell of
cooking vegetables, people gathered around and sitting on the tables, all
behaving, waiting for the food. He sat with them and enjoyed the revelry, these
strangers in rags who had become his family. Hot food on plates, fish and
vegetables and sauce and salt and pepper, and yet he wanted more, wanted to be
the big man and to be able to look down on others, just once, knew that it was
coming. The next morning,
he woke in the dark to the alarm that he had set the night before. All about
him, the sound of adults snoring. He got out of the bed and took his shower,
cleaned his teeth, and put a change of clothes on, that they had given him in
the op shop, looked at himself in the mirror and spiked his hair up and made
his way out into the dawn. They had worked out how to get him to his address,
the night before, and he had it written down in his pocket and memorized it. When his alarm had
gone off it was still dark. He opened his eyes on turned it off and got up and
got dressed and took his shower, made his way out into the morning air,
grateful for a jumper that they had given him. The sun was coming up on the
horizon by the time that he made it to the train station. He caught a bus and
then, after a short walk, found the address. It was a big warehouse building
that stood in a cluster amongst others. He walked up a driveway and approached
it, walked through a doorway that was open and came to the center of it. Two
men were walking around gathering things. After a while, one of them looked up
and spotted him. ‘Beat it, kid, this
is a work site.’ Said the man, then went back to his business. James looked at
them both and could suddenly see his wages disappearing right before his eyes.
Felt his temper flare. ‘But I’m James!’ The man looked back
at him. ‘James? I don’t
know any James.’ ‘I’m the guy, that
you hired, over the phone.’ The man looked back
angrily. ‘I didn’t hire
anyone over the phone.’ ‘Yes, you did, you
hired me! Told me to be here, and now here I am!’ He looked at the
other man and sighed and mumbled something under his breath. ‘Alright, kid, get
over here.’ James stepped
forward and walked around various tools and paraphernalia and came to the two
men. Big men, both wearing moustache, had bald heads. They looked at each other
and seemed exacerbated by his presence and he looked back at them defiantly. The
older of the two looked down at him. ‘Listen, kid, this
is a tradesman’s job. We need someone who can work sheet-metal all day.’ He looked back at
them. ‘I can do it!’ ‘Look, kid, I’m not
doubting your enthusiasm. It’s just…’ ‘I can do it!’ The man sighed. ‘Alright kid, start
over there, Mick will show you what to do.’ They walked over to
an area in the shed that was full of machinery and the man showed him about
lifting metal sheets and cutting them in a grinder which made an enormous sound
cutting the metal when in use. They wore earmuffs to muffle the sound but still
the screeching sound of the metal was apparent. After the first few
demonstrations he let the noy have a guy and after a while he got the hang of
it, and worked through, repeating the same movements until the man was smiling
and tapping his watch, signaling lunch. James took the earmuffs and went and
joined the two men who were sitting on eskies. The bald man, the older of the
two smiled at him. ‘Don’t look so
happy, son.’ James looked back
at him and didn’t know what to say. ‘Here, grab a
sandwich.’ He stood and opened
the lid and handed him a sandwich wrapped in foil and he ate it, savoring the
cheese and tomato. It wasn’t long before the break was over and they handed him
a glass of water and he was back to work, cutting the sheet-metal, for 5 more hours
until the clock said 5pm, when suddenly all the noise stopped and the man
yelled out, ‘that’s it happy! It’s time to go home.’ They started
packing up tools and in the next moment the sheds lights were off, and the two
men had dispersed, leaving him to wonder where he actually was. And then he
remembered the directions that he had taken in the morning, and looking around,
made his way back to the train station and then back to the mission. By the time that he
made it home it was dark. He followed the streetlights, and then remembered
the curfew and was suddenly worried that they would shut him out, but, knowing
him, the woman on the gate let him in. He made it into the kitchen and helped
himself to a meal and sat down with the others, then felt suddenly too tired to
even eat, finished the food and made his way to bed. The next day the
same and the same after that, until he made it to Friday, and finally finished
his shift, and bashfully asked for his pay, to which the man with the moustache
turned and looked down on him and he suddenly felt frightened. ‘The pay week is
next week, happy.’ James looked back
at him. ‘What day next
week, sir?’ ‘Don’t call me,
sir. Call me by my name. It’s Redge. And you’ll get paid on Friday.’ ‘Please, Redge, I
was wondering can you tell me how much?’ The man looked
angrily at him again. ‘You’re an
inquisitive little bloke aren’t you, happy…’ He looked down at
him and leant over and this time James really thought that he was going to hit
him. ‘Apprentice wages
are two hundred dollars a week, minus tax, is a hundred and fifty. It’s the
same Australia wide.’ James looked back
at him, dumbfounded, and suddenly furious. He wasn’t that good at maths at
school (or maybe he was), but he knew enough to know that it wasn’t a lot of
money. It certainly wasn’t the thousand that he had counted on. He saw his
dilemma, his arms so tired he could barely lift them, and too tired to pull
another fifty-hour week, he looked at the man and made a decision. ‘Yeah, well you can
stick it.’ Suddenly feeling
exalted for the first time in his life, he walked off and made it to the train
station and jumped the train for free as he had done all week, too broke to be
able to pay, then made it back to the mission, once again, penniless. Ate his
meal, almost crying with exhaustion and frustration. Found his way into the
rooms and collapsed on the bed and fell instantly asleep. The next morning, a
peculiar peace came over him. He woke and sat on the bed and looked around. The
room was empty, and he must have slept in. He checked his digital watch and saw
that it was past lunch time! He thought about the week, and something sunk into
the pit of his guts, something that changed things, that he wasn’t going to
tallow himself to be treated like that, and not by an employer, ever again. He
stood and looked around the room, at the square of sunlight on the floor and
wondered if it was so bad being here, then made his way out onto the floor and
took his breakfast and his place at the table and ate. Just then, the woman that
he had met earlier put down a newspaper, in front of him. There was an
advertisement circled in red biro in the ‘employment section’. Suddenly, her
smiling face had taken up his field of vision, a caricature of herself: buck
teeth, sticking out at him. ‘You should have a
look at his, they’re hiring, it could be good money, I’m gonna call up, myself.’ James looked at the
ad and felt himself come alive, for there was something in it, and he had a
hunch that he couldn’t explain: memories of selling fish out the front of his
father’s truck, when he was a child, the thrill of selling all the fish that
his long lost Dad had bought in the parking lot; speaking to people he had
never met before and making a deal, holding the cash at the end of the day,
putting it in his pocket. That day, he held
the newspaper like a talisman and sat in the park, enjoying the sunshine,
dreaming of all the things that he was going to buy, walked further through the
park and found a river, walked to its edge, saw himself reflected in the water.
A skinny kid with a short haircut, wearing a red t-shirt and shorts. He walked back to
the bench, clutching the paper, then folded it up and put it in his pocket.
Waited the time out, then headed back to the church for the evening meal, considering,
how he was going to make the phone call, who was going to lend him the fifty
cents, and where he was going to get a suit from for an interview. Standing in the
line-up, behind the others, envying the ones in ratty brown suits, the smell of
meatballs and vegetables. When it came to his turn, he looked on, once again,
with amazement at the full plate of food that was ladled up to him, walked back
to the tables and sat down with the others and ate the food provided with
relish. When he had finished eating, an old man with long white hair and a
bulbous face, sitting next to him, turned to him and smiled. ‘Well, you ate all
that down, didn’t you, cobber!’ said the man. James looked back
at the man. ‘So, did you!’ ‘Yeah, I guess I
did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out for a cigarette.’ James looked at the
man and had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Say, Mr., you
wouldn’t have fifty cents I could borrow, now, would you?’ The man looked at
him and laughed. ‘Fifty cents, you
say!’ He leaned in close, smelt of stale tobacco. ‘Tell me something, son, do I
look like I’m made of money to you?’ James looked at
him. Blood-shot irises looking ready to burst. ‘No.’ ‘No? Well…’ He suddenly reached
into his pocket and dug up a bundle of coins from his pocket and threw them on
the table, looked through them and handed him a dollar coin, then stood and
departed. James put the coin in his pocket and followed the old man, took a cup
of tea from the kitchen onto the outside courtyard and watched the sun go down
with the others, then went back to the room. * He woke early the
next morning, made it to the bathroom and took his shower, walked out into the
kitchen and saw the workers preparing the meal, then took a tray and got a bowl
of cereal handed to him, and toast. Then made himself a cup of tea and ate it
all, walked back to the bathroom and cleaned his teeth, looked at himself in
the mirror. Eyes that with murky whites, which said something about him,
something he would have rather not known, then walked out into the day. A bright sunny day.
Bright enough for a career in sales. He found a phonebooth, then put in the
one-dollar coin and pressed the buttons on the phone, fearful of getting the
number wrong. A moment later, a man with an overly friendly voice answered. ‘National tiles,
how can I help?’ At first, he was
shocked by the tone of the man’s voice. How could anyone sound that upbeat? As
though, he was somehow indomitable. He
had an image of a man in a suite with more money than he could possibly spend. ‘Uh, hi, my name is
James Anderson, and I’m calling about the sales job.’ There was a
silence, for a moment, and he heard a shuffling of papers. ‘You got a pen?’ He memorized the
address that the guy gave him. To report at in the morning: another job
interview. The guy hung up the
phone and he hung up the payphone and looked around. People walking around.
Everything as normal. Except that, for him, the world had irrevocably changed.
He started walking the streets, found the park where he always sat, watched the
sky turn grey, then started making his way back to the mission, nervous, and
yet excited. He made it back to
the line-up and stood in it, some kid behind a group of men, all wearing
clothes with holes in them. Barely able to
contain himself, he woke early the next morning, stood on the linoleum in bare
feet, and suddenly realized that he didn’t actually have anything to wear for
the interview. Made his way out to the kitchen where they were setting up. An
old man looked down at him from behind the counter. ‘Well, if it isn’t
the young squire.’ James looked up at
him, asked him if there was anywhere that he could find himself a suite, and
the old man pointed to a doorway behind him, told him it was the op shop and
that he could find something there. James followed the
man’s giant pointing finger, and opened a door, stepped inside another room. Clothes everywhere,
paraphernalia. A woman amongst it all, sitting at a table, hunched over,
sorting out clothes. He told her his predicament and, after a while she found a
small white suite that would fit. He walked into a small changed room and tried
it on, then stepped out and promised to pay her for it, then put his own
clothes in a plastic bag, and stepped out into the street, ecstatic about
events. * James Anderson.
Working in an office. The leader of the sales board. A leader in his field and grown overnight. Standing, now, a
tall man, and earning a tall man’s salary, and yet still not eighteen, and
unbeknown to all those around him. Wearing a three-piece suit and a headset. Closing
yet another deal, building a savings account. Looks around the partitioned walls
of the office he has worked at, these past few years. A big man with a bigger
past. Checks the sales board which he leads and is content, looks up the clock
that registers three o’clock and the end of the office day, picks up his jacket
and begins making his way out, determined to do better, again, to eventually
run the place. Runs into one of the workers on his way out: Otis. Short, fat
and stocky, wears glasses. A good salesman looks up and apologizes. James looked down
at him and smiled, congratulated him on the sales week, and the two walked out
together, then made their way down the elevator, stood and they looked at each
other and laughed, lit cigarettes and smoked together. He looked at Otis
and wondered about his background. Saw that he would have come from a
middle-class background, would have studied business at university and didn’t
know where else to go but a career in sales. Otis, wearing a
prefabricated broad tie, clutching a briefcase with hand-written notes in it
that only he could understand. James finished his
cigarette and butted it out, his tenth for the day, turned and looked at Otis
and smiled. ‘Well, good buddy,
I’ll say you next week. You stay cool.’ Otis looked at him
and agreed and watched him walk off, picked up his briefcase and did the same.
James stood and
checked his watch, had the usual argument with himself whether or not to take a
cab or the train home from work, decided to get a cab, because he couldn’t wait
to get home and play his guitar. From the very first
moment he saw one, he was completely besotted. Not the least for which how they
looked, which was gorgeous, but the sound of the strings resonating. Playing a
chord, gave him chills. He was so in love with the instrument that he barely
even had time to study other musicians, though he did: Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray
Vaughn, Eric Clapton… But soon his tastes widened to other forms of music,
other styles; some retro, some old and camp, virtually everything, except,
anything mainstream. Every afternoon, he
would spend time with his guitar. First thing, crack a beer, then sit down and
play, and practice, and for hours on end. And soon, he was developing his own
style, coming up with his own intonations that he couldn’t wait to one day try
out with a band. Now, he stood and
lazily walked down the steps, took one last look around at the afternoon, and,
contented, got into a cab and picked up a carton of beer on his way home. He paid the driver
and grabbed the carton and made his way up the steps of the flat that he now
rented, marveling that life could be this good. What did he want that he
didn’t have? He had money, a passion, and the basics, virtually everything a
man needed, even a savings account that was becoming quite a nest egg, almost
enough to buy that property that he dreamt of, and yet there was something
missing, wasn’t there. He opened the door
with his key and was happy to find everything just as he had left it: the lazy-boy
chair, the leather couches, the small glass set table, the spotless kitchen. He
cracked a beer, then sat down to his afternoon of playing. His fingers were
becoming lithe, easily travelling up and down the neck, repositioning, playing
fast changes, had long ago formed callouses. Now, he was trying
out his own inventions, and they were sounding better all the time. He took
another sip on the beer and lit a cigarette and looked out the window at the
view that he had single-handedly created and suddenly dreamed of more, of
actually owning a place: but not yet, there was too much fun to be had yet, too
much sweet music to be played. He swigged the
beer, finished it and got himself another one, lit another cigarette, kept
playing, perfecting the latest blues run that he had concocted, tried something
new, and, after a while, pieced together yet another composition that he
suspected would work well in the Friday night, after-work jam. Every Friday night,
he would get together with his work mates, and a couple of others, and form a
band. It wasn’t much chop at first, but lately they had found a groove, and he
had taken to bringing his four-track recorder and listening to the whole bit,
studying it, after the sessions. Friday night came
and he hung up the phone and called the others to make sure that it was all in
place: the weed and the beer, the instruments, everyone ready to go; then
charged out of his cubicle. He made his way out of the office, nearly running
into one of the women workers on the way, made it out into the lift, barely
able to contain himself: here it was, Friday afternoon, what it was all about,
and he had them all lined up… A crisp afternoon. Clouds
on the horizon like giant grey cotton balls, but what did it matter? He had his
apartment and his four-track recorder and his mates coming around to help make
the sound that he craved. Inventions that he dreamed would one day be fleshed
out. He ordered the cab
to his usual ‘bottle-o’, picked up the carton and made it back home with time
to spare. By the time that he made it up the steps, his mates were due within
half the hour, time enough to shower and get changed. The others had
shown up just as he had cracked his first beer and lit up a cigarette. The
doorbell rang and he walked to it and opened the door. A man that looked like
a yeti greeted him, a wry smile hidden behind long brown hair and a matching
beard - one of his co-workers, who had become a mainstay, with surprisingly
similar musical interests, came in carrying a drumkit. Next, a guy with
short hair, tall and lanky also, carrying in a guitar and amplifier - Edwardo, one
of his old school mates. It wasn’t long
before a full three-piece band was set up, within the modest kitchen, and after
clinking beer bottles, they had plugged everything in, and he finally got to play
the blues riff that he had been working on all week. What started off as
a mess, soon gelled, and within seconds the band was playing a music that was
raucous, comedic and intelligent, just as he had planned. He looked up for a
second, amazed with what they had done, then took a sip on the beer and the
band took a break. He cracked another beer and passed two around, pleased with
what they had done, said: ‘what do ya think, boys?’ Then, suddenly, put his
beer down and started cranking another riff, to which they all started playing,
again. Another raucous tune, giving him a chance to practice his blues solo. * No-one saw her come
in, and would later, wonder, how, in fact, she had got in, for usually he
closed the door and was careful with security: he’d be damned if he would give
anyone a chance to steal his beloved fender guitar… But there she was, appeared
as if from nowhere, and looking perfectly at ease, sitting on his leather
chair, as though she, somehow, already had propriety over the place. The song
finished with a crash, and he looked up from his playing and there she was, eyes
locked on him, like a cat stalking its prey, her mouth half smiling, as though,
she was already familiar with him as well. He looked around, and wondered who
this person was, and how she got in, and then she raised an eyebrow at him, as
though he should be embarrassed with himself somehow, as though she was hiding
something extraordinary, that she should really know about. He looked around at
the band and they looked back at him, as though he should have an explanation,
and he finally gave up and addressed her: ‘I’m sorry, you are?’ She was tiny, and
at first one, might have taken her for a much younger person. But then she
pulled her slip up and crossed her legs, flashed her underwear. ‘Don’t you know?’
she said. James looked back
at her, perplexed. ‘I’m sorry, no.’ ‘I’m your
neighbour, silly, your sexy neighbour from downstairs.’ The others laughed,
but she was holding her gaze, and in that moment, there was something familiar
about her, and he had a sudden premonition that this was going to be his girl,
and he couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not, to which he heard the nervous
laugh of one of his bandmates. Suddenly the room went silent, and he became
embarrassed for her, but she didn’t seem to mind, and there was something
ominous about that, and he was aware of it. ‘Say, who’s up for
another beer?’ She suddenly stuck
her chest out and bellowed ‘I am!’ and the room became quieter still. James looked
around, embarrassed, but suddenly knew how it was going to play out, how it all
was going to play out, including his life, then felt a shudder go through him,
and had the feeling that a lot of life was unavoidable, despite what people
say. He went to the fridge and pulled out another six-pack and handed it
around, then came to her and, looking at her, handed her a bottle. ‘I’m sorry, you
are?’ ‘Andrea.’ ‘Andrea, pleased to
meet you.’ He handed her the
beer, and she never took her eyes off him, to which she said, ‘the pleasure’s all
mine’, and it suddenly somehow sounded like a threat, and the uneasy feeling
came back over him again. He asked her if she wanted a glass and she said yes
and he fetched one from his tiny adjacent kitchen and came back and saw that
she had left the beer on the small coffee table beside the chair that she sat
on, again, suggesting that she somehow owned the place, and he felt that uneasy
feeling return. She handed him the bottle, smiling and he poured her a glass
and set it down next to her, suddenly feeling like a waiter in his own home.
She smiled at him and took a sip on the beer and kept staring at him, and it
had a strange effect on his ego, for he was attracted and repulsed at the same
time and equally. He turned around and saw that his band mates were all smiling
at him, as thought they had had a part in bringing her to his home, and he
couldn’t think how that was possible. One of them whistled, and the drummer
crashed the drums, as though something special had happened, but he couldn’t
see it. Suddenly, the drummer piped up: ‘Uh, are we gonna
have a jam, or are you two love birds gonna need some space?’ James turned around
and saw them, smiling, all holding their instruments and looking at him, and he
suddenly felt annoyed at how well she had played the situation, and who the
hell was this chick, anyway? He stood in his
usual spot and picked up his guitar from the stand and strapped it on and
looked at her, but she wasn’t intimidated, but simply sat there, smiling,
amused at him. A little annoyed, he turned on his amp and tried out another
blues riff that he had been working on, through the week, to which the band
immediately picked up, and he had to marvel, at how tight they were. In the next second,
the base came in, playing a perfect intonation, and he harmonized with chords,
and then a solo, then went back to the riff, while Johnno held a steady beat,
and when the song came to a crescendo, he knew, as he always did, that he was
done for the night, and it was time to pack it down. As per usual, they
finished off the beer and toasted to another successful Friday night, and then
he looked down, and saw that she was still there, and it got up his nose a bit,
but the others giggled and smiled and looked at him, as though something
miraculous had happened, but he still couldn’t see it. Johnno nudged him with
his shoulder and started to laugh, but he didn’t get the joke. She simply
remained where he was, staring at him, and he was starting to actually feel a
little uncomfortable. It wasn’t long
before they had packed up and said goodbye and were out the door, but he was
conscious that she was still sitting there, on his leather chair. As per usual, he helped
them get their stuff into a cab, then made his way back up the stairs, and
wondered what he was going to do with this strange looking woman. By the time that he
made it back to the lounge, he saw that she wasn’t there anymore, that the
chair was empty. He looked around, then felt two arms grab him from behind, and
he turned around and saw her, saw that she had taken her clothes off and was
standing there in her underwear, looking up at him, with that same smile that
suddenly struck him as somehow sinister. ‘Well, aren’t you
going to kiss me?’ He looked down at
her then realized that it would be pitiable to ask her to put her clothes back
on, so did what she asked him to do, then followed her to his bedroom,
wondering at her deftness, that she already knew the way, and yet, he was excited and expectant of a woman’s
embrace. The next day, she
was there, making him breakfast, in her underwear, wishing him luck at work,
and the day after that, and the day after, until he looked around and realized
that everywhere there was something of his, there was something of hers, also.
Was this what it was like to be in a relationship? He couldn’t tell, he’d never
been in one before. * The day came that
he bought a house. Some old ramshackle place in the outer suburbs of Sydney,
where they now lived, where he was given the task of heading up a sales office.
The place was a toxic black dump, but it was his. They had moved their stuff in
an old car that he had failed to register, at the time, but got it there in one
piece. The day came when
he got out of the car and walked through the old black rusty gate, then loaded
up with their stuff, got his leather chairs in the living room and collapsed on
them. Looked over and saw her sitting there, doing the same, and suddenly
wondering who the hell she was. And yet, he marveled at the fact that, despite
everything, she was one of the most stable forces in his life, for everywhere
he turned, she was there, and he suddenly wondered what it would take to get
rid of her, then felt something like a chill run up his spine, at what he
imagined, the difficulty of that task would be. ‘Well, babe, we’ve
arrived.’ She didn’t bother
looking back at him or answering, but looked around at the place, suddenly
appearing to eye it off, and then he realized that she saw herself as the
co-owner, and it miffed him somewhat, knowing that she was never going to put
anything into it. ‘Tell you what,
babe, I’m gonna go and get a beer.’ She smiled at him,
and he looked back at her and suddenly wondered what she was thinking, then considered
the possibility that he hardly knew anything about her, at all, but what was
there to know, really? He walked the floorboards, taking note of all the rot -
half the reason he had managed to bargain for the place, then stood on the
collapsed veranda that was now his. The afternoon
sunlight fell on his beloved Holden premier in waves. He got in and drove it to
the bottle-o, taking note of his surrounds. He drove on and suddenly realized
that he had left his band behind, that moving to Sydney might have been the
wrong thing, then brushed the thought aside and pulled the car into the bottle
shop, ordered the beer, paid the kid working on the register, then loaded it in
the backseat, then got back on the open road. A clean road with
clean white lines, houses standing next to it, on either side; respectable
places with white picket fences and manicured gardens. He drove on, enjoying the fact that there was
hardly any traffic about, then pulled it into his street, and marveled at the
place that now belonged to him, studied it. He cracked a beer
and sipped it, kept it low under the steering wheel, pulled the car into the
driveway �" his driveway (their driveway) �" then got out and grabbed the
carton and made his way into the house, plonked it on the bench in the kitchen,
found it empty. ‘Babe?’ The place was
deadly silent, eerie even. He walked out to the backyard and found her there,
sitting on a cane chair that he had never seen before. She turned her head and
looked up at him, as if from a dream, and he looked at her, couldn’t get rid of
the idea that he had caught her at something, something that she didn’t want
him to see. ‘Hey, babe, I got
some beer, you want some?’ She looked back at him and saw anger flash in her eyes for a moment, and he wondered, what that
was all about. She looked away, resignedly, and agreed, and he went and poured
her a glass, brought it back, found an old wooden chair that they had bought
together at one of their garage sale rummages, then sat next to her. ‘You know, it
really is quite beautiful,’ he said. He looked at her
and the comment melted his heart, brought all the love back that he had for
her, for the project, for what they were doing, and he stood up and went to
kiss her, but she looked back at him with a sharp look, warning him away, and
he wondered what he needed to do to get any affection out of her, even just the
slightest embrace. It was more like living with a cold snake... They sat and sipped
on the beer and admired the lawn and he saw the contentment in her face, the
same contentment that he felt, contentment that she had done nothing to earn,
and he could feel his resentment rising again, and she suddenly looked back at
him as though sensing it. ‘Tell you what
babe, we could hit the town tomorrow night, what do you reckon?’ she said. He looked at her
and felt his anger burn. Surely, she knew that he was a homebody, that he liked
to be left in peace to get on with his projects. And what was the meaning of
it, goading him like that? He looked back at her and tried to find some
redeeming feature but there was none, all that he could find was her dogged
commitment to stand by his side. But after all, that meant something, didn’t
it? ‘No, babe. But you
go out, if you want to… Paint the town red…Think I’m gonna just stay in, enjoy
the house, potter around, you know…’ She looked back at
him, suddenly baring her teeth. ‘Well, maybe I will
then!’ She suddenly got up
and stood, as though he had really offended her, which seemed to be happening
more and more these days, then walked off, and was gone for a few seconds then
came back with her cigarettes, sat back on the chair and lit one. He looked
over at her. ‘Well, aren’t you
going to offer me one?’ He asked. She looked back and
sneered, told him to ’go buy his own f****n smokes’ and he suddenly wondered if
she would even share his bed, suddenly saw a time when she would not. He got up and found
his own pack in the kitchen, got himself another bottle and went and joined her,
again, on the lawn, lit up and sipped the beer, looked out at all that he owned
with her, and suddenly saw what they had in common, and it made him shudder. It
was greed and nothing more. But surely, she thought more of him than that,
didn’t she? He put his sunglasses on and looked at her out of the corner of
his eye. Who the hell was she, anyway? He watched the sun
go down and the shadows climb up the lawn, and, as always, marveled at the
seeming contentment they somehow had with each other, the fact that neither had
to say anything to fill in the gaps. But didn’t it stem from the fact that
she was now co-owner of a house? And was that really all that hope
could hope for, a resignation? And yet, the beer
told him that it was enough, and he listened to it. God knew how hard it was out
there, in the world, and then, he suddenly thought about how nice it would be
to have some weed to stir his pallet, knock the edge right off, and he suddenly
wondered where he could get his hands on some of that. The sun started to
come down and he went and got himself another beer, came back out to see if he
could fire her up, try and get her in the mood but she was gone, and so he sat
back in the chair and drank, could hear the tv from somewhere deep in the
house, suddenly felt a little lonely and for the first time that he could
remember, frightened. But what did he have to be frightened about? After
all, he had everything that he needed, didn’t he? He lit another
cigarette and drank some more and saw that he was sitting in the dark, thought
about finding her in the house, but sensed her mood and thought better of it,
looked back out at the yard and the fence that was falling apart, listened for
the sounds of the neighbours, heard other televisions in other houses, the
faint sound of voices in the night and wondered about them: the other property
owners, then went and got himself another beer. Realized that he hadn’t eaten and wondered what she had done for food. He finished the bottle, and, nearly
drunk, stumbled back into the house, but it was dark, and he couldn’t see a
thing. ‘Babe?’ He could hear the
tv on, then turned the kitchen light on, realized that he would have to get
something delivered, called up a pizza delivery, hung up the phone and put it
down, wondered what it was that he was so glum about. Within minutes, the
pizza had arrived, and he paid for it and found her in the dark, sitting in one
of the rooms (their rooms), then turned the light on and put it on the floor,
opened the box - piping hot pizza inside. ‘There you go,
babe, dinner is served!’ She said nothing
and hungrily grabbed a slice and started eating. ‘Steady on, babe,
leave me some!’ She looked back at
him and told him to f**k off and he suddenly wondered whether or not he was
right about her; whether, with her, he had bitten off more than he could chew;
but then again, most of the time, she left him wanting, and with nothing much
to show and less to chew on. Not much to chew on; in fact, barely anything at
all. And who the f**k was she, anyway? * Days passed without
incident. And it was possibly this fact that had started to get him down. He
would wake early of a morning, then get the tram to work. The office, full, and
working. Like a well-oiled machine. Under his guidance. And then, home, back to
his girl and his grog, and his beloved guitar. Which was closer to a mistress
than anything else. For hours he would practice, stooped over the guitar and
honing his skills, writing progressions that were really starting to take
shape. The day came when
he called up his mates and invited them over, but he couldn’t get it happening.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get them over. It seemed that, in the main, it was
just too far to travel, plus, they had lives of their own: girlfriends, wives,
kids, and the band just didn’t exist. Out of frustration he put something
together where he lived, but it just wasn’t the same. And so, he worked
on, and on, and on. And the days passed,
until they became years. The two of them
would fight and then somehow make up, but try as he might, he couldn’t get any
affection out of her. In the end, he gave up, and took solace in drink, but it
was an uneasy truce. The more insistent
he became, the angrier she got. He tried everything: chocolates, roses, gave
her expensive trips, sent her away for periods, but nothing worked. She was a
dead root, but not even that, frigid, but not even that. At times he wondered
what exactly they were doing together. Every day, he would go off to work and
she would go off to university. God only knew what she was studying. One thing
that he did know: her studies weren’t contributing to the mortgage. His fortieth
birthday came around. She agreed to let him see his friends, so he went. What
perplexed him, though, was that she insisted on going, also. And then the
strangest thing happened: he saw that the closer they got to the gig, the nicer
she became, until he wondered what game she was playing at. They stepped off
the plane, and he looked around, at the tarmac, then realized how far he had
come. For all intents and purposes, he had made it. And yet, he had a spouse who
hated him. (And was able to morph into a completely different person). He
looked at her and had to scratch his head, then suddenly felt very weak and
very mortal. Years of smoking and drinking had taken their toll. Nowadays, he
moved a fair bit slower, was content with a fair bit less, took doctor’s orders
into account, then ignored them. They arrived at his
mate’s place, and it wasn’t long before the band started up. Guitars and drums,
all set up, his mate pulling out a digital recorder. They slipped into
their old routine. In a few seconds, he pulled out one of his progressions and
the band picked it up right away. The track ended
with a drummer’s crash, and they all cracked beers, his girlfriend included, and
he could see her suddenly come to life, being around them, and he suddenly
realized what she craved, what made her tick: it was the attention that she so
loved, the fact of her being the only woman in the vicinity, and, therefore,
doted on by the band. It was the camaraderie, but more, it was the power. He put the beer
down and picked up the guitar again, strapped it on, and turned the amp back
on, busted out a funky riff, one of his better ones; again, the band slipping
straight into gear. The song built, and
then broke down, breathing its own life, as it always would, and he pulled
back, let the base take over, then came back in with yet another variation
which delighted them all, then took another break, and looked at her, sitting
on another lazy-boy, beaming. Just like when they first met. And he kept
realizing, more and more, that it was the stage that she craved, then suddenly
saw, that in her mind, it was she that they were playing to, that they were all
trying to impress, and wondered, all of a sudden, if he could find a way to
replicate it all, when they were back home, but couldn’t come up with anything.
Then realized, like a lightning bolt, what he needed to do: it was create
another band, back where he lived. But that was
impossible �" they had been playing together for years, and where was he going
to find another band like this? But, looking at her, he realized that his
relationship hinged on it, and he marveled, for a second, how life worked, for
it was possibly what he himself, also needed. They played on, and
drank and smoked, and days later, they left, with the usual hangover, but
excited to see what the recording would sound like. And then, he saw
her mood descend when it was all over, as though it was, she, that was making
the music and not him, and looking at her, he suddenly saw her as strange. They
got on the plane that night, but she slept through the journey and had barely
anything to say to him. Monday morning came
and he went back to work with his usual headache, and she went back to her
university. And they started to fight again, but worse this time. Now, she
would yell and scream and slam doors, or flat-out ignore him, leaving him
perplexed. The following week,
his mother called him up on the phone and they agreed, reluctantly to go to
dinner. They met at a restaurant in town, and there were other members of the
family there, members that he hadn’t seen in years. They sat down in a dimly lit room, and he looked at them all with mixed emotions - a strange sense
of pride, mixed with love and anger, all at the same time. When they were all
assembled, he saw that she was sat next to his mother, and it made him uneasy.
He quickly ordered beer to take the edge off. And saw that she did the same.
His mother was gushing and overcome with emotion, but he saw that Andrea sat
silently, and didn’t bother contributing to the conversation at all, as though
the whole thing was beneath her, and he suddenly realized that he had just
about had enough. Months past and his
drinking got worse, as did her behavior, until he couldn’t stand her in the
end, and nor could she stand him. In the end, she started marching around the
house, claiming that it was hers, and soon, they would have screaming matches
over who owned the place. Finally, she moved
out, and he woke, one day, with the house to himself, and didn’t know what to
think. The silence, without her, was deafening. And yet, perversely, he missed
her, or at least, believed that he did. He had his freedom, but the drinking
remained. Like some cruel mistress that always left him wanting more. His life force was waning,
and he could feel it waning, as though he was some lame dog that had been
poisoned, which, probably, was a reasonable description. His sister would
come and visit him, and he would, in turn visit her. They took to meeting in cafés
in the mornings, but deep down they both knew, that his health was waning, and
that it was irreversible. His skin was pasty, had been so, for a long time, the
colour drained from all the drinking that he had done. His lungs were shot from
all of the smoking, and day by day, he felt as though he was becoming weaker.
It was as though she had drained the life force out of him and had somehow
managed to rape his very soul. And yet, they held
out hope. She started teaching him how to like himself, and other things, like
how to cook for himself. He started to see the error of his ways and considered a complete overhaul. She even started getting him to AA meetings,
and he was even considering attending a church: getting it all straightened
out. And then, one day,
his old mate, the base player, blew into town like a hurricane, and blew his
head off with some stash, like he always did. They sat together on his couch, reminiscing, even listened to the last jam, on his stereo, over
drinks, when, all of a sudden, his mate turned to him, and opened the palm of
his hand, and showed off two over-sized pills, told him that they were ‘eight
balls’. And then, they swallowed them down with the beer, and that was when the
world went haywire. The ceiling started
to rotate, and he saw stars. White explosions went off in his brain like
fireworks, and suddenly, all the memories that he ever had, landed on him, colliding
against each other, in a waterfall, or on a reel that was played before him in
hyper speed. He saw glimpses of
it all: saw his Andrea, holding him like she used to, the dazed look in her
eyes when he’d play, the band playing their best songs; his early life with his
siblings and his parents. It all went in reverse and picked up momentum, until
he became a mere toddler again, then reverted right back to the beginning of
his life, then saw some cosmic apparition that he couldn’t begin to describe,
all to the soundtrack of the best music he had ever heard, and that was when
his heart gave out and everything went black. * The blonde man
looked at the dead man sitting next to him, on the couch, and couldn’t help but
smile. ‘At last,’, he thought to himself, ‘the mother-f****r’s dead’. He stood and looked around at the house with one last look of disdain, then sent a text message to Andrea, telling her that the job was completed, and that it was now safe for her to come and take over the house, which she did within minutes. Outside, it was dawn. He looked around at a whole new world. Everything suddenly seemed so beautiful. He had killed his best friend and had gotten away with it. Everything planned and executed perfectly. It was the greatest day of his life. And that was all
that there was to be told, of the short and peculiar life, of the late great
James Anderson. © 2024 Pitbull1000 |
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Added on March 29, 2023 Last Updated on August 5, 2024 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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